Two more days until M-Day. Yup, Saturday's the day. I was planning to finish as much packing as possible, but I ran out of tape. Barry's going to bring home another roll tonight. I have today, tomorrow, and Monday off work, to finish writing my paper, finish packing, and get settled into the new place. I'm beginning to fret now. What if the cat flips out? What if we go to get the moving van and there's some sort of mixup? What if one of us or our volunteer helpers gets hurt? Argh.
My mom called me this morning to tell me she'd been in the emergency room last night with a terrible athsma attack -- she was a Code Red, and even though I don't quite know what that means, it doesn't sound good. I'd like to go stay with her for a while, but I'm not really sure how that would work. I have to move (like you didn't know about that!) and finish this paper so I can turn it in Monday... but none of that is as important as making sure my mom's okay. She's one of my favorite people, and I probably worry more than I should, but still... maybe I can get to her place on Monday, after turning in my paper. (What do you say, Mom?)
I also have to (gulp) quit smoking again. I smoked for about nine years, and quit just about three years ago. About six weeks or so ago, I had a period of very high stress, and I took it up again. Funny how bad habits can sneak up on you. Anyway, both Barry and I plan to quit again, since we're moving into a very nice new place, and we certainly won't smoke in the apartment (we don't now). It's also very expensive, and it's something I don't need to spend money on. And it makes me feel lousy, a lot of the time. I don't particularly like the taste or the smell. The weird thing is, I like the actual act of smoking. I like going out on the porch late at night, when it's all silent and the stars are out, and just smoking a cigarette and thinking. I like the little time-out from work a smoke break gives me. But I really need to quit again. I'm sure I can -- I'll be in a rotten mood for a few days, but I'll survive. The thing I'm worried about is gaining weight. Last time I quit, I gained quite a lot. I'm big enough, thank you, so gaining weight is not something I want to deal with. I sold my treadmill so that we wouldn't have to move it again, so exercising to get through quitting would be tough. I guess I'll just buy tons of gum. Send me encouragement, pretty please. I'm going to need it...
I had an utterly disheartening class last night. I arrived tired and headachey, found out I hadn't gotten into the class I really wanted to take next semester (it's all about intellectual freedom and censorship, and I've been trying to take it for two semesters now, and I haven't been able to.) The class I did get into is fine, but it's four credits instead of two (thus it will cost me more) and it meets twice a week from 6-9 p.m., rather than once a week. Barry convinced me not to drop it, but I'm still not thrilled at all.
My professor assigns a whole lot of readings every week. An obscene number of readings. Usually a page and a half list of readings. We don't have a textbook, so these are all articles she puts on Reserve. I generally spend about twenty bucks making photocopies, unless I get lucky and find the articles online. This past week, what with not feeling well and trying to get ready to move and write a paper, I didn't get the readings done. I didn't read a single article. Normally this doesn't really matter, since we don't get tested or anything. Until yesterday, when I walked into class and was handed a pop quiz. D'oh! It was entirely on the readings for that week, so I couldn't answer a single question. Everyone around me was scribbling away like mad, and all I could do was sit there and stare at the paper. It felt like one of those bad dreams where you're in class trying to take a test that you didn't know was coming... I finally wrote a note to the professor across the top of the page, just saying that I had been sick and hadn't gotten the readings. Simmons students -- at least the library science ones I've had classes with -- are extremely standoffish, so I don't know anyone to call to get the readings. And I knew it wasn't an excuse, and I was very sorry that I was so unprepared. I don't know how much it will affect my grade, if at all -- according to the syllabus, our grade is based on the three papers we have to write. But it was uncomfortable and embarrassing, and made me feel like a big slacker even though I do the readings every other week. (There were a couple of other people who weren't writing anything down on their quizzes, and who looked as unhappy as I felt, so at least I don't think I was the only one. Small consolation.)
On a more interesting note, both the Fleet Center and one of my my alma mater'sdorms caught fire last night. Well, the dorm was last night, and the Fleet Center was this morning. It was all over the news this morning, and Barry called me as I was eating breakfast to tell me he'd walked past the Fleet and seen the flames and smoke... neither fire was very big, apparently.
Okay, first go read what Saundra had to say about the whole sordid Elian thing. At the end, insert me yelling "AMEN, SISTER!" I couldn't have said it better. I woke up yesterday, wandered into the living room with my coffee and Pop-Tart, turned on the TV, and the first thing I saw was a special report saying that Elian had finally been taken to his father. I woke Barry up yelling "Woohooo! It's about damn time!"
The whole thing has made me angry. For the past couple of months, Barry's been hastily changing the channel whenever anything about Elian came on the news, because i would start to rant and fume if I watched. That poor little kid has been nothing but a pawn for five months -- I don't believe for a second that his relatives in Miami had anything resembling his best interests in mind. I don't think they cared in the least what was best for him. All they cared about was the fact that his presence in their home made them instant celebrities. They were worldwide news! They were heroes! They had fans and reporters and photographers watching their every move! And it all hinged on this little boy, who had already been through more than any child should ever have to endure. And instead of shielding him from more confusion and worry, they paraded him in front of the cameras, and in front of the noisy crowds gathered outside. They stuck American flags in his hands and told him to wave. They used him, and yes, I do think they abused him.
Of course the need for armed INS officers was a shame. But honestly, there was no other option. Elian's relatives had broken at least three promises to reunite Elian with his father. There was no way they were ever going to willingly give him up. I was very afraid that, at some point, one of the relatives was going to take Elian and run, go into hiding, and try to keep him from his father forever. They had no right to keep him as long as they did, and no right to play the games that they played.
This just gets me all riled up. Sorry for the rant. Other than my own righteous indignation, the weekend has been pretty quiet. I'm working today, and I'm not happy about it. Yesterday we packed as much as we could before running out of steam -- the house is looking pretty bare, and the cat is freaking out. I'm still trying to figure out the best way to get her to the new place without scaring her too much -- Barry has suggested that I get someone to give me a ride to the new apartment, while the truck is being loaded, so that I can put her in the spare bedroom and sit with her until she feels calm. What do you think?
Oooow. Ow ow ow. I'm home sick. I woke up about two o'clock this morning with an incredible stomachache -- I woke up from a dream that I had been stabbed in the stomach, and when I woke up, I realized that it still hurt. A lot. Sharp, sharp pain. I got up and got some water, and took some Pepto-Bismol, and sat up for a while until it eased a little, then went back to bed and sat up in bed for a while. Why didn't I wake Barry up? I don't know, really. It hurt bad enough that I was crying, but I figured Barry couldn't really do anything except take me to the hospital up the street. That hospital is horrible, the doctors are surly and obviously aren't interested in their jobs (I've been there twice, and both times is was a nightmare -- when I was taken there after dislocating my knee, the doctor didn't want to give me a brace or crutches, and the technician didn't know how to work the x-ray machine -- although that might have been due to the fact that she was on the phone chatting with her sister while trying to x-ray me. Feh.) I finally went back to sleep, but when the alarm went off, I felt worse. We're really shorthanded at work, as I've mentioned before, and now the coworker who's been having emotional problems has abruptly quit, so I'm the one who's supposed to get there early and open the library. There's no one there for me to call in sick to. So I tried to get up and get ready for work -- I got as far as putting my contact lenses in, and then had to sit down for a while, and realized that I couldn't go in. I called a coworker at home and told her, and she promised to get there early enough to open up. I felt terrible calling my boss, because I know how stressed out she's been the past few days. I called Barry and talked him out of coming home and taking me to the doctor -- we decided that, if I wasn't better in two hours, he would come home and we would go. I went back to bed and whimpered for a while (the cat thought coming and standing on my stomach would be a great idea, youch...) and fell asleep again. I feel better now -- still a little pain, and now I'm very queasy. I had some tea, and that helped a little. But I'm not planning to leave the house today -- I may not even get out of my pajamas. I need to call the Everett Library and get information for a paper I have to write, so at least I'm home and can do that without interruption.
I'm watching daytime TV right now -- women sleeping with married men on Sally, medical miracles on Jenny Jones (and I thought that show was all slutty teenagers, all the time)... there's a lot of stuff about the Oklahoma City bombing, which is depressing and sad. I can still remember very clearly that day -- I was at Emerson, and my roommate and I were on the shuttle bus, trying to go to class. Beacon Street leading up to the State House was closed off, and there were police cars everywhere. We hadn't heard about the bombing, so we had no idea what was going on. The bus couldn't get through, so the driver just let out all out and we walked to class. The police wouldn't let anyone walk up Beacon Street either, and we heard something about a bomb. My class was in a building about six blocks from the State House. When I got to class, there were people standing outside crying. I asked someone what was wrong, and they said that a federal building in Oklahoma had been bombed and there were a lot of people killed, and the city had gotten threats of bombs in federal buildings all over Boston. We stood outside looking toward the State House, wondering what was going to happen. I don't think anyone went to class. It really doesn't seem like it was five years ago.
Hmm, this entry has been a downer. Sorry. I'm going to go take a nap now...
Aaaahhhhh, the glamour. I'm sitting here in my pajamas, watching Talk Soup with a green clay mask on my face. Give me some bright pink curlers, a flower-print muumuu and those slippers with the spike heels and feathers on the toes, and I'd be all set! (Man, I bet you all wish I had a scanner right now, so I could post a photo of this lovliness...)
It's Patriot's Day here, so I have the day off work. I'm going to try to be productive. So far I'm off to a decent start -- I woke up at 7:30 (due to a truck backfiring outside and nearly giving me a heart attack) and started cooking Curry Beef Stew in my slow-cooker. It has to cook for ten hours, so the timing should be just right to have it for dinner. I bought good steak to use in it, and the checkout girl at the store forgot to ring it in. So it's Free Beef Stew.
After the Beeeee-yoooty Treatment, I'm going to go the the two nearby convenience stores and beg for empty boxes so I can start packing. I'm planning to clean out my dreser and closet, throw away the stuff I haven't worn since the early '90s, and then pack up some of the books.
We didn't do much over the weekend -- Barry didn't feel well, so we mostly stuck close to home. We did go to Chelsea and wander around looking for a grocery store, which we didn't find. Something weird happened to my shoe, causing it to wheeze loudly every time I took a step. We found no grocery stores at all, so we've decided to use the online grocery shopping service from Stop & Shop. It doesn't cost any more than going to the store, and the stuff gets delivered right to your house. Joy...
I think my lovely green face is dry now (the cat keeps coming in and looking at me as if to say "What the HELL is the matter with you?!?" and shaking her head and walking away...) so I'm going to go wash it off and bask in my radiance, heh heh...
I'm in Hour 11 of an 11 1/2 hour work day, whee! I've been goofing off for a little while, so it's not too bad, right at the moment. But I'm very tired -- tired of sitting at this desk, tired of telling people over and over and over that we are out of most of the tax forms, and that no, I can't help them do their taxes, and no, they can't leave their tax stuff here for one of us to do for them (!) and no, I don't know when we'll begetting more forms. It's like this every April -- frantic people who have waited until the last minute to even think about their taxes, and don't know how to do them, and just want someone to make the whole thing go away. Feh.
I spent my lunch hour changing over the utilities to the new place, which was a lot less painless than I had expected. everyone was cheerful and pleasant -- the woman I spoke to at the cable company was obviously new, ad she was terribly happy about taking my call. When I told her I needed to disconnect my current service and get it hooked up again in the new place, she squealed "Oh, good! I need to practice that!" It turned out she couldn't do anything, because the people who are moving out of our new place still have their cable connected. But she was nice anyway.
I'm so looking forward to moving now. It's all been very easy so far -- I'm expecting a little black cloud of bad luck to appear and start zapping us at any given moment. I think all the bases are covered -- the truck rental has been confirmed twice, the utilities are all set, we have plenty of volunteers with strong backs (I hope -- anyone want to help? Just kidding... maybe...
Barry's feeling sickly today -- I'm hoping he feels better soon, because I really want to go wander around our new neighborhood this weekend. I have a paper to work on for school, but that will only involve going to the Everett Library and interviewing someone about their services for teenagers. Shouldn't take long. I have Monday off, because of the &$#@%&! Boston Marathon (I like the day off, but I hate the marathon -- more on that in a minute). I'll write the paper then, and after that, I have nothing to do for my class except show up.
And yes, I hate the Boston Marathon. I wouldn't, except I used to live in a dorm that was about six blocks from the finish line. Boston, in essence, shuts down completely for te marathon. You can't get anywhere, because so many streets are blocked off. The T and the sidewalks are a mob scene. I once spent over an hour just trying to cross the street so I could get to work -- I eventually ended up getting on the subway for a few stops, changing trains and going back the other way a few stops, then getting off, just so I could cross one street. I also got trapped in the Public Gardens -- I was trying to walk through them, and I got in fine, but then the Rent-A-Cops wouldn't let me use any of the gates to leave, including the one I had entered through. So I hold a grudge against the marathon. Don't get me wrong -- I have much admiration for the runners. I couldn't do that -- I couldn't walk 26.6 miles. I wouldn't even want to to it in a car. No way. But for crying out loud, all I want to do is get my stuff done! Is that too much to ask? (Because it IS all about me, after all.)
My favorite librarian just left for a cool new job. Today was her last day. I'm very sad, and I'm going to go say goodbye to her now...
I think I'm going to take up primal scream therapy. In the middle of the library. In a quiet area.
We're very shortstaffed here -- we were already short one person, but now another person is apparently having some heavy-duty emotional problems, so he hasn't been here for over a week. He's on medication that's making him irrational, so no one knows if he's ever coming back or not. Everyone's worried and depressed (me included) and talking about it in hushed little whispers.
I wouldn't necessarily mind the extra work involved (I'll be coming in early every day, at least until we figure out whether my coworker is coming back), except the past few days have been annoying as hell. Everyone that comes to the desk or calls has some sort of crisis that need to be deal with immediately. And is time consuming. And they're pissed off about it. The good part is, when you're running around in a blur of frantic activity, trying in vain to get everything done, the day passes really quickly.
I went to a lecture at Simmons last night, which was really good. Sandy Berman's a fascinating guy. I made him laugh by passing him a note from Katia and telling him that she wanted me to call him Cutiepants, but I thought that might be a bit forward for a first meeting.
My friend Lee and I went to the lecture together, and were surrounded by rude people. The woman who sat in front of me fidgeted for two solid hours, shifting in her chair, rummaging in her purse, playing with her hair, and scanning the crowd. I wanted to whack her with my bag. Halfway through the lecture, the door at the back of the auditorium banged open, and a latecomer stomped in, making as much distraction as he possibly could. He stopped at the end of our row (we were sitting in the two end seats) and very loudly said "Can you move so I can get in there?" No attempt at whispering whatsoever. Then he proceeded to shove past us without giving us a chance to move, stomping all over our bags and coats, and my feet, in the process. "Here, sir, let me spread my coat out for you to step on. Oh, you already did? Great!!" Grr. But the lecture really was good -- it was on inside censorship in libraries -- that is, libraries censoring certain types of materials by refusing to purchase them, or by restricting access to them, and so on. Sandy's a great speaker, very engaging and funny.
And now I have 15 minutes of work left, so I'm going to sit here and try not to run out the door shrieking like a banshee...
I am a very bored girl. Bored. Mind-numbingly bored. Sitting here watching the clock. Every two seconds I say "The tax forms are over there" or "If you don't see the form you want, we don't have it. No, we don't. No, really, we don't." I'm leaving in 15 minutes to go to a lecture at Simmons (Sandy Berman, for any library-types out there.) And man, the last 15 minutes is dragging by.I'd go out and have a cigarette, but... well, it's warm and sunny out. And there are still workmen redoing the steps out front. They're crouched down a lot. And not wearing jackets. So we get a nice clear view of Construction Worker Ass Crack. It's really not appealing, but hey, at least I don't work in the processing office. They get to sit right in front of a big window overlooking the front steps, so they get nothing but Crack all day long.
Other than that (I'm sure lovely) image, there's nothing at all going on worth noting. Not a thing. I'm so bored...
Posted by Mary Ellen at 01:41 PM | Comments (5)
I have the worst headache. I finally caved in and made a doctor's appointment, since I've had a headache noew for just over two weeks. The pain creeps up the back of my neck and around my temples, and just throbs. Tylenol doesn't touch it. It scoffs at Advil. Maybe some morphine would do the trick. Or someone just kick me really hard in the shins -- then maybe I won't notice my head hurting!
I was supposed to get together with Patrick and Lee on Saturday night, but my head wouldn't let me. I ended up calling Lee and cancelling, which I felt really bad for. And pissed off, since I really wanted to go out, but I couldn't see straight.
I'm wondering if it's allergies. Does anyone know if springtime allergies cause headaches? Let me know.
I don't really have anything else to say. Sorry. Go read Sarah's new entry. It cracked me right up -- it reminded me a lot of conversations that went on in my car when I was in high school. Way too funny.
I can't keep my eyes open. I could crawl under my desk, curl up, and sleep happily until tomorrow. I slept pretty well last night, so I don't know what's the matter with me today. It's always very hot and stuffy in here, so maybe that's it.
Caoimhe is my JournalProm date! Neither of us is really sure what the JournalProm entails, but I'm sure it'll be fun. I hated both proms I went to in high school, so I'd like to have at least one fun one.
My cat thinks I'm abusive. (Oh, I really am turning into Crazy Cat Lady, aren't I? Sorry...) See, we bought the new furniture. And Smoke really likes to scratch the couch. We didn't mind her clawing the old nasty couch, but the new one is way too nice. I really didn't want to have her declawed -- it's not a very nice procedure to begin with, and she's 4 years old. I would have considered it if she were a kitten who would heal up and forget about it quickly. (And in case that offended anybody, let me just say that yes, declawing is not very nice. But all of the cats I had growing up were declawed as kittens, and within a day or two, they were up and running around, and acting just the same as before. And we never let our cats outside, so defense wasn't an issue. I'm just saying.) So I ordered these little acrylic caps for her claws. They come in different colors, and you glue them over the cat's claws, so they can't do any damage. It doesn't hurt, and they can still retract their claws and all. And they're cheap enough that I figured it was worth a try.
The package was waiting for me when I got home last night. Smoke's always very happy when I get home from work, so I grabbed her in mid-happy dance. She was okay for a few minutes -- all purring and thinking "Hey! I'm gettin' petted! Happy! Happy cat!" Until I got the first cap glued on. Then she was all "What the HELL?!?" and turned into a ball of eight of nine furiously kicking hind legs and eight hundred chomping teeth. I had to wrap her in my denim jacket to keep her still, and even then it took me twenty minutes to get the rest of the little buggers glued on. I think I had her pinned with my leg in some sort of wrestling move at one point. And I glued a couple of the caps to the ends of my own fingers. I was worrying about what the neighbors must have been thinking -- I had the kitchen window open, and I could hear them outside, so I'm sure they could hear me... "Hold still. Hold STILL. HOLD STILL!!! This isn't hurting you! Ow! Ow! OW! OWOWOW!! Let go of that. Damn it! Ouch! Hold STILL! Give me that paw. $#@&*%$#!!! OW! WILL YOU HOLD STILL! Stop biting me. Stop biting me! Ow! Hold still! There, that's one done. Was that really so bad? OW! No! No! Hold still! Quit that! Ow! Oh damn, it's stuck to my finger. Quit that. OW!"
Smoke does look pretty cute with her hip blue nails, though. And from now on, I only have to apply a new one when an old one falls off (which happens when the claws grow out) so it shouldn't be too traumatic...
In the next few weeks, we will be moving, and I'll be taking the poor cat in for her shots, and putting a collar and tag on her... she's just going to hate me.
Okay, so I'm not the only one who has weird dreams about their teeth. Monique has 'em too. (And she somehow knew about my secret wish to be her "journal quote of the day," joy...)
So now I'm doing some web surfing to try to find out what the teeth dreams mean. It's not looking so good for me so far. Dream central said this in their dream dictionary:
"Teeth was the most requested dream word of all so here goes... If you dream of having false teeth this indicates that you will have unexpected help on a problem. To dream of rotten teeth shows that you have been telling someone a lie or using your smooth words for getting your own way no matter what. If your teeth are rotten, crooked, and/or falling out this means that your lies are hurting someone very badly and that you will soon be found out. If you dream you have swallowed a tooth you will soon have too 'eat your words'. It becomes much easier to interpret this kind of dream if you think of teeth as representing words. When the dreamer is not the one with the bad teeth you will naturally have to watch out for someone lying to you."
But... but... I haven't lied to anyone! What's up with that!?!
This site said:
"Teeth represent the very roots of the self, and the values and personal priorities that are involved in our decisions. Dreams of tooth loss often occur when a compromise is made (even for good reasons) which undermines the self in an ongoing way. The very "you" of you becomes eroded. Frequently something taken on as a temporary measure becomes more permanent and is not a good fit. Then we "forget" that we never intended to live this way permanently. We focus on making the self accommodate the situation. The friction between the arrangement and the self threatens to crumble the irreplaceable parts of the self. The compromise isn't necessarily wrong, but the harmful aspects of it need to be evaluated with clear understanding, and long-term options reviewed."
Huh. Interesting. Doesn't mean a damn thing as far as my life is concerned, but hey, at least they aren't calling me a liar.
Hmm. There's an awful lot of dreck on the web. Plus I'm running out of lunch hour... I'll look more later. Meanwhile, if you know what my weird dream means, tell me.
Other than the weird dreams, there's nothing much interesting going on. work is too busy. We haven't started getting ready to move yet. Oh, and I accidentally ruined a very nice surprise Barry had for me -- my watch broke recently, and I was pondering buying a new one. On Monday, I was bored and puttering around on eBay, and found a Casio Baby-G watch for cheap. I've wanted a Baby-G for months, but they're really expensive. So I bid on it, and won, and decided I wouldn't tell Barry, I'd just wait 'til I got it and then gloat about the bargian I'd found.
Ha.
I won the auction Monday. Tuesday night, Barry came home from work and handed me a small box. Inside -- a limited-edition Baby-G watch, somewhat better than the one I had just bought. D'oh! He couldn't take it back, and I can't cancel mine... I like the one he bought better, anyway, so my mom is inheriting the one I bought. And Barry says he's never going to surprise me again.
I keep having this recurring dream. Well, not the same dream over and over -- details change, but the theme is the same.
I know recurring dreams are pretty common -- lots of people have them. But most people have recurring dreams that make some kind of sense, whether they're nightmares or happy dreams about flying or something. Me, well... my mom's response was "You are a very strange person."
I keep dreaming about my teeth. I dream that they all fall out for some reason, very suddenly, usually in public. Or I dream I can pull them out really easily and painlessly. The most fun version was the one where I discovered I could pull my teeth out easily, and as soon as I pulled one out, a new one would instantly grow in its place.
Last night I dreamed they were all rotting out. It was really gross, and disturbing. They were all black and mossy-looking and nasty, and no one I showed them to seemed to think it was a big deal.
I don't have any sort of dental hygiene fixation, either -- my dentist scolds me for not flossing regularly, but, y'know, I brush and all... I'm sure there's some deep and hidden meaning that will reveal some subconscious weirdness... or, like my mom said, I'm just a very strange person.
On a more fun side, I've been dreaming lately that my cat can talk -- the other night I dreamed she had this really deep Barry White voice. When I asked her what was up with that, she said "That's just how us cats talk." Made me wake up giggling.
I would post a message on the message board asking for your weird dream stories, but the site seems to be down. Hmmm. So, e-mail them to me instead.
Are those jackhammers outside, or actually inside my head? I can't really tell -- there are workmen right outside, jackhammering away, but I think I few of them have crept into my skull to do a bit of remodelling. Ow ow ow ow...
This weekend was a good one -- Barry's been so busy lately that we've hardly seen each other, so we made a point of hanging out together for pretty much the whole weekend. We attempted to sleep late, but were woken up at 7 a.m. by our wonderful landlord hammering on the pipes in the basement, directly below our bed. Barry went down and shouted at him (the landlord's excuse was that he didn't think we were home. At 7 a.m. on a Saturday. Hmmm).
After dragging ourselves out of bed and lazing around in our pajamas drinking coffee for an obscene amount of time, we headed over to Cambridge to shop for furniture for the new apartment. We found a couch that reclines (insert Homer Simpson-esque drooling noise here) and a gorgeous sleigh bed frame on closeout, and a set of end tables with a matching coffee table. Shopping for furniture is way too much fun. We wandered around ooohing and aaahing, and laughing at the horrible, tasteless, ugly sculptures and paintings for sale, testing all the couches, and so on for about an hour before settiling down and deciding what we wanted.
On Sunday we went and measured the new living room and bedroom, to make sure all our loot would fit. I'm more convinced than ever that our landlord is an axe murderer or something -- the man is too nice to be real. And his big happy yellow Lab played fetch with Barry. So much fun.