So the thing is that I appear to be actually sick. And I get on a plane to Phoenix tomorrow afternoon. For a week-long business trip thingy. Not for the faint of heart, or the weak of body. But there you have it. The ticket got me off of a jury, so I guess I get to suck it up and just go.

Plenty of fluids today. And a nap. Or two.

Not feeling good. Had food for lunch yesterday that made me sick. Now I will go and whine to the Boy. Because God knows, he can fix it if I whine hard enough. (probably makes him want to cold cock me in the throat, but he is a bona-fide saint)

I feel baaaaadddddd.....

Where I been?

Ah, boys and girls. I have a tale to tell.

Jury duty.

Two glorious days spent at the Superior court of Seattle. Waiting to be rejected. Hoping for said rejection. Because I didn't want to be on the sexual predator case for 4 weeks. And then I didn't want to be on the bookshop shoplifter case for a week. And then I just wanted to go home. And work...because it was all still there in the background.

I buried myself in books. Because I just didn't have the energy to do my usual pan and scan of the crowd. Too many of them. Good cross section, though. Wing dingers mixed in with solid professional types.

Still. I would come home and work for several hours. And it has kind of sapped me. That's all really.

So it's also Halloween. And I have given up, officially. Just can't muster the energy to care. We bought candy. What more do you want? I'll do my best not to invoke the dead at midnight, and call it good if they don't answer in the morning. We'll let them rest. Love them, leave them alone. At least for tonight.

Work is full of Halloween goodness- one of the co-workers is heartily obsessed. Good for her, I say. I was supposed to help, but was unavoidably detained by the state of Washington. The bastards. I had better things to do. Like hang cobwebs. Should've put that on my affidavit. If I tried really hard, I could've been a convincing wing nut. There was one memorable one who either was stupendously brilliant, or really, really crazy. And I loved him for it. Made for some entertaining moments. I'll explain more later- too busy complaining right now. Gotta go to work. And enjoy Halloween by osmosis.

And outside right now- fog. How fitting. And how unusual.

Frantic activity has finally halted.

We had tickets to MUM last night. So went to the concert, which didn't end until close to 2:00. All I can say about the timing, is that when the doors open at 8:00, it's kind of bullshit to wait until 12:00 to start playing. That's all about that.

The music? Well, when I finally stopped being pissy about standing around for 4 hours, it was fun. Silly Icelandic kids! They made me happy.

And now I rest. Because tomorrow I have jury duty. I have to convince them that I'm just too batshit/disgruntled/unhappy about the whole thing to be chosen.

Theme this week- Authors.

Last night it was David Sedaris. And he was lovely. Very different from the earlier reading- more of a raconteur. More of a personality at play. More about him than about much else. But still, lovely.

Larger venue, too- not a basement at a bookstore. No smell of damp. No really crazy people asking questions. They were no doubt in attendance, but they kept their traps shut.

Then the $7 glass of wine gave me a headache. And I went to bed.

Been playing this non-stop

Driving my kitties crazy. They keep looking for the source of the noises.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z3U0udLH974

Nothing quite like watching a bank of fog rolling into my neighborhood. It's like living inside a pearl. Muted and unearthly. Something I loved as a child- it happened so infrequently, I can remember each incident clearly.

When the Finns gush with happiness, you know that all is right in the world.

When the Saints go marching in, something is up.

When the cats are in the cradle and there's a silver spoon around, the song is going to depress you.

If wishes were, indeed, horses then little girls everywhere would have ponies in the common areas of the condos.

If fools were to rush in, at this moment, it probably wouldn't make a damned bit of difference.

And if Johnny can't read, at least he can probably recite song lyrics in a Homeric fashion.

Once again, I can only say that I am in awe of people who pull off the parent act. We had toddlers in the house this weekend. Two of them. Love them. They are noisy. Love them. They are busy. Love them. Glad they went home.

Last night went to a reading by Ursula LeGuin. With friends. It was good. But the chair made my back hurt and I didn't feel like waiting in line for a signed copy of the book so I took off.

And had a magnificent drive home. No traffic. The push of the accelerator under my foot. The lights of the city at night. The buildings towering over the Interstate. The lake with all of the expensive houses on the shoreline. REM singing about ending the world, and being just fine. If you ever doubt, by the way, that they are one of the best bands ever, listen to the drum line of Finest Worksong. And then we'll talk. Or the bass beat to basically any of their songs.

Got home, went to bed. Now it's time to face music again. And so it goes.

Yesterday was a clusterfuck.

That's the only way to describe the numerous trainwrecks that kept happening. And luckily, I kept on top of them, and was only slightly behind. Slightly. And that didn't matter, because the powers that be were feeling lenient. And understanding. Which matters, and I am somewhat grateful. Only somewhat.

But overall, I am establishing a reputation for competence. Which is shocking in a way, if you saw me at my finest. But it is more work than smoke and mirrors, even though they are certainly involved.

Best thing witnessed- the woman at the Kinko's where I got copies made- stapling my presentations....glacially....slowly....staple.....stack....grasp new packet....slowly line up...staple...stack...
It was all I had in me not to vault the counter and take the stapler away and take over. But I called the Boy and whined a bit. So it was all better. And I only felt marginally put-upon for a while.

But seriously- who takes 15 minutes to staple 50 copies? Seriously! I still had to rip them all apart and re-do a couple of pages, but still.

And now, the wind blows, we have children visiting the house, the cats are scared and intrigued all at once, and there is organic milk in my refrigerator.

The hardest thing to stomach is having to ask. Never been good at going hat in hand to anyone.

Been turned down too often before. Makes for bitterness. And the remembered rejection. Especially when the request was not only reasonable, but just.

Then the learning is that justice really plays no part in the world at large. Only certain rooms. With certain people. Otherwise it's a free-for-all.

And narcissism trumps justice every time.

From all angles.

And then there's the follow-through. Gotta complain for a moment about that. The yes answer with the tepid follow-through. Not good for anyone's game. Gotta commit. Gotta enact. Gotta basically act. Or it's the same as saying no.

And now I am tired of contemplating and speaking in riddles. Basically, if you haven't figured it out yet, I am just tired period. A tired period.

Today it ends. A big thing and a small one.

They are starting demolition (and perhaps finishing- don't know how long it will take) on the house that my Grandparents owned. Where I had many of the happiest time growing up. Today. I'm not sure how to take it. I have been in a state of sadness about the whole thing for a very long time. But now, not so much. I know from experience and from talking to my Dad that it's in very bad shape. Knew that. But that doesn't really change things internally.

I sure as hell don't know what it will be like to drive by that corner and not see the place. It's on one of the busiest corners in the home town (very valuable and up till today wasted real estate), and they are doing some very creative and positive changes. But it will be different. And different isn't always easy.

When I was about 8 or 9 they tore down the Motel that the Grandparents ran. That was extremely hard at the time. I still reel away from how it felt, and really don't want to dive too deeply into that place today. (I do still have to go to work). It is all such a morass. Losing them wrapped up in losing the place wrapped up in loss of many other things that occurred during that time period. All deeply felt, and all regrettable. And none of it under my control at the time- which adds to the whole thing- nothing worse than the frustration and helplessness of being a child. And watching things you care about disintegrate without any power to help/change/alter the situation.

And there you have it. Nothing creative. No fun with words. Just perplexing ambiguity, and an overall sense of crankiness. Bet you are all glad that you aren't The Boy. (who today we shall dub, The Poor Boy - I crack myself up...)I wish I could call in, go back to bed and just ignore life for the day. But that's just not gonna happen. And sooner or later I will stop feeling sorry for myself. I promise. Because it is one of those things I really do hate.

I am trying to read the writing on my bones. There are words etched there. They change over time. I get glimpses.

Sideways and through the fog.

Some days the words are the key to happiness. Some days not.

Yesterday they led me astray. And into temptation. But then some of the most hidden ones emerged and brought me home again safe.

Did I say that it was a very foggy day? And a very sideways one at that.

Some days the words ache and cause disillusionment to creep in. Some days not.

And through it all I am under the constant and compelling illusion that I control the words. When in reality the bones control me. As does the blood. But that is a tale for another day. Because what is written in the blood is more than words and less than soul.

Just remember, don't look directly at it- always sideways. Always sideways. And hope for the sanctity of fog.

Fox stands behind my right ear. He smells bad. Combination of rotted meat, dirty fur, and strangely enough dried, crumbled dead leaves. (on the dirty ground)

He nudges me with his wet nose from time to time when he wants me to pay particular attention to something. It's kind of annoying, really.

He whispers to me about things. Never very good advice- more visceral than that. More like the devil on one shoulder. Without the benefit of an angel on the other.

Fox has an empty stare and biting teeth.

Fox is not my friend.

Fox is not my enemy.

Fox just is.

Never could resist putting my fingers in the flame. All the warnings in the world didn't stop me. Never.

When I was 3 I touched the hot element in the oven. It was orange. It was pretty. I remember. Didn't stop me.

When I was older I ran into lit cigarettes with some frequency- it didn't help that I was always moving, and most of the adults in my life smoked. I remember. It didn't stop me.

When I was older still, I stared into kilns as they blew gas flame into the night. Glowing and full of destructive and constructive power. I listened to them roar. They radiated heat in the desert air. I remember. It didn't stop me.

And then there is the metaphorical fires. Many, many of them. Still with them. Still in me. Just keep looking at those flames, and wondering if this time I will get burned. Or if this time I will get away with it, unscathed, and with a belly full of adrenaline. I remember. It hasn't stopped me.

Between the devil and the deep blue sea

And remember, I don't swim for shit.

So. The devil it is.

Because the Leviathan lives in all that water, and there is some truly scary hoodoo, that one.

Some call it the Krakken. (which spellcheck wants to turn into 'overtaken' - you figure that one out).

And others just use these things to scare the crap out of children at night. Sleep tight. Don't let the bedbugs bite. Other things that are scary. Bugs. at night. in bed. biting.

(did you hear that there are bedbugs in hotels now? Viva the loss of DDT!)

And then there is the devil. All devilish and such. I think that my cat channels the devil. But that's a story for another day. Because it isn't really scary. Silly, yes. Scary, no.

Unless you are afraid of cats.

But the choices faced are equally difficult and equally perilous. Like the quests of yore, chronicled by Mallory, et. al. Only no Lancelot O' Pasta. (name of restaurant at the Excalibur casino in Vegas) And no lady lurking in lakes throwing weapons. (some damp tart...)

Devils and deep blue seas...

Exorcisms and submersibles.

Been distracted

Lots of bright shiny things in my path- making me stop and look.

Not that it really matters, but the attention span of my cat. For those in the know, Buddy the cat. Which means something significant.

The office move is settling down. And that is a welcome relief. It was scary, hectic, ugly and stressful. But we have a kick-ass view now, and I am no longer in a dank inner corridor. I don't have an office anymore, but can live with that in exchange with light.

The work out schedule is increased. And that's probably part of the distraction theme of my life right now. Makes me jittery. All of this energy. Popping around under my skin, without the proper focus. I'm working on that.

Other stuff intervening, just can't discuss fully now- just suffice it to say, lots happening in my head. Not anything important, just lots happening in my head.

Bought the Boy an X box yesterday. Either daft, or really nice of me. I suspect, however, that he is in love. Will get the parts that he needs to take it online today, as that was the whole point of this exercise. Online gaming. What will they think of next? Metric allen wrenches? Oh. They have those.

Oh....shiny....gotta go....

We're dropping like flies around here. Not many of my old blog friends around and working it with any frequency.

And I see this internally, too. Just not much to say. Other things taking me away from my need to ramble on...gotta live the life, no? But that said, also lots on the work front to do, and a finite stash of energy.

Then there's the diminishing ability to sit still long enough to think about things to write. Just too damned much energy. And that is probably a good thing. But it is also kind of scary. I can't sit through a movie any more. Just need to keep moving. Need to do stuff. Need of all things, to go to the gym. And that is a very different reality.

Discussion with the trainer the other night focused on a big reality check. That the whole fitness thing needs to continue. Not just past where I lose the weight (and yes, it's still happening), but beyond. Forever. And that is sobering. I don't like to feel locked into something. But don't see this as full of choices. Not anymore.

Then there was the sobering reality of the dentist. Seems that my newly found fondness for sugary coffee (developed since working at the Empire) has caused me to get the first small cavities since high school. Fuckety fuck fuck. So unsweetened milky coffee for me from now on. And less joy in the world.

At least there is the drink. Until someone decides that it is killing me in some way, or I get trotted off to treatment. Either way, I can have a little joy. And a little solace. And a little peace. And a short break from all of this blasted activity.

Now for the gym...

Is it me, or does Courtney Love look like a big bobble-head doll? Too much emaciation.

Things I have seen recently:

At the post office, in line for a long time, because some tool has basically taken up occupancy at the self-serve kiosk, the man in front of me has the darkest skin I've ever seen close up. The pores are so small that the back of his neck has the texture of muslin. It was really lovely. I wanted to touch. But I didn't- because then I would be a crazy lady.

In Fremont, while trying to skirt an enormous crowd during the Red Bull Soapbox Derby, we happened upon a series of hidden stairways through the trees. They were mossy, old, and appeared surprisingly remote. The tree cover was thicker and filtered out the rain. Only letting in a mist. I wished at the time that we weren't in a hurry. I wanted to stop for a while.

At the supermarket, walking through the parking lot towards the door, with filtered sun, there was suddenly a blast of light through the clouds, and the flowers were illuminated in their buckets. The reds positively glowed with an unearthly intensity. There is no way to bring that home.

That's all I want to deal with for now. Because keeping me in a chair lately has been difficult. Spilling over with energy for some reason. Keeps me from sleeping well. Keeps me from sitting in front of the tv (probably a good thing), and keeps me from spending long hours online.

Again, you are welcome.

Big kisses to the one who sent this to me at work today. I think that others might've objected to my raucous laughter permeating their office walls. I say fuck 'em.

http://slog.thestranger.com/2007/09/everybody_needs_to_spew
_sometimes

Autobiographical minute:

One of those all-consuming weeks dedicated to "The Man".

Organizing meetings, attending meetings, staying awake during meetings, eating too much meeting food out of sheer boredom, sitting in meeting chairs for too long, driving to and from meetings, catching up on email not attended to during meetings, fixing crises arising post-meeting email from others, dealing with co-worker lout, finally eating properly and going to the gym, and finally getting an evening to relax and go to bed soon.

That's all.

And it was successful. Because there are times when I do actually rock the house. And the free world. Maybe even smallish parts of the unfree world. Hard to tell. Since they're unfree and all.

Over and out.

Dear broken boys and broken girls,

I've been thinking about you. Because of the solidarity of the tribe. Whether self-inflicted or just victims. Of others' problems and personalities.

For some reason, and I haven't been able to parse it out, we carry it within. You know what I am saying. The pain of the parents. And their parents. And the historical imperative that says that we shall never be healed fully. But we can overcome. There are plenty of stories of these.

Fables of the Reconstruction. Buy the album. It might help convince you. That the healing can happen in increments. Ask around. Be careful where you tread though. Because part of you is broken, you can fall more easily than others. Because there are corrupted wounds and empty spaces, there is also a need to anesthetize. This is dangerous. And foolhardy to ignore.

The ground can still shift alarmingly underfoot, and the air can become chilled and inhospitable without warning. Think of it as an adventure. Think of it as something with a potential positive outcome. And more than anything, have hope that it will be fine someday. Maybe not normal, maybe not horribly happy, but just fine.

Because it's not always possible to turn back time and fix everything. I've tried. And failed so many times. It just happens. Ask around. Again be careful who you ask. Be sure to vet them carefully, as they might have a vested interest in your pain. Always be aware of their motives when you can. Paranoia does have its upside. In that paranoia doubles as self defense. And can be the right thing on occasion.

But it can also be the boundary to getting on with things. So there is a balance there, as well.

Well, boys and girls, I have gone on too long. And not made as much sense as I would like. But it's all done in good humor, and with the best of intentions. Carry on. Drink your milk. And eat your fruits and vegetables. Grow strong. Grow healthy. Grow up.

Love,
me.

Seasons are doing their march forward...or something like that. We put the tshirt sheets on the bed. Meaning serious lethargy in the morning. Because tshirt sheets don't want to let go.

Meaning that it takes me twice the time to wake up and find words.

I'll adjust.

Note to self:

that 16 oz coffee that you chugged before the 2.5 hour meeting seemed like a good idea. But it wasn't.

Fun Fact:

Belgian style beers give me migraine!

How cool is that?!

Ahhhh shit.

Colin McRae and his son, with two friends died in a helicopter accident yesterday.

For those who don't know who he was, do a quick Google search- he was amazing. His son was just a little guy. Crap.

I finally am starting to get it.
I see where I've been with moments of clarity, and understand how it all came about.

I no longer play with matches at the gas pump
I no longer have the full-on urge to self-immolate.
I no longer have the need to dive so deeply into someone else's reality and lose my own.
I have more stubbornness than is probably good for me.
I am surviving.

Things I have lost- partial list.

Absolute faith that it'll all be just fine and that my parents will fix anything.
Absolute faith in anything, really.
the ability to subsume myself in any relationship.
blind obsession.
ultimate narcissism.
obliviousness of my own actions and how they effect others.
that feeling of being freshly in love and the accompanying rush.
partial skin on my back.
clavicles that could cut paper.

Do I miss these things?

not sure really, haven't fully processed it all.
Don't know that I want to spare the time and manpower to get the job done.

Same venue...different day

Crowded with families. One table- three intensely concentrating petite Asian women are having what appears to be a very serious conversation. One table- a large white woman with poofy blond hair is laughing and talking about eating here often. One table- six likely virgins are playing with their "Magic- the Gathering" cards. One of these could pose as a Hassidic Jew, as he has the bowler, the long white sleeved shirt, the black suspenders and pants, and the beard. But he lacks the side locks, and somehow I'm not sure Hassidic Jews are known for their affection for "Magic- the Gathering." I could be tragically wrong.
At the end of the Magical table a round man is studying obtrusively for something that only he finds important. He is complaining to a woman near him about the noise of the Magic table. Which begs the question- if you're so damned busy studying, and need quiet, wouldn't the library 15 steps away be a better choice than the food court on a Saturday afternoon? Idiot?
An Indian man walks by with the red caste symbol on his head, leading a small girl by the hands. She is hanging back, obviously wanting to stay where they were.
At the large chess game, two young boys in baseball uniforms are playing their fathers, while onlookers offer suggestions.
At the table behind them two older men are playing timed chess. They are quiet, and no one offers suggestions or commentary.

All on one walkby to the store.

Yesterday at lunch at the mall south of here.

Among the food court restaurants from many countries, and surprisingly good food.

A table under the skylight.

Two old men. With hats and jackets from 40 years ago. Playing cards. The cards were bent and dull- the arc of fingernails. The game wasn't recognizable. They spoke in tongues. Of some kind or other. Just not immediately recognizable either.

But I suspect it was slavic in nature. Just because.

And I think that they probably have memories of apple trees in bloom in the old country and the thighs of young peasant women. And the smell of the soil after it rained. And the smell of the machinists shop. And the smell of the ocean while crossing. And the smell of cabbage in the apartment hallway in the new place.

What I've been reading

There is a forbidden blog out there in bloggoland. It's all about workplace. And even big cheeses at the company read it. But no one admits to reading it- and certainly not on company equipment on company network airspace. Bad form, that- stupid really.

But I read. Because I just can't leave well enough alone. And lately the discussion has been the company get together recently.

What gets me in a huff is the clubbishness of it all. That as one of the new employees, there is some status to be gained. That people doing my kind of job are definitely not top drawer. Funny that. The same people who lack respect for me and my job, are the first ones to come whining to me when they need something. No, no bitterness at all. (well, maybe some).

It's the biggest thing that will bite me in the ass there. The hierarchy, and my inability to either understand or respect it. Seriously. Just do not get it in a fundamental manner. Always escapes me- as I don't attribute it as a cause or an effect. Which is stupid on my part. Because it is a preoccupation of many, and really does have legs. I have GOT to get it into my skull- that many, many people are absolutely obsessed with the standing, and where they fall. That it is important to them, and by the very nature of the beast should be important to me.

Here's where the MT background is not an advantage. Growing up in a place where the richest folks wear Carhartts stained with cow shit, and drive 30 year old trucks didn't prepare me for this.

On a nice note, however, yesterday I drove to work next to a guy driving a DeLorean. I love him. But only if he did it with full irony intact.

Scenes from a wedding

The bride was a tad unhappy that her table decorations were hijacked by an enthusiastic relative. But it did provide us with ongoing pleasure and a standing joke.

At each place setting was a little card with a picture of the bride and groom, a plastic gem (resembling D & D dice), and a little quote on the back. Most were biblical, thus making the gem not D & D dice in the least, but some were funny as hell.

Here are the best (because yes, I had to collect them and bring them home):

"May there be an Angel that will always sprinkle the spice into S & R's shake! ...and the wiggle in their dance!" (shudder....)

"May the 'Peek-a-Boo' Angle always mind his own business."

and the best for last:

"When the Tickle Angel slips by to visit I hope she leaves you one pink and one blue 'Headache'!"

We had a lot of fun finding definitions of the Tickle Angel that probably would leave the author of the quotes cranky and bewildered. And I really want to give my friends a pink and a blue t shirt with Tickle Angel on the front. But I know that they wouldn't wear them, so I won't bother.

Ah Kentucky.

More thinking about this one

The idea of death was with me yesterday all day after I fired off my diatribe on disrespect. Basically I was thinking of what makes people stand in line to see a dead body. What makes them want to tear apart the mistress of a foolish man because his ex-wife died. What makes them think that their actions in these cases matter in the least. Because they do not. They are not involved in the dead person's life/world/reality in any way. Because the dead person is DEAD.

And there you have it. Starfuckers to the last. Which is probably harsh, but I'm calling it as I sees it today. Not to say that I'm above it, either. I got up at 4:00AM and watched the Princess get planted. I cried. It wasn't what I see as my finest moment, either.

I have an aversion to the self-serving nature of this kind of thing. That somehow it pulls me out of the mundane to be able to tell everyone that I was there. That I saw this happen. That somehow, even tertiarily I was involved. When in reality this is not respect. Respect is giving the family privacy. Respect is reserved for those who actually loved and cared for the dead person. Respect is reserved for those who actually knew the person. The rest of us can basically opt for sadness, regret that someone is gone who we admired from afar, and that's basically it if you want to remain classy about it. But this kind of sick fascination with these dead folks, as though there is some sense of implied ownership? That's not in any way, shape or form respectful.

There is nothing to be proud of to have bullied the Royal Family into some kind of massive theatrical display. Just as there is nothing to be proud of to have a handkerchief with Lincoln's blood on it (or Louis XVI, or Marie Antoinette, et al.). Basically it's akin to tourism- the collection of mementos of someone famous. And it's kind of icky.

Now. That's what I spent time pondering yesterday. The physical part of the phenomenon. The spiritual/mental side of things is something entirely different. Perhaps I'll think about it today. Or maybe not- the sun is shining and I want to go play.

Yup, it's me the disrespectful one.

I just gotta say it. Because someone anonymously accused me of being disrespectful. And I'll admit it up front. In fact, it would probably be good to put it in the masthead of the site. Because damn straight! Disrespect is us!

Let me explain. I don't waste a hell of a lot of time and energy proselytizing about how bloody wonderful the dead are. That seems to be a problem for some. Bummer. They're DEAD, get over it. Saying nice things doesn't bring them back. Saying mean things doesn't bring them back. And neither makes your time or my time living any longer. So I choose not to waste time coloring everything in pretty pastel colors. Fuck that shit.

Too much time wasted in regret. Too much time wasted being gentle on the feelings of others, all the while slamming them in private. Too much time wasted lying to ourselves and others. Fuck that shit.

If that bums you out, and if it makes you all sad, and if you think I'm a big meany, total bummer. Because that's the lay of the land hereabouts, and I'm not planning on overhauling my character to please some anonymous commenter. Fuck that shit too.

Heh. Guess who woke up not particularly cheerful today? Well, actually, I'm pretty much ok. Just not very respectful. Which is no surprise, I'm sure, to you who know me.

So the man who sang and wore a cape is dead.

Are we destined to chew on that one for a decade? And trot it out annually and have celebratory fountains in parks and have concerts featuring creepy old pop stars?

Are we destined to see the old guy on magazine covers as we re-ponder all of the assorted scandals and highlights of his life?

Ah, no. That is all reserved for the other one. The one whose fine ass he grabbed one time, and got slammed in the press. All because no doubt, there were plenty of editors who would've loved to have copped a feel. But never got the chance to hug the little hoochy mama.

All this death worship- maybe we are indeed Egyptians at heart still.

What I didn't do for a living

For some reason it appears that in Louisville it's ok to wear underwear in a bar and collect a paycheck. Probably a larger one than I get, btw. But I'm guessing that there aren't really great benefits, and the shoes hurt one hell of a lot more. And there's probably also one hell of a short shelf life for the girls who go this route. With their pretty little bottoms on display, and dead eyes...

When not slinging drinks and expensive colored fruity shots in silly containers, they get to dance. Dance for us all! With their pretty little bottoms on display, and dead eyes.

And the hungry boys watch.

And the scary boys think things I don't want to know about.

Did they plan to get these jobs when they were little? Was this all part of fulfilling some kind of dream?

Is my sadness and angst about the whole thing inappropriate? Do the dead eyes lie?

Playing the George Thoroughgood game

On Saturday we went for a walk together. And decided to do lunch.

We saw the unfortunate street fellow who had been beating the shit out of an ashtray the night before. That day he was just making strange hand gestures and speaking in tongues. Nothing malevolent about it. Just move along.

We then went to the Makers Mark bar and had shots. One bourbon, one scotch, and then shortly later, one beer. I loves me Makers Mark. I have decided. But I liked the Laphroaig 10 year better. Reminded me of a warm wool sweater. But hell, this is one instance of When in Rome, that I will embrace.

It was probably the best part of the trip. Just being together and seeing parts of the town. Knowing that we won't be back soon, and won't see much of the place at all- but still seeing something. Not understanding the context, but that's ok. The big mystery- why the Thomas Jefferson statue at the courthouse? Wikepedia didn't answer the mystery. And yes, we returned directly to the hotel to consult the Wikepedia oracle.

And yes, it is a Michael Graves building- the Humana building. I spotted it, and declared it such. And others disagreed. In their faces. I didn't blow tens of thousands of dollars on the Art History degree for nothing, chumpy! I knows me my Michael Graves architecture. Not that I like it all that much, just never doubt the eye. Ditto the Calder sculpture. Heh.

When in Louisville, if you have the budget, stay at the art museum hotel. Only problem with the amazing room was the lack of refrigerator for our stuff- only had a mini bar.

But they did have a very unusual mint soap in the shower. Must be experienced to be described properly. But suffice it to say, brisk, tingly, and well, brisk.

I'll post photos later.

Now I know where Girls Gone Wild comes from.

And I really don't quite know what to say. Literally speechless about elements of the trip. Which is probably good.

Very fun overall. Just... not sure how to interpret being rubbed upon by single boy/men. While Kbot watched and laughed at my discomfort. Probably just not drunk enough. But still... I don't remember being that nonchalant about the whole game back in the day. Guess I was just too damned serious for my own good. Never had it in me to dance on a stage with my girlfriends to EXTREMELY LOUD CRAPPY MUSIC. And the saddest thing- I was saving that small percentage of my hearing for the White Stripes concert. Fuck.

I don't remember girls from MT being quite that... uninhibited. But that probably has changed. I am old, remember. And no doubt the age of some of the participants mothers. Eek. But still.

All were blond, or some variation. All were showing knockers galore. All were just naughty girls. And then there was me. Hee hee. Kbot and I were just amazed.

Some seriously skeevy dudes in residence, as well. Including a trio of what had to be severely gay guys who were hiding out at the titty bar to throw their jarhead buddies off the track. They were doing an awful lot of back rubbing and touching eachother to be straight. I'm just saying.

So skeevy that there was an actual attendant in the men's room- no doubt to keep the shall we say, occupancy, moving along.

Overall, the thought, "Well, I NEVER!" kept repeating itself in my head. And I tried to ignore it. Because I refuse to become my grandmother. But that doesn't mean that I went totally Roman. I would like to think of it as more of an anthropology experience. Watching from the fringes, and trying to understand where my youth went...

And wishing that they would just turn the FUCKING LOUD, CRAPPY MUSIC down.

And Kbot kept repeating that they needed to clean the fucking beer lines. Gak.

So I'm not the only old one. Hah.

Postscript: I think it necessary to explain- in this instance I was wearing Kbot's gray tshirt (there was a luggage mishap involving cuticle oil and my clothing....sigh...), my comfy jeans and my Converse slipons, topped with a black sweater. Very sexy, no? No. Just a touch out of place.

Schudenfreude is us

Story of the day:

Seems that ex-boss shitcanned the inept one yesterday. She was back from vacation for exactly 24 hours.

Will the wonders of my psychic powers never cease?

News flash for some

We are going to Louisville tomorrow. Not because of some urgent need to visit a baseball bat factory. Not for some urgent need to visit a temple of horse racing.

Because once again, Kbot is in a wedding. He's always a bridesmaid. I was only a bride. He gets to wear a vest. Maybe even a bow tie. We don't know yet.

I am only hoping for an uneventful flight. Because we always get strangeness when we fly together. You might remember from a couple of years ago- the bomb scare fiasco in Chicago. And there were others. The almost fist fight in San Francisco. The blizzard in DC.

There's a reason we usually drive everywhere. Much easier to manage the strangeness that follows us like some kind of miasma.

I am only hoping that I don't get all fuckered up and make an ass of myself. That's common with me + weddings. Not totally sure why- probably the delightful combo of free hooch + not knowing many people + social awkwardness at its finest. Hey fun! And this time there's a strict "No Puking" policy, since we fly back the day after the wedding.

Coolest factoid of the trip- I get to use a floating holiday. Plus have already gained enough vacation hours to handle the extra day.

Uncoolest factoid of the trip- it's to Louisville.

Collective ennui

Something is in the air. Not only felt, but experienced.

Numerous friends are on the move job hunting. They have been in contact, because somehow, I am now a broker. Actually not really. Just have decent contacts and a database to mine for them.

Numerous other friends are very quiet. Very quiet. Not writing, but living. Which I can't deplore, just wait until they come back from summer vacation, or whatever is pulling them away from the computer. ("Stop Playing The Piano!" says baby Kbot to his mommy)

And me? Just a voice in the wilderness. Like the numbers cascading down the screen in the Geek King's wallpaper- imagine myself as Neo, only female, and without the glasses. Or the coat. Or really the attitude. Probably crack a smile more often, too. I would prefer to be Mr. Smith, anyway. Much more meat to the role.

Ah wilderness. Just keeping the writing going. Just because I am nothing if not stubborn. Don't really care in a sense if anyone is out there. I am. And that just has to be enough some times.

And maybe this is a craven attempt for attention. But then again, maybe not.

I've decided that there is plenty best left unsaid.

Despite the overwhelming urge to unburden myself.

It's just not fair. To force revelations upon strangers.

They don't know what to do with the information, and might not appreciate the enforced intimacy.

Overall, bad plan. Common enough. But bad plan.

Just learning how to live with it all under my own skin. Itching like the movie that came out when I was little- about the ants under people's skin. I saw the poster at the drive in, when I went into the concessions stand to use the bathroom. The place was painted the red of an aorta. And smelled like popcorn. I suppose that is what it smells like in the operating theater when they perform an open heart surgery. A mixture of popcorn, dust and that pink, grainy bathroom soap.

And furthermore

Because if there is a dead horse in the proximity, you can find me flogging it...

More on intent. Nothing really original, really. Just wondering if its possible to plumb the psyche creatively and NOT expose all of the latent bullshit that resides in there. If it's possible to remain creatively objective and not create total shit.

I just don't know. The fine art stuff didn't hold up to this. It was chock full o nuts. Mine own, of course. Only the subtext wasn't necessarily shared. But this is another thing entirely. I just lack the answers.

I wish I had them. I wish that I had something with clarity. I sometimes wish for total anonymity online- because I want to rave at the world and not face the immediate consequences. I want to post the unapproachable and the unacceptable. And the misinterpretable. Instead I walk the middle path, probably pleasing no one, including myself.

And then I start to scan the blogs out there, and realize that most of the raving is crap. And predictable. And just plain silly. Painfully embarrassing, even. But that's the nature of this thing, no?

But god forbid I lose my dignity in the bargain. Sweet jesu, it's bloody ridiculous. I thought once upon a time that I wasn't at all concerned about appearances. Guess that was crap too. Because it seems that I am. I can couch it in terms of compassion and caring, but it all boils down to being concerned enough to cover my own ass.

And just not wanting to have some types of conversations. Period. They wear me out. And we'll leave it at that.

Intent vs. follow through

Funny thing, I guess you would call it funny- I do, which is really all that matters here, I suppose- this wasn't originally intended to be a personal forum. This wasn't supposed to be me just spouting off endlessly about whatever came to mind. This wasn't supposed to be a substitute for therapy. This wasn't supposed to be a diary. This wasn't supposed to be much besides a writing experiment.

And now here I am. Years later. Having written more than I have ever written in my life. And probably exposed more than I would ever really do in person. It's very odd. Feels so strange- this intimacy and distance.

It's a game, really. A partial strip tease. Very few know me for real. And to those who don't, I play this cheeky game of letting you partially in. Then closing the door. For real. Because I am afeared of what might happen if this slipped into my reality. Don't go there. Instant delete button. Because it just can't happen that way.

But there I go again- spinning into some other place, when the intent was something different. I suppose I should embrace that creative dimension- if it can be called thus. Mainly because it beats the hell out of staring fixedly at the screen willing the unwilling words to come out come out where ever they are.

Heard via grapevine

Short news updates today.

Seems that the nasty ex-boss who slammed me recently has a reputation as a snake. Found out while eating with an old acquaintance of hers.

Interesting.

And not surprising.

Hope it bites her in the ass- HARD.

On a different subject

Kboy was able to attend a company yardsale last week. Old equipment, returns, broken shit, unknown items all at bargain basement prices.

He brought home his spoils yesterday. We are rock stars. I'll post pics when I get the inclination (think over the weekend). Seriously. I now have 2 brand spanking new and functional bass amps. Including one that is a monster- has to be moved by 2 people, with a 15" woofer. The other is smaller, but combined, quite an impressive stack.

He has 2 lovely guitar amps- both are tube amps.

All for under $200.

I love him. I may not say it in print very often, but times like this, my heart swells with pride.

This will not continue

What I'm about to do, that is. The actual actions causing it will continue. But this won't.

I lost 4 pounds in a week.

There.

Now I will keep those updates to myself. But suffice it to say, this happened despite my Mother's visit, and creme brulee. Despite several great dinners out. Despite beer.

The trainer told me it's all in the budgeting. Now I may actually believe him.

I'll admit to slacking yesterday

But I gotta say, that old girl has too much damned energy!!!

She kept us running. And it was all good. I am not seriously complaining. Just glad that we had a really good time.

Some observations:

There are entirely too many fat people at the zoo. Really fat people. Not borderline fat.

People who run strollers into unsuspecting pedestrians and then act all offended because you had the audacity to occupy space should be punched in the throat.

Glass blowing is cool.

Cat boxes need to be cleaned daily.

Crying children are not enjoying the zoo. Don't fool yourself. They will probably become the owners of fighting dog rings.

The Nordstrom Rack on Saturday afternoon is a really, really scary place.

The Tacoma History museum is kind of boring- all those stupid dioramas with white plaster midgets who spout off unaccented English...ack.

When the forbidding docent lady asks, "have you been to the 5th floor?" the answer had better be, "Yes!"

And now I go to work.

Getting ready for my mother to visit. She comes this afternoon via air.

So not much to say- just feeling an overwhelming urge to clean grout, dust, look for cobwebs, and all other assorted attempts to look spotless. Which I'm pretty sure doesn't fool her for a minute. Because she knows I'm not spotless. Not even all that tidy. Clean, yes- where it matters. But not tidy.

Gotta go. There is laundry to start. And dust to find. And other assorted crap like that.

What's to blame?

I'm casting about for a reason- why the hell I can't get out of bed in the morning?

Not depression. Not sad. Not tired, but so tired. Just want to keep dozing deeper and deeper and finally keep in bed. Long past the alarm. Just listening and drifting and having them tell me all of the good and bad news, all of the traffic and weather. All of everything, really. I catch myself drifting through things that interest me, pulling up short and realizing that I missed the middle part of the story.

Then getting out of bed. And trying to get started. Something is not quite right. Nothing deliberate enough to pin down exactly. And don't tell me I need a vacation. I just had a 3 week vacation. And it was sufficient.

On the weekend, it's drifting from sleep to nap to nap to sleep. Cyclical sleeping. And it's not the weather. Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy, but only for under 15 minutes. Otherwise it's a nasty burn followed by freckles and the melanoma fairy.

On the weekday, it's coffee, followed by going to work and more coffee. And then being just fine.

But once home, it's exhaustion again. I don't really want to live my life like this.

Am hoping that the personal trainer guy- who btw, was far too damned cute to know my actual weight (sigh), holds the key to the castle of health and welfare. The online prognosis is pretty good. No gloom and doom there, just hard work, and correction of excess. Budget what you love. And hope for energy in a bottle. Or a pill. Or just in the blood cells. Replacing ennui. I love throwing those words into everyday conversation- it makes them wonder. The chick who seems so very, very simple knows a few big words. And uses them. Gets them every time.

Fall back position- there is a plan in place if this doesn't work. But it's hard. And it's time consuming. And it costs lots of money that I don't pay, but I sign a contract with the devil, so to speak and commit to it. Better to find the strength hidden somewhere within- gotta be in there somewhere- there's plenty of room.

And enough speaking in riddles. The moral of the story- not going to work out in the morning. It'll have to be after work, then.

And because I cannot leave well enough alone

This is another one I ran across. And again, can't keep it to myself. Never was a girl for restraint. Thus my visit to the gym last night for an evaluation- more on that particular hell later. Suffice it to say, gotta pay that fucking piper. Dammit.

So here. Never say I don't give you kids anything:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTU2He2BIc0

You are very welcome

I am having trouble stringing words together- more of that later. But in the meantime, for your watching entertainment, here:

http://www.milkandcookies.com/link/65872/detail/


Just wait for the money shot, people. It's worth it.

Mwah!

Must be something in the air

Another weird one today:

Cinerama employee accused of filming women in bathroom

By LEVI PULKKINEN
P-I REPORTER

A 20-year-old Cinerama employee was booked into jail after a moviegoer at the downtown Seattle theater discovered a video camera in the women's restroom.

According to police, investigators were able to catch the video voyeur because the man accidentally filmed himself setting up the camera.

Police were called to the Cinerama at 6:20 p.m. Saturday following a report that a woman had discovered the camera. According to police reports, the 24-year-old woman -- who was at the theater to watch "The Simpsons Movie" -- was moved to tears when she found out she was being filmed.

According to reports, the camera had recorded four women using the toilet.

A police officer showed the beginning of the tape to a theater manager, who identified the employee caught on film setting up the camera, according to reports. After being read his rights, police say, the man admitted to taping women at the restroom on one other occasion earlier this month.

Police spokeswoman Renee Witt said detectives plan to search the man's Seattle home for other videos.

"Once the detectives review this information, they're going to try to see if they can identify people who were on the tape," Witt said. "If anyone feels they may have been a victim of this, they can definitely call 911."

Cinerama spokesman Michael Nank said the theater is concerned about the allegations.

"We do take the safety and privacy of our clients seriously," Nank said.

Nank declined to discuss details of the case, saying it isn't appropriate to comment on the matter until all the facts are known.

The man was booked into King County Jail on suspicion of voyeurism. Bail had not been set Monday afternoon.

So in the place of an existential crisis, I just have bad dreams.
Unable to determine if it's something I ate or just bad hoodoo.
But getting up in the middle of the night and turning on the light
to see if there really is a woman in the room standing at the foot
of the bed is bad.
Worse is a few hours later going to the window to see if someone
really is climbing out of it.
Confuses the hell out of The Boy.
Makes me crabby as hell the next day.
Am hoping that it was just dietary, and not some kind of mid-night
hallucination.

Strangest sentence that I've heard all week:

Setting: Yesterday in Kirkland by the waterfront
Cast: youngish woman walking with her boyfriend

She: "I need a new nose ring."

More WA state hijinks

Man charged in Tacoma with having sex with goat

THE ASSOCIATED PRESS

TACOMA, Wash. -- A man accused of having sex with a goat is scheduled to be arraigned today in Tacoma on a charge of animal cruelty.

Charging papers say a witness saw 63-year-old Arthur Lawton having sex with a goat May eighth in a barn at Eatonville's Pioneer Farm Museum where he worked. He said he was trying to milk the goat.

Lawton missed a scheduled arraignment on August third but turned himself in last night to Pierce County sheriff's deputies.

He's the second person charged in the county since the Legislature made bestiality a crime in response to the fatal injury to a man having sex with a horse in Enumclaw.

A man accused of having sex with the family pit bull dog was acquitted in May.

Happy Friday!

http://www.kanyewest.com/?content=video_cant_tell_alt

We live in new tv land.

I didn't stay up to play last night- just helped set it up, and went to bed- too damned tired from spa day the day before- seriously. Spa day. With a group from work. Spa day, people. We're calling it a morale function.

Have I said yet that to date I love my job? Well. Spa day, people. My toes have never been this pretty. Ditto my fingers. And despite the lack of a "happy ending", the massage I received was all exfoliaty, and nice. No dead skin cells (or dead sea cells) on my body. Spa day.

Tonight I play with the tv. It is ..larger than it looked in the store...and larger than I expected.

I'm thinking an episode of 2 of Twin Peaks followed by Lawrence of Arabia. Because that demands a big screen.

Spa day. I'm in bliss still. Despite being grumpy as hell last night- just too tired.

And today, no spa day.

Is there a support group for spa day addicts? Because I would say that it is a distinct possibility that at this late date, I could go for the girly, well-polished lifestyle that heretofore I have avoided. I was told that I glow. By a friend at lunch yesterday. Well then. The Boy asked if I was going to start budgeting a spa day in. When I saw what the whole event cost (hope they got a bulk discount, I'm saying), I realized that it was almost what I pay for rent. And more than I pay for student loans. So I don't think so. Even incrementally, it wouldn't be as satisfying. Whole shebang or nuttin.

So maybe I start collecting a special fund....and ebay a bunch of crap to fill the coffers. And take donations from well-meaning strangers...

But first, back to the tv. Did I tell you it's bloody huge? (37" to be exact...only weighs 50 lbs...damn)

Nothing to worry about today that I am aware of yet. And that's a nice feeling.

So pretty sure it will change.

Yesterday was interesting. One of the sessions at the convention ended up like a group therapy session. Which was funny in a way, very sad in another. One of the attendees was bitter as hell about her job. Reminded me of the toxic situation I left a month ago. She was on her way to another job, which was a relief- but it was a good reminder of how easy it is to get that way. All bitter. And messy. The angrier- the harder to contain it all in a tidy package, and it starts to slip out in places that are questionably appropriate. I guess the answer is to continually attempt to evaluate. And keep that inner dialogue functioning. And internal when necessary. I suspect that she has lost this ability. And that's sad.

I think that the whole episode mystified the guy in our group from Hyderabad. He no doubt didn't know what the hell hit him.

Other than that, nothing exciting happened. Nothing. And that's just fine.

I gotta like days where there aren't crises to intervene, and angry people to calm. And all that crap.

Been at a convention. Going back today. And tomorrow.

Funny thing. The kind of job I'm doing. And the resultant attempts by the company at large to do some serious patting on the back. Motivation building or some such.

It's hard not to be cynical about it all- since it's the first time in 30+ years of being a company that they're trying so hard to formulate a distinct career trajectory in my field. Not just saying- get it done, kids. Not just saying- we aren't sure what you're supposed to be doing, but do it.

Not that I'm complaining. I like that kind of thing- stability, security, and knowing what the boundaries are. Because then they can either be accepted or nudged. But it's better to know then to be in the kind of free-for-all thingy that I was in last year this time. You know, unreasonable demands being made, no room or power to deny said unreasonable demands. Just getting it done. And then to discover that there was no recognition of the attempt, or of the effort it took. Just condemnation of some perceived (and totally mysterious) inadequacy. Ah. No bitterness there at all....

Beitch better not fuck with me any more, I'm just sayin. That's all.

Now for more coffee and a slight attitude adjustment before I plunge back into convention world.

Not much time to play today- have things at work that call me in early.

Just wanted to say hi.

Be back for more later.

Last night we had a company picnic for The Boy. It was nice. Very eclectic assortment of people- with a vast array of music industry backgrounds- (more info than that, and I would have to kill you- this is anon, right?)- and an array of origins.

Coolest thing- I finally got my hands on a Pims cup. Felt veddy, veddy Bri'ish. And ever so Ascot. Only not dressed for the occasion- in my F1 gear (tis a race weekend, and my boys won't win if I'm not in my F1 gear. Humor me.). No silly big floppy hats. No hose. No skirt. No heels. No blasted way. And the cup was plastic rather than Sterling. So more of a downscale Ascot kind of experience.

Too much Pims, actually. Which should come as a surprise to no one. The only offputting thing is the slight aftertaste of cough syrup.

Now back to the race day adventure, and away from this. Priorities, right?

It all turns on a dime. And the odd gust of wind.

News from home- not particularly good. Seems that the fires are uncontrolled, and there are a few new ones.

What does this mean? It means that my mother has gone ahead and packed some boxes. Of things that she can't bear to lose.

It means that I am waiting for the call- when and if it comes, we haul ass for home. To do what we can to help. If it means driving tractors and combines down the road to save them from the flames, then so be it. If it means taking the good advise of a friend who was with the forest service and equipping hefty sticks with mud flaps and beating the fucking flames, then so be it. Whatever it takes- because I will not sit here in the safety of damp coolness and hear about my mother and step-father losing their home without being there to fight.

But that presupposed that there will be an opportunity to fight. And that is another concern entirely. There might not be a chance.

And I will cry soon if I keep this thought pattern going.

Must end it now.

Been dreaming non stop about wild animals. Like cougars in the yard chasing the kitties. And the Boy letting skunks in the house. Not good dreams, but not horrible either. Just odd.

And the tone is more that of a National Geographic documentary than of a horror movie. This I prefer. Not Shark Week NG either. (or is that Discovery channel? Same difference.)

But overall I am just bone tired. Too much information in too short of a time span. But that's to be expected. And it is what I wanted. Open eyes and all. So no whining. Just keeping on with it.

Last night

we discovered that we have raccoons. There are 3 of them, they are unbearably cute, and they are used to human folks, and probably get hand fed by retarded neighbors, like the squirrels.

They menaced the kitties, who were very upset.

They will not get fed here. I will look but not touch. And the Boy will do likewise. As raccoons are naughty, and have a habit of getting rabid. Bad influence all around.

News of the day

Now here is the juicy bit. I had lunch with friends. I caught up on my old job- all the news that's fit to print, so to speak. Only I don't plan on printing it- not interesting to outsiders.

But then came the killer. Seems that my ex-boss torpedoed me to a potential boss. Seems that she said that my performance wasn't stellar. Luckily I have friends who were trying their best to mitigate her damage, and providing gentle coaching. Luckily he told them his doubts. But it would've been one hell of a sales job.

Best luck- I never told her diddly about the job that I did get. I had a feeling. And I listened to it.

Why did she pull this brand of nastiness out of her pocket? Not sure exactly. But I suspect part of it is that she holds me responsible for the ineptitude of my replacement. That somehow I am to blame for the woman being a poor choice in the first place. I think that she's also pissed that I asked questions about inappropriate comments made to a co-worker- the kind of things that result in very bad karma for the company (i.e. inappropriate promises of jobs to come, etc.), and she didn't like that. We had a few words about that- she made a veiled threat about keeping my mouth shut. But I thought that we had resolved that. I thought that we had resolved the other issue when I gave her a full debrief.

Evidently not. Glad that I trusted my instincts and kept things to myself. Glad that I have very good friends who were looking out for me. Glad that I got a job untainted by that woman. Glad that she can't do anything to me ever again.

The nasty little thing.

Ah the humanity

Last night the Boy gave me a treat of sorts. And not that kind of treat, either- I don't share those details online! Different blog for that I'm guessing.

Anyway- seems that there are pictures of his 20th reunion floating out there. We have an agreement. Neither will drag an unwilling party to a High School or College reunion. Period. Full stop. And we've lived with it. Not a huge stretch for me- I hated High School and everything that it represented. The Breakfast Club be damned. I HATED it. And still contain a little core of bitterness towards some of those people that is admittedly diminishing with age, but will no doubt remain with me always. Like grit in an oyster if you will. I refuse to give them any avenue to hurt me again. Period. So avoidance.

The Boy's reasons weren't so angstian. Just didn't care.

So we sat and reviewed the photos. Of what appeared to be the same 15-20 drunken individuals over and over and over. Typical, no? Clicques at this age. And they all looked like old white people to me. With the sole exception of one guy's Asian wife. Most were very....well-fed. Some looked like they had lived a hard life. That was sad. But overall- just a group of older people who looked like they were enjoying themselves in a benign fashion. Though I must say, there was one shot of a few of the guys where I swear they were discussing which chicks in the class they would still bang. Just had that locker room feel to it, and there were indications that they were well into their cups. So- glad we passed on it.

Rule remains intact. I think I would've died of boredom. And not gone to heaven- just stayed there in hell. Listening to 80's hair bands, longing for the mullets in their high school pictures to return for sheer humor, and watching them wear leis (it was a luau, doncha know?), and get fabulously drunk. Gak.

So the sun is shining here for about the 3rd day in a row. It's hard to know how to process all of this vitamin D. It's hard to take for granted that it'll be sufficiently light outside tomorrow. And maybe even the next day.

So this place might possibly be getting to me.

Back home there are fires. I watch from afar, with concern, online. The ranch is close to one. They are too old to make a last stand in the yard with mudflaps attached to a stick. They are too old to really deal with packing the truck and the Forester with their favorite things and running. They are too old for this shit, period.

The fires are supposed to burn until September. Then it will snow.

That's where I am supposed to be. The place where I suffer from a sinus infection from the smoke all summer. The place where my lips crack within 24 hours of re-entry from the lack of humidity. The place where they are. The place where my worry lives.

Adventure

Yesterday we went to the newly re-opened Seattle Art Musee. It wasn't quite what I expected. And we agreed- it still isn't as good as the Phoenix Art Musee. And no where near LACMA. But there you have it.

I saw some good things. A bust by Houdoin was particularly great- of his 4 year old daughter. Truly wonderful. Even captured the shadow of her dimple. There was a model of his Voltaire in the Phoenix museum. Loved it too.

And the Boy finally got to see in person my abject and total fear of African art. Masks in particular. Ditto Polynesian masks. And most Native American masks. Total gut churning fear. Cannot stand to be in the room. Must escape from the eyes.

Why, you ask? Well, mainly because they are so damned chock full o hoodoo. And I don't think they belong in museums being stared at by me. They had a different purpose, and really are too chock full of hoodoo to piss off. Bad, bad karma to touch them. Even worse to own them.

And there you have it. One of my very few, but sometimes awkward little superstitions. I felt like apologizing to the masks when I entered the room. But there were people around, and I didn't want security to escort the crazy chick out of the building. I think that The Boy thought it was funny.

But I'm sayin- bad, bad hoodoo. Gak.

Then I came home and took a nap. As advertised previously.

Not up for anything too tricksy today- need more coffee and perhaps an early afternoon nap first. But since it is SUNDAY, SUNDAY, SUNDAY, that might happen.

All right then. After last night's adventurous runoff of the mouth and mind, I am a bit at a loss. How to follow up a feat like that?

Well, with the fall back and punt option of a list, of course!

Sunday morning list:

Things I want to learn (or re-learn) how to do before I grow up and die:

1. blow glass.

2. ride a motorcycle (since there are 3 in the garage, this really should happen)

3. find my foreign language synapses, dust off the Russian part, and re-learn the language

4. I want to make a good- or even great- Creme Brulee

5. I want to learn how to get fancy with Powerpoint- not because it's cool, but because I see others around me doing it, and think I can do better (spirit of competition, and all that)

6. I would love to learn how to cut and polish gems. Don't know how to start finding classes for that kind of thing, though.

7. I would like to learn more about birds. I bought a book recently.


And there you have it. Unfinished business. Plenty of it achievable. Plenty of it not.

Time for coffee.

Now I seem to remember a self-imposed rule back a while ago- no blogging whilst under the influence.

Well, I am ignoring that rule. Just because I feel the need to type. And take my time reading through the typos- fixing as I go along, because I am not Courtney Love, and do not need to look like a total idiot on my own blog (check it out- was in MSNBC's Scoop last week- sad state of affairs, as per usual when discussing old Court.)

And while I am feeling all fancy and high-handed, I'm here to tell you something. But I'm just not totally clear on what it is. Which bloody well figures. Typical. Now there's a story.

I got shitcanned from a job. And replaced by the fucking Canadian. Who was a total bait and switch- appeared to be perfect for the job, but in reality was a total basket case- and I saw through it immediately. Because mine eyes have seen the glory, etc. Seriously, though- she was a wreck.

So she took my job and ran it into the ground (by that time I was onto bigger and somewhat better things- with a full assortment of bitter little feelings- which I still carry around and treasure- to be trotted out when I have a belly full of microbrew- hey! Like now!!!)

She was writing copy for a company brochure- because for some absolutely inexplicable reason, the boss wanted to re-brand the company every three fucking months- new logo, new tag line, new everything- fuck the cost- it was ridiculous. And so blasted wasteful.

So there was a brochure. And it was a mess. Graphically and otherwise. If you know the designer, please don't pass this along- I do like him, it just wasn't his finest hour. And I have no doubt it was because he got no help from above- as per usual at that place.

I digress. Of course. Blame the beer and the fucking Canadian. (to quote South Park, "Deer daking der derbs" watch the episode re. aliens taking jobs, to get the insight there if you give a shit.) OK. So she was writing copy.

Primest and most quotable to this day quote-

"Typically, redacted company name is anything but typical."

I shit you not. Goork. And not in a good way.

So The Boy and I tend to quote that pithy little abortifant phrase whenever we use the word typical.

Did I say before that he went to Atlanta with the fucking Canadian? Well he did. Lucky him. He did bring me back a tshirt from Coca Cola. Because he loves me and not the fucking Canadian. She took my job, but not my man. Or my dignity. Goork.

Whatever. I am sure that when I review this whilst sober, I will cringe. Indeed.

Now we're cooking with gas

What's funny- despite not having endless free time in my immediate future, I am getting so much more done. It's like that holding pattern was the abberation, and now that I'm back at work, doing something that I enjoy, I can remain charged up and moving when I am at home too. Being home alone just sucked the life and energy out of me. Things have changed in a year.

I don't know whether to be alarmed, saddened, or just accepting. I choose none of the above for right now.

And yes, it is calm before storm time at work, and the gentle ramp up is a true gift from my co-workers. Appreciated, believe me- since it wasn't that way last trip around. But still- it's all familiar, and good.

More than that, I just don't have right now. Gotta put the laundry in the dryer.

Preliminary stages

Yesterday was fine. Actually better than fine. As I propigate into the system and am enabled and enamored of doing more every day.

But today, well today, is something all together better, indeed. Because it is sunny. And because it is Thursday. And because so far things are going well, indeed. The dreams are at a minimum- I am sleeping well again, and the feared hummingbird period only lasted 2 days. It just isn't that unfamiliar after 3 weeks away. So life is moving on.

Interesting fact- my actual boss isn't even in the country until the end of August. So I really don't have a good idea of who I will be working for. That's still kind of a grey area. So ought to be interesting to find out what I will be doing for the next month. I have some ideas, and we'll see if they fly. And no, they do not involve sitting at home in my jammies huffing cookies while "working". Those days about drove me out of my skull. Though I have to admit the spot cleaning of the carpet was a good thing to have done. But no one can convince me that it was fun.

Current MySpace mood: Not enough coffee

So it has begun. My big career. They do roll it out though. 2 days of introductions to everything. Not like being a temp there at all- where they dump you behind a desk with a sketchy laptop and say, "figure it out chump." And I did. Which is probably why I am there today. And tomorrow. And the following day. Something to exhibit on my I love me wall- with the meaningless diplomas, and the picture of Oprah. Because when I start to rest on the laurels, they don't matter any more.

And hey, everyone, guess what! The dreams are starting up again. Last night's was particularly great- it included two glow in the dark floating heads, and my husband telling me that he doesn't particularly like me anymore. It was great. So that oughta be a pip.

Ah, but it's time to soldier on. Because the above is no doubt temporary, and if not, there are drugs that can help. Or at the very least some kind of substance.

And the sun is shining. It might break 75 today. Which is overall very springlike, no?

Spent the weekend reading Potter. Was up late last night finishing it.


Now for first day of work. Too sleepy for jitters.

Go see the rat movie. It is good.

More to follow...

Current weather outside.

And woke up in the middle of the night hearing coyotes howling in the neighborhood. I shit you not. The Boy heard them too. Thus proving that I wasn't dreaming. And that outdoor kitties have something to worry about hereabouts.

What we have here is a failure to communicate.

Pretty typical, no? How many songs, how many singers, how many roads does the man go down...all because of that communication dislocation. Or dislocution to be more accurate and to make up a new word.

So what's the bloody point? Shit, man, I don't know. Just saying stuff. Playing with words. Playing with works. Too much coffee, too little sleep, too much fucking time on my hands. (that wouldn't get FM radio play, now would it?)

And part of the daily whine- just don't leave me alone. But then when I'm not alone, I feel alone. Just part of the daily equipage. Like the wedding ring- that indicates that these boots aren't made for walking- they are made for making my legs look longer. And indicates that loyalties are not to be divided or conquered.

My current MySpace mood- wondering if it's too early to start drinking Hutterite wine. As it's only 9:00 am, probably. But cannot deny the mood. Never was a sucker for Irish coffee- too much family history there. And gets me all stubborn to prove the naysayers wrong- all that sitting duck prophecizing and all- not interested in following anyone down any bloody primrose path. Just want to blaze my own. And hope that it's a happy one. But not guaranteeing anything.

Major events today: 14th Anniversary. Of the blessed event. Me, with the worst haircut of my life. Made my head look like an egg. The Boy, ditto the worst haircut ever. Made him look 12 and mentally challenged. Me, a total wreck, expecting the family to implode, my head to explode, and feeling ugly with the worst haircut ever. But with comfortable footwear, because that is important.

Other event today: going to the bank to deposit second to last Unemployment check. Because lately, any reason to leave the house and actually speak to people face-to-face, not cheek-to-cheek is an event. Gotta get cat food, and drop by the dry cleaners, as well- if you must know.

But in the meantime, there's the whole communication thingy that distracts me. Because no matter how many words I write, it appears that somewhere a few go awry, and don't connect to the proper circuitry of others. And this worries me. Unduly, no doubt. But I always want to be understood. And accepted. And liked. And part of me hates that kind of thing. The vulnerability thing. Makes my teeth go all on edge and grate together- and my jaw ache. Because it's being clenched so hard...

and now enough of this. Time for distraction.

And finally

This is what I live with daily. This little beast and his brothers. Only in this picture he's not following me from room to room screaming. Oh no. That's not in this picture.

What IS in this picture is the hideous red that is our kitchen. Yes. It IS that red. All over. And it looks not exactly fabulous. It's a rental.

Just for larfs

Here's a treat. Seattle man who should really re-think the whole low-rise pants on bike thingy. Mainly because now we ALL know what kind of knickers he wears. And in the rain, those knickers will be inevitably covered in muddy skid marks.

Ah so the decision has been made then. So there. No input from me necessary. As per usual. It always seems like that- there is a ride, and I'm along for it. No need to concern myself. Just jam.

Or gel. Or something like that.

But the insides get in such a bunch that way- I want to be deciding. I want to be involved. I want to be a girl of action. Or an action figure. Or something like that. But don't have the necessary password to get into the tree house.

And the phone still doesn't ring. And the answers still don't come. So I am left to assume that the decision has been made. Start the Revolution Without Me. (movie made me bust a gut when I was little- very disappointing when I was big)

So now the challenge- accept, move on, and don't let it drive my ass crazy. Because it is like this some times. Inaction being the challenge. Inability to do diddly squat to change things being the challenge. Waiting it out being the challenge. When all I want to do is something. Anything but sit here and wait and type and think and ponder and look at stuff on the web. It's a half-life I don't want. Anyways. I think it's time to go to look busy.

The dash is in pretty cherry shape for a girl of a certain age.

Now if we can fix the leak in the sun roof, it'll be a true accomplishment. That will be the first cosmetic thing to tackle. Timing and carbs are tonight's project.

Car Story

For some reason, I feel compelled to provide back story for the car.

She belonged to my Step-father- a retired cattle rancher. Odd choice for a ranch, yes. But perfect for him. He purchased it in the early 80's from the original owner- a rich Californian lady. Then he drove it with love. He tells a story about rodding the piss out of it to prove a point- there were 2 Cadillacs racing down the highway- dragging. And he threaded the needle with the old girl- pegging out over 120 mph. Saw them hit the brakes as he rushed by betwixt and between.

All I can say about that is I am glad my mother wasn't in the car. He would've been grounded, car keys removed from his possession, and tv dinners for a week, at least.

The car became the Boy's about 6 years ago, as a surprise Christmas/Birthday gift. It was decided when they sold the ranch in Helena and moved north. No place for a car like that in the new digs. The Boy has spent some time getting her up to snuff, but there is more to do. Because she is a legacy car. A Car Baby. Every home should have one. Mine is in a warehouse moldering. Because I can't convince the powers that be to turn her over to me. Probably never will. Sad. But such is the way of the world. Not everything is happy.

But this story is. And the best part- the wonderful Step-Father loves black licorice too.

Just cuz I feel like adding another picture. This is where I go when I'm off the grid.

Do you get it now?

I thought so.

Now just hear the breath in your lungs, the wind in the grass, the powerline's hum, and nothing much else.

What I'm not going to write about-

The thing on my mind the most. Not going to do it. Because I just won't. What I am going to do is try and change the channel. It's the hardest game in town. Because it always has been.

Totally conditioned to watch the program through to the end. Always have been. I think it's genetic. Used to cause marital woes. When it wasn't understood that just because I can't change the channel mid stream, and can't look away until it's over, doesn't mean I don't love you. Means. that I am messed up in the wiring diagram. Check it out sometime. There are a few fuses blown, and then there were some winky re-wiring efforts to compensate. Then there were a few wires that got snapped that one time. Then there were some more amateur electronic play by plays. And then.

So. That thing- the one I won't write about... it's still there. Front and center. But not gonna do it. Gonna keep playing the skirt the issue and avoid the flack jacket. Not in the mood to watch the bomb's early glare. Not enough coffee in the blood. Never enough coffee in the blood. And then.

So. Did you hear the one about... And another wiring problem- can't remember jokes. Not to save my life. Or harden my arteries. Can't do it. Not the good ones. Not the bad ones. Not any ones. Just unable. Can still remember all the words to Journey's ouvre, but not any jokes in there rattling around. Can still remember Juliet's soliloquy from Drama Club Freshman year in High School. But no jokes need apply. They get sent straight to the recycle bin. The words will be re-used somewhere else. Just nowhere funny. And then.

And here is the ass end of my car in Choteau, MT- where there are cement dinosaurs. And an Ice Cream Parlor. This is about 10 miles from the ROCK SHOP.

The Rock Shop, by the way, is owned by the woman who first discovered a clutch of dinosaur eggs back in the 30's. She took Harvard to court to get her fossils returned when they misinterpreted the meaning of the word "loan". She's 94 and still runs the shop.

Here she is, the old girl who still has some life left in her. The Boy has a bunch of plans for her. Starting with her carbs and timing.

I can look out the window from right here, where I type, and see her in the driveway. She's wonderful.

Bavarian Death Drive

The trip back was an ordeal I don't care to replicate soon. We drove the entire 11 hours in separate cars- the Boy in the BMW Bavaria, me in the Outback. I had the stereo and air conditioning, he had neither. It was 104 in Spokane. It was 96 in Ellensburg. It was scary as shit on the numerous passes, as I kept expecting the old girl to overheat. Seems that the Boy had the heater on full blast on the passes to keep her on the road. She does still have long legs and runs well at highway speed. And he took very good care of her when we lived in MT several years ago. So all went reasonably well.

But it sucked- as I stayed behind, watching anxiously, wondering if his turn signal was on, and if she finally gave up. Waiting to see something happen. Waiting for that puff of smoke. Waiting....

The worst section was around where George, Washington is- the highway crosses the Columbia- and goes up a very long desert pass. It was the part I had dreaded the most all day. It was actually cooler than I had expected, but still nerve-wracking. But she did, indeed, make it. And the Boy recovered from the heat and sun. And we unpacked the overburdened cars (an attempt is being made to get all of our shit in one state- stay tuned). And then we slept in our own bed, with the kitties smothering us with their furry brand of love.

Next step- up to Augusta

So then we traveled through Helena (stopping to see parents and have a quick bite and view newly constructed pond in yard) and on up to Augusta where other parents and classic car live.

Up there not much to report, except that we did have a Gentleman Caller for me- he didn't know I came with the Boy. So they met. The Boy and the Rancher- old before his time. And I had sparkly toes and no shoes. Again. I always keep to the policy of leaving the dance with the date you came with, and wasn't overly tempted to run off and herd cattle for a living. So all was well.

We did go to the rock shop- because my mother and I are the world's biggest rock shop geeks alive. She used to be in the jewelry biz, and I grew up a rock geek. So it was good to see pretty sparkly things and bring a few home.

Then we came back here. The road trip deserves some more reflection- how to capture in writing that particular brand of hell on wheels.

Day 2- crossing the state- Day 3 in one place

Went to Billings. For those unfamiliar- South/Central MT, largest city in the state, dry as hell, kind of pretty, kind of not. The Boy is from there.

Highlight of the trip- visiting the local WalMart. Saw the scariest cross section of humanity that I've seen in a while. Including a guy with no shirt, who really looked like ambulatory near death. He had that alcoholic belly- swollen and obvious, with ribs showing. Probably all liver crammed in there. Sad, sad, overworked liver.

Not much else to add to the Billings leg of the journey, really.

Day 1 of the trip

So we went to Missoula Sunday evening. Stayed with friends.

The strange thing about Missoula- well, that's actually quite a list. Seems I still have my freak magnet on when I go there.

Always have.

The place envelopes me from the start- familiar light in the sky, smell in the air, feeling in the bones. Like coming home. Only slower than I remember. And softer. And smaller.

We went out for ice cream after drinks and snacks. We were eating fabulous ice cream (mine was cardamom, Scott had yellow cake dipped in chocolate- sinfully delish). A woman was walking down Higgins Ave (the main N/S street) screaming at her boyfriend, "I love you and I hate you! Right now I hate you!!!"

He hugged her and walked away. She saw a group of people and decided to put on a meth-fueled show. She came over to the ice cream place and started to scream at everyone, "Motherfucking Missoula- thinks it's sooooo cool. We waited for 40 cars, and no one would take my brother to the fucking ER." This was repeated several times as she prowled around the crowd- filled with angry energy, just ripe to lash out. Some of the children probably learned some new terms from her.

Finally, a really stupid girl took the bait, and shouted,"Get your whacked out ass out of here!" She probably thought that since she was with friends, she was safe. She was mistaken, as her friends aren't like my friends. They most certainly did not have her back. Methgirl started chasing her in circles shouting at her- you can imagine. Stupidgirl was on the phone with the police. Finally she slowed down, and Methgirl flattened her. Hit her to the pavement. Then the onlookers intervened. A large man, who looked like a High School principal grabbed Methgirl and shouted, "NO, Stop this!" And wouldn't let her go. She struggled and tried to kick at Stupidgirl- who was still on the ground. I seriously don't think she thought that Methgirl would actually hit her. That's why I am calling her stupid. Not because she deserved to get hit, but that she was seriously delusional to think that Methgirl had any kinds of restraint.

So, the cops finally show up, after Methgirl's friend arrived and put her in a smelly lock on the ground. The cops took her away in cuffs, all the while she tried to escape. She wasn't wearing shoes.

Show was over. We walked to the car. I found $10 on the pavement. But the Boy said that he saw it first. I don't believe him. I took it. I spent it on bottled water and power bars on the trip home.

Where do I start?

We got back. It was heaven. It was hell. There is much to tell. Very tired though.

But the good news-

I GOT THE JOB!!!

Will be starting in a week. So Jobby McJobbersons here will be a member of the club. Of employed people, that is.

Will relate more later- now must rest. And check my watched items on eBay.

And now my friends- a few days away. Gonna road trip and bring the old girl home- she's a 72 BMW Bavaria- white with a touch of age showing. But she's beautiful, and we are almost on the edge of praying that she'll make it. Thankfully the Boy is a car guy, so the chances are good. It's the passes and the heat that are the iffy parts. But otherwise it oughta be a pip.

Most of the trip, however, will be spent in places with no access to the eworld that I love. But that's ok, because I see it as an essential part of unhooking from the machine. I'll wear sunblock, drink tepid and weak beer (because micro brew isn't really the rage out theres yet), and enjoy the famdamily.

Tune in next week for another installment of - my silly assed life.

Minty aftertaste- that's what the interviews left behind. Which was surprising. It looks, my friends, like there is a chance in hell that I will get the job. And that the person who spooked me in the first interview might be of tertiary importance in the scheme of things. I dunno.

Now to prepare for ROAD TRIP SUMMER 2007. We are going eastward into the vastness and heat to deliver a vintage BMW to ourselves. She needs to come home- especially since the Boy sold the Miata to a friend. He has his 3 motorcycles (yes, I am the BEST wife ever!), but a car would be nice. So it should be very interesting. Seeing if the old girl can make it back to Seattle. Hmmmm.

Otherwise, all is getting better on the home front- not spewing mucus everywhere, which is a relief. And likewise the Boy has recovered. Even treated myself to a pint last night- as after 4 bloody interviews, I had earned it.

Confession- the last interview was a conference call- and I did it from my house, whilst wearing pajama bottoms. Heh heh heh. I am a rebel. heh heh heh...

(No, actually I am a big, silly geek, and I know it. But that's all part of the charm, no? And yes, that's overt fishing for compliments.)

Once more into the void- but this time with a cacophonous soundtrack.

Because yes, LX, that will be in my head probably all day.

So today's round starts in a few hours- time to get all primped and prepared. But really this time my heart isn't in it. This one doesn't feel right from the outset- has everything to do with the 1st interview in the cycle last Friday. She was nice. I liked her. But she was overwhelmingly interested in establishing alpha dog status. And I found this disconcerting in an interview environment.

So today should be interesting. I liken it to a hazing ritual- something akin to getting into a secret society. Once in, you're really in. With the secret handshake, the key to the fortress, and all the dirt on your soul. But that's getting ahead of myself. First I have to get through today.

Feeling better though. Not as stuffy and coughy. Two dwarfs down. Now just a tad grumpy. But coffee should cure that. If not coffee, then pastries. They cure everything.

All right. Enough malingering- time to get on with it.

One of those mornings- woke up on the wrong side, so to speak. Not feeling particularly charitable about anyone- much less myself. And there you have it. Probably just too damned much seclusion and being sick. But I am on the mend, and will prevail.

And also there is a touch of nerves- tomorrow is 4 long hours of interviews for the job that I'm all apprehensive about. They put you through your paces. And I just don't know if I'm up for the challenge. But never say die. Onward and upward. Jiggedy jig.

I will now go to the library.

Tag, I'm it.

So it's a game, right. I get to disclose 8 things about myself, and pass along the idea. I got it from my friend Sean. So. All right already, get on with it.

1. The movies that I can quote most accurately are - Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Gone in 60 Seconds, and Office Space. (So much for highbrow)

2. I was born on Father's Day. A month early. And coincidentally share my name with a dead person.

3. I adore black licorice.

4. When I was in high school, I fantasized about stealing cool cars (see the fixation with Gone in 60 Seconds above). I did learn how to hot wire. Not sure if I still remember. Let's hope not.

5. Despite all of my efforts, I am still bitter about a couple of past relationships that ended badly. Just. Can't. Let. Go.

6. My favorite author is Proust. Followed very closely by about two dozen others. I've been slogging through the newest translation of his work- working full time really interrupted that adventure. I'll pick up again now. I can highly recommend this batch, though- amazing.

7. I am a total sap- I can cry at basically any movie- even the silent ones- if they hit me the right way. On occasion, commercials have gotten to me. It is a sickness.

8. I have learned to be a pretty good cook over the years- and enjoy making up my own recipes.

There. That was actually harder than I had expected. What to say? What not to say? How to switch gears when going down one path, and keep it simple? My.

This should be called "Ode to learning how to relax again", but I don't know the proper literary form for an ode. I'm not the one who went to poetry school. My poetry sucks. I think it's reminiscent of all of those stupid pop songs I learned in Jr high- the ones I impress the boy with when I know all the words on Flashback Thursday (via Pandora, thank you). I used to have a memory for those kinds of things. They mattered to me.

Somewhere in college my memory for songs gets spotty. REM kills me. But then, if you can understand Michael Stipe, you are a stronger man than me, Gunga Din. It just didn't matter so much any more.

So I have to relax. It's enforced not only by being in the house with the cats, the tv, the books, and no people, but also by being on the backwards side of sick. Getting better with those deceptive bursts of energy, but knowing better than to fully trust them. Weaning myself off of the cough medicine. But not the decongestant.

I have to quit reflexively checking my email. There are no flagged messages there. None. There are no urgent fires to put out. No one needs me like that right now. And that has to be ok. Because it just is. And I should like it. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I have become an adrenaline junky, and the withdrawal is going to be a tad sticky. Again, need a support group.

And right now, more than anything I need to get dressed. Because even though I am still sickish, I don't know if I should slip into day long pajama wearing quite yet.

Huzzah for the drug companies who make cough suppressant. And decongestant.

But feh to the companies that make zinc lozenges. They upset my tummy.

And now I take my cranky-ass self to the couch for some serious lounging and blowing of nose.