Man, it sucks coming back after a short break. Holidays are never long enough -- they're just long enough for me to get used to being lazy, but not long enough for me to get bored. I love going to my mom's -- no worries, no obligations, just good food and company and plenty of animals to pet and play with. I'm a bit unhappy that I won't really be able to go back for Christmas; this place is open December 26, which means I'd have to travel back here on Christmas Day -- which I'll do right around the same time that monkey's fly out my... never mind. It's not happening. I can't think of any other way to do it, short of delaying Christmas until my birthday (which, for those of you keeping track and planning to send me much love and adoration, is January 3). Since this is my first Christmas since the divorce, I don't really want to take that option. Sure, it's only nine days, but... it's the principle of the thing. Hmmm. Well, I'll figure something out. Maybe my mom can come to Boston. Don't know how well that would work either, but hey, it's worth a try...
Vermont was fun. Lots of eating, loafing, movie-watching.... we saw Charlie's Angels, which I loved (it was fun, and silly, and never took itself seriously for a minute) and Chicken Run, which I also loved. I love Nick Park in general -- the man can do no wrong. I tried to think of ways to smuggle my brother's dog (a lovely, sweet Border Collie named Queenie) back to Boston with me, but I don't think she would have enjoyed riding in my luggage. Plus, you know, my mom would have noticed.
The trip back was no fun at all. It was raining buckets -- cold, icky, icy rain that just soaked you, regardless of what you were wearing. The bus driver chose to drive about 40 miles an hour all the way to Boston -- I know the weather was icky, but it really was just rain, and those buses are heavy, they can handle it. The driver also felt the need to stop and chat with people at every single stop, which was nice on one hand because I could hop off and have a quick cigarette here and there, but still... I just wanted to get home. Still, I wasn't really annoyed at him until he got lost. Lost. Yeah. He took the wrong exit, and then drove around a residential area with little teeny winding street for about half an hour before stopping and asking if any of the passengers knew the area at all. Um, no, you're supposed to know the route, remember? He finally got back to the turnpike (after driving the wrong way down a one-way street at least once) and we continued on our not-so-merry way, arriving in Boston an hour and a half late. I dragged my bags home on the T, took a shower, and went to bed... where I laid awake all night. Must have been all those hours sitting on a bus, twiddling my thumbs and listening to Kid A for the eight hundredth time. Oh, but my homecoming was made considerably brighter by the surprise waiting for me in the amazon.com box I almost ignored -- Joanne had peeked at my wish list (yeah, I'm pimping it! And my birthday! Why not? And no, that doesn't mean send me presents... unless you really really really want to... kidding. I'm kidding. Mostly) and sent me Good Omens, by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett. Yay! Joanne just rocks.
All bitching aside, though, it was a good Thanksgiving. And I shall now wax emotional for a moment, 'cause I really do have a lot to be grateful for. I'm grateful that I have a small but close-knit family group, with whom I am utterly comfortable. They're always good to see (and speak to by phone, in the case of the family members who live far away) and they always make me feel very loved. And, even better, they always let me know that they like me, too -- which is important. Your family is obligated to love you, after all, but they certainly don't have to like you. I'm also very grateful to have really good friends -- friends that didn't disappear or get all weird when I was a big emotional train wreck, prone to welling up with tears at odd moments, or ranting for hours on end about He-Whose-Name-Shall-No-Longer-Be-Written-Here, (and doing a good job of not showing boredom, either) and making sure that I ate and slept and was distracted by movies and TV and fun in general. You all know who you are. Thank you. And I'm grateful that I have a comfortable apartment, with a very cool roommate -- I lucked out big-time, and I know it. And I'm glad I have a stupid little cat, who was so glad to see me come home she pestered me all night. And she let me pet her when she was trying to sleep in the wee hours of the morning, when I was awake. After all the crap hit the fan, things could have ended up much worse than they did... and I'm grateful that the whole sordid mess is over, and it worked out so well. *sniffle.*
I'm full. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, those green beans with the onion thingies on them, sweet potatoes, corn, cranberry sauce, carrot and celery sticks, olives, rolls... have I mentioned that all this food was for two people? Just me and my mom -- though she invited her downstairs neighbor up to eat with us. Man, am I full. The dogs and cats (two of each) are blissfully sleeping off the nibbles of turkey they got, and I'm fighting the need for a nap.
I spent all day yesterday on a Greyhound bus, travelling from Boston to Vermont. It was pretty much okay, since the bus really didn't get crowded until we hit Brattleboro, VT. Not too bad, except we were travelling with the Most Horrible People in the World. A couple, maybe in their forties, with a little boy who couldn't have been more than two. I'm not sure if the adults were quite all there... most of the time, they either ignored the little boy, or nagged at him shrilly and incessantly. The kid was okay -- he was happy, and cute, and very acvite and curious. He wanted to run around and play, but they hadn't brought any toys or games for him, so all they did was yell at him. Constantly. A five-hour long chorus of "Stop it, Donnie. Stop it, Donnie. Stop it, Donnie." The man would grab the little boy and start loudly haranguing him about why he couldn't play in the aisle -- as though a two-year-old is going to listen to a lecture. The woman hadn't brought any juice or anything for the kid -- instead, she stopped at Dunkin' Donuts and bought him a cup of coffee. I had to turn around and look, because I couldn't quite believe it when I heard her nagging the kid to "Drink your coffee, Donnie." Yep, a large coffee. For a two-year-old. Some people just really shouldn't be allowed to breed. I was praying they were only going to New Hampshire, but no -- they were on the bus for the full five hours. Gah. Thank God for headphones and loud, loud music.
Today was pretty much spent cooking, and eating, and eating, and then, for a change of pace, eating some more. We had our holiday phone call from the extended family in Florida (everyone passes the phone around and says hello) and talked to my brother, who was having a turkey pot pie in Rochester, NY. (He just moved there, so he couldn't afford to make the trip back here. Bummer.) Later, once we've digested a bit, my mom and I are going to see Charlie's Angels. So, Happy Thanksgiving to all you Americans, and, er, happy Thursday to the rest of you...
Holy crap, am I in a foul mood. It's even amazing to me, and I'm no stranger to foul moods. There's two reasons: first off, today is my wedding anniversary. Woo-fucking-hoo. Congrats to me. Barry's birthday was four days ago, too -- I remembered both occasions the other day. My roommate asked me yesterday what I wished for Barry on his birthday. After some thought, I said "I wish he'd get hit by a bus. Then, I wish the ambulance that picks him up would spontaneously burst into flames. After that, I wish the doors of the ambulance would pop open, dumping him onto the road, where he'd be run down by a bus. After that, I hope he gets a hideous, previously-unknown, incurable genital-rotting disease." It's a good thing I'm not bitter, isn't it? Actually, I was serious about any of the above. Really, I wasn't. No, I think he's miserable enough just the way he is -- I couldn't wish any worse on him.
I don't think I'd be so horribly grouchy today if I'd gotten a decent amount of sleep last night. I went to bed at a halfway decent time -- I watched the weird bat-boy episode of the X-Files, and then some of the news, and finally decided to go to sleep at around 11:30. At around midnight, I was woken up by a series of thumps and crashes and bangs coming from the bathroom -- which is right on the other side of the wall my bed is against. The front door is in that direction, too, so I initially thought someone has just arrived home, and so the noise would stop soon, since our apartment is usually pretty quiet at night. It did stop -- for about ten minutes. Just long enough for me to drift off to sleep, and then... "Thump! Thumpthumpthump! Bang!" Then silence. Mildly annoyed, I peeked out into the living room, trying to see what was going on. Saw nothing, heard nothing.... went back to bed. Five minutes later, there was a tentative tapping at my door -- Beth wanted to know if I had any Pepto. I said no, and said -- well, snarled, prbably -- that whatever they were doing had woken me up. She apologized, said she thought I was up. and crept away. I figured whatever the noise was would stop (and felt a little bad, thinking that maybe one of them was sick -- though why that would involve thumping on the walls and floor I don't know.) Went back to sleep. Five minutes later -- more thumping. Thumping and thumping and clattering and banging until 2 a.m. Have I mentioned I have to be up at 5:30 for work? And that I'm a very unhappy person when I'm kept awake? By about 1 or so, I was annoyed enough that I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep even if all noise ceased, so I didn't get up and pitch a fit or anything -- I did get up once, and heard Beth in her office working, so I knew she wasn't the one in the bathroom. I figured whoever was in there was in no shape to talk, so I just went back to bed and played with the cat until I fell asleep. When I got up this morning, I found two notes -- one on the bathroom door warning me that Beth's boyfriend might be passed out on the floor, (he wasn't) and one on my door, apologizing for waking me up. I went and found Beth, and told her that she hadn't woken me up, but her boyfriend had -- she said he'd come home trashed, and spent most of the night on the bathroom floor. The thumping must have been due to the fact that he's a big guy -- very tall and broad-shouldered -- and the bathroom is small. She gave me a ride to work this morning, which was nice of her -- I wasn't really mad by the time I woke up, just tired and grumpy. Luckily, this is a two-day work week for me, since I'll be in Vermont from Wednesday through Sunday. That makes me happy. Other things that make me happy -- it's cold out, so I can wear my fluffy warm sweaters. Fluffy warm sweaters please me. Also, I have gotten nice email lately -- one lovely email from Jen, a short but fun exchange with Jeb, and several emails from a Three Way Action poster in England. (Hi, Richard!) Also some from my cousin, which always makes me happy. And I'll be off work in less than an hour, though I have therapy tonight, so I won't be heading home right away. Weirdly enough, I like therapy -- my therapist is a nice guy, and lets me yammer on and on for an hour without glazing over with boredom. But then, maybe he's just a really good actor...
I really should have just stayed in bed today. I called in sick to work yesterday, partly because I woke up with my blinding end-of-period headache, and partly because I just needed a day off -- back in high school, my mom introduced me to the concept of "mental health days" -- days you take off not because you're sick, but because you just need to be away from work, or school, or whatever for a little while. It's like a little treat, a bonus Saturday in the middle of the week, only with cheesier daytime TV. So when the alarm went off yesterday, I knew I was in dire need of a mental health day. Called in sick, and, for once, went back to bed without a shred of guilt. Usually, even if I'm coughing up chunks of lung and so feverish I'm hallucinating little men hiding under my bed (yes, that has happened. Long story) I still feel terribly guilty for calling in sick. Even when I know that, if I go to work, I'll just spread plague to all my coworkers, so I'm doing them a favor by staying home, I still end up wracked with guilt over it. So I rarely call in sick, and I go home early only if my boss insists that I take my germs and leave. But yesterday, I called in, and took my aching head back to my pillows and blankets with a contented sigh.
Slept in a bit, and finally got up at around 10:30. Loafed around in my pajamas for a bit, checking email and chatting with my roommate, then took a shower. My room was in dire need of a cleaning -- I'm a slob, really. I disgust myself. My clothes end up in a pile on the floor because I can't be bothered to put them away (ironically, the dirty clothes are dealt with the most neatly. All dirty clothes are in the hamper. The huge-ass pile of clothes crumpled all over the floor? Those are the clean ones. I'm such a pig.) The top of my dresser was buried under piles of junk mail, books, CDs, empty glasses and coffee cups, little bits of paper with important things to do written on them -- I forgot to do most of the important things because I couldn't find the little bits of paper with the reminders written on them -- and all sorts of other assorted crap. The cat had tracked food and litter all over the floor. It was just gross. So I set out to clean it. I only meant to tidy up a little, but once I got started, I couldn't stop -- I had to make room in one of my teeny tiny closets (I have two in my room, and both are equally tiny and useless) to put some of my junk away, and that resulted in my dragging everything out of the closet, throwing away piles of shoes I haven't worn in ages (why I hold onto shoes that I never wear, because they give me screaming bloody blisters or are impossible to walk in, I'll never know) and old clothes and such -- I gave a few sheatshirts and an old bookbag to my roommate, for her to do with what she wishes. I managed to fit my wedding dress into the closet -- I'm dying to sell it, just to be rid of it. Someone suggested I burn it, but I'd at least like to make a little money off it, you know? I could stage a ritual burning and charge admission, I suppose...) Other assorted stuff I don't use much, but wanted to hang onto, fit much more neatly in the closet once I threw away the unwearable shoes, the random empty cardboard boxes, and condensed the stuff I was keeping into a smaller pile. That done, I made the bed, put all the clothes away, cleaned up the cat mess, swept the floor, dug out my dresser, put all the scattered books and CDs away, dusted, and finally collapsed into a little headachey heap onto the freshly-tidied bed. I made up for the burst of productivity by spending the rest of the afternoon in bed, watching the miniseries version of "The Shining" that Patrick lent me -- I never liked the film version (I know, I'm a heathen) so I was curious to see the remake. I usually hate miniseries on general principle, and the ones based on Stephen King novels are usually terrible -- the novel It still scares the bejeezus out of me, but the miniseries was so bad it was funny. I remember watching it with a friend in high school, both of us giggling like mad through all the "scary" bits -- we hated it, but it was so bad, we couldn't stop watching. It was like a car crash. (Funny aftereffect: that friend spent the night at my house that night, because it was snowing like crazy out, and the roads were too bad for me to drive her home. During the night, she woke me up by yelling in her sleep, "I don't want a balloon! Make the bad clown leave me alone!!" Hee!) I was happily surprised by this miniseries -- I mean, it was cheesy and all, but still scary. Lee and I watched the second half of the Kubrick film last weekend, and were thoroughly annoyed at it. It's boring as hell, for one. It's a whole lot of nothing happening... dull, dull, dull, dull, moderately scary bit, dull, dull, end. I hated the ending, too. And the character of the wife, my God, she's annoying. I don't know, maybe it's just me, but... if my husband was chasing me around the house with a ax, I think I'd be doing a bit more than just locking myself in the bathroom, cowering in a corner, and squealing breathlessly while fluttering my hands around. At least the wife in the miniseries fought back a little.
So. Yesterday was a pretty pleasant day, other than the headache. Today, ugh. I woke up with the headache still going strong, but I really did feel guilty at the thought of calling in sick again. Dragged myself out of bed, slept most of the way to Boston on the bus, got a Coke and settled in to work. I was just getting over my ennui at being here at all when I had a delightful run-in with the Rudest Person Ever. This guy comes up to me, and asks if he can get some articles he needs. He hands me a couple of sheets of paper with periodical citations written on them. I recognized the titles of the magazines he wanted, and knew we had them, so I told him where to find them. He interrupted to go on a rant about how, last time he was here, he looked for some journals and they weren't on the shelves, and there was nothing to indicate where he could find them, and he didn't want to deal with that shit, and blah blah blah. Just kept going, and going, and going, while I sat there thinking "If you'd stop for a breath, I could help you out here... nope, you just want to rant. Fine." I finally sort of raised my hand, trying to get him to stop talking (this was after about five minutes. Enough is enough, already) and told him that I knew we had these particular magazines, because I'd seen them. One of them might have its recent issues on Reserve, but the other should be out in the stacks. I also tried to tell him that, if he doesn't know whether we have something or not, his best bet would be to look it up in the catalog, but he cut me off by shoving one of the pieces of paper at me and telling me "YOU look it up." Um, okay... so I did, and noticed that one of the volumes he needed was on Reserve. I got it for him, and asked for his ID to check it out to him -- which, according to him, was just me trying to annoy him. Not, y'know, my job or anything. He rolls his eyes and tells me that he didn't bring any ID with him, and he's not walking all the way back to the building he works in to get it. I ask if he has an MIT ID, he rolls his eyes again, and says he doesn't, but he just wants to make a copy. Tells me to stop being a pain, and just let him take the journal. Called me stupid at some point, too, which always makes me inclined to just bend over backwards to help... I say okay, but since he's not affiliated with MIT, in the future he can't have stuff from Reserve. He says, voice dripping with contempt, "Hell-OOO! I'm a TEMP. Have you ever heard of a temp, or are you too stupid?" Um, hi. Okay, now I'm pissed off. I refrained from whacking him upside the head with the book, and instead said, very quietly, "Sir, there's no need to be rude. You can take the journal to make a copy this time. Next time, bring an ID, and let whoever helps you know that you're a temp, so you will be allowed to take Reserve things." He tells me again how stupid I am, and tells me that he thinks I'm rude, because I didn't just go get the journals for him, and I didn't know he was a temp. Not psychic, people. Librarian does not equal psychic. It would be handy if it did, I'll grant you that. I let him finish calling me stupid, and then smile and say, again, "You can take this to make copies. Next time, please bring an ID and let us know you're a temp," while thinking "Hey, bite me, Snotty McRudester!" He stomps off, just as my boss comes to the desk. She hadn't overheard him, but out of concern that he might come back and rant some more, I let her know what had happened. Funny, though -- every time he came to the desk after that, he was all sweetness and light.
So now I'm even crankier about being at work, and I really just want to go home, take a few Advil, and go back to bed...
Yeah, I haven't updated in ages. I've wanted to, honest, but I keep running out of time -- Beth's boyfriend has had his kids over almost every night, and they spend most of the evening playing on the computer, so I usually can't use it. Updating from work is always risky -- my boss isn't here today, so I can be sneaky. When she is here, she watches everyone like a hawk -- pausing for five minutes to check email tends to result in a grilling from her, followed by hours of little busywork projects. (I'm a little bit bitter today, because it's holiday, so the school is closed. The library is open, of course -- we only close on federal holidays. Usually, on a holiday like this one, we get the option of a paid day off. We're too shortstaffed for that now, though, so my boss told everyone that we couldn't afford to have anyone take the day off at all. What did she do next? Announced that she was taking today off. I'm peeved. I would have worked today anyway, but still. It's the principle of the thing.)
And no, I am not going to talk about politics. I don't want to think about it, I don't want to know what's going on in Florida, I want to forget there even was an election. Okay? If anyone tries to talk to me about it, I will be putting my fingers in my ears and skipping around singing "La la la, I can't hear you!" as loudly as possible. Consider yourselves warned.
I had about eight million things to write about, but since I haven't been able to get my ass in gear and write an entry lately, I have forgotten most of them. One thing that was kicking around in my little brain is a bit meta -- when I moved my journal from Diaryland to Diary-X (which ONE person noticed, and commented on. ONE. Joanne is the only person in the whole wide world who cares. Yes, I am sulking. Hmmph) I had to move each entry one at a time. Lots of cutting and pasting. It took forever, mostly because I was skimming through each entry as I read it -- correcting my email address in a few of them, fixing spelling errors, etc. I just got caught up reading some of them -- mostly thinking wow, that was a dull entry... or hmmmm, I do talk about my cat an awful lot, don't I? I hadn't actually gone back and read my old entries before -- reading what I've written, for me, is like hearing my voice on tape. It makes me cringe. That's not me! I don't really sound like that, do I? This time it was sort of fun -- even the entries that struck me as dull. It was also very sad -- especially reading the very early entries, the ones written just a couple of months after I got married, when I was writing all sorts of happy domestic-bliss stuff. It was like reading a novel -- I kept wincing, knowing this character was going to get smacked down soon, and knowing there was no way to change it. Knowing the train wreck was coming, and not being able to prevent it. I came very close to pulling the whole journal down during that train wreck, because I just didn't want to write about it -- I didn't want my own family to know what was going on, much less a bunch of strangers. I couldn't write about anything else, because I couldn't think about anything else. I briefly considered taking those entries out when I moved them, too -- but I decided it would be, well, dishonest. I don't plan on talking about my ex anymore -- it's old news, so unless anything new and dreadful happens, I'm going to do my best not to mention it. I'm tired of talking about it, tired of thinking about it, and tired of feeling like a goddamn victim. Well, after this entry, anyway. I left the entries up because, at the time, I needed to write about what was happening. The surprising result was, it helped. A lot. The emails I got from people, some of whom wrote me once, and then never again, some of whom have become friends, was startling, and wonderful. I really didn't think people would care -- if anything, I thought I'd lose readers. I got one hate mail, which I wish I'd saved because it was hilarious (essentially, it said I deserved to get cheated on because I talk about my cat too much. And that the person didn't believe any of it anyway, because I didn't show enough emotion. I did, dude, I was just showing my emotion to my cat. Okay?) And I liked seeing my own progression out of the train wreck. At the time, I honestly didn't think I would live through it. I didn't really want to, either. There were days -- weeks, even -- when the thought of just giving up altogether was very inviting. I think writing about it made that thought less appealing to me.
Anyway. I don't know what I'm getting at, here. It's cold and raining, my boss isn't here so I can goof off if I want to, I'm sleepy and a bit bored...
I've been meaning to update for a while, but I just haven't been able to get my thoughts into any sort of order lately. I'm too easily distracted -- oh, look, there's a bright shiny thing! Oooooohhhh... Every free minute I have, I get sucked into Three Way Action or into endless games of Snood. Snood's evil, I'm telling you, evil. I can't stop. I even stayed at work late the other night, playing. Addictive as hell, it is. And I stink at it -- I can't get past level nine on the easiest setting.
Other than that, well, I haven't been up to much, really. My roommate is throwing a great big huge party tomorrow night -- her birthday is this weekend, and oh crap, I forgot to buy her a present... guess I'm going shopping after work. I really don't like parties -- I hate big groups of people I don't know, and the way it's shaping up, I'll know about two people there -- four, counting my roommate and her boyfriend. Whee. I'm telling myself it's good for me, I need to meet new people, blah blah blah. Feh.
I've been trying -- between TWA postings and Snood games -- to read up on the Massachusetts ballot questions so I can be a good little informed voter next week. The only one I really have any feelings about is the one about banning greyhound racing -- I'm all for that. I'm not really fond of the idea of people using animals for pure entertainment (I don't like circuses much, for instance.) I don't believe all the ads with people earnestly saying that the dogs aren't mistreated -- I lost faith in them when I realized all the people in the ads were employed by racetracks. Sure, they'll be honest... I'm really not looking forward to voting, because every election, it's the same thing -- I'm not voting for one candidate so much as I'm voting against the other. I don't much like either Gore or Bush, but of the two, I dislike Bush the most. I just don't think he's terribly smart, and I don't think he has even the slightest ability to lead. The latest news thing, the one about his drunk driving arrest, just cemented my opinion of him -- I don't care in the slightest that he did it. It was more than twenty years ago, he owned up to it, and paid the fine, and all that. It's the fact that he hid it -- he didn't have the brains to figure out that eventually, someone was going to dig up that particular little piece of dirt. I don't care if candidates have done drugs, or drank too much, or shoplifted, or any of that -- everyone does things they might not be proud of at some point or another. I don't expect politicians to be anything but human. I do, however, have a lot more respect for them when they say "Sure, I did some drugs back in the day. I'm not doing them now, so what's the big deal?" I don't expect politicians to be moral leaders, but I do expect that they'll be honest -- because I start to wonder -- if they're hiding such a minor thing, what else aren't they telling us?
Meh. So, long rant short, I'll be voting against Bush -- and anyway, the day I vote Republican will be the day Hell freezes over. Too much thinking... must play Snood...
Oh, one last thing: this headline made me choke on my Pepsi this morning. Too bad the actual story isn't as funny:$8,000 found in man's buttocks