Monday, August 18, 2003
Stupid doldrums...
This post is a bit on the down side, so if you're not in the mood for somewhat sad, you might want read about toupees or the skirt/tummy connection or maybe even the joys of shaving. I'll freely admit that some of this low feeling may have something to do with PMS, but not all of it. Besides, it's my 'blog and I'll pout if I want to. So there. *raspberry* *wink*
Today was one of those days that was just a little hard on the ol' self-esteem. Thing is, I brought it on myself.
A little over a week ago I touched upon my seeming inability to just concentrate on my work, preferring to waste time online instead. My boss has been dropping somewhat subtle hints here and there over the last few weeks that my online habits have been noticed, along with my frequent tardiness, and maybe I had better be careful. Today he basically let me know outright that, not only has it been noticed but some co-workers are not exactly pleased about it. I had already figured as much, since I had been getting a bit of a cold attitude from someone I previously counted as a friend. I guess today was just the day my horrid work habits had come home to roost. And, though part of me wants to get all righteous and upset about it, in all good conscience I can't.
What really gets me is that I know this about myself, it is something that seriously bothers me, but I'm having trouble correcting my habits. I don't wish to repeat myself, but I'm so profoundly bored by what I do that I cannot concentrate on my work. But I know I'm not the only one, so I wonder what it is about me that causes such lack of focus where others can just plow through work that they don't like. Is my brain just wired differently? I was recently told that I have an unusual perspective on stuff, so maybe my synapses fire differently than those around me. Or maybe my laziness, my lack of application has deeper, psychological roots. I have addressed it with my therapist, maybe it's time to go back to that.
I don't know, but whatever my fucking issue is, I need to find a way around it. It's causing problems for me, and for my co-workers. I overhead part of a conversation today that, even if it were not about me, could very well have been. If they were talking about me (and I'm pretty sure they were), some of the statements were on the mark. But other statements that suggested that I didn't care, that I just worked to get people behind me so that I'm don't get fired, and that I'd end up landing on feet? Those were totally off. I do care, very much. It hurts that my inaction has caused resentment. It hurts that my bad work habits might reflect poorly on my boss. I don't set out to get support just so I can laze around the office and set my own hours. And I seriously doubt that I'd end up landing on my feet if I were to get fired. But I have the feeling if I sat down with my co-workers, one in particular, and tried to apologize, she wouldn't believe that sincerity lay behind my words. She'd snort and roll her eyes, and I couldn't exactly blame her.
I can't keep this up. Until such a time that I get a job that doesn't bore me, that I can get excited about, I'm going to have to do a 180. And I have to keep up the good work habits. Or it's going to explode rather messily in my face.
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On top of it all, as I was walking home from the bus stop this evening, I was very sad that I didn't have anyone at home to greet me, to hear my problems or to just be a comforting presence. There are times I enjoy living alone. But those times are getting less and less frequent. I've lived alone for over six years. Much as I love my cats, and they do provide great companionship, they're not so good with the conversation or the human touch. If I feel like crying, wanting someone's arms to hold me, I just have to make do with my own arms. They're just not the same.
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Postscript - knowing me, I'll probably be over most of being a sad panda by tomorrow. However, it seems Tuesday's horoscope is warning against what I'm feeling today: "Be careful of falling into the self-pity trap, CAROL. You may have the tendency to put on a sour face and mope around until someone notices you and asks you what is wrong. If no one does, you might slowly develop a deep anger toward everyone around you, and pretty soon feel like you have no friends whatsoever. Your mood could then begin to worsen, and you might start snapping back when someone asks you a reasonable question. Be careful of sliding down this slippery slope to nowhere."
Maybe it's just time for a quick cry, then some light happy music to get me over these stupid doldrums. Hey, tomorrow's another day, right? And most likely, a brighter one.
Today was one of those days that was just a little hard on the ol' self-esteem. Thing is, I brought it on myself.
A little over a week ago I touched upon my seeming inability to just concentrate on my work, preferring to waste time online instead. My boss has been dropping somewhat subtle hints here and there over the last few weeks that my online habits have been noticed, along with my frequent tardiness, and maybe I had better be careful. Today he basically let me know outright that, not only has it been noticed but some co-workers are not exactly pleased about it. I had already figured as much, since I had been getting a bit of a cold attitude from someone I previously counted as a friend. I guess today was just the day my horrid work habits had come home to roost. And, though part of me wants to get all righteous and upset about it, in all good conscience I can't.
What really gets me is that I know this about myself, it is something that seriously bothers me, but I'm having trouble correcting my habits. I don't wish to repeat myself, but I'm so profoundly bored by what I do that I cannot concentrate on my work. But I know I'm not the only one, so I wonder what it is about me that causes such lack of focus where others can just plow through work that they don't like. Is my brain just wired differently? I was recently told that I have an unusual perspective on stuff, so maybe my synapses fire differently than those around me. Or maybe my laziness, my lack of application has deeper, psychological roots. I have addressed it with my therapist, maybe it's time to go back to that.
I don't know, but whatever my fucking issue is, I need to find a way around it. It's causing problems for me, and for my co-workers. I overhead part of a conversation today that, even if it were not about me, could very well have been. If they were talking about me (and I'm pretty sure they were), some of the statements were on the mark. But other statements that suggested that I didn't care, that I just worked to get people behind me so that I'm don't get fired, and that I'd end up landing on feet? Those were totally off. I do care, very much. It hurts that my inaction has caused resentment. It hurts that my bad work habits might reflect poorly on my boss. I don't set out to get support just so I can laze around the office and set my own hours. And I seriously doubt that I'd end up landing on my feet if I were to get fired. But I have the feeling if I sat down with my co-workers, one in particular, and tried to apologize, she wouldn't believe that sincerity lay behind my words. She'd snort and roll her eyes, and I couldn't exactly blame her.
I can't keep this up. Until such a time that I get a job that doesn't bore me, that I can get excited about, I'm going to have to do a 180. And I have to keep up the good work habits. Or it's going to explode rather messily in my face.
On top of it all, as I was walking home from the bus stop this evening, I was very sad that I didn't have anyone at home to greet me, to hear my problems or to just be a comforting presence. There are times I enjoy living alone. But those times are getting less and less frequent. I've lived alone for over six years. Much as I love my cats, and they do provide great companionship, they're not so good with the conversation or the human touch. If I feel like crying, wanting someone's arms to hold me, I just have to make do with my own arms. They're just not the same.
Postscript - knowing me, I'll probably be over most of being a sad panda by tomorrow. However, it seems Tuesday's horoscope is warning against what I'm feeling today: "Be careful of falling into the self-pity trap, CAROL. You may have the tendency to put on a sour face and mope around until someone notices you and asks you what is wrong. If no one does, you might slowly develop a deep anger toward everyone around you, and pretty soon feel like you have no friends whatsoever. Your mood could then begin to worsen, and you might start snapping back when someone asks you a reasonable question. Be careful of sliding down this slippery slope to nowhere."
Maybe it's just time for a quick cry, then some light happy music to get me over these stupid doldrums. Hey, tomorrow's another day, right? And most likely, a brighter one.
Sunday, August 17, 2003
Lucy, I'm home...
...and I'm tired. A very fun time was had in San Diego, meeting many of the Buffy board folk from Television Without Pity for the first time at the San Diego Zoo. We split up into several groups and enjoyed the zoo as the sky darkened and most of the animals hid in their little hide-aways and went to sleep. But we still saw enough monkeys and exotic birds and lynx and hippos to make it worth while. I thought the giraffes were the most amazing. I'd never seen one before and there were five (including a baby that was easily 10 feet high) right in front of me. I could have stared at them all night long, but the others in my group were getting a little antsy.
Today Linda and I hung out at the hostess' house for a couple of hours, watching the episode of MI-5 with Tony Head and the Angel episode The Bachelor Party". There was fun swag to be had, including little "Grrr Argh" finger monters (my green little guy was engaged in an epic thumb battle with a pink one - I think mine obviously has the upper thumb). And your humble journaler can be seen here, looking rather tired, shiny and sans makeup. The fact that I allowed the picture to be taken with glasses is testament to how tired I was, because I almost never allow pictures with my glasses. Not that I don't like the way I look with them, because I do, I just don't think I usually photograph well with them.
Then Linda and I left the Buffy folks and spent a few hours in Balboa Park, which is simply beautiful. I used to live in San Diego many moons ago and I loved the Park then. Now, whenever I go to San Diego and I have the time, I make sure that I spend at least a little time there. It really is a must see. And after that we came home.
Of course, there's lots more detail, but how exciting is it to read about bad traffic on the way there and no hot water at the hotel this morning and our quest for parking at the Park? Not very.
However, there is one rather, um, interesting thing that happened. At the end of last night at the zoo's gift shop, as I was waiting for Linda who was waiting for the guy that was taking forever to wrap the gift she got for her mom, I ran into two people that I didn't expect to run into. WriterGuy and BassBoy.
Back in the late 80s I worked with BassBoy. And, though I certainly never told him this (I don't think he ever found out), I fell in love with him. I got over it and was soon after introduced to one of his best friends, WriterGuy. Somehow, without me ever quite figuring out how, I ended up in a relationship with WriterGuy. As a matter of fact, he was my first boyfriend (I've always been a late bloomer, socially). It was all well and good, as WriterGuy is very intelligent and funny and nice, though more than a little on the angry side. But after about seven or eight months I realized that my feelings for WriterGuy did not run as deep as I felt they should have and I broke up with him. The only time I've ever broken up with someone, I might add.
As we share some friends, I've seen both of them over the years, but it's probably been a good seven years since I've seen WriterGuy and, I think, five years since I've seen BassBoy (he was at a friend's Christmas party). I'd heard that WriterGuy was living in San Diego and, the last I'd heard, BassBoy was in Laguna Beach, but I certainly didn't expect to run into them at the zoo. Though I did mention to Linda earlier in the day that it would be interesting if I did.
The three of us spoke for a few minutes, all light and frivolous, but I was feeling a little off-balance. I think mainly because I was tired and ready to head back to the hotel and just the night before an old school mate that I hadn't seen in almost twenty years showed up at my game night, in addition to all of the other people from my past that have been popping up in one way or another over the last few months (including CuteNerdBoy). Linda came over and I introduced them, then we spoke some more, then a Buffy person I'd been hoping to see popped up and she and I hugged and chatted. At that point WriterGuy and BassBoy decided to leave, we said our goodbyes and they were off.
I was a little jittery for the rest of the night after that. I think because I wasn't sure what to expect from either one of them and I'd heard over the years through the grapevine that WriterGuy might still have feelings for me after all this time. Linda said that, upon observing the three of us, she had to agree with that statement. I still have fond feelings for both of them, and I always will, but they will just remain fond feelings. Especially since my interests are very much directed at another person these days.
I'm just wondering who from my past will pop up next.
Today Linda and I hung out at the hostess' house for a couple of hours, watching the episode of MI-5 with Tony Head and the Angel episode The Bachelor Party". There was fun swag to be had, including little "Grrr Argh" finger monters (my green little guy was engaged in an epic thumb battle with a pink one - I think mine obviously has the upper thumb). And your humble journaler can be seen here, looking rather tired, shiny and sans makeup. The fact that I allowed the picture to be taken with glasses is testament to how tired I was, because I almost never allow pictures with my glasses. Not that I don't like the way I look with them, because I do, I just don't think I usually photograph well with them.
Then Linda and I left the Buffy folks and spent a few hours in Balboa Park, which is simply beautiful. I used to live in San Diego many moons ago and I loved the Park then. Now, whenever I go to San Diego and I have the time, I make sure that I spend at least a little time there. It really is a must see. And after that we came home.
Of course, there's lots more detail, but how exciting is it to read about bad traffic on the way there and no hot water at the hotel this morning and our quest for parking at the Park? Not very.
However, there is one rather, um, interesting thing that happened. At the end of last night at the zoo's gift shop, as I was waiting for Linda who was waiting for the guy that was taking forever to wrap the gift she got for her mom, I ran into two people that I didn't expect to run into. WriterGuy and BassBoy.
Back in the late 80s I worked with BassBoy. And, though I certainly never told him this (I don't think he ever found out), I fell in love with him. I got over it and was soon after introduced to one of his best friends, WriterGuy. Somehow, without me ever quite figuring out how, I ended up in a relationship with WriterGuy. As a matter of fact, he was my first boyfriend (I've always been a late bloomer, socially). It was all well and good, as WriterGuy is very intelligent and funny and nice, though more than a little on the angry side. But after about seven or eight months I realized that my feelings for WriterGuy did not run as deep as I felt they should have and I broke up with him. The only time I've ever broken up with someone, I might add.
As we share some friends, I've seen both of them over the years, but it's probably been a good seven years since I've seen WriterGuy and, I think, five years since I've seen BassBoy (he was at a friend's Christmas party). I'd heard that WriterGuy was living in San Diego and, the last I'd heard, BassBoy was in Laguna Beach, but I certainly didn't expect to run into them at the zoo. Though I did mention to Linda earlier in the day that it would be interesting if I did.
The three of us spoke for a few minutes, all light and frivolous, but I was feeling a little off-balance. I think mainly because I was tired and ready to head back to the hotel and just the night before an old school mate that I hadn't seen in almost twenty years showed up at my game night, in addition to all of the other people from my past that have been popping up in one way or another over the last few months (including CuteNerdBoy). Linda came over and I introduced them, then we spoke some more, then a Buffy person I'd been hoping to see popped up and she and I hugged and chatted. At that point WriterGuy and BassBoy decided to leave, we said our goodbyes and they were off.
I was a little jittery for the rest of the night after that. I think because I wasn't sure what to expect from either one of them and I'd heard over the years through the grapevine that WriterGuy might still have feelings for me after all this time. Linda said that, upon observing the three of us, she had to agree with that statement. I still have fond feelings for both of them, and I always will, but they will just remain fond feelings. Especially since my interests are very much directed at another person these days.
I'm just wondering who from my past will pop up next.
Friday, August 15, 2003
Why, oh why?!
I was heading back to work today, ending my lunch hour with a nice Coffee Bean decaf cafe mocha with soymilk when I saw him. Sitting at an outside table in front of Coffee Bean, not a care in the world, acting as if he had no idea what he inspired in others.
A man with a toupee.
I refrained from running up to him, snatching the foul thing from his head, dashing it to the ground and stomping on it as I screamed, “You’re not fooling anyone! You’d look good if you just accepted nature!”
Because that would just be rude. E-hem.
Listen, I happen to like a nicely groomed head of hair on a man. If it’s dark, even better. (G-d, how I love dark hair!) But if a man’s hairline is starting to migrate north, I would so much prefer it if he let nature do its thing. Accept it and move on. I find that so much more attractive than trying to convince people that the toupee (or the comb-over *shudder*) is his hair’s natural look. (My father does the comb-over. You know Jack Nicholson in About Schmidt? Spitting image of my father. Really.) Or, if he prefers, just shave it all off.
Let me put it this way. On one hand you have Patrick Stewart. On the other hand you’ve got Walter Koenig. If there was some bizarre cataclysmic event that caused both of them to come to me, proclaiming their undying love for me, and I wasn’t involved or interested in someone else, who do you think I’d go for? It wouldn’t be the one with the rodent on his head, I tell ya that.
(Okay, so Patrick Stewart also has that whole charisma/talent/booming English accented voice thing going on. But I’m telling you, the shag rug residing on Koenig’s pate doesn’t help matters. I mean, I’ve seen the thing in person. It’s no ShatnerTurbo2000.)
So, gentlemen, I beg of you, on the behalf of all women (and gay men) with taste. Eschew the toupee. If you have one, please release it into the wild, where it can lead a happy life as near-sighted, smell-challenged wildlife attempt to mate with it. Your toupee, and your loved ones, will thank you.
A man with a toupee.
I refrained from running up to him, snatching the foul thing from his head, dashing it to the ground and stomping on it as I screamed, “You’re not fooling anyone! You’d look good if you just accepted nature!”
Because that would just be rude. E-hem.
Listen, I happen to like a nicely groomed head of hair on a man. If it’s dark, even better. (G-d, how I love dark hair!) But if a man’s hairline is starting to migrate north, I would so much prefer it if he let nature do its thing. Accept it and move on. I find that so much more attractive than trying to convince people that the toupee (or the comb-over *shudder*) is his hair’s natural look. (My father does the comb-over. You know Jack Nicholson in About Schmidt? Spitting image of my father. Really.) Or, if he prefers, just shave it all off.
Let me put it this way. On one hand you have Patrick Stewart. On the other hand you’ve got Walter Koenig. If there was some bizarre cataclysmic event that caused both of them to come to me, proclaiming their undying love for me, and I wasn’t involved or interested in someone else, who do you think I’d go for? It wouldn’t be the one with the rodent on his head, I tell ya that.
(Okay, so Patrick Stewart also has that whole charisma/talent/booming English accented voice thing going on. But I’m telling you, the shag rug residing on Koenig’s pate doesn’t help matters. I mean, I’ve seen the thing in person. It’s no ShatnerTurbo2000.)
So, gentlemen, I beg of you, on the behalf of all women (and gay men) with taste. Eschew the toupee. If you have one, please release it into the wild, where it can lead a happy life as near-sighted, smell-challenged wildlife attempt to mate with it. Your toupee, and your loved ones, will thank you.
Social Butterfly Blues...
Well, I just sounded like a big ol' whiny baby last night, didn't I? That'll teach me to post when I should be sleeping. Let that be a lesson to everyone.
Poor little me, tired because I'm such the social butterfly. I mean, it's not like I'm working obscenely long hours because of the stupidity of computer users who don't install a free patch and, as a consequence, have their computers screwed up because of another lovely computer worm. (Poor CuteNerdBoy. I hope he gets some rest this weekend.)
I did get enough sleep last night to move the tired factor from bone-weary to, "Eh, so I'm tired. *shrug* Big friggin' deal." So that's a good thing. Tonight is another game night, which will be fun. And tomorrow, depending on the outcome of some recent events, Linda and I will most likely be driving down to San Diego to meet a bunch of folks that I know through a Buffy message board that I frequent. I've met several of the people in real life before, but some of them will be brand new to me, so I'm excited about that. We'll be going to the San Diego Zoo, which I've never been to before, despite my four years of living in San Diego when I was a teen. Then Sunday will be spent showing Linda a few touristy sights in San Diego before heading back to town.
So yeah, the social butterfly is still fluttering about, having a blast, though wondering why I feel the need to cram full so many of my evenings and days with activities. I've got no one to blame but myself for any exhaustion I may feel. So if I turn into a little whiny, "Oh, I'm soooo tired!!!" baby again, just slap me. You have my permission.
Poor little me, tired because I'm such the social butterfly. I mean, it's not like I'm working obscenely long hours because of the stupidity of computer users who don't install a free patch and, as a consequence, have their computers screwed up because of another lovely computer worm. (Poor CuteNerdBoy. I hope he gets some rest this weekend.)
I did get enough sleep last night to move the tired factor from bone-weary to, "Eh, so I'm tired. *shrug* Big friggin' deal." So that's a good thing. Tonight is another game night, which will be fun. And tomorrow, depending on the outcome of some recent events, Linda and I will most likely be driving down to San Diego to meet a bunch of folks that I know through a Buffy message board that I frequent. I've met several of the people in real life before, but some of them will be brand new to me, so I'm excited about that. We'll be going to the San Diego Zoo, which I've never been to before, despite my four years of living in San Diego when I was a teen. Then Sunday will be spent showing Linda a few touristy sights in San Diego before heading back to town.
So yeah, the social butterfly is still fluttering about, having a blast, though wondering why I feel the need to cram full so many of my evenings and days with activities. I've got no one to blame but myself for any exhaustion I may feel. So if I turn into a little whiny, "Oh, I'm soooo tired!!!" baby again, just slap me. You have my permission.
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Bone-weary...
How do you know when you're lacking in the sleep department? When you look in the mirror, noticing smudged eye make-up under your eyes. You try to wipe it away with a damp paper towel, but as you glance at the virgin white paper, you remember you haven't worn make up in a couple of days.
Yeah. I think I need sleep.
To borrow a phrase from Kymm, Jesus wept, I'm tired. Not the "I'm going to drop from lack of sleep" kind of tired. I think I passed that yesterday. No, it's the bone-weary kind of tired where, yes you can walk without tripping over your own feet, but the world around you is moving at a sort of triple pace. You have moments where you think you've caught your second wind, you're okay, even jogging down one flight of stairs at work, but that burst of energy is gone in an instant and your arms feel weighted down with sand bags. Gravity makes smiling way too difficult, so you look like you're very sad because every muscle in your face is drooping. But you're not sad, because even emotion takes too much energy. And, if for one second you make the mistake of closing your eyes, just for the briefest millisecond, you feel sleep rushing up around you, you feel as if you're floating, almost giddy and, for half a second, you welcome sinking into the black void that's embracing you, before you remember you're on the bus or at work or walking down the hall.
I got some rest on Sunday, after the baseball game, but that wasn't enough to make up for the previous three weeks. Monday night I spent with an emergency load of laundry and straightening around the house until one in the morning, though I was up by 4:30 am on Tuesday. Tuesday evening was a fun book meeting and lovely dinner and coffee date, all with CuteNerdBoy, which ended early enough for me to get a good amount of sleep, but my brain just wouldn't shut up enough to let me drift off. Asleep at nearly 2 am and awake at 6 am. And last night was a rather frustrating dinner with my friend, WestHollywoodBoy, which we didn't even eat until close to 10:30 pm due to buses and phone conversations that lasted way too long until I threatened to just take the bus home if he didn't get off the damned phone and bad service at the Jerry's Deli near the Beverly Center, which is never a good idea when you have two tired, cranky people at your table. Luckily my very deliberately dropped menu seem to get attention, otherwise I would have had to grab someone, anyone, and dragged them to our table. It wouldn't have mattered if it was a customer or not. I was hungry and tired and I wanted food. I wanted comfort food late at night and by G-d, I got my veggie melt with avocado and onion rings, healthy eating be damned. So I didn't actually enter my home (my friend drove me home, of course) until 1 am. Sleep graced my bed at about 1:30 am, but I was out of bed again at 6am.
Thank heaven Linda canceled our plans for tonight. I would have liked to see her tonight, but I swear, I'm going to bed as soon as I post this entry.
No, I don't know why I'm writing instead of sleeping. Even if I weren't sleeping I could be exercising, because I haven't really worked out in the last two weeks. I have gotten daily exercise, with the walking and the running for the bus and the stair climbing, but no real workout, because I've been leaving too early in the morning and getting home too late. I could be washing my dishes, which really, really has to be done. And if I just had to write, well, I could work on my novels or some short stories I've begun. But I've been bitten by the 'blogging bug. I probably need help. Especially since my tiredness seems to have exhausted my funny bone. Damn, three days in a row with very little humor in my entries. Maybe I need to step away from the keyboard.
Rather than trying to puzzle it out now, I think I'll just sleep on it. Hopefully I'll have an answer in the morning.
Yeah. I think I need sleep.
To borrow a phrase from Kymm, Jesus wept, I'm tired. Not the "I'm going to drop from lack of sleep" kind of tired. I think I passed that yesterday. No, it's the bone-weary kind of tired where, yes you can walk without tripping over your own feet, but the world around you is moving at a sort of triple pace. You have moments where you think you've caught your second wind, you're okay, even jogging down one flight of stairs at work, but that burst of energy is gone in an instant and your arms feel weighted down with sand bags. Gravity makes smiling way too difficult, so you look like you're very sad because every muscle in your face is drooping. But you're not sad, because even emotion takes too much energy. And, if for one second you make the mistake of closing your eyes, just for the briefest millisecond, you feel sleep rushing up around you, you feel as if you're floating, almost giddy and, for half a second, you welcome sinking into the black void that's embracing you, before you remember you're on the bus or at work or walking down the hall.
I got some rest on Sunday, after the baseball game, but that wasn't enough to make up for the previous three weeks. Monday night I spent with an emergency load of laundry and straightening around the house until one in the morning, though I was up by 4:30 am on Tuesday. Tuesday evening was a fun book meeting and lovely dinner and coffee date, all with CuteNerdBoy, which ended early enough for me to get a good amount of sleep, but my brain just wouldn't shut up enough to let me drift off. Asleep at nearly 2 am and awake at 6 am. And last night was a rather frustrating dinner with my friend, WestHollywoodBoy, which we didn't even eat until close to 10:30 pm due to buses and phone conversations that lasted way too long until I threatened to just take the bus home if he didn't get off the damned phone and bad service at the Jerry's Deli near the Beverly Center, which is never a good idea when you have two tired, cranky people at your table. Luckily my very deliberately dropped menu seem to get attention, otherwise I would have had to grab someone, anyone, and dragged them to our table. It wouldn't have mattered if it was a customer or not. I was hungry and tired and I wanted food. I wanted comfort food late at night and by G-d, I got my veggie melt with avocado and onion rings, healthy eating be damned. So I didn't actually enter my home (my friend drove me home, of course) until 1 am. Sleep graced my bed at about 1:30 am, but I was out of bed again at 6am.
Thank heaven Linda canceled our plans for tonight. I would have liked to see her tonight, but I swear, I'm going to bed as soon as I post this entry.
No, I don't know why I'm writing instead of sleeping. Even if I weren't sleeping I could be exercising, because I haven't really worked out in the last two weeks. I have gotten daily exercise, with the walking and the running for the bus and the stair climbing, but no real workout, because I've been leaving too early in the morning and getting home too late. I could be washing my dishes, which really, really has to be done. And if I just had to write, well, I could work on my novels or some short stories I've begun. But I've been bitten by the 'blogging bug. I probably need help. Especially since my tiredness seems to have exhausted my funny bone. Damn, three days in a row with very little humor in my entries. Maybe I need to step away from the keyboard.
Rather than trying to puzzle it out now, I think I'll just sleep on it. Hopefully I'll have an answer in the morning.
Keeping an eye out...
Last night I was looking down the street, waiting for the Big Blue Bus (yes, that’s the name of the Santa Monica bus system) when I spied a man crossing the street, carrying a child. From what I could see of him in the rapidly dwindling light as he walked in the opposite direction, with only his back visible to me, the man was probably in his 30s, of average height and athletic build. The child was a boy about 4 or 5 years old and was held awkwardly at chest height, his legs sticking out to the side of his carrier, constantly moving.
I watched them cross the street, looking for signs that the boy was being unwillingly carried. As they reached the 7-11 parking lot on the opposite corner, the man set the boy down. Instantly the kid took off running towards the store with a happy squeal. I realized that the man simply carried the child so there would be no danger of him running into traffic.
I remembered that, no matter how trusting I tend to be, I look at many adult/child interactions with the same critical eye and I wondered, “My G-d, is this what our society has come to?”
Maybe, with my love of children and my many nieces and nephews, it's just what I've become. Or a combination of the two.
I watched them cross the street, looking for signs that the boy was being unwillingly carried. As they reached the 7-11 parking lot on the opposite corner, the man set the boy down. Instantly the kid took off running towards the store with a happy squeal. I realized that the man simply carried the child so there would be no danger of him running into traffic.
I remembered that, no matter how trusting I tend to be, I look at many adult/child interactions with the same critical eye and I wondered, “My G-d, is this what our society has come to?”
Maybe, with my love of children and my many nieces and nephews, it's just what I've become. Or a combination of the two.
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
Scam Spam...
Christopher has a humorous, fun way to deal with that annoying, icky Nigerian scam spam. (Read entries posted 8/11 through 8/13.)
Musical interlude...
Shatter the plate now
Crush the glass
And all the things I've carried
I put them down at last
I keep my promise
Some days better than my heart
But like little paper valentines
This is where we start
Cuz you take me to the window, love
And you leave the light on
You take off my uniform
And say baby put this new dress
Baby put this new dress on
You pull me from my corner
You promise not to laugh
I'm afraid you'll see right through me
But I'm afraid that I will never get enough
Cuz you take me to the window, love
And you leave the light on
You take off my uniform
And say baby put this new dress
Baby put this new dress on
From your window I can see the endless ocean blue
From your window I can finally see that I love you
I love you
So take me to the window, love
And leave the light on
Come take off my uniform
And say baby put this new dress
Take me to the window, love
And leave the light on
Come take off my uniform
And say baby put this new dress
Baby put this new dress
Baby put this new dress on...
New Dress by Jonatha Brooke, Neil Finn accompanying on vocals (from Steady Pull)
A wonderful song. The lyrics are great but it's the music that gets me. Darkly seductive, it seeps into my cells, rushes through my bloodstream and takes over my nerve endings.
Labels: musical interlude
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Smooth and silky...
It is amazing how fabulous it feels to have freshly shaven legs.
Shaving my legs is such a chore for me. My genetics are such that I was cursed with a certain hirsuteness. Which would be great if it were confined to the top of my head. I've often been complimented on my thick, dark head of hair by friends, family and hairdressers alike.
Unfortunately, in my case, a head of thick, luxurious hair also heralds thick coarse hair on my legs, my forearms and even traces on the backs of my knuckles and tops of some of my toes. I've also got the makings for a fine Frieda Kahlo mustache and witchy chin hairs, were I to just let it go. Thank heaven I've escaped the unibrow of my younger brother. On guys it's fine. For a pretty, feminine woman like myself? Not so much.
On top of this I have my mother's fair skin, against which the dark hair contrasts nicely. And my skin is obscenely sensitive. So well-meaning advice of, "Nair it, bleach it, shave it a few times a week" is met with, "Eats the skin, burns the skin, gives the skin lots and lots of little red bumps and rashes."
Attractive, I know.
Nor can I wax frequently, due to tightness of my purse and the stubbornness of my facial hair. My mustache and chin hair laugh at waxes of all kinds. We're not talking timid little chuckles in the corner. Oh no, my friends. My mustache and nascent beard guffaw heartily when they are approached by wax. They point and laugh and make the wax feel really, really bad about itself, until it realizes that my eyebrows, at least, will gladly welcome it.
So my facial hair is taken care of several times a week (skin is not quite so sensitive there), but my legs and forearms are shaved about once a week. I've been known to shave less than that when I'm very busy or when I just can't be bothered to get myself out of bed early enough in the morning to take care of business during my morning shower. Trust me, I pay the price for that laziness. In such instances I think a weed whacker would be more effective than a razor.
But.
When I finally take the time and trouble to perform that chore, when I overcome my innate slothfulness to slather on the foaming shave cream, dip my razor in the warm water and draw it across my pale skin, frequently rinsing it to ensure the closest shave possible, then to towel off the remaining foam, followed with a quick, stinging application of the septic stick when needed, and the soothing aloe vera gel and softening moisturizer?
Then, then I am rewarded. My legs and forearms and all previously undesirably hairy areas are smooth, silky, supple. I caress my skin, reveling in the velvety touch of it, the sheer sensual feel of it. I wear short skirts and heeled sandals to show off the curve of my newly shorn calves. Sometimes I, the queen of the long sleeved shirt, even I wear shirts with half- or three-quarters-length sleeves so that my forearms will feel the sun and the breeze waft across their tender, fair surfaces. And each time I wonder, why don't I do this more often?
Until the stubble makes its appearance the next day.
Shaving my legs is such a chore for me. My genetics are such that I was cursed with a certain hirsuteness. Which would be great if it were confined to the top of my head. I've often been complimented on my thick, dark head of hair by friends, family and hairdressers alike.
Unfortunately, in my case, a head of thick, luxurious hair also heralds thick coarse hair on my legs, my forearms and even traces on the backs of my knuckles and tops of some of my toes. I've also got the makings for a fine Frieda Kahlo mustache and witchy chin hairs, were I to just let it go. Thank heaven I've escaped the unibrow of my younger brother. On guys it's fine. For a pretty, feminine woman like myself? Not so much.
On top of this I have my mother's fair skin, against which the dark hair contrasts nicely. And my skin is obscenely sensitive. So well-meaning advice of, "Nair it, bleach it, shave it a few times a week" is met with, "Eats the skin, burns the skin, gives the skin lots and lots of little red bumps and rashes."
Attractive, I know.
Nor can I wax frequently, due to tightness of my purse and the stubbornness of my facial hair. My mustache and chin hair laugh at waxes of all kinds. We're not talking timid little chuckles in the corner. Oh no, my friends. My mustache and nascent beard guffaw heartily when they are approached by wax. They point and laugh and make the wax feel really, really bad about itself, until it realizes that my eyebrows, at least, will gladly welcome it.
So my facial hair is taken care of several times a week (skin is not quite so sensitive there), but my legs and forearms are shaved about once a week. I've been known to shave less than that when I'm very busy or when I just can't be bothered to get myself out of bed early enough in the morning to take care of business during my morning shower. Trust me, I pay the price for that laziness. In such instances I think a weed whacker would be more effective than a razor.
But.
When I finally take the time and trouble to perform that chore, when I overcome my innate slothfulness to slather on the foaming shave cream, dip my razor in the warm water and draw it across my pale skin, frequently rinsing it to ensure the closest shave possible, then to towel off the remaining foam, followed with a quick, stinging application of the septic stick when needed, and the soothing aloe vera gel and softening moisturizer?
Then, then I am rewarded. My legs and forearms and all previously undesirably hairy areas are smooth, silky, supple. I caress my skin, reveling in the velvety touch of it, the sheer sensual feel of it. I wear short skirts and heeled sandals to show off the curve of my newly shorn calves. Sometimes I, the queen of the long sleeved shirt, even I wear shirts with half- or three-quarters-length sleeves so that my forearms will feel the sun and the breeze waft across their tender, fair surfaces. And each time I wonder, why don't I do this more often?
Until the stubble makes its appearance the next day.
Sunday, August 10, 2003
Take me out to the ball game...
As I mentioned earlier, I went to a baseball game today. Now, there are people out there that are surprised I'd attend sporting events. With good reason. I don't really talk about sports all that much. And I'm certainly not the most avid sports enthusiast. I'm sometimes bitter about how sports are often more prized at schools than the arts or intellectual pursuits.
However, once upon a time I had a boyfriend who was very much the sports enthusiast. Admittedly that was strange for me because I'd never dated a sports fan before, but since I didn't hate sports and I never became a sports widow, I didn't have a problem with it. As a consequence I picked up a few things about sports. I'd already discovered that live games could be very exciting and I wasn't surprised when I jumped right into the energy of the fans with both feet. I tend to get rather excitable that way.
So when my friend Linda (who is now in town for a few weeks) asked me if I'd like to go to a Dodger game with her, I readily accepted. It really would be so much fun.
A few days later she e-mailed me some exciting news. Turned out two more of her L.A. friends would be joining us: Mike Farrell and his lovely wife, Shelley Fabares. As I seem to be regressing the older I get and have taken to squealing at good news, I, well, squealed.
Ya see, once upon a time I had a massive crush on Mike Farrell. I had become immersed in M*A*S*H and thought that B.J. Hunnicutt was once of the best characters ever created (I still think that), far better, more interesting than ol' Trapper John. And that actor playing him? A serious hottie. As a matter of fact, it was thanks to Mr. Farrell that Linda and I met over the internet and became such great friends. And it was thanks to Linda and her friendship with the fellow that I met him several times over the past few years. So yeah, I was excited to hear that I'd actually be hanging out with him and his wife for a couple of hours (I'd never met her before).
So they picked me up, Linda driving, Mike in the front passenger seat and Shelley in the back seat with me (I'm going to use their first names from here on out, just for ease - I never asked them what they would prefer that I call them and I'm not one to be presumptuous). I was a bit nervous at first, as I've always been around actors that I admire (well, except when I met Tony Head - but I'd had a few drinks before that happened), but instantly Shelley made me feel at ease, as I predicted she might. She and I talked a fair amount during the few hours I was with them and I ended up having a grand time, despite the Dodgers losing to the Cubs by two runs (I think). Mike was a bit quiet, but that was something else I thought might happen, since I'd gotten the sense from him at earlier meetings that he tends to be friendly, yet reserved.
Ya know, I was freaking out a little about the thought of spending more than five minutes in their company, afraid that I would do something to make a total fool of myself, but I think I did okay. And with me sitting between Linda and Shelley at the game, I was able to lean over to either one, usually making observations about the game to Shelley and jokes to Linda, and I felt completely at ease. It was great.
I have to say, though, it's a good thing I've been exercising more often over the last few months. There was a set of stairs we had to climb to get to our seats (behind home plate and in the shade - Linda totally scored with those seats) that was awfully long and steep and I was far less winded by the time I reached the top than I might have been before my days of exercising and climbing stairs at work and running for buses. That made me feel really good.
They dropped me off at my place after the game (luckily Mike was paying attention because Shelley and I were deep in conversation when we neared my place), we said our good-byes and "So happy to meet you"s and I darted across the street to my welcoming door, whereupon I flung myself onto my couch and re-lived my previous hours.
Have I mentioned yet what a grand time I had? Because I did.
However, once upon a time I had a boyfriend who was very much the sports enthusiast. Admittedly that was strange for me because I'd never dated a sports fan before, but since I didn't hate sports and I never became a sports widow, I didn't have a problem with it. As a consequence I picked up a few things about sports. I'd already discovered that live games could be very exciting and I wasn't surprised when I jumped right into the energy of the fans with both feet. I tend to get rather excitable that way.
So when my friend Linda (who is now in town for a few weeks) asked me if I'd like to go to a Dodger game with her, I readily accepted. It really would be so much fun.
A few days later she e-mailed me some exciting news. Turned out two more of her L.A. friends would be joining us: Mike Farrell and his lovely wife, Shelley Fabares. As I seem to be regressing the older I get and have taken to squealing at good news, I, well, squealed.
Ya see, once upon a time I had a massive crush on Mike Farrell. I had become immersed in M*A*S*H and thought that B.J. Hunnicutt was once of the best characters ever created (I still think that), far better, more interesting than ol' Trapper John. And that actor playing him? A serious hottie. As a matter of fact, it was thanks to Mr. Farrell that Linda and I met over the internet and became such great friends. And it was thanks to Linda and her friendship with the fellow that I met him several times over the past few years. So yeah, I was excited to hear that I'd actually be hanging out with him and his wife for a couple of hours (I'd never met her before).
So they picked me up, Linda driving, Mike in the front passenger seat and Shelley in the back seat with me (I'm going to use their first names from here on out, just for ease - I never asked them what they would prefer that I call them and I'm not one to be presumptuous). I was a bit nervous at first, as I've always been around actors that I admire (well, except when I met Tony Head - but I'd had a few drinks before that happened), but instantly Shelley made me feel at ease, as I predicted she might. She and I talked a fair amount during the few hours I was with them and I ended up having a grand time, despite the Dodgers losing to the Cubs by two runs (I think). Mike was a bit quiet, but that was something else I thought might happen, since I'd gotten the sense from him at earlier meetings that he tends to be friendly, yet reserved.
Ya know, I was freaking out a little about the thought of spending more than five minutes in their company, afraid that I would do something to make a total fool of myself, but I think I did okay. And with me sitting between Linda and Shelley at the game, I was able to lean over to either one, usually making observations about the game to Shelley and jokes to Linda, and I felt completely at ease. It was great.
I have to say, though, it's a good thing I've been exercising more often over the last few months. There was a set of stairs we had to climb to get to our seats (behind home plate and in the shade - Linda totally scored with those seats) that was awfully long and steep and I was far less winded by the time I reached the top than I might have been before my days of exercising and climbing stairs at work and running for buses. That made me feel really good.
They dropped me off at my place after the game (luckily Mike was paying attention because Shelley and I were deep in conversation when we neared my place), we said our good-byes and "So happy to meet you"s and I darted across the street to my welcoming door, whereupon I flung myself onto my couch and re-lived my previous hours.
Have I mentioned yet what a grand time I had? Because I did.
Reading and music are fundamental...
I know how fascinating reading about my latest books are, so I thought I'd oblige with my thoughts about them. Because I love you guys and I'm just that much of a giver.
(Hey, where are you going? Come back!)
Though I am still constantly reading, I seem to have less chewed up books in my wake. I'm not sure why that is, unless there are some books that I've read that are not all that memorable. In which case it's probably best that I not give my opinion about them.
The only ones that pop into my mind are, naturally from the Harry Potter series. The Prisoner of Azkaban and The Goblet of Fire were fast, fun reads (though the end of Goblet of Fire? My G-d, it had me all tense!). I like how each of the books are maturing, getting progressively darker. Now, with The Order of the Phoenix almost finished, I'm liking it's dark tone, how the characters have grown and how they seem to be pretty reflective of true teens, especially that angry young man, Harry. There is much in Order that reminds me about my own teen years. Except all the life-threatening danger. I don't seem to remember too much in the way of centaurs and giants and Cruciatus Curses during my school days in San Diego and the San Fernando Valley. Though I suppose it's possible I repressed the memories. Those repressed memories can be a bitch.
Some weeks ago CuteNerdBoy told me that he envied me because I still had Books 3-5 to read, new things to discover about Hogwarts and its people. I smiled then, but now I'm not so sure that it was something to be envied. Soon I'll be finished with Order and then I'll be in the same boat as everyone else, waiting for Number 6 with barely restrained anticipation. Hmmm. Maybe that Harry Potter is evil after all.
***********************************************
Listening to Another Disc #4, given to me on Friday night by that sweet CuteNerdBoy, I find I'm having difficulty just sitting in my chair, typing out this entry. So much of the songs have such a wonderful beat (right now I'm listening to In These Shoes? by Kirsty MacColl, which is just too infectious for its own good) that it's all I can do to refrain from dancing around my living room. When you also factor in I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow from O Brother, Where Art Thou? (I squealed when I saw this on the song list) and Mr. E's Beautiful Blues by The Eels (which marries an obscenely bouncy beat with somewhat depressing lyrics - how can I not fall in love with this song?), well, the mix CD certainly makes for over an hour of fun, thoughtful listening and lots of be-bopping around the living room. And really, what more can you ask from a mix CD?
***********************************************
BTW, this is a good journal entry about the the California recall effort and the language in the California State Constitution as it relates to both a recall and a vacancy in the governor's office. Beth sums up my feelings far better than I seem to be able to.
***********************************************
If you'll excuse me now, I'm leaving for a baseball game in a few hours and I have to try to get rid of this headache. Maybe leftover Chinese food will help. Yeah, I'm eating leftover Chinese food at 9:30 in the morning, what of it? It's not something I do often and it's not like I'm having cold pizza and beer for breakfast. Just because sometimes I live more like a bachelor than some of bachelors I know - uh, never mind.
(Hey, where are you going? Come back!)
Though I am still constantly reading, I seem to have less chewed up books in my wake. I'm not sure why that is, unless there are some books that I've read that are not all that memorable. In which case it's probably best that I not give my opinion about them.
The only ones that pop into my mind are, naturally from the Harry Potter series. The Prisoner of Azkaban and The Goblet of Fire were fast, fun reads (though the end of Goblet of Fire? My G-d, it had me all tense!). I like how each of the books are maturing, getting progressively darker. Now, with The Order of the Phoenix almost finished, I'm liking it's dark tone, how the characters have grown and how they seem to be pretty reflective of true teens, especially that angry young man, Harry. There is much in Order that reminds me about my own teen years. Except all the life-threatening danger. I don't seem to remember too much in the way of centaurs and giants and Cruciatus Curses during my school days in San Diego and the San Fernando Valley. Though I suppose it's possible I repressed the memories. Those repressed memories can be a bitch.
Some weeks ago CuteNerdBoy told me that he envied me because I still had Books 3-5 to read, new things to discover about Hogwarts and its people. I smiled then, but now I'm not so sure that it was something to be envied. Soon I'll be finished with Order and then I'll be in the same boat as everyone else, waiting for Number 6 with barely restrained anticipation. Hmmm. Maybe that Harry Potter is evil after all.
Listening to Another Disc #4, given to me on Friday night by that sweet CuteNerdBoy, I find I'm having difficulty just sitting in my chair, typing out this entry. So much of the songs have such a wonderful beat (right now I'm listening to In These Shoes? by Kirsty MacColl, which is just too infectious for its own good) that it's all I can do to refrain from dancing around my living room. When you also factor in I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow from O Brother, Where Art Thou? (I squealed when I saw this on the song list) and Mr. E's Beautiful Blues by The Eels (which marries an obscenely bouncy beat with somewhat depressing lyrics - how can I not fall in love with this song?), well, the mix CD certainly makes for over an hour of fun, thoughtful listening and lots of be-bopping around the living room. And really, what more can you ask from a mix CD?
BTW, this is a good journal entry about the the California recall effort and the language in the California State Constitution as it relates to both a recall and a vacancy in the governor's office. Beth sums up my feelings far better than I seem to be able to.
If you'll excuse me now, I'm leaving for a baseball game in a few hours and I have to try to get rid of this headache. Maybe leftover Chinese food will help. Yeah, I'm eating leftover Chinese food at 9:30 in the morning, what of it? It's not something I do often and it's not like I'm having cold pizza and beer for breakfast. Just because sometimes I live more like a bachelor than some of bachelors I know - uh, never mind.
Saturday, August 09, 2003
Patience, grasshopper...
A friend told me recently that when she and her husband started dating, he was the perfect gentleman. Despite having known each other for awhile, during which time he was trying to convince her that he'd be just the right person for her to date, once she said, "Yes, I will date you," he was, for a number of months, never too forward, never doing more than a kiss and a hug before leaving for the night, despite her widened eyes of disbelief. When asked why, hubby said, "Because if I start, I'm not going to want to stop. And I just don't want to take things too fast."
Another friend, whom I had dated many, many moons ago, in a galaxy on the far side of the universe, once told me that he always found it interesting that women, or at least the women he had dated, seemed to want to rush into the physical side of dating much faster than he did. He had mentioned this phenomenon to several of his male friends, all of whom agreed that this was the truth. I looked at him, eyebrow raised, disbelief writ large on my face as I recalled how very forward he was on our first date in that long ago time. I may have even snorted in a most scoffing manner, remembering how the men I'd dated wasted no time in making it known that they found me physically attractive and also remembering tales of the male libido from so many other women. To which he replied, "Maybe it's just the men you date, Carol. But in my group of friends, we're willing to take it slow."
I think Friend #2 was right. Maybe it is just the men I've dated in the past, combined with the fact that 1) I'm a very physical person and 2) I like to dress in a rather provacative, if tasteful, manner, which no doubt makes said dates think, "Hey, it's ok to put the moves on this one." And all this makes me think that it's perfectly okay to rush into being physical with a guy. So when I'm faced with someone whose company I enjoy and who, from what I can tell, shows signs of being attracted to me but is a perfect gentleman, despite my painfully obvious attempts of showing my own interest in him, my mind just bounces all over the place and I have trouble figuring out what is happening. And I think,"Is this how normal people date?"
Maybe it is. And maybe I just need to keep that in mind.
Another friend, whom I had dated many, many moons ago, in a galaxy on the far side of the universe, once told me that he always found it interesting that women, or at least the women he had dated, seemed to want to rush into the physical side of dating much faster than he did. He had mentioned this phenomenon to several of his male friends, all of whom agreed that this was the truth. I looked at him, eyebrow raised, disbelief writ large on my face as I recalled how very forward he was on our first date in that long ago time. I may have even snorted in a most scoffing manner, remembering how the men I'd dated wasted no time in making it known that they found me physically attractive and also remembering tales of the male libido from so many other women. To which he replied, "Maybe it's just the men you date, Carol. But in my group of friends, we're willing to take it slow."
I think Friend #2 was right. Maybe it is just the men I've dated in the past, combined with the fact that 1) I'm a very physical person and 2) I like to dress in a rather provacative, if tasteful, manner, which no doubt makes said dates think, "Hey, it's ok to put the moves on this one." And all this makes me think that it's perfectly okay to rush into being physical with a guy. So when I'm faced with someone whose company I enjoy and who, from what I can tell, shows signs of being attracted to me but is a perfect gentleman, despite my painfully obvious attempts of showing my own interest in him, my mind just bounces all over the place and I have trouble figuring out what is happening. And I think,"Is this how normal people date?"
Maybe it is. And maybe I just need to keep that in mind.
Friday, August 08, 2003
Random, uninteresting thoughts...
**Schwarzenegger as governor of California? Vermont is looking awfully good these days. Hey, maybe I can be governor! Anybody got $3,500 they can loan me? And about sixty illegally gotten signatures? I'm sure I can come up with the other five on my own. I mean, what a hoot it would be to be on the ballot!
**I don't like Governor Davis much, but this whole recall thing is just stupid. Lord knows, it's not as if there's a surplus of money laying about that can be used to fund the recall and special election. Though I have to say, it certainly makes for entertaining politics. And isn't that what politics is all about? (Ow, I think I sprained an eyeball with that roll.)
**Why do all the cute tracksuits have hoodies? I don't like hoodies.
**How much do I seriously love the soundtrack to Once More, With Feeling? Words cannot express.
**In related thoughts, Tony Head is unbelievably hot. And my G-d, what a singing voice he has.
**In Gigli, Ben Affleck has the power to turn a lesbian straight. Huh. I think if I were confronted with Ben Affleck coming on to me, I'd become a lesbian. And, as I told my boss the other day, if my only male choices were Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, I'd find a nice girl and just use a strap-on. Fuck the whole "continuing the human race" thing. If the only other woman was J. Lowhatsherface? I'd go celibate.
**Oh, and about those Gigli posters - why are J. Loannoying's breasts on the same level as her shoulders? She looks totally freakish.
**Luckily I don't have rely on Affleck and Damon, because I am seeing CuteNerdBoy again tonight. And CuteNerdBoy? To paraphrase Spike, he's just a nummy treat. Unlike Spike, however, there is not a lick of sarcasm in my voice. Mmmm, nummy treat...
**Considering several of my previous thoughts, it's not surprising that I'd be consigned to Dante's Second Level of Hell. Oh well, that where all the fun sinners are, anyway. (Thanks to Christopher for the link.)
**I don't like Governor Davis much, but this whole recall thing is just stupid. Lord knows, it's not as if there's a surplus of money laying about that can be used to fund the recall and special election. Though I have to say, it certainly makes for entertaining politics. And isn't that what politics is all about? (Ow, I think I sprained an eyeball with that roll.)
**Why do all the cute tracksuits have hoodies? I don't like hoodies.
**How much do I seriously love the soundtrack to Once More, With Feeling? Words cannot express.
**In related thoughts, Tony Head is unbelievably hot. And my G-d, what a singing voice he has.
**In Gigli, Ben Affleck has the power to turn a lesbian straight. Huh. I think if I were confronted with Ben Affleck coming on to me, I'd become a lesbian. And, as I told my boss the other day, if my only male choices were Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, I'd find a nice girl and just use a strap-on. Fuck the whole "continuing the human race" thing. If the only other woman was J. Lowhatsherface? I'd go celibate.
**Oh, and about those Gigli posters - why are J. Loannoying's breasts on the same level as her shoulders? She looks totally freakish.
**Luckily I don't have rely on Affleck and Damon, because I am seeing CuteNerdBoy again tonight. And CuteNerdBoy? To paraphrase Spike, he's just a nummy treat. Unlike Spike, however, there is not a lick of sarcasm in my voice. Mmmm, nummy treat...
**Considering several of my previous thoughts, it's not surprising that I'd be consigned to Dante's Second Level of Hell. Oh well, that where all the fun sinners are, anyway. (Thanks to Christopher for the link.)
Heads are a-poppin'...
What am I doing here?
I’m not talking in the philosophical sense, or even my presence in the ‘blogging world.
I’m talking about my job.
Don’t worry, I won’t go into the minutiae of the job. It’s really quite boring. But Wednesday, as work was kicking my ass and I was missing lunch trying to catch up from all the accumulation of work from the previous weeks due to the confluence closing the month-end and billing back-log and losing one person and training a temp and interviewing for the vacant position (how the hell did I get to be in a position to interview prospective employees? There's something very wrong with that picture - though it's kind of cool, too), I started to doze off. I blasted Garbage over my headphones and drank copious amounts of water to wake up, as I had caffeined and sugared myself out the previous day. The sheer amount of work still to be done seemed to rise up, towering over me, and I became very jittery. Every nerve in my body fired up to the point where it was either leave my desk and run to the relative privacy of the restroom or just explode like a Blipvert victim from Max Headroom. Since I’m typing this up, I think it’s fairly obvious that I chose not to explode. Instead I sat in a stall, willing the other restroom patrons to leave so that I could silently stamp my feet and release some of the nervous energy. They didn’t oblige, but I still managed let go of some of the nerves by quietly flailing my arms in the confines of my stall.
(What? Doesn’t everyone do that? Just me then. Huh.)
Finally, at some point, I was able to focus on the tasks at hand and plow through the piles of paper, managing, with much help from others, to finish the work by 5pm, as requested by my very patient and long-suffering boss.
While that is an extreme example (I don’t feel like that every day, thank heavens), I’m so desperately bored at my desk, despite the volume of work, that I really don’t work as hard as I could or should. My attention wanders, I hop on the internet (just enough to check my e-mail or read a quick journal, I promise myself) or I compose a ‘blog entry. Next thing I know, I’ve wasted far more time than I should.
Each morning I tell myself, I’ll get into work on time, I’ll work harder. I’ll be an incredible worker. And I end up rarely getting to my cubicle on time and, despite my best efforts, I become a horrid worker again. I’ve managed to coast for a long time, but my slothful ways are starting to catch up to me and, if I’m not careful, they could explode in my face.
So I wonder, what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just buckle down? Why is nearly every day a struggle? Other people are more than capable of plowing through the day, why can’t I? Why the fuck can’t I make money at something that doesn’t bore me to tears? Why am I here?
Wednesday, in the midst of my near-explosion, my oldest and dearest friend, J., called me. She rarely calls me at work, since she has no time to talk during her workday. But she had a question she just had to ask me. She read the LAPC article that I referred to on Monday and she needed an answer from me: why don’t I write more? I told her that I have been writing more, what with the writing group and this ‘blog, it’s just that I don’t submit my writing very often.
“Then why don’t you submit more? You should be getting paid for your writing.”
I’ve gotten some great feedback on my article, which is wonderful and makes me feel all glowy, but some people, both friends and strangers, are asking the same question – why am I not getting paid for my writing?
There it is.
That’s what I should be doing.
I think I’m scared. I always wonder whether I’m as good as I think I am. I’m also pretty good at the procrastinating. And I have submitted stories that I think are good, but that are rejected, so I start to wonder, even though I know many famous, published, excellent authors were rejected multiple times. Maybe I’m just not that good.
But I’ve gotten better. I can see that my writing has improved immeasurably in just the last year. I feel more confident about putting pen to paper and coming up with something that, not only doesn’t totally stink, but is pretty readable.
Even better, my inspirations are coming far more fast and furious than they have in a long time. There are so many times during the day I just want to stop what I’m doing and write a few paragraphs, an essay, maybe a short story, before I lose the inspiration. But work gets in the way and I have to just do the job. And the inspiration floats away. I could write on the bus, but that’s very difficult (I’ve tried), so I think, I’ll write when I get home. But then I’m not home until nearly 11pm and I’m just too tired to think. And another day starts.
But maybe, just maybe, I can commit to ten, twenty minutes a night. Nothing much, just enough to keep the writing muscle toned. I just have to try to make it through the work day, using that time at the end of the day as something to look forward to, to get me through the boring billing and account reconciliation and collections (yes, me doing collections – if only you knew how much irony is laden in that aspect of my job). Or I could finally pick up The Artist’s Way, of which I’ve heard so many great things. Hey, there’s an idea.
And maybe, just maybe, I can eventually say good-bye to the corporate world. Before my head explodes.
(Don’t worry, this isn’t a solicitation for reassurance. Even I'm not that needy. I just had to write what I was feeling, before the inspiration left me again.)
I’m not talking in the philosophical sense, or even my presence in the ‘blogging world.
I’m talking about my job.
Don’t worry, I won’t go into the minutiae of the job. It’s really quite boring. But Wednesday, as work was kicking my ass and I was missing lunch trying to catch up from all the accumulation of work from the previous weeks due to the confluence closing the month-end and billing back-log and losing one person and training a temp and interviewing for the vacant position (how the hell did I get to be in a position to interview prospective employees? There's something very wrong with that picture - though it's kind of cool, too), I started to doze off. I blasted Garbage over my headphones and drank copious amounts of water to wake up, as I had caffeined and sugared myself out the previous day. The sheer amount of work still to be done seemed to rise up, towering over me, and I became very jittery. Every nerve in my body fired up to the point where it was either leave my desk and run to the relative privacy of the restroom or just explode like a Blipvert victim from Max Headroom. Since I’m typing this up, I think it’s fairly obvious that I chose not to explode. Instead I sat in a stall, willing the other restroom patrons to leave so that I could silently stamp my feet and release some of the nervous energy. They didn’t oblige, but I still managed let go of some of the nerves by quietly flailing my arms in the confines of my stall.
(What? Doesn’t everyone do that? Just me then. Huh.)
Finally, at some point, I was able to focus on the tasks at hand and plow through the piles of paper, managing, with much help from others, to finish the work by 5pm, as requested by my very patient and long-suffering boss.
While that is an extreme example (I don’t feel like that every day, thank heavens), I’m so desperately bored at my desk, despite the volume of work, that I really don’t work as hard as I could or should. My attention wanders, I hop on the internet (just enough to check my e-mail or read a quick journal, I promise myself) or I compose a ‘blog entry. Next thing I know, I’ve wasted far more time than I should.
Each morning I tell myself, I’ll get into work on time, I’ll work harder. I’ll be an incredible worker. And I end up rarely getting to my cubicle on time and, despite my best efforts, I become a horrid worker again. I’ve managed to coast for a long time, but my slothful ways are starting to catch up to me and, if I’m not careful, they could explode in my face.
So I wonder, what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just buckle down? Why is nearly every day a struggle? Other people are more than capable of plowing through the day, why can’t I? Why the fuck can’t I make money at something that doesn’t bore me to tears? Why am I here?
Wednesday, in the midst of my near-explosion, my oldest and dearest friend, J., called me. She rarely calls me at work, since she has no time to talk during her workday. But she had a question she just had to ask me. She read the LAPC article that I referred to on Monday and she needed an answer from me: why don’t I write more? I told her that I have been writing more, what with the writing group and this ‘blog, it’s just that I don’t submit my writing very often.
“Then why don’t you submit more? You should be getting paid for your writing.”
I’ve gotten some great feedback on my article, which is wonderful and makes me feel all glowy, but some people, both friends and strangers, are asking the same question – why am I not getting paid for my writing?
There it is.
That’s what I should be doing.
I think I’m scared. I always wonder whether I’m as good as I think I am. I’m also pretty good at the procrastinating. And I have submitted stories that I think are good, but that are rejected, so I start to wonder, even though I know many famous, published, excellent authors were rejected multiple times. Maybe I’m just not that good.
But I’ve gotten better. I can see that my writing has improved immeasurably in just the last year. I feel more confident about putting pen to paper and coming up with something that, not only doesn’t totally stink, but is pretty readable.
Even better, my inspirations are coming far more fast and furious than they have in a long time. There are so many times during the day I just want to stop what I’m doing and write a few paragraphs, an essay, maybe a short story, before I lose the inspiration. But work gets in the way and I have to just do the job. And the inspiration floats away. I could write on the bus, but that’s very difficult (I’ve tried), so I think, I’ll write when I get home. But then I’m not home until nearly 11pm and I’m just too tired to think. And another day starts.
But maybe, just maybe, I can commit to ten, twenty minutes a night. Nothing much, just enough to keep the writing muscle toned. I just have to try to make it through the work day, using that time at the end of the day as something to look forward to, to get me through the boring billing and account reconciliation and collections (yes, me doing collections – if only you knew how much irony is laden in that aspect of my job). Or I could finally pick up The Artist’s Way, of which I’ve heard so many great things. Hey, there’s an idea.
And maybe, just maybe, I can eventually say good-bye to the corporate world. Before my head explodes.
(Don’t worry, this isn’t a solicitation for reassurance. Even I'm not that needy. I just had to write what I was feeling, before the inspiration left me again.)
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Here's a hypothetical situation...
Let's say that you're a 37 year old whipper-snapper. Let's also hypothesize that, since your halcyon high school days, you've put on a few pounds so that now you're a bit on the, uh, Rubenesque side. Okay. These things happen. At one point you lost a fair amount of weight over the course of five years but, due to work troubles and family troubles and depression you found yourself doing something you'd never done before: stress eat. As a consequence you gained back most of the weight you'd lost. You did something about it. You went back to eating more healthfully (most of the time). You increased your exercise (most weeks). You got out more and spent time with friends and family and started seeing a therapist. And the weight, slowly, began to come off. But, due to the vagaries of age, you found yourself with a tummy that you'd never had before, even when you were at your heaviest in the mid-90s. And that tummy? Is being very, very stubborn about leaving you. It just loves you that much.
Now, you see that checkered mini-skirt in the drawer? Yeah, that one there. The one that you bought in the early 90s, when you were a bit more slender than now and that has a rather high kick-slit up the back, so you only wear tights with it, otherwise the public at large would see more of your underwear than you or they would like them to see. The skirt that, though not tight or all that clingy, delights in emphasizing your rather affectionate tummy that never, ever wants to go away.
You might want to just leave that skirt in the drawer. I'm just sayin'.
***********************************************
Random Holmesian geek fact: had he actually existed, John H. Watson, MD, late of the Northumberland Fusilliers, would have turned 151 years old today (according to William S. Baring-Gould in Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street - yes, I am that much of a Holmes geek).
Now, you see that checkered mini-skirt in the drawer? Yeah, that one there. The one that you bought in the early 90s, when you were a bit more slender than now and that has a rather high kick-slit up the back, so you only wear tights with it, otherwise the public at large would see more of your underwear than you or they would like them to see. The skirt that, though not tight or all that clingy, delights in emphasizing your rather affectionate tummy that never, ever wants to go away.
You might want to just leave that skirt in the drawer. I'm just sayin'.
Random Holmesian geek fact: had he actually existed, John H. Watson, MD, late of the Northumberland Fusilliers, would have turned 151 years old today (according to William S. Baring-Gould in Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street - yes, I am that much of a Holmes geek).
Monday, August 04, 2003
Not bad for a Monday...
Fridays are good days. I am all for Fridays. Especially when Friday evening is spent with CuteNerdBoy and RockerChick.
RockerChick is someone that I knew in high school, reconnected with at an old job, and have remained good friends with since the late 80's. RockerChick and CuteNerdBoy were friends in junior high and high school, but haven't seen each other since the mid-80's. So, since I was going to have dinner with the happily newlywed RockerChick anyway, I thought it would be a hoot to surprise her with CuteNerdBoy. She knew we were back in contact and they both remembered each other fondly, so I knew bringing them together would be okay. CuteNerdBoy agreed. The date got postponed a couple of weeks, but it came off without a hitch on Friday and, as I predicted, she was bowled over by his presence.
The three of us spent the evening talking and laughing and catching up, eating extremely yummy Indian food in my neighborhood, then back to my place for some more talking and laughing, stopping long enough to play with and torment my four cats. They both left around midnight (though I had hoped that CuteNerdBoy would stay a skosh longer - I admit to having been a little disappointed about that - okay, maybe just a tad more than a little disappointed). He gave me another mix CD, as has been his custom over the previous dates, which I listened to that evening and over most of the weekend, enjoying the sheer eclectic nature of it. It's probably the most eclectic thus far - and that's saying something. I mean, My Hero Zero by the Lemonheads and California Dreamin' by the Mamas and Papas (which is my kareoke song of choice)? How bloody cool is that?
A nice evening, all told.
***********************************************
During the first half of my lunch hour I was walking to the corner shopping center to deposit a check (which will enable me to buy a used car by the end of the week - WooHoo!) and to pick up some lunch, when I noticed a huge butterfly preceeding me down the sidewalk. I'm not sure if it was a Monarch or a Viceroy butterfly, but it was beautiful nonetheless. It wove in and out of the trees lining the sidewalk, dipping and swooping and basically leading the way for at least half of the eight minute walk to the shopping center. It disappeared in a rather leafy tree about 50 feet from the traffic signal, eluding the quick flitting of my eyes in an attempt to track it again.
Since Saturday butterflies have been crossing my path, at least one a day, and sometimes three. I'm sure that it's all due to the season, but I don't remember seeing that number of butterflies in three days. Though I know it's hardly logical, and the analytical side of my brain scoffs, I see signs in everything. I don't let it rule my life by any means, but the sight of the butterflies and the hummingbird that graced Sarah's and my yard sale on Saturday caused such wonderful feelings of peace and beauty to well and bubble that I couldn't help but think, "This is a sign. This is a positive sign."
Ah, the butterflies. I almost feel like Mariah Carey.
(Ew. I have to go chop off my fingers for writing that. Just be glad I didn't link to her annoyingly cutesy site.)
RockerChick is someone that I knew in high school, reconnected with at an old job, and have remained good friends with since the late 80's. RockerChick and CuteNerdBoy were friends in junior high and high school, but haven't seen each other since the mid-80's. So, since I was going to have dinner with the happily newlywed RockerChick anyway, I thought it would be a hoot to surprise her with CuteNerdBoy. She knew we were back in contact and they both remembered each other fondly, so I knew bringing them together would be okay. CuteNerdBoy agreed. The date got postponed a couple of weeks, but it came off without a hitch on Friday and, as I predicted, she was bowled over by his presence.
The three of us spent the evening talking and laughing and catching up, eating extremely yummy Indian food in my neighborhood, then back to my place for some more talking and laughing, stopping long enough to play with and torment my four cats. They both left around midnight (though I had hoped that CuteNerdBoy would stay a skosh longer - I admit to having been a little disappointed about that - okay, maybe just a tad more than a little disappointed). He gave me another mix CD, as has been his custom over the previous dates, which I listened to that evening and over most of the weekend, enjoying the sheer eclectic nature of it. It's probably the most eclectic thus far - and that's saying something. I mean, My Hero Zero by the Lemonheads and California Dreamin' by the Mamas and Papas (which is my kareoke song of choice)? How bloody cool is that?
A nice evening, all told.
During the first half of my lunch hour I was walking to the corner shopping center to deposit a check (which will enable me to buy a used car by the end of the week - WooHoo!) and to pick up some lunch, when I noticed a huge butterfly preceeding me down the sidewalk. I'm not sure if it was a Monarch or a Viceroy butterfly, but it was beautiful nonetheless. It wove in and out of the trees lining the sidewalk, dipping and swooping and basically leading the way for at least half of the eight minute walk to the shopping center. It disappeared in a rather leafy tree about 50 feet from the traffic signal, eluding the quick flitting of my eyes in an attempt to track it again.
Since Saturday butterflies have been crossing my path, at least one a day, and sometimes three. I'm sure that it's all due to the season, but I don't remember seeing that number of butterflies in three days. Though I know it's hardly logical, and the analytical side of my brain scoffs, I see signs in everything. I don't let it rule my life by any means, but the sight of the butterflies and the hummingbird that graced Sarah's and my yard sale on Saturday caused such wonderful feelings of peace and beauty to well and bubble that I couldn't help but think, "This is a sign. This is a positive sign."
Ah, the butterflies. I almost feel like Mariah Carey.
(Ew. I have to go chop off my fingers for writing that. Just be glad I didn't link to her annoyingly cutesy site.)
Some nice news...
Still busy, but I wanted to share a bit of nice news. As I've mentioned before, I'm an event coordinator for LAPC. Well, they've published one of my old journal entries online (with my permission, of course). It's always nice knowing others like your writing enough to put it up on their site, especially when the site itself isn't a crappy one.
(Back in late '97 or early '98, during my early days with the good ol' internet, I've had poetry published online, but later realized 1) most of my poetry kind of sucks [excluding the one that was published - that wasn't too bad] and 2) the site that published it will publish just about anything and still looks like it was created in '96. I've learned a few things since then.)
I may not yet be in print, but it's still pretty cool.
(Back in late '97 or early '98, during my early days with the good ol' internet, I've had poetry published online, but later realized 1) most of my poetry kind of sucks [excluding the one that was published - that wasn't too bad] and 2) the site that published it will publish just about anything and still looks like it was created in '96. I've learned a few things since then.)
I may not yet be in print, but it's still pretty cool.
Sunday, August 03, 2003
As a loyal American...
No time for a full post, but I recommend that you buy this stuff. It's the patriotic thing to do. Unless you're, like, Canadian or French or somethin'. You'd hardly be patriotic sporting this merchandise. But you would be very cool.
(This, while a bit disturbing, is also funny as hell.)
(This, while a bit disturbing, is also funny as hell.)
Thursday, July 31, 2003
What a fucking moron...
I think most people could tell by one of my links to the right that I'm not exactly a Bush supporter. Heaven knows, practically every day I hear yet another reason to hurl epithets in his direction. But his latest stance on gay marriage, while not surprising, just burns me up. Will someone tell me why it's okay to take the government out of business and drive it into personal lives? I just don't get it.
You know, fuck his ideas of what constitutes a marriage. Tomorrow I'm going to go out and marry my dead gay bonsai. Because I love my dead gay bonsai!
You know, fuck his ideas of what constitutes a marriage. Tomorrow I'm going to go out and marry my dead gay bonsai. Because I love my dead gay bonsai!
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Book review...
I finished reading Sophie's Choice this morning on the bus. It's taken me over a week, which is unusual for me these days, but I suspect it was more due to the fact that the language, while embracing many colloquialisms, is more formal than I'm used to reading these days, filled with words that I've never read before. I also felt that a few scenes could have been edited a bit more, as Styron had a tendency to linger over and repeat details that did not need lingering or repetition. In the end, though, I have one thing to say about it:
Wow.
I've seen the movie a number of times. In fact, I think the movie is absolutely incredible, so I was familiar with most of the story, but reading the book took me to a totally different level - enveloping me with the sights and sounds of 1940's Brooklyn and Nazi-rules Poland, observing the characters in my mental 360° diorama, even becoming the characters - in a way that even incredible films cannot hope to, despite visualizing the Stingo, Sophie and Nathan as Peter MacNicol, Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline.
(An aside: watching Kevin Kline on Inside the Actors Studio a few years ago, I was amazed when James Lipton said that Sophie's Choice was Kevin Kline's first feature film. What a hell of a first feature role.)
I realized that it had been a very long time since I'd last seen the movie, because there were quite a few scenes that I'm sure were filmed, but which were new to me.
Still, despite both my familiarity with the story and my forgetfulness of much of the details, I found myself experiencing dread as I neared the end. About sixty pages from the conclusion I felt my heart constrict. I remembered what was coming up and I so wanted to put the book down, to not throw myself into the pages as I have a habit of doing, but I knew I had to finish reading. I had to.
And finally I did. I closed it, set it on my lap, and stared out the bus window, supressing the tears hovering in the corners of my eyes, feeling the weight of my emotions, but also feeling a certain lightness, a bit of hope, recalling the final words:
Wow.
I've seen the movie a number of times. In fact, I think the movie is absolutely incredible, so I was familiar with most of the story, but reading the book took me to a totally different level - enveloping me with the sights and sounds of 1940's Brooklyn and Nazi-rules Poland, observing the characters in my mental 360° diorama, even becoming the characters - in a way that even incredible films cannot hope to, despite visualizing the Stingo, Sophie and Nathan as Peter MacNicol, Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline.
(An aside: watching Kevin Kline on Inside the Actors Studio a few years ago, I was amazed when James Lipton said that Sophie's Choice was Kevin Kline's first feature film. What a hell of a first feature role.)
I realized that it had been a very long time since I'd last seen the movie, because there were quite a few scenes that I'm sure were filmed, but which were new to me.
Still, despite both my familiarity with the story and my forgetfulness of much of the details, I found myself experiencing dread as I neared the end. About sixty pages from the conclusion I felt my heart constrict. I remembered what was coming up and I so wanted to put the book down, to not throw myself into the pages as I have a habit of doing, but I knew I had to finish reading. I had to.
And finally I did. I closed it, set it on my lap, and stared out the bus window, supressing the tears hovering in the corners of my eyes, feeling the weight of my emotions, but also feeling a certain lightness, a bit of hope, recalling the final words:
- This was not judgement day - only morning. Morning: excellent and fair.
Monday, July 28, 2003
Farewell...
Bob Hope has died. Like many Americans of my generation, as well as other generations, I grew up watching his films on TV, loving every one of them. Not surprisingly, Casanova's Big Night was my favorites (what with the Basil Rathbone factor and all), but I also fondly remember The Seven Little Foys and The Princess and the Pirate.
I was fortunate enough to spy him once upon a time, a number of years ago, on his way to a local coffee shop. He was in the company of a gentleman I could only assume was his assistant. Mr. Hope was looking elsewhere, so he didn't see my smile and nod, but his assistant did and returned my silent greeting with one of his own. Even for that split second I was in awe of Bob Hope's presence.
I doubt I'm the first to say this, and I know I won't be the last:
Thanks for the memories, Mr. Hope. Thank you so very much.
I was fortunate enough to spy him once upon a time, a number of years ago, on his way to a local coffee shop. He was in the company of a gentleman I could only assume was his assistant. Mr. Hope was looking elsewhere, so he didn't see my smile and nod, but his assistant did and returned my silent greeting with one of his own. Even for that split second I was in awe of Bob Hope's presence.
I doubt I'm the first to say this, and I know I won't be the last:
Thanks for the memories, Mr. Hope. Thank you so very much.
Sunday, July 27, 2003
Just a quick update...
...about my cool ex Disney boss, Dan, for whom I asked good thoughts. While I haven't heard from him (we've not really stayed in touch over the last few years), a mutual friend to whom I had expressed concerns called to let me know that Dan had left her a message talking about job searching type stuff and not mentioning anything about the accident, which led her to think that his family was fine. I'm sure she's right. I hope to hear back from him at some point, but I'm just happy he and his family seem to be okay.
Big thanks to those of you who wrote me to tell me you were thinking good thoughts for him. I may have a small readership, but each and every one of you rock. Thank you.
Big thanks to those of you who wrote me to tell me you were thinking good thoughts for him. I may have a small readership, but each and every one of you rock. Thank you.
Thursday, July 24, 2003
And we'll have fun, fun, fun...
Fun is good. I have come to the decision that fun is definitely a good thing. Because fun? Is just...fun.
Going for an eight mile bike ride with a friend is fun, even if most of the bike path runs along the 5 freeway and the smell of exhaust and smog interferes with breathing a little.
Meeting a bunch of folks you met over the internet for an evening that you helped organize, then having the folks tell you that they had a good time - that's fun.
Having most of your weekends for the next month and half booked already with outings with friends and family, while a little stressful, is fun.
Having dinner at a good restaurant is fun. Introducing someone to the good restaurant and that person approving your restaurant selection is fun. Watching Pirates of the Caribbean is fun.
Having dinner and watching Pirates with CuteNerdBoy for your (sort of) second date, who greets you with a copy of a previously made mix CD and leaves you with good lengthy hugs and little kisses, making it a little hard for you to fall asleep at night, causing you to walk around the next day with a silly smile as you listen to the mix CD whilst trying to concentrate on work, especially when you were planning to e-mail him to tell him that you had a good time and he e-mails you first to tell you that he had a good time? That's just triply fun.
Fun can stay.
Going for an eight mile bike ride with a friend is fun, even if most of the bike path runs along the 5 freeway and the smell of exhaust and smog interferes with breathing a little.
Meeting a bunch of folks you met over the internet for an evening that you helped organize, then having the folks tell you that they had a good time - that's fun.
Having most of your weekends for the next month and half booked already with outings with friends and family, while a little stressful, is fun.
Having dinner at a good restaurant is fun. Introducing someone to the good restaurant and that person approving your restaurant selection is fun. Watching Pirates of the Caribbean is fun.
Having dinner and watching Pirates with CuteNerdBoy for your (sort of) second date, who greets you with a copy of a previously made mix CD and leaves you with good lengthy hugs and little kisses, making it a little hard for you to fall asleep at night, causing you to walk around the next day with a silly smile as you listen to the mix CD whilst trying to concentrate on work, especially when you were planning to e-mail him to tell him that you had a good time and he e-mails you first to tell you that he had a good time? That's just triply fun.
Fun can stay.
Monday, July 21, 2003
All books, all the time...
I'm just a book reading machine here. Since the last time I wrote about my rapacious devouring of the written word, I've read:
Brave New World (Aldous Huxley) - a classic, and a very good book, to be sure, but not the gut-wrencher that 1984 is for me. I wonder, if I had read it in high school, would my feelings about Brave New World be on par with my love for 1984, Animal Farm and Catch-22?
Those Who Hunt the Night (Barbara Hambly) - this is a re-read of a vampire mystery that's sat in my shelf for awhile. Upon re-reading, I discovered that I remembered absolutely nothing about the book. It's not bad, with some pretty good characters, but the prose tended to be a little florid and repetitive for my tastes.
The Sorcerer's Stone and The Chamber of Secrets (J.K. Rowling) - since I want to read The Order of the Phoenix, I thought I'd re-read the first two, then move on to the others, since I haven't read them at all. Good books all around. I can't wait to borrow The Prisoner of Azkaban and The Goblet of Fire from my friend Sarah.
The Lost Slayer (Christopher Golden) - I read The Chamber of Secrets in less than a day and found myself bookless for part of my bus ride home on Friday. Since this was not to borne, I stopped off at the Upstart Crow at the Universal CityWalk, looking for something, anything to read. This book caught my BtVS loving eye. Having never read a Buffy novel before, and hearing that The Lost Slayer series was a good one, I was delighted to find all four books reissued in one volume. Good book and an excellent introduction to Buffy novels, with much emphasis on my favorite BtVS character, Rupert Giles. There was even a moment near the end that made me tear up.
This morning I started Sophie's Choice by William Styron. I bought it over ten years ago in a used book shop because I lovelovelove the movie. It's been sitting on my shelf, lonely and collecting dust. A few weeks ago I saw someone on the bus reading it, which reminded me of my own possession, and I resolved to finally take it up. It's a little slow going right now, but I'm sure I'll get into it.
***********************************************
There is one other book that I read that is not mentioned above. There's a reason. Because, despite the excellence of most of the aforementioned books, it is in a league of its own: Why Girls Are Weird by Pamela Ribon. I'm not indulging in hyperbole when I say it is one of the best books I've ever read.
Now, I'm not just saying that because I'm been a fan of Pamie's site since 1999. Or because we've met a couple of times. Or because we briefly shared a karaoke stage in Vegas while attending SquishyCon 2001. I'm saying it because it's the absolute truth.
Sarah had heard about Pamie's book through me and picked it up while browsing in a Barnes and Noble. She lent it to me after she attended Pamie's signing in West L.A. It took me a couple of days to finish it, but only because I had to put it down several times whilst on the bus because I didn't want to start weeping in front of a bunch of strangers. It is one of the funniest, saddest, most hopeful books I've ever read. I sent a very long e-mail to Pamie the day I finshed her book, thanking her for writing it. Because I think I said it best in that e-mail, here's an except (okay, it's most of the e-mail):
So everyone? Read this book. If you can buy it, do so, because I think Pamie should get lots and lots of money (I bought my copy last week, the day I finished Why Girls Are Weird). But if you can't afford it, borrow it from a friend, check to see if your local library has it, ask them to order it if they don't. Women? Y'all will totally identify with Anna. Men? Y'all might just be a few steps closer to understanding what women are thinking.
I kid you not.
Brave New World (Aldous Huxley) - a classic, and a very good book, to be sure, but not the gut-wrencher that 1984 is for me. I wonder, if I had read it in high school, would my feelings about Brave New World be on par with my love for 1984, Animal Farm and Catch-22?
Those Who Hunt the Night (Barbara Hambly) - this is a re-read of a vampire mystery that's sat in my shelf for awhile. Upon re-reading, I discovered that I remembered absolutely nothing about the book. It's not bad, with some pretty good characters, but the prose tended to be a little florid and repetitive for my tastes.
The Sorcerer's Stone and The Chamber of Secrets (J.K. Rowling) - since I want to read The Order of the Phoenix, I thought I'd re-read the first two, then move on to the others, since I haven't read them at all. Good books all around. I can't wait to borrow The Prisoner of Azkaban and The Goblet of Fire from my friend Sarah.
The Lost Slayer (Christopher Golden) - I read The Chamber of Secrets in less than a day and found myself bookless for part of my bus ride home on Friday. Since this was not to borne, I stopped off at the Upstart Crow at the Universal CityWalk, looking for something, anything to read. This book caught my BtVS loving eye. Having never read a Buffy novel before, and hearing that The Lost Slayer series was a good one, I was delighted to find all four books reissued in one volume. Good book and an excellent introduction to Buffy novels, with much emphasis on my favorite BtVS character, Rupert Giles. There was even a moment near the end that made me tear up.
This morning I started Sophie's Choice by William Styron. I bought it over ten years ago in a used book shop because I lovelovelove the movie. It's been sitting on my shelf, lonely and collecting dust. A few weeks ago I saw someone on the bus reading it, which reminded me of my own possession, and I resolved to finally take it up. It's a little slow going right now, but I'm sure I'll get into it.
There is one other book that I read that is not mentioned above. There's a reason. Because, despite the excellence of most of the aforementioned books, it is in a league of its own: Why Girls Are Weird by Pamela Ribon. I'm not indulging in hyperbole when I say it is one of the best books I've ever read.
Now, I'm not just saying that because I'm been a fan of Pamie's site since 1999. Or because we've met a couple of times. Or because we briefly shared a karaoke stage in Vegas while attending SquishyCon 2001. I'm saying it because it's the absolute truth.
Sarah had heard about Pamie's book through me and picked it up while browsing in a Barnes and Noble. She lent it to me after she attended Pamie's signing in West L.A. It took me a couple of days to finish it, but only because I had to put it down several times whilst on the bus because I didn't want to start weeping in front of a bunch of strangers. It is one of the funniest, saddest, most hopeful books I've ever read. I sent a very long e-mail to Pamie the day I finshed her book, thanking her for writing it. Because I think I said it best in that e-mail, here's an except (okay, it's most of the e-mail):
I loved reading the reworked Squishy entries. I loved reading about Anna Koval, knowing that she is ficitonal and the story is largely fictional, but seeing the grains of truth underneath all the fiction. Maybe it does mean more to me because I've met the person behind the words, because I, along with so many other people, can say, "I met her when."
But, most of all, because, though the situations were different, the emotions in the book were familiar, the grief and pain and tentative happiness all emotions I've experienced. The pain of break-up, the swelling with hope and self-doubt when confronted with a possible new relationship [...], all old friends, old shirts I put away for awhile until the time comes to wear them again.
And, to a small extent, the grief of losing a parent. [mention of father being cut out of family] So, in effect, I've been going through a grieving process the last seven months in regards to my father and reading about Anna's father [illness and death] [...] strongly grips me, causing me to put the book down several times on the bus to collect myself. Because really, who wants to break down crying in front of a bunch of strangers unless it's pre-scripted and on stage? Certainly not me.
So today I'm welcoming the feeling left over after reading "Why Girls Are Weird". I want to keep this fragile, spent, trembling, laughing, hopeful sensation wrapped around me for at least a little while longer, regardless of the fact that I'm sitting at work in cubicle surrounded by co-workers with their heads bent to their work, as mine should be and will be as soon as I hit "Send".
[...] I'll be purchasing my own copy so that I can refer back to it in those times when I need a little reminder that I'm not the only person who's ever felt that way. [...] Because you? Rock harder than Bob has ever, ever hoped to rock and so does "Why Girls Are Weird".
It's that simple.
Thank you.
So everyone? Read this book. If you can buy it, do so, because I think Pamie should get lots and lots of money (I bought my copy last week, the day I finished Why Girls Are Weird). But if you can't afford it, borrow it from a friend, check to see if your local library has it, ask them to order it if they don't. Women? Y'all will totally identify with Anna. Men? Y'all might just be a few steps closer to understanding what women are thinking.
I kid you not.
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United States, California, Los Angeles, San Fernando Valley, English, Carol, Female, 36-40.
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