Tuesday, August 12, 2003
Smooth and silky...
It is amazing how fabulous it feels to have freshly shaven legs.
Shaving my legs is such a chore for me. My genetics are such that I was cursed with a certain hirsuteness. Which would be great if it were confined to the top of my head. I've often been complimented on my thick, dark head of hair by friends, family and hairdressers alike.
Unfortunately, in my case, a head of thick, luxurious hair also heralds thick coarse hair on my legs, my forearms and even traces on the backs of my knuckles and tops of some of my toes. I've also got the makings for a fine Frieda Kahlo mustache and witchy chin hairs, were I to just let it go. Thank heaven I've escaped the unibrow of my younger brother. On guys it's fine. For a pretty, feminine woman like myself? Not so much.
On top of this I have my mother's fair skin, against which the dark hair contrasts nicely. And my skin is obscenely sensitive. So well-meaning advice of, "Nair it, bleach it, shave it a few times a week" is met with, "Eats the skin, burns the skin, gives the skin lots and lots of little red bumps and rashes."
Attractive, I know.
Nor can I wax frequently, due to tightness of my purse and the stubbornness of my facial hair. My mustache and chin hair laugh at waxes of all kinds. We're not talking timid little chuckles in the corner. Oh no, my friends. My mustache and nascent beard guffaw heartily when they are approached by wax. They point and laugh and make the wax feel really, really bad about itself, until it realizes that my eyebrows, at least, will gladly welcome it.
So my facial hair is taken care of several times a week (skin is not quite so sensitive there), but my legs and forearms are shaved about once a week. I've been known to shave less than that when I'm very busy or when I just can't be bothered to get myself out of bed early enough in the morning to take care of business during my morning shower. Trust me, I pay the price for that laziness. In such instances I think a weed whacker would be more effective than a razor.
But.
When I finally take the time and trouble to perform that chore, when I overcome my innate slothfulness to slather on the foaming shave cream, dip my razor in the warm water and draw it across my pale skin, frequently rinsing it to ensure the closest shave possible, then to towel off the remaining foam, followed with a quick, stinging application of the septic stick when needed, and the soothing aloe vera gel and softening moisturizer?
Then, then I am rewarded. My legs and forearms and all previously undesirably hairy areas are smooth, silky, supple. I caress my skin, reveling in the velvety touch of it, the sheer sensual feel of it. I wear short skirts and heeled sandals to show off the curve of my newly shorn calves. Sometimes I, the queen of the long sleeved shirt, even I wear shirts with half- or three-quarters-length sleeves so that my forearms will feel the sun and the breeze waft across their tender, fair surfaces. And each time I wonder, why don't I do this more often?
Until the stubble makes its appearance the next day.
Shaving my legs is such a chore for me. My genetics are such that I was cursed with a certain hirsuteness. Which would be great if it were confined to the top of my head. I've often been complimented on my thick, dark head of hair by friends, family and hairdressers alike.
Unfortunately, in my case, a head of thick, luxurious hair also heralds thick coarse hair on my legs, my forearms and even traces on the backs of my knuckles and tops of some of my toes. I've also got the makings for a fine Frieda Kahlo mustache and witchy chin hairs, were I to just let it go. Thank heaven I've escaped the unibrow of my younger brother. On guys it's fine. For a pretty, feminine woman like myself? Not so much.
On top of this I have my mother's fair skin, against which the dark hair contrasts nicely. And my skin is obscenely sensitive. So well-meaning advice of, "Nair it, bleach it, shave it a few times a week" is met with, "Eats the skin, burns the skin, gives the skin lots and lots of little red bumps and rashes."
Attractive, I know.
Nor can I wax frequently, due to tightness of my purse and the stubbornness of my facial hair. My mustache and chin hair laugh at waxes of all kinds. We're not talking timid little chuckles in the corner. Oh no, my friends. My mustache and nascent beard guffaw heartily when they are approached by wax. They point and laugh and make the wax feel really, really bad about itself, until it realizes that my eyebrows, at least, will gladly welcome it.
So my facial hair is taken care of several times a week (skin is not quite so sensitive there), but my legs and forearms are shaved about once a week. I've been known to shave less than that when I'm very busy or when I just can't be bothered to get myself out of bed early enough in the morning to take care of business during my morning shower. Trust me, I pay the price for that laziness. In such instances I think a weed whacker would be more effective than a razor.
But.
When I finally take the time and trouble to perform that chore, when I overcome my innate slothfulness to slather on the foaming shave cream, dip my razor in the warm water and draw it across my pale skin, frequently rinsing it to ensure the closest shave possible, then to towel off the remaining foam, followed with a quick, stinging application of the septic stick when needed, and the soothing aloe vera gel and softening moisturizer?
Then, then I am rewarded. My legs and forearms and all previously undesirably hairy areas are smooth, silky, supple. I caress my skin, reveling in the velvety touch of it, the sheer sensual feel of it. I wear short skirts and heeled sandals to show off the curve of my newly shorn calves. Sometimes I, the queen of the long sleeved shirt, even I wear shirts with half- or three-quarters-length sleeves so that my forearms will feel the sun and the breeze waft across their tender, fair surfaces. And each time I wonder, why don't I do this more often?
Until the stubble makes its appearance the next day.
Sunday, August 10, 2003
Take me out to the ball game...
As I mentioned earlier, I went to a baseball game today. Now, there are people out there that are surprised I'd attend sporting events. With good reason. I don't really talk about sports all that much. And I'm certainly not the most avid sports enthusiast. I'm sometimes bitter about how sports are often more prized at schools than the arts or intellectual pursuits.
However, once upon a time I had a boyfriend who was very much the sports enthusiast. Admittedly that was strange for me because I'd never dated a sports fan before, but since I didn't hate sports and I never became a sports widow, I didn't have a problem with it. As a consequence I picked up a few things about sports. I'd already discovered that live games could be very exciting and I wasn't surprised when I jumped right into the energy of the fans with both feet. I tend to get rather excitable that way.
So when my friend Linda (who is now in town for a few weeks) asked me if I'd like to go to a Dodger game with her, I readily accepted. It really would be so much fun.
A few days later she e-mailed me some exciting news. Turned out two more of her L.A. friends would be joining us: Mike Farrell and his lovely wife, Shelley Fabares. As I seem to be regressing the older I get and have taken to squealing at good news, I, well, squealed.
Ya see, once upon a time I had a massive crush on Mike Farrell. I had become immersed in M*A*S*H and thought that B.J. Hunnicutt was once of the best characters ever created (I still think that), far better, more interesting than ol' Trapper John. And that actor playing him? A serious hottie. As a matter of fact, it was thanks to Mr. Farrell that Linda and I met over the internet and became such great friends. And it was thanks to Linda and her friendship with the fellow that I met him several times over the past few years. So yeah, I was excited to hear that I'd actually be hanging out with him and his wife for a couple of hours (I'd never met her before).
So they picked me up, Linda driving, Mike in the front passenger seat and Shelley in the back seat with me (I'm going to use their first names from here on out, just for ease - I never asked them what they would prefer that I call them and I'm not one to be presumptuous). I was a bit nervous at first, as I've always been around actors that I admire (well, except when I met Tony Head - but I'd had a few drinks before that happened), but instantly Shelley made me feel at ease, as I predicted she might. She and I talked a fair amount during the few hours I was with them and I ended up having a grand time, despite the Dodgers losing to the Cubs by two runs (I think). Mike was a bit quiet, but that was something else I thought might happen, since I'd gotten the sense from him at earlier meetings that he tends to be friendly, yet reserved.
Ya know, I was freaking out a little about the thought of spending more than five minutes in their company, afraid that I would do something to make a total fool of myself, but I think I did okay. And with me sitting between Linda and Shelley at the game, I was able to lean over to either one, usually making observations about the game to Shelley and jokes to Linda, and I felt completely at ease. It was great.
I have to say, though, it's a good thing I've been exercising more often over the last few months. There was a set of stairs we had to climb to get to our seats (behind home plate and in the shade - Linda totally scored with those seats) that was awfully long and steep and I was far less winded by the time I reached the top than I might have been before my days of exercising and climbing stairs at work and running for buses. That made me feel really good.
They dropped me off at my place after the game (luckily Mike was paying attention because Shelley and I were deep in conversation when we neared my place), we said our good-byes and "So happy to meet you"s and I darted across the street to my welcoming door, whereupon I flung myself onto my couch and re-lived my previous hours.
Have I mentioned yet what a grand time I had? Because I did.
However, once upon a time I had a boyfriend who was very much the sports enthusiast. Admittedly that was strange for me because I'd never dated a sports fan before, but since I didn't hate sports and I never became a sports widow, I didn't have a problem with it. As a consequence I picked up a few things about sports. I'd already discovered that live games could be very exciting and I wasn't surprised when I jumped right into the energy of the fans with both feet. I tend to get rather excitable that way.
So when my friend Linda (who is now in town for a few weeks) asked me if I'd like to go to a Dodger game with her, I readily accepted. It really would be so much fun.
A few days later she e-mailed me some exciting news. Turned out two more of her L.A. friends would be joining us: Mike Farrell and his lovely wife, Shelley Fabares. As I seem to be regressing the older I get and have taken to squealing at good news, I, well, squealed.
Ya see, once upon a time I had a massive crush on Mike Farrell. I had become immersed in M*A*S*H and thought that B.J. Hunnicutt was once of the best characters ever created (I still think that), far better, more interesting than ol' Trapper John. And that actor playing him? A serious hottie. As a matter of fact, it was thanks to Mr. Farrell that Linda and I met over the internet and became such great friends. And it was thanks to Linda and her friendship with the fellow that I met him several times over the past few years. So yeah, I was excited to hear that I'd actually be hanging out with him and his wife for a couple of hours (I'd never met her before).
So they picked me up, Linda driving, Mike in the front passenger seat and Shelley in the back seat with me (I'm going to use their first names from here on out, just for ease - I never asked them what they would prefer that I call them and I'm not one to be presumptuous). I was a bit nervous at first, as I've always been around actors that I admire (well, except when I met Tony Head - but I'd had a few drinks before that happened), but instantly Shelley made me feel at ease, as I predicted she might. She and I talked a fair amount during the few hours I was with them and I ended up having a grand time, despite the Dodgers losing to the Cubs by two runs (I think). Mike was a bit quiet, but that was something else I thought might happen, since I'd gotten the sense from him at earlier meetings that he tends to be friendly, yet reserved.
Ya know, I was freaking out a little about the thought of spending more than five minutes in their company, afraid that I would do something to make a total fool of myself, but I think I did okay. And with me sitting between Linda and Shelley at the game, I was able to lean over to either one, usually making observations about the game to Shelley and jokes to Linda, and I felt completely at ease. It was great.
I have to say, though, it's a good thing I've been exercising more often over the last few months. There was a set of stairs we had to climb to get to our seats (behind home plate and in the shade - Linda totally scored with those seats) that was awfully long and steep and I was far less winded by the time I reached the top than I might have been before my days of exercising and climbing stairs at work and running for buses. That made me feel really good.
They dropped me off at my place after the game (luckily Mike was paying attention because Shelley and I were deep in conversation when we neared my place), we said our good-byes and "So happy to meet you"s and I darted across the street to my welcoming door, whereupon I flung myself onto my couch and re-lived my previous hours.
Have I mentioned yet what a grand time I had? Because I did.
Reading and music are fundamental...
I know how fascinating reading about my latest books are, so I thought I'd oblige with my thoughts about them. Because I love you guys and I'm just that much of a giver.
(Hey, where are you going? Come back!)
Though I am still constantly reading, I seem to have less chewed up books in my wake. I'm not sure why that is, unless there are some books that I've read that are not all that memorable. In which case it's probably best that I not give my opinion about them.
The only ones that pop into my mind are, naturally from the Harry Potter series. The Prisoner of Azkaban and The Goblet of Fire were fast, fun reads (though the end of Goblet of Fire? My G-d, it had me all tense!). I like how each of the books are maturing, getting progressively darker. Now, with The Order of the Phoenix almost finished, I'm liking it's dark tone, how the characters have grown and how they seem to be pretty reflective of true teens, especially that angry young man, Harry. There is much in Order that reminds me about my own teen years. Except all the life-threatening danger. I don't seem to remember too much in the way of centaurs and giants and Cruciatus Curses during my school days in San Diego and the San Fernando Valley. Though I suppose it's possible I repressed the memories. Those repressed memories can be a bitch.
Some weeks ago CuteNerdBoy told me that he envied me because I still had Books 3-5 to read, new things to discover about Hogwarts and its people. I smiled then, but now I'm not so sure that it was something to be envied. Soon I'll be finished with Order and then I'll be in the same boat as everyone else, waiting for Number 6 with barely restrained anticipation. Hmmm. Maybe that Harry Potter is evil after all.
***********************************************
Listening to Another Disc #4, given to me on Friday night by that sweet CuteNerdBoy, I find I'm having difficulty just sitting in my chair, typing out this entry. So much of the songs have such a wonderful beat (right now I'm listening to In These Shoes? by Kirsty MacColl, which is just too infectious for its own good) that it's all I can do to refrain from dancing around my living room. When you also factor in I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow from O Brother, Where Art Thou? (I squealed when I saw this on the song list) and Mr. E's Beautiful Blues by The Eels (which marries an obscenely bouncy beat with somewhat depressing lyrics - how can I not fall in love with this song?), well, the mix CD certainly makes for over an hour of fun, thoughtful listening and lots of be-bopping around the living room. And really, what more can you ask from a mix CD?
***********************************************
BTW, this is a good journal entry about the the California recall effort and the language in the California State Constitution as it relates to both a recall and a vacancy in the governor's office. Beth sums up my feelings far better than I seem to be able to.
***********************************************
If you'll excuse me now, I'm leaving for a baseball game in a few hours and I have to try to get rid of this headache. Maybe leftover Chinese food will help. Yeah, I'm eating leftover Chinese food at 9:30 in the morning, what of it? It's not something I do often and it's not like I'm having cold pizza and beer for breakfast. Just because sometimes I live more like a bachelor than some of bachelors I know - uh, never mind.
(Hey, where are you going? Come back!)
Though I am still constantly reading, I seem to have less chewed up books in my wake. I'm not sure why that is, unless there are some books that I've read that are not all that memorable. In which case it's probably best that I not give my opinion about them.
The only ones that pop into my mind are, naturally from the Harry Potter series. The Prisoner of Azkaban and The Goblet of Fire were fast, fun reads (though the end of Goblet of Fire? My G-d, it had me all tense!). I like how each of the books are maturing, getting progressively darker. Now, with The Order of the Phoenix almost finished, I'm liking it's dark tone, how the characters have grown and how they seem to be pretty reflective of true teens, especially that angry young man, Harry. There is much in Order that reminds me about my own teen years. Except all the life-threatening danger. I don't seem to remember too much in the way of centaurs and giants and Cruciatus Curses during my school days in San Diego and the San Fernando Valley. Though I suppose it's possible I repressed the memories. Those repressed memories can be a bitch.
Some weeks ago CuteNerdBoy told me that he envied me because I still had Books 3-5 to read, new things to discover about Hogwarts and its people. I smiled then, but now I'm not so sure that it was something to be envied. Soon I'll be finished with Order and then I'll be in the same boat as everyone else, waiting for Number 6 with barely restrained anticipation. Hmmm. Maybe that Harry Potter is evil after all.
Listening to Another Disc #4, given to me on Friday night by that sweet CuteNerdBoy, I find I'm having difficulty just sitting in my chair, typing out this entry. So much of the songs have such a wonderful beat (right now I'm listening to In These Shoes? by Kirsty MacColl, which is just too infectious for its own good) that it's all I can do to refrain from dancing around my living room. When you also factor in I Am A Man Of Constant Sorrow from O Brother, Where Art Thou? (I squealed when I saw this on the song list) and Mr. E's Beautiful Blues by The Eels (which marries an obscenely bouncy beat with somewhat depressing lyrics - how can I not fall in love with this song?), well, the mix CD certainly makes for over an hour of fun, thoughtful listening and lots of be-bopping around the living room. And really, what more can you ask from a mix CD?
BTW, this is a good journal entry about the the California recall effort and the language in the California State Constitution as it relates to both a recall and a vacancy in the governor's office. Beth sums up my feelings far better than I seem to be able to.
If you'll excuse me now, I'm leaving for a baseball game in a few hours and I have to try to get rid of this headache. Maybe leftover Chinese food will help. Yeah, I'm eating leftover Chinese food at 9:30 in the morning, what of it? It's not something I do often and it's not like I'm having cold pizza and beer for breakfast. Just because sometimes I live more like a bachelor than some of bachelors I know - uh, never mind.
Saturday, August 09, 2003
Patience, grasshopper...
A friend told me recently that when she and her husband started dating, he was the perfect gentleman. Despite having known each other for awhile, during which time he was trying to convince her that he'd be just the right person for her to date, once she said, "Yes, I will date you," he was, for a number of months, never too forward, never doing more than a kiss and a hug before leaving for the night, despite her widened eyes of disbelief. When asked why, hubby said, "Because if I start, I'm not going to want to stop. And I just don't want to take things too fast."
Another friend, whom I had dated many, many moons ago, in a galaxy on the far side of the universe, once told me that he always found it interesting that women, or at least the women he had dated, seemed to want to rush into the physical side of dating much faster than he did. He had mentioned this phenomenon to several of his male friends, all of whom agreed that this was the truth. I looked at him, eyebrow raised, disbelief writ large on my face as I recalled how very forward he was on our first date in that long ago time. I may have even snorted in a most scoffing manner, remembering how the men I'd dated wasted no time in making it known that they found me physically attractive and also remembering tales of the male libido from so many other women. To which he replied, "Maybe it's just the men you date, Carol. But in my group of friends, we're willing to take it slow."
I think Friend #2 was right. Maybe it is just the men I've dated in the past, combined with the fact that 1) I'm a very physical person and 2) I like to dress in a rather provacative, if tasteful, manner, which no doubt makes said dates think, "Hey, it's ok to put the moves on this one." And all this makes me think that it's perfectly okay to rush into being physical with a guy. So when I'm faced with someone whose company I enjoy and who, from what I can tell, shows signs of being attracted to me but is a perfect gentleman, despite my painfully obvious attempts of showing my own interest in him, my mind just bounces all over the place and I have trouble figuring out what is happening. And I think,"Is this how normal people date?"
Maybe it is. And maybe I just need to keep that in mind.
Another friend, whom I had dated many, many moons ago, in a galaxy on the far side of the universe, once told me that he always found it interesting that women, or at least the women he had dated, seemed to want to rush into the physical side of dating much faster than he did. He had mentioned this phenomenon to several of his male friends, all of whom agreed that this was the truth. I looked at him, eyebrow raised, disbelief writ large on my face as I recalled how very forward he was on our first date in that long ago time. I may have even snorted in a most scoffing manner, remembering how the men I'd dated wasted no time in making it known that they found me physically attractive and also remembering tales of the male libido from so many other women. To which he replied, "Maybe it's just the men you date, Carol. But in my group of friends, we're willing to take it slow."
I think Friend #2 was right. Maybe it is just the men I've dated in the past, combined with the fact that 1) I'm a very physical person and 2) I like to dress in a rather provacative, if tasteful, manner, which no doubt makes said dates think, "Hey, it's ok to put the moves on this one." And all this makes me think that it's perfectly okay to rush into being physical with a guy. So when I'm faced with someone whose company I enjoy and who, from what I can tell, shows signs of being attracted to me but is a perfect gentleman, despite my painfully obvious attempts of showing my own interest in him, my mind just bounces all over the place and I have trouble figuring out what is happening. And I think,"Is this how normal people date?"
Maybe it is. And maybe I just need to keep that in mind.
Friday, August 08, 2003
Random, uninteresting thoughts...
**Schwarzenegger as governor of California? Vermont is looking awfully good these days. Hey, maybe I can be governor! Anybody got $3,500 they can loan me? And about sixty illegally gotten signatures? I'm sure I can come up with the other five on my own. I mean, what a hoot it would be to be on the ballot!
**I don't like Governor Davis much, but this whole recall thing is just stupid. Lord knows, it's not as if there's a surplus of money laying about that can be used to fund the recall and special election. Though I have to say, it certainly makes for entertaining politics. And isn't that what politics is all about? (Ow, I think I sprained an eyeball with that roll.)
**Why do all the cute tracksuits have hoodies? I don't like hoodies.
**How much do I seriously love the soundtrack to Once More, With Feeling? Words cannot express.
**In related thoughts, Tony Head is unbelievably hot. And my G-d, what a singing voice he has.
**In Gigli, Ben Affleck has the power to turn a lesbian straight. Huh. I think if I were confronted with Ben Affleck coming on to me, I'd become a lesbian. And, as I told my boss the other day, if my only male choices were Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, I'd find a nice girl and just use a strap-on. Fuck the whole "continuing the human race" thing. If the only other woman was J. Lowhatsherface? I'd go celibate.
**Oh, and about those Gigli posters - why are J. Loannoying's breasts on the same level as her shoulders? She looks totally freakish.
**Luckily I don't have rely on Affleck and Damon, because I am seeing CuteNerdBoy again tonight. And CuteNerdBoy? To paraphrase Spike, he's just a nummy treat. Unlike Spike, however, there is not a lick of sarcasm in my voice. Mmmm, nummy treat...
**Considering several of my previous thoughts, it's not surprising that I'd be consigned to Dante's Second Level of Hell. Oh well, that where all the fun sinners are, anyway. (Thanks to Christopher for the link.)
**I don't like Governor Davis much, but this whole recall thing is just stupid. Lord knows, it's not as if there's a surplus of money laying about that can be used to fund the recall and special election. Though I have to say, it certainly makes for entertaining politics. And isn't that what politics is all about? (Ow, I think I sprained an eyeball with that roll.)
**Why do all the cute tracksuits have hoodies? I don't like hoodies.
**How much do I seriously love the soundtrack to Once More, With Feeling? Words cannot express.
**In related thoughts, Tony Head is unbelievably hot. And my G-d, what a singing voice he has.
**In Gigli, Ben Affleck has the power to turn a lesbian straight. Huh. I think if I were confronted with Ben Affleck coming on to me, I'd become a lesbian. And, as I told my boss the other day, if my only male choices were Ben Affleck and Matt Damon, I'd find a nice girl and just use a strap-on. Fuck the whole "continuing the human race" thing. If the only other woman was J. Lowhatsherface? I'd go celibate.
**Oh, and about those Gigli posters - why are J. Loannoying's breasts on the same level as her shoulders? She looks totally freakish.
**Luckily I don't have rely on Affleck and Damon, because I am seeing CuteNerdBoy again tonight. And CuteNerdBoy? To paraphrase Spike, he's just a nummy treat. Unlike Spike, however, there is not a lick of sarcasm in my voice. Mmmm, nummy treat...
**Considering several of my previous thoughts, it's not surprising that I'd be consigned to Dante's Second Level of Hell. Oh well, that where all the fun sinners are, anyway. (Thanks to Christopher for the link.)
Heads are a-poppin'...
What am I doing here?
I’m not talking in the philosophical sense, or even my presence in the ‘blogging world.
I’m talking about my job.
Don’t worry, I won’t go into the minutiae of the job. It’s really quite boring. But Wednesday, as work was kicking my ass and I was missing lunch trying to catch up from all the accumulation of work from the previous weeks due to the confluence closing the month-end and billing back-log and losing one person and training a temp and interviewing for the vacant position (how the hell did I get to be in a position to interview prospective employees? There's something very wrong with that picture - though it's kind of cool, too), I started to doze off. I blasted Garbage over my headphones and drank copious amounts of water to wake up, as I had caffeined and sugared myself out the previous day. The sheer amount of work still to be done seemed to rise up, towering over me, and I became very jittery. Every nerve in my body fired up to the point where it was either leave my desk and run to the relative privacy of the restroom or just explode like a Blipvert victim from Max Headroom. Since I’m typing this up, I think it’s fairly obvious that I chose not to explode. Instead I sat in a stall, willing the other restroom patrons to leave so that I could silently stamp my feet and release some of the nervous energy. They didn’t oblige, but I still managed let go of some of the nerves by quietly flailing my arms in the confines of my stall.
(What? Doesn’t everyone do that? Just me then. Huh.)
Finally, at some point, I was able to focus on the tasks at hand and plow through the piles of paper, managing, with much help from others, to finish the work by 5pm, as requested by my very patient and long-suffering boss.
While that is an extreme example (I don’t feel like that every day, thank heavens), I’m so desperately bored at my desk, despite the volume of work, that I really don’t work as hard as I could or should. My attention wanders, I hop on the internet (just enough to check my e-mail or read a quick journal, I promise myself) or I compose a ‘blog entry. Next thing I know, I’ve wasted far more time than I should.
Each morning I tell myself, I’ll get into work on time, I’ll work harder. I’ll be an incredible worker. And I end up rarely getting to my cubicle on time and, despite my best efforts, I become a horrid worker again. I’ve managed to coast for a long time, but my slothful ways are starting to catch up to me and, if I’m not careful, they could explode in my face.
So I wonder, what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just buckle down? Why is nearly every day a struggle? Other people are more than capable of plowing through the day, why can’t I? Why the fuck can’t I make money at something that doesn’t bore me to tears? Why am I here?
Wednesday, in the midst of my near-explosion, my oldest and dearest friend, J., called me. She rarely calls me at work, since she has no time to talk during her workday. But she had a question she just had to ask me. She read the LAPC article that I referred to on Monday and she needed an answer from me: why don’t I write more? I told her that I have been writing more, what with the writing group and this ‘blog, it’s just that I don’t submit my writing very often.
“Then why don’t you submit more? You should be getting paid for your writing.”
I’ve gotten some great feedback on my article, which is wonderful and makes me feel all glowy, but some people, both friends and strangers, are asking the same question – why am I not getting paid for my writing?
There it is.
That’s what I should be doing.
I think I’m scared. I always wonder whether I’m as good as I think I am. I’m also pretty good at the procrastinating. And I have submitted stories that I think are good, but that are rejected, so I start to wonder, even though I know many famous, published, excellent authors were rejected multiple times. Maybe I’m just not that good.
But I’ve gotten better. I can see that my writing has improved immeasurably in just the last year. I feel more confident about putting pen to paper and coming up with something that, not only doesn’t totally stink, but is pretty readable.
Even better, my inspirations are coming far more fast and furious than they have in a long time. There are so many times during the day I just want to stop what I’m doing and write a few paragraphs, an essay, maybe a short story, before I lose the inspiration. But work gets in the way and I have to just do the job. And the inspiration floats away. I could write on the bus, but that’s very difficult (I’ve tried), so I think, I’ll write when I get home. But then I’m not home until nearly 11pm and I’m just too tired to think. And another day starts.
But maybe, just maybe, I can commit to ten, twenty minutes a night. Nothing much, just enough to keep the writing muscle toned. I just have to try to make it through the work day, using that time at the end of the day as something to look forward to, to get me through the boring billing and account reconciliation and collections (yes, me doing collections – if only you knew how much irony is laden in that aspect of my job). Or I could finally pick up The Artist’s Way, of which I’ve heard so many great things. Hey, there’s an idea.
And maybe, just maybe, I can eventually say good-bye to the corporate world. Before my head explodes.
(Don’t worry, this isn’t a solicitation for reassurance. Even I'm not that needy. I just had to write what I was feeling, before the inspiration left me again.)
I’m not talking in the philosophical sense, or even my presence in the ‘blogging world.
I’m talking about my job.
Don’t worry, I won’t go into the minutiae of the job. It’s really quite boring. But Wednesday, as work was kicking my ass and I was missing lunch trying to catch up from all the accumulation of work from the previous weeks due to the confluence closing the month-end and billing back-log and losing one person and training a temp and interviewing for the vacant position (how the hell did I get to be in a position to interview prospective employees? There's something very wrong with that picture - though it's kind of cool, too), I started to doze off. I blasted Garbage over my headphones and drank copious amounts of water to wake up, as I had caffeined and sugared myself out the previous day. The sheer amount of work still to be done seemed to rise up, towering over me, and I became very jittery. Every nerve in my body fired up to the point where it was either leave my desk and run to the relative privacy of the restroom or just explode like a Blipvert victim from Max Headroom. Since I’m typing this up, I think it’s fairly obvious that I chose not to explode. Instead I sat in a stall, willing the other restroom patrons to leave so that I could silently stamp my feet and release some of the nervous energy. They didn’t oblige, but I still managed let go of some of the nerves by quietly flailing my arms in the confines of my stall.
(What? Doesn’t everyone do that? Just me then. Huh.)
Finally, at some point, I was able to focus on the tasks at hand and plow through the piles of paper, managing, with much help from others, to finish the work by 5pm, as requested by my very patient and long-suffering boss.
While that is an extreme example (I don’t feel like that every day, thank heavens), I’m so desperately bored at my desk, despite the volume of work, that I really don’t work as hard as I could or should. My attention wanders, I hop on the internet (just enough to check my e-mail or read a quick journal, I promise myself) or I compose a ‘blog entry. Next thing I know, I’ve wasted far more time than I should.
Each morning I tell myself, I’ll get into work on time, I’ll work harder. I’ll be an incredible worker. And I end up rarely getting to my cubicle on time and, despite my best efforts, I become a horrid worker again. I’ve managed to coast for a long time, but my slothful ways are starting to catch up to me and, if I’m not careful, they could explode in my face.
So I wonder, what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just buckle down? Why is nearly every day a struggle? Other people are more than capable of plowing through the day, why can’t I? Why the fuck can’t I make money at something that doesn’t bore me to tears? Why am I here?
Wednesday, in the midst of my near-explosion, my oldest and dearest friend, J., called me. She rarely calls me at work, since she has no time to talk during her workday. But she had a question she just had to ask me. She read the LAPC article that I referred to on Monday and she needed an answer from me: why don’t I write more? I told her that I have been writing more, what with the writing group and this ‘blog, it’s just that I don’t submit my writing very often.
“Then why don’t you submit more? You should be getting paid for your writing.”
I’ve gotten some great feedback on my article, which is wonderful and makes me feel all glowy, but some people, both friends and strangers, are asking the same question – why am I not getting paid for my writing?
There it is.
That’s what I should be doing.
I think I’m scared. I always wonder whether I’m as good as I think I am. I’m also pretty good at the procrastinating. And I have submitted stories that I think are good, but that are rejected, so I start to wonder, even though I know many famous, published, excellent authors were rejected multiple times. Maybe I’m just not that good.
But I’ve gotten better. I can see that my writing has improved immeasurably in just the last year. I feel more confident about putting pen to paper and coming up with something that, not only doesn’t totally stink, but is pretty readable.
Even better, my inspirations are coming far more fast and furious than they have in a long time. There are so many times during the day I just want to stop what I’m doing and write a few paragraphs, an essay, maybe a short story, before I lose the inspiration. But work gets in the way and I have to just do the job. And the inspiration floats away. I could write on the bus, but that’s very difficult (I’ve tried), so I think, I’ll write when I get home. But then I’m not home until nearly 11pm and I’m just too tired to think. And another day starts.
But maybe, just maybe, I can commit to ten, twenty minutes a night. Nothing much, just enough to keep the writing muscle toned. I just have to try to make it through the work day, using that time at the end of the day as something to look forward to, to get me through the boring billing and account reconciliation and collections (yes, me doing collections – if only you knew how much irony is laden in that aspect of my job). Or I could finally pick up The Artist’s Way, of which I’ve heard so many great things. Hey, there’s an idea.
And maybe, just maybe, I can eventually say good-bye to the corporate world. Before my head explodes.
(Don’t worry, this isn’t a solicitation for reassurance. Even I'm not that needy. I just had to write what I was feeling, before the inspiration left me again.)
Thursday, August 07, 2003
Here's a hypothetical situation...
Let's say that you're a 37 year old whipper-snapper. Let's also hypothesize that, since your halcyon high school days, you've put on a few pounds so that now you're a bit on the, uh, Rubenesque side. Okay. These things happen. At one point you lost a fair amount of weight over the course of five years but, due to work troubles and family troubles and depression you found yourself doing something you'd never done before: stress eat. As a consequence you gained back most of the weight you'd lost. You did something about it. You went back to eating more healthfully (most of the time). You increased your exercise (most weeks). You got out more and spent time with friends and family and started seeing a therapist. And the weight, slowly, began to come off. But, due to the vagaries of age, you found yourself with a tummy that you'd never had before, even when you were at your heaviest in the mid-90s. And that tummy? Is being very, very stubborn about leaving you. It just loves you that much.
Now, you see that checkered mini-skirt in the drawer? Yeah, that one there. The one that you bought in the early 90s, when you were a bit more slender than now and that has a rather high kick-slit up the back, so you only wear tights with it, otherwise the public at large would see more of your underwear than you or they would like them to see. The skirt that, though not tight or all that clingy, delights in emphasizing your rather affectionate tummy that never, ever wants to go away.
You might want to just leave that skirt in the drawer. I'm just sayin'.
***********************************************
Random Holmesian geek fact: had he actually existed, John H. Watson, MD, late of the Northumberland Fusilliers, would have turned 151 years old today (according to William S. Baring-Gould in Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street - yes, I am that much of a Holmes geek).
Now, you see that checkered mini-skirt in the drawer? Yeah, that one there. The one that you bought in the early 90s, when you were a bit more slender than now and that has a rather high kick-slit up the back, so you only wear tights with it, otherwise the public at large would see more of your underwear than you or they would like them to see. The skirt that, though not tight or all that clingy, delights in emphasizing your rather affectionate tummy that never, ever wants to go away.
You might want to just leave that skirt in the drawer. I'm just sayin'.
Random Holmesian geek fact: had he actually existed, John H. Watson, MD, late of the Northumberland Fusilliers, would have turned 151 years old today (according to William S. Baring-Gould in Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street - yes, I am that much of a Holmes geek).
Monday, August 04, 2003
Not bad for a Monday...
Fridays are good days. I am all for Fridays. Especially when Friday evening is spent with CuteNerdBoy and RockerChick.
RockerChick is someone that I knew in high school, reconnected with at an old job, and have remained good friends with since the late 80's. RockerChick and CuteNerdBoy were friends in junior high and high school, but haven't seen each other since the mid-80's. So, since I was going to have dinner with the happily newlywed RockerChick anyway, I thought it would be a hoot to surprise her with CuteNerdBoy. She knew we were back in contact and they both remembered each other fondly, so I knew bringing them together would be okay. CuteNerdBoy agreed. The date got postponed a couple of weeks, but it came off without a hitch on Friday and, as I predicted, she was bowled over by his presence.
The three of us spent the evening talking and laughing and catching up, eating extremely yummy Indian food in my neighborhood, then back to my place for some more talking and laughing, stopping long enough to play with and torment my four cats. They both left around midnight (though I had hoped that CuteNerdBoy would stay a skosh longer - I admit to having been a little disappointed about that - okay, maybe just a tad more than a little disappointed). He gave me another mix CD, as has been his custom over the previous dates, which I listened to that evening and over most of the weekend, enjoying the sheer eclectic nature of it. It's probably the most eclectic thus far - and that's saying something. I mean, My Hero Zero by the Lemonheads and California Dreamin' by the Mamas and Papas (which is my kareoke song of choice)? How bloody cool is that?
A nice evening, all told.
***********************************************
During the first half of my lunch hour I was walking to the corner shopping center to deposit a check (which will enable me to buy a used car by the end of the week - WooHoo!) and to pick up some lunch, when I noticed a huge butterfly preceeding me down the sidewalk. I'm not sure if it was a Monarch or a Viceroy butterfly, but it was beautiful nonetheless. It wove in and out of the trees lining the sidewalk, dipping and swooping and basically leading the way for at least half of the eight minute walk to the shopping center. It disappeared in a rather leafy tree about 50 feet from the traffic signal, eluding the quick flitting of my eyes in an attempt to track it again.
Since Saturday butterflies have been crossing my path, at least one a day, and sometimes three. I'm sure that it's all due to the season, but I don't remember seeing that number of butterflies in three days. Though I know it's hardly logical, and the analytical side of my brain scoffs, I see signs in everything. I don't let it rule my life by any means, but the sight of the butterflies and the hummingbird that graced Sarah's and my yard sale on Saturday caused such wonderful feelings of peace and beauty to well and bubble that I couldn't help but think, "This is a sign. This is a positive sign."
Ah, the butterflies. I almost feel like Mariah Carey.
(Ew. I have to go chop off my fingers for writing that. Just be glad I didn't link to her annoyingly cutesy site.)
RockerChick is someone that I knew in high school, reconnected with at an old job, and have remained good friends with since the late 80's. RockerChick and CuteNerdBoy were friends in junior high and high school, but haven't seen each other since the mid-80's. So, since I was going to have dinner with the happily newlywed RockerChick anyway, I thought it would be a hoot to surprise her with CuteNerdBoy. She knew we were back in contact and they both remembered each other fondly, so I knew bringing them together would be okay. CuteNerdBoy agreed. The date got postponed a couple of weeks, but it came off without a hitch on Friday and, as I predicted, she was bowled over by his presence.
The three of us spent the evening talking and laughing and catching up, eating extremely yummy Indian food in my neighborhood, then back to my place for some more talking and laughing, stopping long enough to play with and torment my four cats. They both left around midnight (though I had hoped that CuteNerdBoy would stay a skosh longer - I admit to having been a little disappointed about that - okay, maybe just a tad more than a little disappointed). He gave me another mix CD, as has been his custom over the previous dates, which I listened to that evening and over most of the weekend, enjoying the sheer eclectic nature of it. It's probably the most eclectic thus far - and that's saying something. I mean, My Hero Zero by the Lemonheads and California Dreamin' by the Mamas and Papas (which is my kareoke song of choice)? How bloody cool is that?
A nice evening, all told.
During the first half of my lunch hour I was walking to the corner shopping center to deposit a check (which will enable me to buy a used car by the end of the week - WooHoo!) and to pick up some lunch, when I noticed a huge butterfly preceeding me down the sidewalk. I'm not sure if it was a Monarch or a Viceroy butterfly, but it was beautiful nonetheless. It wove in and out of the trees lining the sidewalk, dipping and swooping and basically leading the way for at least half of the eight minute walk to the shopping center. It disappeared in a rather leafy tree about 50 feet from the traffic signal, eluding the quick flitting of my eyes in an attempt to track it again.
Since Saturday butterflies have been crossing my path, at least one a day, and sometimes three. I'm sure that it's all due to the season, but I don't remember seeing that number of butterflies in three days. Though I know it's hardly logical, and the analytical side of my brain scoffs, I see signs in everything. I don't let it rule my life by any means, but the sight of the butterflies and the hummingbird that graced Sarah's and my yard sale on Saturday caused such wonderful feelings of peace and beauty to well and bubble that I couldn't help but think, "This is a sign. This is a positive sign."
Ah, the butterflies. I almost feel like Mariah Carey.
(Ew. I have to go chop off my fingers for writing that. Just be glad I didn't link to her annoyingly cutesy site.)
Some nice news...
Still busy, but I wanted to share a bit of nice news. As I've mentioned before, I'm an event coordinator for LAPC. Well, they've published one of my old journal entries online (with my permission, of course). It's always nice knowing others like your writing enough to put it up on their site, especially when the site itself isn't a crappy one.
(Back in late '97 or early '98, during my early days with the good ol' internet, I've had poetry published online, but later realized 1) most of my poetry kind of sucks [excluding the one that was published - that wasn't too bad] and 2) the site that published it will publish just about anything and still looks like it was created in '96. I've learned a few things since then.)
I may not yet be in print, but it's still pretty cool.
(Back in late '97 or early '98, during my early days with the good ol' internet, I've had poetry published online, but later realized 1) most of my poetry kind of sucks [excluding the one that was published - that wasn't too bad] and 2) the site that published it will publish just about anything and still looks like it was created in '96. I've learned a few things since then.)
I may not yet be in print, but it's still pretty cool.
Sunday, August 03, 2003
As a loyal American...
No time for a full post, but I recommend that you buy this stuff. It's the patriotic thing to do. Unless you're, like, Canadian or French or somethin'. You'd hardly be patriotic sporting this merchandise. But you would be very cool.
(This, while a bit disturbing, is also funny as hell.)
(This, while a bit disturbing, is also funny as hell.)
Thursday, July 31, 2003
What a fucking moron...
I think most people could tell by one of my links to the right that I'm not exactly a Bush supporter. Heaven knows, practically every day I hear yet another reason to hurl epithets in his direction. But his latest stance on gay marriage, while not surprising, just burns me up. Will someone tell me why it's okay to take the government out of business and drive it into personal lives? I just don't get it.
You know, fuck his ideas of what constitutes a marriage. Tomorrow I'm going to go out and marry my dead gay bonsai. Because I love my dead gay bonsai!
You know, fuck his ideas of what constitutes a marriage. Tomorrow I'm going to go out and marry my dead gay bonsai. Because I love my dead gay bonsai!
Tuesday, July 29, 2003
Book review...
I finished reading Sophie's Choice this morning on the bus. It's taken me over a week, which is unusual for me these days, but I suspect it was more due to the fact that the language, while embracing many colloquialisms, is more formal than I'm used to reading these days, filled with words that I've never read before. I also felt that a few scenes could have been edited a bit more, as Styron had a tendency to linger over and repeat details that did not need lingering or repetition. In the end, though, I have one thing to say about it:
Wow.
I've seen the movie a number of times. In fact, I think the movie is absolutely incredible, so I was familiar with most of the story, but reading the book took me to a totally different level - enveloping me with the sights and sounds of 1940's Brooklyn and Nazi-rules Poland, observing the characters in my mental 360° diorama, even becoming the characters - in a way that even incredible films cannot hope to, despite visualizing the Stingo, Sophie and Nathan as Peter MacNicol, Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline.
(An aside: watching Kevin Kline on Inside the Actors Studio a few years ago, I was amazed when James Lipton said that Sophie's Choice was Kevin Kline's first feature film. What a hell of a first feature role.)
I realized that it had been a very long time since I'd last seen the movie, because there were quite a few scenes that I'm sure were filmed, but which were new to me.
Still, despite both my familiarity with the story and my forgetfulness of much of the details, I found myself experiencing dread as I neared the end. About sixty pages from the conclusion I felt my heart constrict. I remembered what was coming up and I so wanted to put the book down, to not throw myself into the pages as I have a habit of doing, but I knew I had to finish reading. I had to.
And finally I did. I closed it, set it on my lap, and stared out the bus window, supressing the tears hovering in the corners of my eyes, feeling the weight of my emotions, but also feeling a certain lightness, a bit of hope, recalling the final words:
Wow.
I've seen the movie a number of times. In fact, I think the movie is absolutely incredible, so I was familiar with most of the story, but reading the book took me to a totally different level - enveloping me with the sights and sounds of 1940's Brooklyn and Nazi-rules Poland, observing the characters in my mental 360° diorama, even becoming the characters - in a way that even incredible films cannot hope to, despite visualizing the Stingo, Sophie and Nathan as Peter MacNicol, Meryl Streep and Kevin Kline.
(An aside: watching Kevin Kline on Inside the Actors Studio a few years ago, I was amazed when James Lipton said that Sophie's Choice was Kevin Kline's first feature film. What a hell of a first feature role.)
I realized that it had been a very long time since I'd last seen the movie, because there were quite a few scenes that I'm sure were filmed, but which were new to me.
Still, despite both my familiarity with the story and my forgetfulness of much of the details, I found myself experiencing dread as I neared the end. About sixty pages from the conclusion I felt my heart constrict. I remembered what was coming up and I so wanted to put the book down, to not throw myself into the pages as I have a habit of doing, but I knew I had to finish reading. I had to.
And finally I did. I closed it, set it on my lap, and stared out the bus window, supressing the tears hovering in the corners of my eyes, feeling the weight of my emotions, but also feeling a certain lightness, a bit of hope, recalling the final words:
- This was not judgement day - only morning. Morning: excellent and fair.
Monday, July 28, 2003
Farewell...
Bob Hope has died. Like many Americans of my generation, as well as other generations, I grew up watching his films on TV, loving every one of them. Not surprisingly, Casanova's Big Night was my favorites (what with the Basil Rathbone factor and all), but I also fondly remember The Seven Little Foys and The Princess and the Pirate.
I was fortunate enough to spy him once upon a time, a number of years ago, on his way to a local coffee shop. He was in the company of a gentleman I could only assume was his assistant. Mr. Hope was looking elsewhere, so he didn't see my smile and nod, but his assistant did and returned my silent greeting with one of his own. Even for that split second I was in awe of Bob Hope's presence.
I doubt I'm the first to say this, and I know I won't be the last:
Thanks for the memories, Mr. Hope. Thank you so very much.
I was fortunate enough to spy him once upon a time, a number of years ago, on his way to a local coffee shop. He was in the company of a gentleman I could only assume was his assistant. Mr. Hope was looking elsewhere, so he didn't see my smile and nod, but his assistant did and returned my silent greeting with one of his own. Even for that split second I was in awe of Bob Hope's presence.
I doubt I'm the first to say this, and I know I won't be the last:
Thanks for the memories, Mr. Hope. Thank you so very much.
Sunday, July 27, 2003
Just a quick update...
...about my cool ex Disney boss, Dan, for whom I asked good thoughts. While I haven't heard from him (we've not really stayed in touch over the last few years), a mutual friend to whom I had expressed concerns called to let me know that Dan had left her a message talking about job searching type stuff and not mentioning anything about the accident, which led her to think that his family was fine. I'm sure she's right. I hope to hear back from him at some point, but I'm just happy he and his family seem to be okay.
Big thanks to those of you who wrote me to tell me you were thinking good thoughts for him. I may have a small readership, but each and every one of you rock. Thank you.
Big thanks to those of you who wrote me to tell me you were thinking good thoughts for him. I may have a small readership, but each and every one of you rock. Thank you.
Thursday, July 24, 2003
And we'll have fun, fun, fun...
Fun is good. I have come to the decision that fun is definitely a good thing. Because fun? Is just...fun.
Going for an eight mile bike ride with a friend is fun, even if most of the bike path runs along the 5 freeway and the smell of exhaust and smog interferes with breathing a little.
Meeting a bunch of folks you met over the internet for an evening that you helped organize, then having the folks tell you that they had a good time - that's fun.
Having most of your weekends for the next month and half booked already with outings with friends and family, while a little stressful, is fun.
Having dinner at a good restaurant is fun. Introducing someone to the good restaurant and that person approving your restaurant selection is fun. Watching Pirates of the Caribbean is fun.
Having dinner and watching Pirates with CuteNerdBoy for your (sort of) second date, who greets you with a copy of a previously made mix CD and leaves you with good lengthy hugs and little kisses, making it a little hard for you to fall asleep at night, causing you to walk around the next day with a silly smile as you listen to the mix CD whilst trying to concentrate on work, especially when you were planning to e-mail him to tell him that you had a good time and he e-mails you first to tell you that he had a good time? That's just triply fun.
Fun can stay.
Going for an eight mile bike ride with a friend is fun, even if most of the bike path runs along the 5 freeway and the smell of exhaust and smog interferes with breathing a little.
Meeting a bunch of folks you met over the internet for an evening that you helped organize, then having the folks tell you that they had a good time - that's fun.
Having most of your weekends for the next month and half booked already with outings with friends and family, while a little stressful, is fun.
Having dinner at a good restaurant is fun. Introducing someone to the good restaurant and that person approving your restaurant selection is fun. Watching Pirates of the Caribbean is fun.
Having dinner and watching Pirates with CuteNerdBoy for your (sort of) second date, who greets you with a copy of a previously made mix CD and leaves you with good lengthy hugs and little kisses, making it a little hard for you to fall asleep at night, causing you to walk around the next day with a silly smile as you listen to the mix CD whilst trying to concentrate on work, especially when you were planning to e-mail him to tell him that you had a good time and he e-mails you first to tell you that he had a good time? That's just triply fun.
Fun can stay.
Monday, July 21, 2003
All books, all the time...
I'm just a book reading machine here. Since the last time I wrote about my rapacious devouring of the written word, I've read:
Brave New World (Aldous Huxley) - a classic, and a very good book, to be sure, but not the gut-wrencher that 1984 is for me. I wonder, if I had read it in high school, would my feelings about Brave New World be on par with my love for 1984, Animal Farm and Catch-22?
Those Who Hunt the Night (Barbara Hambly) - this is a re-read of a vampire mystery that's sat in my shelf for awhile. Upon re-reading, I discovered that I remembered absolutely nothing about the book. It's not bad, with some pretty good characters, but the prose tended to be a little florid and repetitive for my tastes.
The Sorcerer's Stone and The Chamber of Secrets (J.K. Rowling) - since I want to read The Order of the Phoenix, I thought I'd re-read the first two, then move on to the others, since I haven't read them at all. Good books all around. I can't wait to borrow The Prisoner of Azkaban and The Goblet of Fire from my friend Sarah.
The Lost Slayer (Christopher Golden) - I read The Chamber of Secrets in less than a day and found myself bookless for part of my bus ride home on Friday. Since this was not to borne, I stopped off at the Upstart Crow at the Universal CityWalk, looking for something, anything to read. This book caught my BtVS loving eye. Having never read a Buffy novel before, and hearing that The Lost Slayer series was a good one, I was delighted to find all four books reissued in one volume. Good book and an excellent introduction to Buffy novels, with much emphasis on my favorite BtVS character, Rupert Giles. There was even a moment near the end that made me tear up.
This morning I started Sophie's Choice by William Styron. I bought it over ten years ago in a used book shop because I lovelovelove the movie. It's been sitting on my shelf, lonely and collecting dust. A few weeks ago I saw someone on the bus reading it, which reminded me of my own possession, and I resolved to finally take it up. It's a little slow going right now, but I'm sure I'll get into it.
***********************************************
There is one other book that I read that is not mentioned above. There's a reason. Because, despite the excellence of most of the aforementioned books, it is in a league of its own: Why Girls Are Weird by Pamela Ribon. I'm not indulging in hyperbole when I say it is one of the best books I've ever read.
Now, I'm not just saying that because I'm been a fan of Pamie's site since 1999. Or because we've met a couple of times. Or because we briefly shared a karaoke stage in Vegas while attending SquishyCon 2001. I'm saying it because it's the absolute truth.
Sarah had heard about Pamie's book through me and picked it up while browsing in a Barnes and Noble. She lent it to me after she attended Pamie's signing in West L.A. It took me a couple of days to finish it, but only because I had to put it down several times whilst on the bus because I didn't want to start weeping in front of a bunch of strangers. It is one of the funniest, saddest, most hopeful books I've ever read. I sent a very long e-mail to Pamie the day I finshed her book, thanking her for writing it. Because I think I said it best in that e-mail, here's an except (okay, it's most of the e-mail):
So everyone? Read this book. If you can buy it, do so, because I think Pamie should get lots and lots of money (I bought my copy last week, the day I finished Why Girls Are Weird). But if you can't afford it, borrow it from a friend, check to see if your local library has it, ask them to order it if they don't. Women? Y'all will totally identify with Anna. Men? Y'all might just be a few steps closer to understanding what women are thinking.
I kid you not.
Brave New World (Aldous Huxley) - a classic, and a very good book, to be sure, but not the gut-wrencher that 1984 is for me. I wonder, if I had read it in high school, would my feelings about Brave New World be on par with my love for 1984, Animal Farm and Catch-22?
Those Who Hunt the Night (Barbara Hambly) - this is a re-read of a vampire mystery that's sat in my shelf for awhile. Upon re-reading, I discovered that I remembered absolutely nothing about the book. It's not bad, with some pretty good characters, but the prose tended to be a little florid and repetitive for my tastes.
The Sorcerer's Stone and The Chamber of Secrets (J.K. Rowling) - since I want to read The Order of the Phoenix, I thought I'd re-read the first two, then move on to the others, since I haven't read them at all. Good books all around. I can't wait to borrow The Prisoner of Azkaban and The Goblet of Fire from my friend Sarah.
The Lost Slayer (Christopher Golden) - I read The Chamber of Secrets in less than a day and found myself bookless for part of my bus ride home on Friday. Since this was not to borne, I stopped off at the Upstart Crow at the Universal CityWalk, looking for something, anything to read. This book caught my BtVS loving eye. Having never read a Buffy novel before, and hearing that The Lost Slayer series was a good one, I was delighted to find all four books reissued in one volume. Good book and an excellent introduction to Buffy novels, with much emphasis on my favorite BtVS character, Rupert Giles. There was even a moment near the end that made me tear up.
This morning I started Sophie's Choice by William Styron. I bought it over ten years ago in a used book shop because I lovelovelove the movie. It's been sitting on my shelf, lonely and collecting dust. A few weeks ago I saw someone on the bus reading it, which reminded me of my own possession, and I resolved to finally take it up. It's a little slow going right now, but I'm sure I'll get into it.
There is one other book that I read that is not mentioned above. There's a reason. Because, despite the excellence of most of the aforementioned books, it is in a league of its own: Why Girls Are Weird by Pamela Ribon. I'm not indulging in hyperbole when I say it is one of the best books I've ever read.
Now, I'm not just saying that because I'm been a fan of Pamie's site since 1999. Or because we've met a couple of times. Or because we briefly shared a karaoke stage in Vegas while attending SquishyCon 2001. I'm saying it because it's the absolute truth.
Sarah had heard about Pamie's book through me and picked it up while browsing in a Barnes and Noble. She lent it to me after she attended Pamie's signing in West L.A. It took me a couple of days to finish it, but only because I had to put it down several times whilst on the bus because I didn't want to start weeping in front of a bunch of strangers. It is one of the funniest, saddest, most hopeful books I've ever read. I sent a very long e-mail to Pamie the day I finshed her book, thanking her for writing it. Because I think I said it best in that e-mail, here's an except (okay, it's most of the e-mail):
I loved reading the reworked Squishy entries. I loved reading about Anna Koval, knowing that she is ficitonal and the story is largely fictional, but seeing the grains of truth underneath all the fiction. Maybe it does mean more to me because I've met the person behind the words, because I, along with so many other people, can say, "I met her when."
But, most of all, because, though the situations were different, the emotions in the book were familiar, the grief and pain and tentative happiness all emotions I've experienced. The pain of break-up, the swelling with hope and self-doubt when confronted with a possible new relationship [...], all old friends, old shirts I put away for awhile until the time comes to wear them again.
And, to a small extent, the grief of losing a parent. [mention of father being cut out of family] So, in effect, I've been going through a grieving process the last seven months in regards to my father and reading about Anna's father [illness and death] [...] strongly grips me, causing me to put the book down several times on the bus to collect myself. Because really, who wants to break down crying in front of a bunch of strangers unless it's pre-scripted and on stage? Certainly not me.
So today I'm welcoming the feeling left over after reading "Why Girls Are Weird". I want to keep this fragile, spent, trembling, laughing, hopeful sensation wrapped around me for at least a little while longer, regardless of the fact that I'm sitting at work in cubicle surrounded by co-workers with their heads bent to their work, as mine should be and will be as soon as I hit "Send".
[...] I'll be purchasing my own copy so that I can refer back to it in those times when I need a little reminder that I'm not the only person who's ever felt that way. [...] Because you? Rock harder than Bob has ever, ever hoped to rock and so does "Why Girls Are Weird".
It's that simple.
Thank you.
So everyone? Read this book. If you can buy it, do so, because I think Pamie should get lots and lots of money (I bought my copy last week, the day I finished Why Girls Are Weird). But if you can't afford it, borrow it from a friend, check to see if your local library has it, ask them to order it if they don't. Women? Y'all will totally identify with Anna. Men? Y'all might just be a few steps closer to understanding what women are thinking.
I kid you not.
Thursday, July 17, 2003
Asking for good thoughts...
Yesterday's fatal accident at the Santa Monica Farmer's Market is very sad no matter who is involved, but I'm asking for good thoughts to be directed towards my cool ex Disney boss, Dan. His family's farm has a booth at the the Santa Monica Farmer's Market on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I've e-mailed him to make sure that none of his family was affected, but I haven't heard back yet. I'm just hoping that it's because they're very busy and perhaps just shaken up and not for any other reason. I don't know where their booth is located in relation to the accident scene and I'm very worried about them.
*crosses fingers and offers prayers*
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As for a real post, it looks like I won't have time for one for a few days. Of course, you could always join my notify list (see the e-mail field at the bottom of the page). I promise I'll let you know through that.
*crosses fingers and offers prayers*
As for a real post, it looks like I won't have time for one for a few days. Of course, you could always join my notify list (see the e-mail field at the bottom of the page). I promise I'll let you know through that.
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Just a quick note...
I realized that not posting for several days after my last post might cause some disquiet, wondering if I were still alive or if StalkerGuy (from here on I refuse to tag -Boy on the end of his appellation, since that denotes a certain innocence) had come back and stuck me in a meat locker somewhere. Nope, still here, with no word or noise from StalkerGuy. Which is fine with me. I mean, I really am not expecting any physical violence from him, just creepiness, but one never knows, right?
Anyway, I've told several of my friends about StalkerGuy and had offers to stay with me on weekends to witness, if need be. One friend even said I should call if SG showed up again so he could play boyfriend and maybe scare SG off. Considering that said friend is both very gentle and rather gay, with a doting boyfriend, well, it was a bit amusing, but very sweet. Did I mention that I have some kick-ass friends? Because I do. I really do.
Anyway, I'll post something else a little later today or sometime tomorrow, when I have a little more time. But I'm still around and kicking. I'm too bloody Taurean to be anything else.
Anyway, I've told several of my friends about StalkerGuy and had offers to stay with me on weekends to witness, if need be. One friend even said I should call if SG showed up again so he could play boyfriend and maybe scare SG off. Considering that said friend is both very gentle and rather gay, with a doting boyfriend, well, it was a bit amusing, but very sweet. Did I mention that I have some kick-ass friends? Because I do. I really do.
Anyway, I'll post something else a little later today or sometime tomorrow, when I have a little more time. But I'm still around and kicking. I'm too bloody Taurean to be anything else.
Sunday, July 13, 2003
*sigh*
StalkerBoy showed up again. It was about an hour and a half ago. I had just stepped out of the shower when I heard the doorbell rang, so I threw on my robe, peeked out my peephole and saw him again. Not wanting to face him with nothing but a robe and wet hair (I've no doubt he would have put two and two together and gotten a little too excited), I went back to the bathroom, continued my ablutions and proceeded to ignore his subsequent doorbell ringing. Yes, I could have just thrown on some clothes and opened the door, but the blinds are still open and there is no door blocking the view of the hall from the front windows. Additionally, my clean clothes that I laundered yesterday were all in the living room and, well, see previous blinds statement.
I don't think he would have bought the "not home" feint, since I had left the living room TV blaring before entering the shower (not something I do often), so I'm hoping that, somehow, he heard the running water and got the message. At any rate, I have no idea how long he hung out at my doorstep, since I couldn't hear him through the aforementioned running water and I only heard the doorbell ring twice (though who knows how long he had been ringing it before I got out of the shower), but I'm hoping that he got the hint pretty quickly.
And next time, if I'm not freshly out of the shower, I will confront him.
I don't think he would have bought the "not home" feint, since I had left the living room TV blaring before entering the shower (not something I do often), so I'm hoping that, somehow, he heard the running water and got the message. At any rate, I have no idea how long he hung out at my doorstep, since I couldn't hear him through the aforementioned running water and I only heard the doorbell ring twice (though who knows how long he had been ringing it before I got out of the shower), but I'm hoping that he got the hint pretty quickly.
And next time, if I'm not freshly out of the shower, I will confront him.
Carol, are you home?
So, what does one do when they discover they have an intermittant stalker?
Today, at fuckoff'o'clock in the morning (tm Sep), otherwise known as 4:30am in these parts, the doorbell rang ever so loudly. I was sleeping on my lovely new-to-me $20 sofa that I bought from a neighbor, as I am wont to do during these horridly hot evenings (the sleeping, I mean, not the buying of $20 sofas), since my bedroom fan stopped working and the only air conditioning in the apartment is in the living room (I even moved my alarm clock to the living room, at least until I can get around to buying a new bedroom fan). I stirred, rolled off the sofa, thanked heaven that my robe was nearby, since the nightshirt I was wearing barely covered my ass, and then only if I didn't bend over or reach up. Pulling on the robe, I padded over to the front door and, disregarding my first instinct to pull aside the curtains on the door window, I instead peered through the peep-hole.
There, standing on my doorstep, was this guy. A guy that I used to know, with whom I had sex once about four years ago (in my old Escort, of all places). The sex was drunken on his part and self-pity-filled on mine. A guy that, though we had exchanged a few e-mails the first year or so afterwards, I've not seen since then, admittedly more from my efforts than his. A guy who had, about one or two years before, shown up on my doorstep in the early evening with no prior warning, spending ten minutes ringing my doorbell and knocking on my door and calling my name through the mail slot and going to my bedroom window, attempting to peer through, then walking back to the front door to continue with the doorbell ringing. I managed to keep hidden, because I was in no mood to deal with him (this was when I was going through my depressed state).
My eyes widened. I couldn't believe that he was ringing my doorbell again, at such an early hour! I probably should have just opened the door and told him I didn't appreciate his sudden appearance when most decent folks were trying to sleep. I mean, unless he carried a weapon, which I doubted, I was sure that I was in no physical danger. He's approximately my height (5'6") and far scrawnier than I am. I probably outweigh him by about 80 pounds. And I'm fairly strong. But that would have involved confrontation and I tend to abhor a great deal of confrontation, especially when I'm barely fucking awake!
No, instead I crept back to my sofa and made myself as small as possible, tucking my feet into the cushions and thankful my robe was covering most of my legs. Then, as the next ten minutes passed and he continued with the calling and doorbell ringing and knocking and such, I mentally smacked myself as I remembered that three of the four living room window blinds were somewhat open and, while two of them were directly over the back of the sofa and I knew that by smushing myself up to the back, I'd be difficult to see, one of the windows had a bird's eye view of the length of the sofa, despite the shrubbery outside. Unfortunately I was afraid to grab the sheet nearby and pull it over myself, because that might make a sound and, with my windows partially open, sound would be bad. So I made myself even smaller as I heard him leave the front door, walk to the aforementioned window, then call my name through it. I couldn't tell if he could see me or not, but I didn't move to check. He went back to the front door to continue with the ringing and the knocking and the calling through the mail slot.
The entire time I was thinking, what if I were in Fresno, like I was originally supposed to be before the plans were canceled? What if I had moved away? Thank heaven I don't have my car anymore, if he went to the back he could see it was carless and maybe think I wasn't home. And does he really think that by showing up unannouced that I'd be inclined to partake of what I can only presume to be a booty call? And what if he's done this before on nights when I really wasn't at home? How many times has he done this, unbeknownst to me?
Finally, after an eternity, I heard the screen door close one last time and I think I heard a car drive away. I think I stayed in that position for another five or ten minutes, I'm not really sure, before I grabbed the sheet, covered myself with it, turned over and fell back to sleep.
Oh shit. I just remembered that on my front door window is an emergency sticker stating how many pets I have so that, heaven forfend, if there's a fire or something the firemen (or whoever) know that I have cats an I want them rescued. And on the sticker is my work number, so that they know who to call in case something happens while I'm at work. Did StalkerBoy take that number? The last he knew I was working at Disney, over two years ago.
I so don't want to have to move because of this. I have a nice apartment that's a great price for today's obscenely expensive rental market. I'm comfortable here. I've been here for over seven years and I'm not really looking to move unless I can get a roommate.
Should this happen again, and it very well might, I will confront him. Because this? Is beyond the pale. I'll just make sure I have my crowbar in hand. Just in case.
Today, at fuckoff'o'clock in the morning (tm Sep), otherwise known as 4:30am in these parts, the doorbell rang ever so loudly. I was sleeping on my lovely new-to-me $20 sofa that I bought from a neighbor, as I am wont to do during these horridly hot evenings (the sleeping, I mean, not the buying of $20 sofas), since my bedroom fan stopped working and the only air conditioning in the apartment is in the living room (I even moved my alarm clock to the living room, at least until I can get around to buying a new bedroom fan). I stirred, rolled off the sofa, thanked heaven that my robe was nearby, since the nightshirt I was wearing barely covered my ass, and then only if I didn't bend over or reach up. Pulling on the robe, I padded over to the front door and, disregarding my first instinct to pull aside the curtains on the door window, I instead peered through the peep-hole.
There, standing on my doorstep, was this guy. A guy that I used to know, with whom I had sex once about four years ago (in my old Escort, of all places). The sex was drunken on his part and self-pity-filled on mine. A guy that, though we had exchanged a few e-mails the first year or so afterwards, I've not seen since then, admittedly more from my efforts than his. A guy who had, about one or two years before, shown up on my doorstep in the early evening with no prior warning, spending ten minutes ringing my doorbell and knocking on my door and calling my name through the mail slot and going to my bedroom window, attempting to peer through, then walking back to the front door to continue with the doorbell ringing. I managed to keep hidden, because I was in no mood to deal with him (this was when I was going through my depressed state).
My eyes widened. I couldn't believe that he was ringing my doorbell again, at such an early hour! I probably should have just opened the door and told him I didn't appreciate his sudden appearance when most decent folks were trying to sleep. I mean, unless he carried a weapon, which I doubted, I was sure that I was in no physical danger. He's approximately my height (5'6") and far scrawnier than I am. I probably outweigh him by about 80 pounds. And I'm fairly strong. But that would have involved confrontation and I tend to abhor a great deal of confrontation, especially when I'm barely fucking awake!
No, instead I crept back to my sofa and made myself as small as possible, tucking my feet into the cushions and thankful my robe was covering most of my legs. Then, as the next ten minutes passed and he continued with the calling and doorbell ringing and knocking and such, I mentally smacked myself as I remembered that three of the four living room window blinds were somewhat open and, while two of them were directly over the back of the sofa and I knew that by smushing myself up to the back, I'd be difficult to see, one of the windows had a bird's eye view of the length of the sofa, despite the shrubbery outside. Unfortunately I was afraid to grab the sheet nearby and pull it over myself, because that might make a sound and, with my windows partially open, sound would be bad. So I made myself even smaller as I heard him leave the front door, walk to the aforementioned window, then call my name through it. I couldn't tell if he could see me or not, but I didn't move to check. He went back to the front door to continue with the ringing and the knocking and the calling through the mail slot.
The entire time I was thinking, what if I were in Fresno, like I was originally supposed to be before the plans were canceled? What if I had moved away? Thank heaven I don't have my car anymore, if he went to the back he could see it was carless and maybe think I wasn't home. And does he really think that by showing up unannouced that I'd be inclined to partake of what I can only presume to be a booty call? And what if he's done this before on nights when I really wasn't at home? How many times has he done this, unbeknownst to me?
Finally, after an eternity, I heard the screen door close one last time and I think I heard a car drive away. I think I stayed in that position for another five or ten minutes, I'm not really sure, before I grabbed the sheet, covered myself with it, turned over and fell back to sleep.
Oh shit. I just remembered that on my front door window is an emergency sticker stating how many pets I have so that, heaven forfend, if there's a fire or something the firemen (or whoever) know that I have cats an I want them rescued. And on the sticker is my work number, so that they know who to call in case something happens while I'm at work. Did StalkerBoy take that number? The last he knew I was working at Disney, over two years ago.
I so don't want to have to move because of this. I have a nice apartment that's a great price for today's obscenely expensive rental market. I'm comfortable here. I've been here for over seven years and I'm not really looking to move unless I can get a roommate.
Should this happen again, and it very well might, I will confront him. Because this? Is beyond the pale. I'll just make sure I have my crowbar in hand. Just in case.
Registered!
This is my blogchalk:
United States, California, Los Angeles, San Fernando Valley, English, Carol, Female, 36-40.
