Well, here it is Easter, and for the first time in my life, there's no Easter basket or chocolate bunny or, from my time honored tradition when the kids were small, 10 hour car trip which inevitably ended with the car full of jelly beans which would not all be found until the following Christmas. Jelly beans remain eternally the same, in case you're interested, they do not decay or change shape (unless melted by the sun in July, when they turn into puddles of technicolor goo with approximately the same tensile strength as superglue.) You can stuff a couple down into the back of the seat of a 1990 Chrysler minivan and then pull them out eight months later, a little fuzzy but otherwise inviolate. M. has gone to the beach with his friend D.'s family, A. is on a car trip of her own, heading to Florida and sunny weather, and so, no Easter. I toyed with the idea of going to meeting this morning but managed to dither about it until it was too late to get there on time, thank the goddess. The goddess, the goddess Eostre, who we honor today with bunnies and chicks and ritualized goat sacrifice! Oh wait, wrong holiday.
Actually, I have been thinking about Easter and have realized that I am woefully ignorant on several points of Christian mythology. So, the idea of Easter, as I get it, was that Jesus died, was taken to that stone cave, sealed up, and then when the two Marys and perhaps one of the Simons came to get his body, he was gone. And a religion was built around . . . what? A missing corpse, like a detective story? Or, okay, let's take it as a given that he was in fact resurrected, and ascended bodily into heaven: why is that such a good thing? So, is Jesus the only person in heaven condemned to walk around in the flesh all the time? Shitting and having wet dreams and stomach aches and all the ills that flesh is heir to? Doesn't sound like such a good deal for him; especially when everyone else in heaven, Michael and Gabriel & the cherubim & what not, also legions of the faithful, are floating around in pure spirit form and could care less about sitting down to a burger and brew. I mean, if Jesus is still in a body, then logically that body must get hungry, need a multivitamin, fluoridated water and 8 hours of sleep. Well, logically actually, in that case Jesus probably died about 50 years after he got up there - assuming that the average life expectancy in heaven is somewhat longer than down on earth, particularly in 1st century Galilee, where it was probably something close to contemporary inner city DC. At any rate, Jesus aged, alone among the heavenly hosts, and then conked out, or stayed alive and corporeal but lonely in his mammalian splendor among the bodiless. Seems like he got shafted, in more ways than one.
Still, it's good that spring is here, daffodils are blooming (although not mine, I swear something eats them over the winter, voles or something) and my vegetable garden is rototilled and bounded by landscape timbers and in fact looks amazingly professional even with the gate made of a car bumper and a single bed headboard. I usually think about resurrection and rebirth this time of year (raised in a Christian country, after all) and I was thinking too about Neil Gaiman's characterization of Eostre as a prostitute. I wouldn't call that goddess who wanders around this time of year a hooker. Or even a sex goddess, really. It's true, of course, that this is the best time of the year to go out and fuck like bunnies in the garden and make the plants grow (later in the spring you might crush the seedlings) but that's just being a conscientious gardener. (That works, by the way, don't knock it if you haven't tried it, after all Wilhelm Reich endorsed the idea and if you don't think sex releases tremendous energies into the atmosphere you're doing it wrong.)Still, I think Easter is really more of a midwife than a call girl. Easter, spring, is birth: bloody, messy, miraculous and complicated. The huge struggle of life is going on, plants are growing inches a day, the birds start singing at 4 am and the cats are growing fat. The Easter goddess is a midwife; she can put down her forceps and wipe her bloody hands around Beltane, when the pace slows a little and summer is definitely on the way; she can change shape then and be languid eyed Aphrodite for a while, but right now Easter is too busy for sex.
Like me. And like my sweet brush off boy - we're all too busy for sex. Ah well.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
World Land Speed Record
I broke the world land speed record from first "date" to brushoff - again. My tentative date with G on Friday didn't happen; in fact, when he finally called, around 7:30 that night, he told me that he doesn't have room in his life right now for me. He phrased it nicely; he acted with honor; I'm not angry with him, or even, for a change, with myself. It just isn't going to happen. I was having drinks & dinner at Jack with my new friend S. and a friend of hers, they were very nice; and then I went to the Westville for a few PBRs with my friend J, and then I went home and raged and cried and ranted and listened to Genesis Duke, which has been my bum out album since time immemorial, and worked through it.
So yeah, it sucks, I am now heading right back into another year of celibacy and solitude, well okay. It's not like I'm not used to it. I woke up yesterday, throat still raw from crying, took a lexapro and forced myself to work like a crazed dog in the garden for five hours straight. Today I feel better, except my shoulders & back are killing me, and the garden looks AWESOME. And I'll stay on the lexapro for a while; and be more careful, and not let myself out of my shell again. Sometimes it is better to be safe than sorry; obviously, given the emotional ups & downs of the last four weeks, due in large part to my sudden foray into casual sex, I'm better off staying well the hell away from the opposite sex.
So yeah, it sucks, I am now heading right back into another year of celibacy and solitude, well okay. It's not like I'm not used to it. I woke up yesterday, throat still raw from crying, took a lexapro and forced myself to work like a crazed dog in the garden for five hours straight. Today I feel better, except my shoulders & back are killing me, and the garden looks AWESOME. And I'll stay on the lexapro for a while; and be more careful, and not let myself out of my shell again. Sometimes it is better to be safe than sorry; obviously, given the emotional ups & downs of the last four weeks, due in large part to my sudden foray into casual sex, I'm better off staying well the hell away from the opposite sex.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
The Refreshments and The Principles of Attraction
I finally, finally, finally got a new copy of the Refreshments Fizzy, Fuzzy, Big and Buzzy which is one of my all time favorite albums and one I haven't had in far too long. Since, in fact, the, um, cassette got slow and creaky and then disappeared altogether (they'll do that when they feel death approaching, you know.) So in a moment of carefree spending in January I ordered it from Amazon, kind of thrilled & surprised to see that it a) existed and b) was on CD, even. Then I waited and waited and waited and now I am ROCKING OUT, DUDE! Hee hee. I love them so much, they just are this sardonic kind of mean guys who sound like, I don't know, your college boyfriend, or the guy you wish was your college boyfriend, incredibly cool and sexy in tight black jeans and a guitar. Sigh. Plus I love their lyrics, plus I just love them. And if was cooler/geekier my own self, I'd upload some music for you. But as it is you will have to search them out. It's worth it. Whoever said there's nothing new under the sun never thought much about individuals but he's dead anyway. Let's go down together. . .
So, thinking about this image that the Refreshments summon up in my mind, the guy with the jeans, the guitar, the bottle of bud on the battered Peavey amp, the cigarette. The garage, or somebody's basement, or the small smoky bar, or just the couch your roommate got from the Goodwill and that old acoustic. This is an irresistable image for me, this is the ur-guy, the one I always, always fall for. Still, you know. To this damn day. Despite the undeniable fact that my misspent life of dating musicians hasn't exactly worked out to make me healthy, wealthy, or, obviously, wise. But I can't help it, and I don't know what it is, why, while other women date lawyers, or guys with jobs, I end up dating 5 left handed Leo musicians named Michael. Not, thank god, recently. I avoid Leos & Michaels like the plague now. And the only reason is that there is nothing, noone sexier to me than a guy with a guitar, even if he is just sitting on the couch noodling around and only knows three chords and the beginning of Freebird.
Clearly this is some terrible issue with my brain: I'm going to the sporting goods store to buy you a really big baseball bat so you can knock these thoughts out of my head. . . because I know from painful experience that these guys do not great boyfriends make. I think, though, that I was imprinted or something, like a duckling, I must have glimpsed a beatnik musician at the exact moment of my sexual awakening. Which is odd, since I have always kind of traced that to seeing Robert Redford in Three Days of the Condor, the first R rated movie I ever saw. Yum, btw. I have, in the past, blamed a lot of my relationship problems and scary marital history on the fact that I saw not only Lady and the Tramp but also The Aristocats at a very impressionable age and got imprinted hopelessly and helplessly on working class heroes with musical talent. Actually, this theory explains a lot.
So here I am. I have a date with G on Friday night, well a tentative date, they always are, with, sigh, musicians. He's an artist (and a fiddle player) so I'm branching out. A little. Not much. Ah well. Sometimes it's just too much fun to bother changing patterns. I still like them. They still turn me on. And there's just not much you can do to argue with your hormones. I wish there was, sometimes.
So, thinking about this image that the Refreshments summon up in my mind, the guy with the jeans, the guitar, the bottle of bud on the battered Peavey amp, the cigarette. The garage, or somebody's basement, or the small smoky bar, or just the couch your roommate got from the Goodwill and that old acoustic. This is an irresistable image for me, this is the ur-guy, the one I always, always fall for. Still, you know. To this damn day. Despite the undeniable fact that my misspent life of dating musicians hasn't exactly worked out to make me healthy, wealthy, or, obviously, wise. But I can't help it, and I don't know what it is, why, while other women date lawyers, or guys with jobs, I end up dating 5 left handed Leo musicians named Michael. Not, thank god, recently. I avoid Leos & Michaels like the plague now. And the only reason is that there is nothing, noone sexier to me than a guy with a guitar, even if he is just sitting on the couch noodling around and only knows three chords and the beginning of Freebird.
Clearly this is some terrible issue with my brain: I'm going to the sporting goods store to buy you a really big baseball bat so you can knock these thoughts out of my head. . . because I know from painful experience that these guys do not great boyfriends make. I think, though, that I was imprinted or something, like a duckling, I must have glimpsed a beatnik musician at the exact moment of my sexual awakening. Which is odd, since I have always kind of traced that to seeing Robert Redford in Three Days of the Condor, the first R rated movie I ever saw. Yum, btw. I have, in the past, blamed a lot of my relationship problems and scary marital history on the fact that I saw not only Lady and the Tramp but also The Aristocats at a very impressionable age and got imprinted hopelessly and helplessly on working class heroes with musical talent. Actually, this theory explains a lot.
So here I am. I have a date with G on Friday night, well a tentative date, they always are, with, sigh, musicians. He's an artist (and a fiddle player) so I'm branching out. A little. Not much. Ah well. Sometimes it's just too much fun to bother changing patterns. I still like them. They still turn me on. And there's just not much you can do to argue with your hormones. I wish there was, sometimes.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
The Migratory Habits of Objects; Two Movies; and sex, too.
I've spent the morning puttering around in the name of cleaning up this unholy packrats nest which I call my home. M is home for spring break; he points out that none of this mess is his fault and I must ruefully agree. It's amazing how objects move from one place to another, and how much time I spend moving them back to whence they came. I walk in circles, pick something up off the dining room table and take it to the kitchen where I pick something up that goes to the bathroom, something else to the bedroom, something to the living room, something to the dining room and so on. Then things are a bit tidier but far, far from clean. Toby threw up again last night so the very first thing I did today was clean up dog vomit. That always kind of sets the stage for the day.
Last night M and I watched two movies: King Arthur and Hero. King Arthur was really one of the worst, the abso-fucking-lutely worst, movies I have ever ever seen. This morning I wanted to go searching for a support forum to help me get over the post traumatic stress disorder. It made no sense, none at all, was wildly historically inaccurate (completely bizarre) and in fact the only thing that would have saved it would have been a sudden appearance by Godzilla. When you have trained, marching Saxon infantry being attacked by tall blonde Picts led by Guinevere in a leather bikini & tossing gasoline bombs with trebuchets - well, you really need a giant radioactive mutant lizard to save the movie. It's the only way. But alas, Godzilla did not appear and the gorefest continued. M and I started singing the Knights of the Round Table song every time they said knights! which they said a lot. A lot. You could make it into a drinking game, but on the other hand then you'd probably vomit. You might anyway. It's a vomitous sort of movie. Hero, on the other hand, is totally, totally beautiful and really wonderful, and you should go see it immediately. Right now. Go get it at this very minute & watch it. I insist.
I met somebody at a St. Patrick's day party and we went home together and I think that is all I'm going to say about that in the name of not jinxing anything, since I really, really like him. His name is G. Well, no, not actually G, as in Hey G! but begins with G, which is one of many deeply meaningful coincidences (the first guy I ever fell in love with was named G) that I am going over in my head at tremendous length. As one does when one's mental age has suddenly been adjusted downward to a hormone saturated 15. Although, since I just, in the course of my puttering, picked up & read my handwritten journal (also known as the book of drunken maunderings) for the past couple years, I must say that my mental age seems to be about 15, period. They (them, you know, the ubiquitous they. The Knights of Malta, or whoever they are) say that you stop growing up as soon as you start smoking pot, which in my case was 15, so I guess that's proof. Like, totally, wow!
I have been thinking though, in a bemused kind of way, what it is exactly that makes sex either good or bad or inbetween. I don't think it's a question of skill, really: let's face it, sex is not martial arts, you don't need to spend 20 years in a dojo learning how to give blow jobs (one will suffice, like mine in a secluded monastery in Tibet, bwah ha ha.) So I think it must be a question of connection: emotional connection, I guess. But that explanation doesn't really hold up, because then it's hard to explain why sex with two comparative strangers can be so completely different with each - or, if it's just connection, why sex with someone you love madly and have loved for years isn't always incredible, mind bending and rapturous. As anyone who has ever had Roll Over Rachel married rote sex knows, that's just not the truth. Maybe it's pheromones, although they seem to function mainly as a handy contemporary dismissive answer for any question about why people are attracted to other people, or aren't. Sometimes I think it's reincarnation; we're recognizing souls we knew in another lifetime. I did have a long and very interesting talk with J about reincarnation the other night - but this paragraph is about sex. Reincarnation will have to wait. The reincarnation sex argument is too depressing though - if you follow it all the way through, it ends up that you've already had all the lovers you ever will have, and there's nothing new out there, which is just purely suicidal thinking.
Whatever the answer is, if there even is one, which there probably isn't (some things are better left a mystery, after all) I must say that I had a really amazingly great St. Patrick's day and my faith in humanity may have been restored. Keep your fingers crossed. ;-)
Last night M and I watched two movies: King Arthur and Hero. King Arthur was really one of the worst, the abso-fucking-lutely worst, movies I have ever ever seen. This morning I wanted to go searching for a support forum to help me get over the post traumatic stress disorder. It made no sense, none at all, was wildly historically inaccurate (completely bizarre) and in fact the only thing that would have saved it would have been a sudden appearance by Godzilla. When you have trained, marching Saxon infantry being attacked by tall blonde Picts led by Guinevere in a leather bikini & tossing gasoline bombs with trebuchets - well, you really need a giant radioactive mutant lizard to save the movie. It's the only way. But alas, Godzilla did not appear and the gorefest continued. M and I started singing the Knights of the Round Table song every time they said knights! which they said a lot. A lot. You could make it into a drinking game, but on the other hand then you'd probably vomit. You might anyway. It's a vomitous sort of movie. Hero, on the other hand, is totally, totally beautiful and really wonderful, and you should go see it immediately. Right now. Go get it at this very minute & watch it. I insist.
I met somebody at a St. Patrick's day party and we went home together and I think that is all I'm going to say about that in the name of not jinxing anything, since I really, really like him. His name is G. Well, no, not actually G, as in Hey G! but begins with G, which is one of many deeply meaningful coincidences (the first guy I ever fell in love with was named G) that I am going over in my head at tremendous length. As one does when one's mental age has suddenly been adjusted downward to a hormone saturated 15. Although, since I just, in the course of my puttering, picked up & read my handwritten journal (also known as the book of drunken maunderings) for the past couple years, I must say that my mental age seems to be about 15, period. They (them, you know, the ubiquitous they. The Knights of Malta, or whoever they are) say that you stop growing up as soon as you start smoking pot, which in my case was 15, so I guess that's proof. Like, totally, wow!
I have been thinking though, in a bemused kind of way, what it is exactly that makes sex either good or bad or inbetween. I don't think it's a question of skill, really: let's face it, sex is not martial arts, you don't need to spend 20 years in a dojo learning how to give blow jobs (one will suffice, like mine in a secluded monastery in Tibet, bwah ha ha.) So I think it must be a question of connection: emotional connection, I guess. But that explanation doesn't really hold up, because then it's hard to explain why sex with two comparative strangers can be so completely different with each - or, if it's just connection, why sex with someone you love madly and have loved for years isn't always incredible, mind bending and rapturous. As anyone who has ever had Roll Over Rachel married rote sex knows, that's just not the truth. Maybe it's pheromones, although they seem to function mainly as a handy contemporary dismissive answer for any question about why people are attracted to other people, or aren't. Sometimes I think it's reincarnation; we're recognizing souls we knew in another lifetime. I did have a long and very interesting talk with J about reincarnation the other night - but this paragraph is about sex. Reincarnation will have to wait. The reincarnation sex argument is too depressing though - if you follow it all the way through, it ends up that you've already had all the lovers you ever will have, and there's nothing new out there, which is just purely suicidal thinking.
Whatever the answer is, if there even is one, which there probably isn't (some things are better left a mystery, after all) I must say that I had a really amazingly great St. Patrick's day and my faith in humanity may have been restored. Keep your fingers crossed. ;-)
Monday, March 14, 2005
I Hate Bianca
For the past two weeks or so, I've been getting wrong number calls for Bianca. They started at midnight one night - followed by several 2:30, 3:00 and 4:00 am calls over the next two days - and they haven't slacked off much. Except for one, they've all been men. They call all the time and they're usually drunk and they say stuff like "Are you sure you aren't Bianca?" I don't want to turn my phone off at night since M. is with his school on a field trip to Mexico - but this is driving me crazy. It's driving me crazy during the day, let alone at night.
Being a nice person, I had decided that Bianca was probably a bartender, and that was why she got so many calls at 2:00 am. It had occurred to me after one or two calls that she might be a coke dealer (the name and all.) Well, I just had an actual conversation with a Bianca caller and apparently she's a hooker. Great. Just tee fucking riffic. My phone number is being given out by a hooker. The guy I just talked to said, "You gave me your phone number the other night." "No I didn't." I said. "Don't you remember?" he said. "At the Shell station in Oteen." "I have never even been to a Shell station in Oteen" I told him, "And I don't know Bianca, and this is my phone number, please don't call it again, I'm getting a LOT of calls for her." He kind of laughed and hung up.
I hate her. This is unbelievably awful. No wonder the guys who call are so reluctant to believe that I'm not Bianca, and no wonder they keep calling back, all night long.
I did have a momentary fear that maybe I had developed a split personality and one of my alter egos was going around handing out my phone number - but please, oh lord, if I'm going to turn into Sybil tell me I'd be hanging out somewhere more interesting than a gas station in east Asheville. Oh please. What am I going to do?
Being a nice person, I had decided that Bianca was probably a bartender, and that was why she got so many calls at 2:00 am. It had occurred to me after one or two calls that she might be a coke dealer (the name and all.) Well, I just had an actual conversation with a Bianca caller and apparently she's a hooker. Great. Just tee fucking riffic. My phone number is being given out by a hooker. The guy I just talked to said, "You gave me your phone number the other night." "No I didn't." I said. "Don't you remember?" he said. "At the Shell station in Oteen." "I have never even been to a Shell station in Oteen" I told him, "And I don't know Bianca, and this is my phone number, please don't call it again, I'm getting a LOT of calls for her." He kind of laughed and hung up.
I hate her. This is unbelievably awful. No wonder the guys who call are so reluctant to believe that I'm not Bianca, and no wonder they keep calling back, all night long.
I did have a momentary fear that maybe I had developed a split personality and one of my alter egos was going around handing out my phone number - but please, oh lord, if I'm going to turn into Sybil tell me I'd be hanging out somewhere more interesting than a gas station in east Asheville. Oh please. What am I going to do?
Thursday, March 10, 2005
my goth laundry
If you think it would feel dumb to take a picture of your laundry, you're right. Almost as dumb as it feels to take two, to get the angle right, and then to get them developed at Eckerts, where the teenage photo person will look at you with pity. Yeah, the hell with you kid. I had a life too, when I was 17. Now I just sit around and take pictures of my laundry.
So. . . not that anyone has ever asked, but I came up with my latest nickname after looking at my laundry one dark and stormy night. Share my joy. ;-P
So. . . not that anyone has ever asked, but I came up with my latest nickname after looking at my laundry one dark and stormy night. Share my joy. ;-P
My Obsessive Love Affair with Upstairs, Downstairs
I have become an Upstairs, Downstairs junkie, a pitiful wreck of a human being, glued to the TV screen, slavering for my next fix, and meanwhile, horribly transfixed by impending doom: when I run out of episodes that will be ALL. There is NO MORE Upstairs, Downstairs in the universe. It's a finite thing, and soon, within the next two weeks, it will all be gone. The withdrawal is not going to be pretty.
It started innocently enough: my brother gave it to my mom for Christmas a year or so ago, I said, oh, I want to borrow those sometime, I remember watching it once or twice on PBS years ago and liking it. But I didn't realize what I was getting into. I didn't realize that having a TV/DVD in the living room was actually a gateway drug, that it would be like every filmstrip in the 70s warned me, one puff of "reefer" and I'd be doing heroin, jittery, thin, holloweyed (not, in fact, unlike my perfect mental image of myself, hmm) within a week. Somehow, I managed to smoke the demon weed to total excess as a teenager and remain safely unhooked on anything stronger, but that was just because Upstairs, Downstairs was waiting for me. I hadn't found my perfect drug yet. The addictive pathways in my brain, honed by years of fantasy novels and in fact recently whipped up and quivering by Katherine Kerr's Deverry books, were just waiting for an early 70s classy Brit soap.
Now, I can't look away. I'm watching like 3 episodes a night and I'm so scarily involved that when something worries me onscreen, like Sarah showing up and, god forbid, going into the drawing room, I get so upset I have to leave the room and talk to the dogs. The dogs, btw, don't like Upstairs, Downstairs, unless there's a dog barking in the background. Then they bark right back, which leads me to odd thoughts on mortality, since the dog they're barking at has no doubt been dead for at least 30 years. Oooh, freaky. Anyway. I lecture the characters, I bounce around and talk to them, I worry about them, I obsess over the whole damn thing. I just read half the website I linked to above (I did not read the spoilers, thank you) and discovered that Sarah and Thomas had a spinoff series! I must find it! Although I don't like Sarah and Thomas very much. Actually, that's the weird thing about the whole show: I don't like any of the characters.
I don't like any of them and I actively detest some of them: like Elizabeth. Unfortunately, I think the reason I hate Elizabeth is she reminds me so much of the young Felicity. She's spoiled and obnoxious and she takes herself way too seriously; she jumps into things without thinking them through and she pushes everyone else around. I think I was just like that. I think I might still be like that, actually. And she makes really bad judgements about men - ring any bells? The evil rich Armenian lover Julius reminds me terribly of a certain man in my past (except he wasn't rich, of course, they never are) - he says to Elizabeth: "I never lie about love. You amuse me, women do amuse me, but I never said I was in love with you." That's a horrible thing to say to anyone and he is a cad and a bounder and also, although it was somewhat differently expressed, it's what my ex sort of said to me. It doesn't do any good, of course, Elizabeth didn't believe Julius and I didn't believe mine either. Women don't ever believe men when they say they're going to be evil to them later. Grrrrrrr. . . as my friend J pointed out at the time, he got shithead points for honesty, but they were still shithead points.
Still, Elizabeth is horrible to her poor child and she left Rose in prison for 3 days! I am much too involved. I don't know what to do, except let it run its evil course. I have two seasons left to go: three and four, since I started with season five (my mother had a bit of a chronological/memory mixup and thought that was all there was, or all she had) and then moved on to season one. I watched the end of season two last night. Now, tempted though I am to go watch the beginning of season three, no. I am going to the gym and then I'm going to go watch my friend H play hockey. Probably. Possibly. Maybe. If I can stay away from the screen that long.
It started innocently enough: my brother gave it to my mom for Christmas a year or so ago, I said, oh, I want to borrow those sometime, I remember watching it once or twice on PBS years ago and liking it. But I didn't realize what I was getting into. I didn't realize that having a TV/DVD in the living room was actually a gateway drug, that it would be like every filmstrip in the 70s warned me, one puff of "reefer" and I'd be doing heroin, jittery, thin, holloweyed (not, in fact, unlike my perfect mental image of myself, hmm) within a week. Somehow, I managed to smoke the demon weed to total excess as a teenager and remain safely unhooked on anything stronger, but that was just because Upstairs, Downstairs was waiting for me. I hadn't found my perfect drug yet. The addictive pathways in my brain, honed by years of fantasy novels and in fact recently whipped up and quivering by Katherine Kerr's Deverry books, were just waiting for an early 70s classy Brit soap.
Now, I can't look away. I'm watching like 3 episodes a night and I'm so scarily involved that when something worries me onscreen, like Sarah showing up and, god forbid, going into the drawing room, I get so upset I have to leave the room and talk to the dogs. The dogs, btw, don't like Upstairs, Downstairs, unless there's a dog barking in the background. Then they bark right back, which leads me to odd thoughts on mortality, since the dog they're barking at has no doubt been dead for at least 30 years. Oooh, freaky. Anyway. I lecture the characters, I bounce around and talk to them, I worry about them, I obsess over the whole damn thing. I just read half the website I linked to above (I did not read the spoilers, thank you) and discovered that Sarah and Thomas had a spinoff series! I must find it! Although I don't like Sarah and Thomas very much. Actually, that's the weird thing about the whole show: I don't like any of the characters.
I don't like any of them and I actively detest some of them: like Elizabeth. Unfortunately, I think the reason I hate Elizabeth is she reminds me so much of the young Felicity. She's spoiled and obnoxious and she takes herself way too seriously; she jumps into things without thinking them through and she pushes everyone else around. I think I was just like that. I think I might still be like that, actually. And she makes really bad judgements about men - ring any bells? The evil rich Armenian lover Julius reminds me terribly of a certain man in my past (except he wasn't rich, of course, they never are) - he says to Elizabeth: "I never lie about love. You amuse me, women do amuse me, but I never said I was in love with you." That's a horrible thing to say to anyone and he is a cad and a bounder and also, although it was somewhat differently expressed, it's what my ex sort of said to me. It doesn't do any good, of course, Elizabeth didn't believe Julius and I didn't believe mine either. Women don't ever believe men when they say they're going to be evil to them later. Grrrrrrr. . . as my friend J pointed out at the time, he got shithead points for honesty, but they were still shithead points.
Still, Elizabeth is horrible to her poor child and she left Rose in prison for 3 days! I am much too involved. I don't know what to do, except let it run its evil course. I have two seasons left to go: three and four, since I started with season five (my mother had a bit of a chronological/memory mixup and thought that was all there was, or all she had) and then moved on to season one. I watched the end of season two last night. Now, tempted though I am to go watch the beginning of season three, no. I am going to the gym and then I'm going to go watch my friend H play hockey. Probably. Possibly. Maybe. If I can stay away from the screen that long.
Monday, March 07, 2005
New Job Blues
I have a new job. Someone should now clue me in as to the identity of the 80s song that pops into my head every time I say or type those words: some 80s Brits singing in harmony "I've got a new ??? (life? job? girl?) that's what I (am? have?). Clearly, whatever it is, it didn't sink in too deep, only deep enough for the ear worm to kind of fire up on cue and then dismally sink down into the depths of my brain.
That, in a nutshell, is kind of how I feel about my new job. I don't have a clue what I'm doing, what I'm supposed to be doing, why I was hired, or, in fact, anything else. I have kind of figured out the computer, but I still don't understand the voice mail, and I haven't clocked in yet, because I'm afraid of the restaurant downstairs and the POS. I don't know how to find my way to Rat Alley to check the dumpsters, although I was told to check on the cardboard recycling, and also that I could smoke there, but I don't know how to get there again without walking through two restaurant kitchens, which seems disruptive at the least - and not to mention that I am terrified of going anywhere affectionately called Rat Alley. And, I feel weird just moving around the restaurants, where I know noone, like I really work there. Which, of course, I do, but it feels oh so strange.
I am lost. I downloaded the free 30 day trial of Pagemaker, and made some posters for St. Patrick's day, which weren't the best things I've ever done, but I spent a horrible amount of time on them. And then, of course, I couldn't turn them into .pdfs, so I ended up emailing them to my friend D. at the museum, getting him to print them on the good printer without anyone seeing, and then meeting me at the copy shop to put them on green paper. My new boss seemed like he liked them. I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing. I told him grandiosely that I was going to write up a whole marketing plan and he seemed enthused; now, how does one do that? I set up a lot of meetings with ad reps from all over the place, I researched some stuff - in other words, I'm not just sitting there - but I'm lost.
And alone. I'm by myself in this big office all morning, not sure what the hell to do, and when I go out to smoke, there is noone out there. I never knew how busy Pack Square was until I got to Wall Street - there is NOONE on Wall Street at 10 am and I feel, smoking, like a fish in an aquarium, with all the blank glass windows of boutiques and unopened restaurants staring out at my humble lost self.
So. New Job. And I am being really good and not posting at work, so. There you are. More money, more money. Yes, more money.
That, in a nutshell, is kind of how I feel about my new job. I don't have a clue what I'm doing, what I'm supposed to be doing, why I was hired, or, in fact, anything else. I have kind of figured out the computer, but I still don't understand the voice mail, and I haven't clocked in yet, because I'm afraid of the restaurant downstairs and the POS. I don't know how to find my way to Rat Alley to check the dumpsters, although I was told to check on the cardboard recycling, and also that I could smoke there, but I don't know how to get there again without walking through two restaurant kitchens, which seems disruptive at the least - and not to mention that I am terrified of going anywhere affectionately called Rat Alley. And, I feel weird just moving around the restaurants, where I know noone, like I really work there. Which, of course, I do, but it feels oh so strange.
I am lost. I downloaded the free 30 day trial of Pagemaker, and made some posters for St. Patrick's day, which weren't the best things I've ever done, but I spent a horrible amount of time on them. And then, of course, I couldn't turn them into .pdfs, so I ended up emailing them to my friend D. at the museum, getting him to print them on the good printer without anyone seeing, and then meeting me at the copy shop to put them on green paper. My new boss seemed like he liked them. I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing. I told him grandiosely that I was going to write up a whole marketing plan and he seemed enthused; now, how does one do that? I set up a lot of meetings with ad reps from all over the place, I researched some stuff - in other words, I'm not just sitting there - but I'm lost.
And alone. I'm by myself in this big office all morning, not sure what the hell to do, and when I go out to smoke, there is noone out there. I never knew how busy Pack Square was until I got to Wall Street - there is NOONE on Wall Street at 10 am and I feel, smoking, like a fish in an aquarium, with all the blank glass windows of boutiques and unopened restaurants staring out at my humble lost self.
So. New Job. And I am being really good and not posting at work, so. There you are. More money, more money. Yes, more money.
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