Sorry about not following through yesterday; we got stuck at the whorehouse (thanks, mikey. thanks a lot.) and then stuck in traffic and by the time we got back to the office at 2, there was only a little bit of the day left in which to get things done! And so I worked.

We've reached a very uneasy truce, my job and I--remember how it was all I could think about, how much I hated being here every second of the day? It's not so unbearable lately, and for two reasons: One, this new system has been a joy to work on--I like the challenge, I like that I'm learning new things for the first time in a loooong while, I like being the first person at the company to dig in. It's helped alleviate a lot of the boredom and brain-stagnation--and it keeps me away from my desk! Staying away from my desk means staying away from that evil cow, which brings me to my second reason: She is so incredibly miserable, exponentially more miserable than I am; it just warms the cockles of my little black heart.

(another secret reason that things are easier at work these days is that things are just easier everywhere these days. before, there was all this stress over house-hunting and my parents leaving and my brother leaving--now there is much less worry and stress. of course, we haven't had our first house payment yet, so...)

On a completely unrelated note, I have discovered I have a deep mistrust of women who have time to coordinate their toenail polish with whatever outfit they're wearing that day. Deep.

I haven't been able to shake the navel-gazing bug--last night was one Big Question after another. I had a really productive conversation with Nia (that makes her sound like my therapist instead of my ex-girlfriend!) and came away feeling a bit better about things. There are few people I'm comfortable discussing poly issues with, but she has the innate ability to...well...she just gets it. She's lived it and deals with similar issues every day--who better to ask for advice?

It was nice to talk--we haven't had more than a few two-second conversations in the last almost-year...Made me miss her, wish things had progressed differently. And then thinking that just led to other wistful fantasies...and then the phone rang.

The Ex always did have pretty good timing...

I ask how he's doing, he says fine but lonely--what do you say to that? "Gee, too bad you dumped me way back when" doesn't really have the edge of sensitivity he's looking for, I think. Wait, that's unfair--it was a mutual thing, our breakup. Even if he did start it! Best thing anyone has ever done for me (being taught the lesson of surviving pain and misery and heartache will always be a good lesson to learn.), and I've rarely regretted it.

Oh, sure--I was desparate to have him back in those few months after, and thought that if we just kept sleeping together, I'd get my wish! Silly girl. I realize now that the less contact we have the better--we were never good at friendship in the first place.

No, not baby anymore
if I need you I'll just use your simple name;
Only kisses on the cheek from now on,
and in a little while, we'll only have to wave
My hand won't hold you down no more,
the path is clear to follow through
I stood too long in the way of the door
and I'm giving up on you...

...

Lunch! I've been looking forward to lunch all day because it means I get to eat one of my spectacular chocolate chip cookies for dessert! Lucky Boy--he's got a girlfriend who makes him cookies (and then takes half of them to work for her friends. whoops!). I need a girlfriend like that!

Do me a favor: turn on Massive Attack's "Protection". It's the best thing you can do for yourself today.

...

I'm off to the warehouse for a training session--no update until this afternoon!

Slept fitfully--dreamed about my grandmother again, so you know I'm feeling guilty about not spending more time up there. I'll have to go up this evening after work. It's a tough thing--there are the good days, where she tells stories of learning to drive a Model-A and being the man of the family when her daddy left the five girls with their mother on a farm in the middle of Montana, and we laugh about how I called cereal "seerseeyoo" when I was toddling...And then there are they days when she forgets my name and calls me Mabel, forgets I was there the week before, doesn't remember how to turn her stove on...

It is So Hard to see her like this, small and frail--she was so solidly strong and sensible when I was growing up. She was a cook in schools and nursing homes and for an elderly couple who lived in Sunset Hill; she could do anything. Picked me up from school or daycare in a sparkly gold Datsun and stopped for soft-serve ice cream before letting me give her directions to the house I'd practically been born in.

Where did this come from? I was going to talk about something else, I don't remember what, but I'm pretty sure it was a great deal more light-hearted.

...

In case I didn't mention it, yesterday felt So Good. I've never really been a fan of gardening, and for a variety of reasons: 1) Every plant I touch dies. 2) Dirt is so...dirty. I don't like scrubbing under my fingernails. 3) Bugs. But yesterday was great! It wasn't too hot, I was gardening at waist height (that's another thing--who decided to put all the dirt on the ground fergodssake? If I'm going to be on my knees, I'd better be doing it for something a great deal more pleasurable than pulling weeds), and I was getting results. Four hours of hard work (the ground was almost rock-hard, but now it's a rich brown mulchy goodness) and I have something to show for it! That's fucking great.

...

More introspection of late: Have you noticed how, when I get all bouncy and excited about something, it's like whatever's made me so excited has never happened to anyone, it is only now being experienced for the first time and you cannot imagine how terrific (or horrendous) it is? I have a feeling this trait is directly related to my infinite capacity for talking about myself, but I'm not entirely sure. Is there a word for this? I've been calling it one-point-oh-ness for lack of something more fitting.

It doesn't bother me, I guess--I mean, of course I know that other people, somewhere on this small green planet, at some point in time have indeed worked in their garden and had feelings of satisfaction over making things grow; but it's so much more real when I do it. Does it seem real to you? Do I do a decent job of making me Real? I have a feeling that for all I share, for every hilarious or heart-wrenching or embarassing story I tell here--I'm still just a very small portion of Me. But how much more of me can I give? You have almost every bit of me that I'm willing to share, bar the naked photos (hey, all you've got to do is ask) and...Yep, that's pretty much it.

Okay, so I'm exaggerating. There is one person on this earth who has every bit of me, every last inch of my body and soul and heart and mind, but I don't think he realizes it. Not the depth or scope, anyway. How can he? How can you assume that even though this person has promised you love and devotion, how do you know that you own them in this manner?

And who put the navel-gazing pills in my juice this morning?

Not the best Monday-morning post (I am firm in my belief that the day I brushed my teeth with soap will remain the best Monday-morning post ever.), but you should be used to it.

Such a productive afternoon. We came home from the most scrumptious brunch in ages full of new-home-owning-enthusiasm (and french toast!), and spent the next six hours on house stuff. Not unpacking, mind you, because that would be a little TOO productive--but I planted! In the garden! I got dirty, even! It was amazing. Yesterday those kids pulled out all the tall stinky daisies, but left the roots in the ground...So off I went, wreaking havoc and flinging dirt willy-nilly--I am a messy messy gardener.

I dug and pulled and--what's it called where you mix the dirt you've already got in the ground with rich new dirt? I did that, too. I managed to dig up most of the bulbs they'd planted--I don't know what they are, but they freak me out. Some of them look like sensible things, like hard, pointy onions; others looked like dinosaur eggs or alien babies. I kept the decent-looking bulbs in a discarded plant container and threw the alien babies away, after splitting a fewto make sure nothing was incubating inside. You never know! I could have saved the planet from a scourge of geranium-shaped alien babies!

I am so very tired. Can you tell? I probably shouldn't ask.

For hours and hours, I planted. Heliotrope and pansies, Salvia (I keep calling it saliva) and sunscape daisies--everything in shades of purple, it looks gorgeous with the flowering plum tree. Boy and Dad replaced the overhead light in the media room, taking down the 50's glass dish and putting up the Rocket To The Moon! Chrome and pointy--it fucking rocks.

...

I had a few things i was wanting to say, but I can't keep my eyes Tomorrow, I promise.

Here is another example of how my life so closely resembles porn:

I am walking through the living room to...oh, who knows, I was wandering--when two girls, blonde and tan and lithely strolling, looking 17 but apparently 22 (does it get any better?) knock on the front door. "We were just wondering if you need any yard work done!" they chime with sly smiles, "We work for free!" If I were a less cynical sort of bitch, I would have smiled in return and let them go about their business--but instead I am immediately suspicious. Co-eds? Doing yard work? For free? They tell me they're from the weird progressive church up the street (we've always made fun of it because it has a weird name and a lot of flashy but trashy cars out front), and their youth group is doing yardwork around the neighborhood as community service. Suspicion levels rise, but I don't want to say 'If you work in my yard, are you going to try to convert me?' because that's just rude and I'm trying to be a better person lately. I shouldn't have worried, shorts that short don't have room for bibles in pockets. And so I consent, and they say, "We'll go get the other kids" and instantly I have visions of twenty blonde seventeen year old girls in short-shorts and white tanktops bending over, pulling weeds, glistening and giggling and god, it was hot.

That would be every dream we've ever had come true. (except that dream I had last night where Boy calls me at work to say he bought a $4000 computer and couldn't pay the mortgage so we have to give the house back)

I wish I could say that things devolved into a wild orgy of half-naked weed-pulling and hose-splashing...but they didn't. A good-natured group of misguided teens (c'mon. spending a weekend during your summer doing yard work for FREE. those kids have been brainwashed.) mowed and weeded and whacked and pulled and raked and hosed and our lawn looks a MILLION times better. We offer payment, they refuse, so I bring them chilled watermelon and soda and bottled water, we talk of pygmy goats and pregnant women and the Southeastern United States, and everyone goes home happy.

How's THAT for a Saturday? This was on top of the cable guy fixing our crappy installation, AND getting about 20 yards of fabric at the warehouse sale today for SIX DOLLARS.

We are happy happy campers.

I'm such a whore for readership. Is my blog Hot or Not?

I finally woke up on Wednesday--it only took two Code Reds and leaving half an hour early. Where's the harm in that? (I'll tell you where it is, it's in the 80 billion grams of caffeine loaded in those two Code Reds--that shit fucks me up. It gives me these huuuuge rooollllingg buurrrrrrrrrrrps and makes me feel like my eyes are popping out of my skull. I've still got an eyestrain headache from it today.)

Other than getting more sleep, the last couple days have been a cycle of: 1) being bored at work, 2) going home, taking small nap, unpacking a little; 3) getting a little more sleep each night, even if my dreams are getting more and more vicious. Wednesday night I dreamed that my mother decided to put my 95 year old grandmother out of her misery and was killing her by wrapping her up in garbage bags while she slept. I found her, cold stiff and blue--and woke sobbing. Last night was less traumatic, but if I have another dream where I'm Sarah Michelle Gellar, I'll shoot myself.

...

Plans for the Labor Day Housewarming Extravaganza are taking shape--We started with Steve coming in from New York, then Chris from Chicago, then Larry from Nashville, and now the Astronaut's flying in from...what, Japan? Dave is trying to convince Abby (I'll link when I get a chance, she's quite charming.) to fly up from L.A.--and then Blondie gets home from Pennsylvania! Rollicking good times ahead, I can tell.

However.

Four guys staying with us. Three spare beds. One shower. I suggested to Boy that all five of them (you know, including Boy) just line up in the yard and I'll hose 'em all down. I can just imagine what our neighbors would think.

Nothing like seeing all your boyfriend's friends from school naked. In your front yard.

(I feel creepy just typing that)

...

...man, I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel for content today. There are new developments to discuss, but I'm not yet at liberty to do so. There are revelations, reactions, all sorts of stuff piling up...but I just don't have it in me. Something about this week...I spent most of Wednesday convinced that it was actually Monday again, and it's thrown me off all week--I can't quite get it in my head that today is Friday. Maybe because I've got to drive down to our warehouse tomorrow first thing in the morning for the employee sale? I wouldn't even go except Mom's best friend Linda used to take me to the Eddie Bauer warehouse sales before I worked at Corporate--I owe her one of ours. but GODDAMN. Boy and I have decided that Sunday is ours, we can sleep in, go to breakfast, make out in a movie theatre--anything, so long as it's just the two of us.

I think we're both feeling a bit neglected--it's tough to get in quality time when you're (say it with me, you should have it memorized by now) packing and cleaning and painting and moving and unpacking again. Add to that his extended hours at work and my new extracurricular interest (I told you, not yet at liberty to say), and you've got two people who go to sleep in the same bed and still miss each other the next day.

The oversexed pervert in me says it's time for a trip to the Vu. Nothing like strippers and second-hand smoke to bring two people closer together.

busy busy bee. more later. Until then: How do I remove laundry stains from my favorite khaki capris? the capris ended up in the same wash load as my new red bathing suit, and...you can guess the result. Help!!

I Am So Tired.

You'd think that I'd be smart, go to bed a little early, maybe sleep for an extra ten minutes in the morning...but no. Here's how my night went:

9:30p-get in bed, with great intentions of being asleep by 10.

11:45p-actually start falling asleep.

2:05a-woken by horrible yowling from outside--assume cat is being mauled by mutant squids or something, go running for front door buck-assed-naked. After minutes of naked-standing-at-the-door-calling-for-cat-in-my-sleep, Boy confirms that cat is indeed in our bed, snoozing. I was calling for the neighbor's cat. stumble back to bed, tripping over coffee table, small step up to bedroom, pile of unpacked clothing, pair or seven of shoes, finally collapsing into bed.

2:45a-finally fall asleep again.

3:11a-woken by horrible yakking sounds, fully aware that it is indeed OUR cat making them. blinded by bedside lamp (who knew 40w bulbs were so damned bright), find cat hurling hairballs on hardwood floor, pair of socks, old teddy bear...

3:28a-finish scrubbing cat-yak off floor (naked, of course. I'd be screwed if our house was burning down), drag cleaning towel (shit, that's my special "just had my hair colored and don't want to get it all over the nicer towels" towel. oh well), socks, and yakked teddy bear to laundry area in kitchen. stumble back to bed, tripping on same coffee table, small step up to bedroom, pile of unpacked clothing; collapse into bed. Lather, rinse, repeat.

4:18a-finally fall asleep again.

6:38a-alarm goes off. curse humanity for the endless series of technological advances that led to creation of alarm clocks, standardized time-keeping, steady employment. Decide to finally enforce my 30-hour days, quit job, return to hunting and gathering, washing clothes in river. Then remember house payments, new washing machine. curse technology again. Bastards. Decide I'm not going to work, fall asleep.

7:00a-Insistent bladder prevents further blissful slumber; stumble over SAME STUMBLING THINGS (minus coffee table, that's not on the way to the bathroom) to bathroom, eschew shower, almost forget deoderant, throw together the worse lunch ever (nectarine, carrots, Soft Batch chocolate chips), stumble out door. (lots of stumbling)

7:30a-arrive at work. Spend two hours in dead stupor, completely unable to even appear busy.

9:30a-snarling evil coworker shocks me out of stupor, into vigorous hatred. Prepare for full on, no-holds-barred war.

So tired.

More food needs to come on a stick.

...

We went to the grocery store last night for the first time in weeks--with all the house stuff, I just sort of let everything in the fridge at the old place go to shit. I like a fresh start, and I like not having much more in the fridge than condiments and eight different kinds of soda and juice. But by last night I was craving fresh romaine and peaches and watermelon, so off to the store we go. Ninety dollars later, we emerge laden with bags (goddamn, watermelons are heavy) and by this morning I'm still giggling--can you guess what the most expensive thing we bought was? A shiny nickel to the closest guess.

How do they make peaches and nectarines white? They taste so much better than regular yellow peaches and nectarines, sweet and dripping, and a secret childish part of me (okay, not much of a secret, that much was obvious after our last trip to IKEA, where I walked around with lampshades on my head, using giant placemats as eyeballs) is remembering a camp episode that involved Ma Bell (the whitest whitey) saying "Why's it always gotta be about race?" with regards to wheat and white bread.

These things are so funny in my head. Shrug. A select few (one) will get some amusement out of that, once she gets back from a different camp in Pennsylvania (hint, hint). Blondie called me yesterday from PA, and it was So Good to hear from her. We've had a couple of emails here and there, but nothing of very much substance--only three weeks until she leaves for New York! And then two of my worlds will collide like drunks in Mack trucks--Steve is going to take her out while she's in NYC! So weird.

See, Blondie and I have been best friends for eight years now, since we were reckless young things, not a care in the world--and I've never even met Steve! Isn't that crazy? I'm glad they're going to hang out, though--Letting her loose in New York with no one to keep an eye on her is trubble.

...

It's still weird.

...

We watched Queer As Folk last night, and I'm greatly disappointed. Useless lessons I learned from this darling of the Showtime scene:

1) Everyone Is Gay. If you're a hotshot ad exec, go ahead and sleep with clients, especially if your boss is mad at you. If you fall off a ladder, have to go to the chiropractor, and while on the table you get a stiffy--hey, no problem. The good doctor will likely ask you to dinner, because hey, what a compliment! "Gee, doc--your cracking of my neck and adjusting my spine...it's so sexy!"

2) Blurting out "I love dick" to your mother and therapist will have no impact on your relationship with them. Specifically your mother. (In real life, that experience would lead to abject mortification, requiring multiple suicides to recover from the experience. We would both just die from embarassment.)

3) Hal Sparks is charming and attractive. snort.

...

I am having serious issues concentrating.

I'm not sure what happened to June and July, but next week is August, and I'm having a little freak-out. When, exactly, did this happen? I swear, summer used to last forever--Boy was just mentioning the other day how the space between school letting out and the 4th of July seemed like a lifetime when you were eight...We know now that it's barely a week. A more obnoxious individual might interject with "Time flies when you're having fun!!", but I tell you now that there is nothing fun about carrying boxes of unassembled furniture.

Yes, that was our yesterday--another blissful double-date to IKEA for shelves and cabinets and coasters that look like eyeballs, followed by THREE trips to THREE separate Home Depots, on top of a two and a half hour hair appointment first thing in the morning! And somewhere in there was dropping one load of furniture off at our house so we could fit a barbeque box in the back of the Lezbaru, and one stop at Quincy's new apartment (which is three floors up, no elevator--good exercise but damn, guys. I'm glad you got movers!). Busy busy day.

It was good because we all had shit to get done--but I'm voting that next time we do it on a day when it's NOT 90F outside and I'm NOT wearing long canvas pants. I defied the "ladies don't sweat, they glow" edict and sweated like a hog all damned day.

Also, I vote that we start doing things other than go to IKEA and Home Depot on the weekends--all four of our weblogs are going to start sounding reeeally redundant. Maybe take up skydiving? Underwater basketweaving? Or perhaps we'll just let things settle, start enjoying our new homes and diversions (media room, anyone?). So much to do still.

...

We had a half-drunk-on-exhaustion-and-almost-heatstroke conversation last night over chicken marsala and garlic bread at Mitchelli's--something about déja vu and dream recognition. I keep trying to piece it together in my brain, but I was so very very tired last night. Boy had mentioned his panic attack from last week, how everything that was happening that day (be it walking up a flight of stairs or brushing his teeth) had happened in his dreams the night before--Did it really happen in his dreams, or did he just think it did? I wish there was a way to record these dramas that occur nightly in our heads--I could make a fortune with video of that dream I had last week where Luke Skywalker performed heart surgery on a monkey.

...

Just spent 35 minutes listening to a coworker's excruciatingly boring vacation story--I felt bad for being so bored, but ugh. At least I didn't have to suffer the photos...or a slide show! Those are the worst. She did say that she'd have her photos back later this afternoon--good thing I'll be in training for the rest of the day!

...

Let's see, what else...Oh! I've got a few folks I'd like to pimp:

First, I'll tell you all again to take a look at what Jaynee has done with Cootiehog--she's been a great resource of support during these trying house-hunting and home-buying times.

Next, there's Susan, a local blogger with a charming tendency towards enthusiasm--positively darling.

Then there's (don't click up on his lizzink if coworkers can see your monitor!) Mikey, who's pimped my link and left fairly flattering remarks in the comments section--I'm lobbying for a G-rated skin for his weblog so I can read it at work. Or at the very least, maybe you can feature girls who aren't so obviously pr0nstars? Heh.

Snowgoon is Gordon, whom I mistakenly thought was an old schoolmate but have since learned the folly of my assumptive ways. He's a good read, lots of nummy links.

My latest favorite find is 12% Beer--it appears to be a group of Diaryland users--good christ, but they're funny.

And really, that's all I've got for now. I'll add them to the links section soon enough--just find me an extra five minutes in the day in which to do so!

(hey, if I forgot you--drop me a line and make sure I pimp your link!)

Best Google Referral Ever.

And then yesterday I got this one. How sad.

...

Then the Psd to HTML or PSD to CSS conversion is carried out by hard coding the image to fit into HTML frames or layers

The washer and dryer delivery was TWO HOURS LATE--and when they say "free delivery", they mean just that: They deliver the two appliances, take the packaging, and run. No installation. No hooking up of hoses or vent-things or even plugging them in! Do you think they would stack our stackable machines? Of course not! That would be providing some satisfaction for consumers! So I call The Depot, because they sold us the stupid machines--"Not our problem!" they say. "Call the manufacturer, they're the ones who deliver it!" So I call fucking GE. And I sit. On hold. For another 45 minutes. And then I talk to a rep who sounds like Sam Elliot, so I'm subconsciously thinking of Beef--It's What's For Dinner (actually, dinner is pizza delivered almost at midnight. rawk.)...and the customer service guy says there's nothing they can do! He calls the delivery contractor, but gets no answer...and THEN he tells me that Home Depot was wrong when they told me "free delivery" meant setup and installation--the GE guy says that every delivery contractor has different standards and there's no way they can guarantee any of that. "What about right here on my delivery contract where it says 'delivery, setup and installation of any electric units [these machines are], removal of packaging', that actually just meant 'dump the machines and run'?" I ask--and he says he has no answers for me. I ask him for the delivery contractor's phone number, he doesn't want to give it to me, so I reach through the phone and grab him by the neck, throttle him within an inch of his life, and he gives me the number. I write it down, drink a soda, and stuck the number in a drawer. I am a pussy-ass bitch.

Actually, no--I just didn't have it in me after unleashing hell upon GE.

And then Dad shows up. He really saved our asses on this--this was no case of just lifting the dryer up on the washer. First, Boy had to buy hose extenders, because the spigots for the washing machine are on one side of the laundry alcove...and the drain for the washer is on the other. So he gets the hoses. While he does that, Dad and I start taking apart the top of the washer, flipping brackets and installing new steel tabs and taking the legs off the dryer and--oof. Boy comes home with hoses in tow (and for free--The Depot attempting to make amends for this whole debacle), so we deal with that, move the washer into place by the drain, lift the dryer and slide it into place, plug the washer in, go to plug the dryer in...and guess what.

The dryer cord is too. damned. short. It doesn't reach the outlet.

sigh.

Long day, for a weekend. I made a good-sized dent in putting away clothes, finished the last two boxes of kitchen stuff (can't any of the cabinets and drawers be standard sizes? One drawer is too short for things, one drawer is too shallow, one is deep and long enough but just a wee bit too narrow...oof). Tomorrow will let me make a bigger dent, but I think I'll wait a bit for the yard work. Eogan, don't think you're getting out of it! ;-)

...

Oohh, dinner's here!

My first lazy weekend-morning journal entry--I must tell you, everything feels so different from before. We used to have perfect morning sunlight streaming through french doors, brilliant and white--in this new bedroom, morning light is reflected off the maple and flowering plum, distinctly yellow-green and sickly. I like our afternoon light, when it filters through those trees and loses the greenish tinge--but I think I'll survive this morning blur.

...

We finally christened the house yesterday--Boy came home a little early from work, I took a long, hot shower and shaved my legs (that's not all!) for the first time in weeks...Between packing and cleaning and painting and moving...bleargh.

It felt like we were in bed for hours, and I don't remember the last time I've orgasmed like this--flat on my stomach, head over the foot of the bed, legs kept spread by his while he teases me with the riding crop--it could have only been better if he'd cuffed each hand to a bedpost.

...

he's so snuggly and warm this morning--it's hard to believe we were fighting like cats in a sack last night. It was so stupid! I refuse to have any more arguments over my bastard father, he's not worth this much stress.

It's such a dilemma, though--Dad wants us to pay half a month's rent because we moved out on the 15th of July...which would be understandable if we hadn't already paid our rent for the month. See, we've been paying from the 15th to the 15th, which worked well for all parties involved...only now dad is using his revisionist sensibilities and saying we owe an extra half-month. balderdash.

And here's the rub--he won't talk to Boy about it, he'll just keep pestering me, bullying me until I give in--and he'll do it in the most manipulative manner possible, bringing up all the work he's done for us on the new house as reason for why I should feel guilty for not paying half a month's rent that I don't owe!!

I am envious of normal paternal relationships. Why can't my dad just be human, forgodssake? Everything has to turn into this huge stressful mess. What a jerk.

...

I should get up, put clothes on, maybe brush my hair? The washer and dryer get delivered today!

Mediocre superpowers:
-always knowing the top four answers on Family Feud.
-being able to floss behind that last molar.
-permanent half-erection.

...

Saw The Secret Dangerous Life Of Altar Boys tonight with D and Q--it was beautiful. I vowed to hate those Culkin boys, but Kieran's got a little more upstairs than his brother Macaulay (and he's smart enough to stay away from that pedophile freak). That movie made me cry.

Oh, who am I kidding--everything is making me cry. I miss my family.

I've also been thinking of other past-happenings (the Ex, Spike and Adam aside)--namely the Kate Incident, of which I've spoken many a time in this journal. I heard from Zeke or Muffin or someone that she was home (for the summer? I don't know, it seems like she should have graduated this year like everyone else) but what does that even mean to me anymore? It's been three and a half years since we spoke, three years since I saw her last--there was that Spring Break party at Campbell's where I got loaded on my way over to the party and spent the next four hours doing shots of Bacardi Limon with silly drunk boys and shooting dirty looks at her shorn and defiant head. That was the last party at Campbell's for me.

So, Kate. What to do? I ask myself the same questions every time she pops up--What made us forsake 15 years of friendship? What would I have to say to her now? "Nothing" would sufficiently answer both questions. Stupid foolish hot-headed youth.

I'm going to end up running in to her at some point this summer--the city is too small, our interests too similar, circles of acquaintances too overlapping for an eventual meeting to be avoided. I hate the waiting, I'd rather just get it over with! but I'm sure the waiting will be better than the actual meeting. "Awkward" wouldn't begin to describe it. Should I play it cool? Go with false sincerity? Pretend I don't recognize a face that I dream about more often than I care to admit? Shrug. We'll worry about that when the time comes.

And when the time comes, I hope I'm not wearing scungy running pants and my clogs. I hate it when that happens.

The point I did not make with that email to the ex just posted is that after a few months of that endless cycle of empty fucking, I grew up, got tired of it, met Boy, and lived happily ever after. I don't say those things to the Ex because it just depresses him--and his life is depressing enough, doesn't need my help!

My boss just started making fun of the way my evil coworker walks (very slow and plodding, somewhat like a turtle with her head bobbing up and down slightly) and I tried not to laugh--but I couldn't help it, and she only made me laugh harder when she laughed, and she said, "Was that mean of me?" and I couldn't lie! "Of course it was--but it was funny, and that makes up for it" says I, and I proceed to tell the story of my blond-surfer-physics-teacher (not the tutor, with whom I had relations) who often said words that I have taken deeply to heart:

"Humor at other peoples' expense is Still Humor"

and thus, I strive to live my life in that manner. By making fun of people.

Busy day yesterday--I'm training to become a trainer (the linguist in me gets squeezy when I say that) for our new wholesale system at work, so there went six hours of my day. Top that off with giving a coworker a ride down to the Industrial District and a ($220) stop at The Depot for gardening tools (I got a rake for three dollars! and a hoe. heh.), a potential drawer pull for the kitchen cabinets (didn't work), and fire detectors--Oh, and a $200 shower head and spigot. Gotta take those back, stupid impulse purchases. Anyway, busy day.

And today...well, at least Mother Nature is cooperating by providing me with a nice gray day to match my not-so-nice gray mood.

My family is gone. No last-goodbyes, they left in the dead of night so they could practice night navigation and staying up and such for those long stretches of ocean voyage--I really thought I'd be okay with this. I saw them the other night when we met them at the boat--sat and cracked crab legs fresh from the Sound and laughed and they told all my embarassing boat stories again (you know, like when I got my head stuck in a porthole, or when I was going to jump from the boat to the dock with the lines but freaked out midway and did this flip thing and ended up hanging from the cap rail screaming my head off in the middle of Sydney Harbor? those stories)...But I miss them already.

Boy and I sat in bed last night watching Trading Places (Dan Akroyd and Eddie Murphy, not Paige Davis and Vern Yip), eating ice cream and rubbing moocow's belly--our own little family. This is the only thing that keeps me from losing my mind with grief.

Well, that, and the oppressive amount of work that still needs doing--we've barely started unpacking, and the yard grows wilder by the day. This weekend is it! Everything gets put away (I have GOT to find the bag that has my underwear in it--I'm wearing Boy's microfiber boxer-briefs today for lack of my own bikinis and g-strings) and at least one or two of the raised beds gets cleaned out, dammit!

Now, because I'm fairly wiped out and (as always) strapped for time, here are some excerpts from yesterday's emails:

To the Ex, who asked if good things were happening:

Yes, many good things are happening! For one, I am eating chex mix and a peach! Also, I am now known department-wide as the resident expert on the new wholesale system we're implementing--my boss (who is almost functionally computer-illiterate) has heard of my prowess with the system and is duly impressed! These are all good things.

Also, I've been contemplating The Past, specifically Our Past--remember that summer after we broke up and you'd email once in a while or I'd email you, and we'd make plans to hook up and I'd run around lighting candles and choosing appropriately non-romantic-but-still-fuckable-music and you'd show up in the dark, it was all hot and sultry and completely sexy and I thought I would die every time you left.

To Spike, one of the ex-lovers (you know, the one who wrote that deleriously blushable email to me a while back), who wanted a response to this:

I think it was the first night, we were having sex, and it had to have been
later on, because I distinctly remember really feeling you (ie, not wearing
anything). I was on top, and you had your legs wrapped around me, and it
didn't feel like *just sex*. It's because of the sounds you made. ... Most of the sex I remember with her (his ex-wife) felt like she was using me, and not in a good way. Like I coulda been anyone, very removed from everything else going on. And otherwise she was very quiet, unless it was her getting off on me, not with me.

So with you, it felt mutual. Like we were both present. And that came out in
your voice, your sighs, your passion...yeah, that's the word. I don't know
if safe is the right word or even "right", but something about that moment, that night, was very intense in a good way. I guess it was like finally being with someone at the same time, after so long of not being there, being removed.

So he's wanted a response to that, and what can I say? He makes me all flustered and unsure, I keep saying that, but here's what I ended up saying:

I like muffins.

These two things are connected, can you see? There's a pattern.

Sigh. Still more to think about.

And then there was more work bullshit that I emailed to Steve, but that can wait. I know you only come here for sexy bits. And the house news, yeah? It's a weird dichotomy. Would this be considered pandering to my readers, posting sexy emails with someone I haven't seen in years? Probably. You love me anyway.

I'm Back!

I know, you've been waiting with baited breath to hear every detail of my last six days...but you're going to have to wait some more.

...

Ha ha, just kidding! But seriously--I don't want to bore you with the inconsequential stuff, there's really only so much "Today we cleaned. and then painted. And then painted some more. And then I sat down and burst into tears because I'm so overwhelmed with the things that need doing" that you can take! Instead, I'll offer you Lessons I've Already Learned In My First Week Of Homeownership:

-Think the place will be clean when you move in? Not on your life. Invest in the makers of 409 and learn to love steel wool.

-I'm great with a caulking gun. Not so much with the spackle. Think a coat of paint will hide it? No way. Do it right, and use sandpaper.

-Learn to love your new home's imperfections--Are all the doors on upside down? That's character!

-Bamboo is my new worst enemy.

-Even if it seems like you "really don't have that much stuff" (famous last words), do take the time to pack for your move. Using the moving truck as "one really big box" doesn't work so well. Even if you stick newspapers in the cracks to keep stuff from moving around. Especially if your giant teevee has wheels.

-If your Evil Grandmother offers to bring you a casserole to save you from eating crap for dinner since you're so busy...just accept it graciously. Even if she brings you "Tuna Chopstick Surprise".

-When in doubt, call the professionals. Or my dad.

-Keep saying Thank You. In fact, let me take this opportunity to thank again Dave and Quincy for their absolutely invaluable assistance with cleaning and painting, Zeke for painting the blue room, my dad and his girlfriend for the 500 pounds of yard waste we took to the dump on Sunday (and giving the kitchen a good scrub), Jamie for her taping skillz and quick hand with the roller, our (old) neighbors Tom and Nancy (old in that they've been our neighbors at the old house, not that they're particularly old--well, they *are* older, but not elderly. capisce?) for taping and painting and cleaning moss off the roof and lending us the pressure washer and most of all helping us move on Sunday morning. Thanks to my brother, though he be a pain in the ass, and to his friend Troy whom I've known since he was a wee one. Thanks also to the (as Boy described it) "post-apocolyptic, Mad-Maxish" Handy Andy Scary Rentals for the truck that gave me a heart attack to drive, and the hand truck that kept slamming against the back of the driver's seat when I would pull up to a light and make me think that I was being shot. Thanks to Boy for not yelling at me too much, and thanks to ME for staying (relatively) organized.

Damn. That's a lot of thanks.

So, you can guess how busy we were? There were 14 hour days! Days where all I ate were five chicken nuggets from Wendy's and three cans of Code Red! All in all, it was So. Much. Work. But for good reason, right? All for the house. It's looking pretty damned respectible, for having owned it for a week. We've got everything but the kitchen and bathroom painted, and 99.9% of the trim left to do--but who's counting? The living room and dining room are a delicious taupe-y, latte-ish color; the master bedroom is our favorite Restoration Hardware silver sage; spare bedroom ended up a weird blue that's really only slightly pretty but the can was $5! which overruled the almost-ugly color (what do we care? We'll never sleep in there).

Moving was (still is, actually--one more load tonight) grueling. Worst move ever. We really should have prepared more, but as Boy points out--where would we have put the stuff we were packing? Nowhere to put it until we had the keys to the house, and even then--dropcloths and paint trays and wet rollers galore.

I didn't realize until Sunday morning that we'd spent our last night in the old house--I'll likely never sleep there again, not until my dad croaks and leaves it to me and my brother, and at the rate he's going it'll be years before that happens, heh. Another chapter closed--it's sad, but I can't manage to be too down about it, not with the new house! new house! overabundant exclamation marks, I know. but the new house!

The new house! has also helped keep my mind off of things like: my brother hating me for practically abandoning him. me practically hating my job. my parents leaving tomorrow. Y'know, the usual, right?

I can't believe my parents are leaving tomorrow.

I have a secret confession--I think it will be a relief to have them gone for a little bit. Oh sure, I'll miss them more than anything...but they're so much work. So much drama and strife! Also, the sooner they're gone, the sooner I can begin the mourning process and the sooner we can get on with our lives. And that's what it's all about, right? Me me me me meeeeeeee.

...

It's weird being at a computer again after six days away--I can't quite get my fingers working right, and my brain is all scatty. Oh wait, maybe that's just the exhaustion speaking! Who knows. Either way, I've got tons to catch up on at work, so back to that!

post!

Again, busy. Not only do I have my stuff to deal with, but seven hours with the IS consultants isn't helping! It's so quiet up here today, I'm really not used to it. There are no speakers on this machine, so I can't plug music in (somebody please please please buy me an iPod) and every 45 minutes or so, the IS guys all get up and leave for another meeting, so there's no one to talk to! I'd start talking to myself (nothing new), but I'm trying to make a good impression.

Three hours and 21 minutes until I leave for six days. No, not a vacation--this is better. Speaking of our weekend plans, here's what I sent out to our bestest pals this morning:

Hey folks--

p.p.s-I know you're at camp, Blondie--but the $24 in beads and trinkets is for you! And Manhattan.

Oh! If you thought I was being exclusionary--you're wrong. Live in the Seattle area? Want to help us paint? You're totally welcome to.

And if we're painting the house this weekend, guess what we need! Paint. And brushes and rollers and dropcloths and tape and thinner and trays and...You see where this is going. Off I go again to The Depot. Hello, Glidden; Goodbye, Libido.

...

It was hot last night, and not a breeze to be found--I was tempted to justboth french doors and sleep on the deck, but exhaustion had the better part of me, and I stuck to the bed.

Literally.

Woke up around 2, tossed the cat outside and made Boy put his toys away, drifted off into a blissful...4 hours of blurry, sweaty dreams. Two nights ago I dreamed that the CBS morning newscopter had gone berserk and was shooting at my office--last night I dreamed of oceans and endless sky and not being able to see any land, which is easily my worst nightmare.
Well, that and werewolves with staplers.

...

After yesterday's shockingly intimate post, I've had a hard time getting the urge to blog--Where do I go from there? It had been a long time since I'd posted anything thaty sexual--I've been writing entries that you wouldn't believe, but saving them up for the members' site. (aside: if you've been chomping at the bit for news on that--ha! Yes, I've got sooo much time to devote to my budding pr0n career. You obviously haven't been reading. And for those of you who are waiting patiently--your devotion will be justly rewarded once things settle down.) So, do I post here with hazy memories of Slutdom? Steve says yes, while I say I was too slutty to post here. Sure, you can read about how I got banged in a movie theatre, but some things are just...better told in person, I guess.

Steve also suggests that I tell tales of my Nerve conquests--again, I remind you that my memory is awfully hazy. There were certainly encounters worth some mention and a fond smile or two--The Cult Member, who lured me to the middle of nowhere before telling me that his "school" had him studying transmographication by telekinesis (unwarranted but sound advice: if they tell you they can make gold coins fall from the sky, stick around and see if it happens, but not for more than a couple of minutes. And never turn your back on them. If they tell you they can make rolls of toilet paper float in the air? Run.)

Then there was That Bastard Who Stole My Pie Plate--gawd, can I just get over this already? He fucked like a jackhammer and never cleaned his cat's litter box. He took me to The Exorcist on our first date. (more unwarranted but still sound advice: if someone takes you to the most horrific movie ever on your first date, run. it's most likely a sign of what's to come.) He rode this sexy hybrid bike, half-sport half-tour and not a BMW, and took my best friend to breakfast. We played more Soul Calibur than should be admitted about a six-week relationship, and when I beat him at bowling on a double date with his best married friends, he had a tantrum and sat in a corner polishing his ball. Looooooser.

And then Cassandra--my first actual "date" with a woman instead of just having drunken unintentional threesomes--she was a proofreader and it showed, spoke very precisely and half-winked on occasion. We had dinner at Septieme on Broadway, and drank a bottle or two of Merlot before stumbling down to B&O Espresso for desserts that never got eaten. She said "let's blow this popsicle stand" (which seemed delightful at the time and now just remains somewhat trite) and walked to my car, where she sat me gently on the hood of that junky mustang and went to town under my long faux-suede skirt. Payed no heed to the residents of that (relatively) quiet street, found my nipples under a linen sweater and (what was I, dressed like a 40-something divorcée with pagan leanings?) worked her magic there, too.

And then she never called again. I got slightly bitter--we'd gotten along well, and while neither of us were looking for something long-term I certainly didn't expect the rapid retreat! I moped for a few days before having three Tanq'n'tonix while writing (what at the time seemed like) a scathing email, "If I wanted that kind of treatment, I'd have gone out with a man"...Where did that come from? I haven't been a man-hater for a long time, not since I started getting fucked.

Things really haven't gotten much better with my female love-interests since, unfortunately. O, woe is me, who can't get pussy without dealing with all these pounds of baggage (hey, they're not all mine. You know who I'm talking about.)--a day will come when I meet the stripper of my dreams, and lo, she will come unto me and Boy and live happily ever after in our spare room.

What, you don't have unreasonable fantasies? That's where my poly-leanings are rooted, in this loony fantasy about having a triad with a stripper.

...

Swamped. Posts will likely be light over the next six days, but you all know why and will be understanding. Don't stop checking back, though--I'm on a roll with this conquest-business!

Another busy day at work--that evil bitch of a coworker doing her best to make me look like a schmuck, too! I got her good, and got in good with my boss in retaliation. That'll teach her to tell me her deepest secrets.

I left work somewhat early yesterday (well, I came in early, too) so I could go straight home and get going on the packing--but just Guess What I Did. I don't even need to say it, do I?

I did Nothing Productive. Stopped at my mom's on my way home from work, where I got wrangled into doing touch-up work on the trim near the back door--and let me advise you all now: when someone asks you to paint while wearing $80 sandals, just bow out gracefully.

Headed home with great intentions of getting some boxes packed before Boy got home from work, but what did I do instead? Had an hour long conversation with one of the aforementioned ex-lovers, and I blush at the memory. I've mentioned him on more than one occasion--the boy I was seeing on the side when I was dating poor Todd? The married one, remember? He's all divorced and grown up now, and responding to my request from last week for the half-dozen or so ex-lovers who actively read my weblog drop me a line and remind me of our (most likely brief) time together. (Note to self: Stop asking ex-lovers what they liked about sex with you.)

He made me blush! Shocking. I'm the cool and collected one, right? Pfft, guess not. And as if the conversation wasn't enough to curl my toes, he made a good attempt at it in a half-drunken email:

...you were razor-sharp smart, and that was sexy. And you had great eyes, you kept looking at me so intensely. And your lips were the most sexy thing about you, I don't know what it was exactly, but I liked them a lot.

...I have flashes. I remember positions, you on top of me, me behind you, me on top of you. Coming together, so it seemed. Waking up with you, in your big bed, already started on more sex. You telling me something about my eyes or kissing me or somesuch thing...

See? I'm blushing just reading it. I'm tempted to not even post this, it feels so intimate--again, surprising. It was a little fling two+ years ago, with a married man, whom I never expected to hear from again! And still, I blush.

Fear not, faithless readers--my life is "too complicated" for him these days...but just complicated enough to keep him reading, heh.

...

It's been a Depeche Mode day through and through--I don't know why, it's not at all appropriate. Usually I listen to the DM when it's dark and rainy and I'm feeling entirely too aggressive for my own good, but today isn't like that at all! I'm feeling all peppy and bright, the sky is clean and blue--Almost sickeningly peppy and clean, I might add. Where is the filth? Where is the perversion? Lost it on my way to Home Depot.

I'm serious--the more I think about the house, the less I'm thinking of sex and depravity. Yikes. Perhaps after a few hours of back-breaking physical labor alongside a sweaty and manly Boy, I'll be back to my usual freaky-deaky self.

Or perhaps I'll be passed out on the floor from fumes! Who knows.

Okay, where was I? Oh! Saturday. IKEA, milkshakes, BestBuy, Pirates, and dinner on the sofa while we introduced Dave and Quincy to Six Feet Under and Oz. We spent the whole day together! All of us! Together! Now that's love, folks.

Sunday was a great deal less social--Just me and Boy and...another trip to BestBuy. Followed by another trip to Home Depot, and do you know why? Because BestBuy had our washer and dryer on sale, and we wanted The Depot to meet and beat their price. We got the meet part right, at least--and now we have a brand new washer and dryer! Holy crap. Here's where everything involving the house becomes concrete--We Have Purchased A Home. And dropped a cool thousand bucks on a washer and dryer, heh. It only gets worse from there, people keep telling me.

Oh, and here's the deal with the House.Log--I'm trying to figure out a way to publish it in a place where my parents and their friends can read it, since they're so intrigued by the idea of an "Internet Journal"--but (obviously) I don't want them getting their hands on this "Internet Journal". That would be what we'd call disastrous. So as soon as I figure out where to put the House.Log, you'll get to start reading.

...

I'm trying SO HARD to just keep my mouth shut on the whole house deal--that's what the separate weblog is for--but I can't! It's too damned exciting. Boy is signing the papers today at 11, and we get the keys Wednesday night, at which point I'll be doing a quick clean before prepping for paint--I'm hoping that the two of us (and maybe my brother and a friend) can get at least one or two rooms done on our own. Some of you have volunteered your services, and it's so greatly appreciated!! But I don't want you to stop loving me. I'm a slave-driver with the paintbrush.

Here's the schedule so far (I'll probably cross-post this in the House.Log when I get it situated):

Monday = Signing. Silently panic while eating lunch, frantically call Boy who is terse and also silently panicking while signing eight million pages of paper, half of which promise our firstborn in exchange for quarter of a million dollars.

Tuesday = Freaking out. Oh, and packing. Did I mention we've barely started packing?

Wednesday = More freaking out. Keys handed over. Clean clean clean.

Thursday = Paint prep, painting, freaking out, packing, painting, freaking, rinse, repeat.

Friday = HURRY UP AND FINISH PAINTING. Freak out at how much the bamboo in the back yard has grown. Paint paint paint.

Saturday = Finish up any last minute painting first thing in the morning (or paint through the night, if need be), another quick clean, then start moving stuff from the old house.

Sunday = Move some more stuff. Have the Bon Voyage Party at the old house, so leave some chairs there. Make everyone leave, and then move some more. Finish moving. Fall down, dead tired.

I hope I've scheduled enough time for freaking out.

...

Work is SO DAMNED BUSY, which only compounds everything else. On the plus side: I'm taking Thursday through Tuesday off! But that means I have to finish everything right. this. minute.

Sunday night--four long days with no word from me, and no one bats an eye. How long would it take for you to wonder what happened? I had fleeting thoughts of just waiting to hear from someone, anyone--"Where are you? I miss your brilliant insight into hating your job and latin popstar hair!"--but I figured it would be that closer to labeling myself as Pathetic Loser, so here I am.

It's been a long holiday weekend, and I hate to be too predictable but dear christ I don't want to go to work tomorrow. The 4th was absolutely as I'd expected it to be--slept a little late, had a lazy breakfast before heading over to check in at Mom's, then off to look at appliances and stop in at our (soon-to-be) second home, The Depot. (That's courtesy of daddy dearest--He and Home Depot are like this) Down to illustrious stepfather's office for barbequed everything and extra-boozy margaritas--my nether-regions ache just walking in that place. Something about a thirty foot conference table and the best view of Puget Sound you'll ever see screams fuck me.

We had a good time, despite being the first to arrive (hey, if I'd known that no one else would be showing up for another two hours, I would have timed things differently.)--we ate and laughed and watched Independance Day until Dave and Quincy and Alex showed up, and then we ate and laughed some more.

Half an hour before the fireworks started, and we were tearing into the ten gallon barrel of Baskin-Robbins' finest that Illustrious Stepfather had picked up on his way down to the party--did you know that you can get those tubs (you know, the ones they scoop the ice cream out of?) for like thirty bucks? Holy crap! That was a lot of ice cream.

All in all, a good time, even if some asshole did steal our beer.

...

Friday was entirely lost to helping clean and paint mom's house. Eleven hours of it. I came home feeling disgusting, took a 45 minute shower, and felt so rejuvenated that I insisted on going out to the movies (Insomnia, and it was wretched. I don't know if it was the movie or the paint fumes or the eleven hours of physical labor, but I walked out of there feeling like I hadn't slept in days). I was so pumped! I should do that all the time! I should quit my job and work construction!

And then halfway through the movies my fingers started tingling.

And then the next day, I had arms of lead. O dear lord in heaven, The Pain.

What better to assuage the tinglyness and leaden arms but shopping? Off to IKEA we went after another leisurely breakfast with Dave and Quincy--and had the couple-y-est day ever. Two hours at IKEA (two bookshelves, a new dining room pendant lamp, some wicker baskets for the bookshelf we haven't bought yet, uh...there was a ton of stuff. Oh! A mirror for over the fireplace. And a butcher block!), then a rejuvenating stop at the ubiquitous Red Robin for milkshakes and cokes before heading to BestBuy. We all drooled over the ubersexy HDTV's and bought...well, not teevee's, that's for sure. I got SimsVacation (haven'td it yet. I'm terribly excited, though) and a cd visor for my car, and Dave bought the BEST FUCKING GAME IN THE WORLD for XBox--Pirates! Too excellent.

And we showed them the house! And they loved it! And I'm going to give Dave a raised bed or two for his very own use! It'll be like a P-Patch, but much more selective.

Oof. Just writing about the weekend is exhausting. More tomorrow, I'm close to falling asleep on the keyszneoausbvnn./ a....................zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Her room! I meant to talk about my kid sister's room, not my strange book-moving phenomenon (although it's still a mystery to me--how did I manage to get rid of ten boxes of books in four years? Maybe I've just become a more space-efficient packer? That's possible, but I thought I'd had enough practice in the 18 years previous--not necessarily books, but packing my life, curse those divorced parents.), but about some of the things she's accumulated. It wasn't the 12,473 crayons I found (and threw away), nor was it the pile of rocks and shells and interesting sticks (threw them away, too--and it broke my heart. I found my own box of rocks and shells and sticks, collected over years and years of sailing and diving and the like--and I threw them away. What will I ever do with a rock that looks like a Cubist experiment in miniature sculpture? Or four small sticks tied together with yarn? Nothing, that's what. I'll never remember where I found them, or why they were important enough to keep, so into the trash they go.)--it was the copy of the Communist Manifesto on the floor under her desk that caught my eye and made me giggle.

My 9 year old sister is a Communist.

...

Speaking of remembering...I'm having a worse time of it. I guess the things I'm forgetting aren't that big a deal in the long run--I still remember my name and where I live and why I get up in the morning (well, I'm fuzzy on that last one.), but I'm forgetting things like dentist appointments and the names of boys I fucked two years ago, when I was at the peak of my slutdom (the last time I used the phrase "peak of slutdom", some prudish closeted no-good bastard said, "More like the nadir of your slutdom", which made me kick them. I revel in my sluthood, and I don't need the fucking Ethical Slut to do it.)

Again, it's really not that big a deal--I can reschedule with the dentist, and apart from a few key players with whom I'm still in contact, why would I need to remember those boys' names? I haven't forgotten the girls, but then there are far fewer of them to remember--I think my ratio is something like 4:1.

I've been curious, though--do they remember me? my name, my face, the shape of my ass--I've always figured I was fairly memorable, but perhaps that's just the égoiste in me.

Then again...quite obviously, they were not the most memorable bunch--don't get me wrong, there were some great ones here and there! But the majority of those boys and men left little to no impression on me, and in retrospect...Well, if I think too hard about it, it makes me feel a little dirty. I used to say "I'm glad I experimented and sowed my wild oats! It's made me a better lover!" and it has! But...um...oh, never mind. I don't know where I'm going with this, other than In Circles.

If I ever buy an island in the South Pacific, I'm going to turn it into an exclusive and prohibitively expensive tourist mecca, and I'll call it In Circles.

"Where are you going?" "In Circles, but of course!"

...

Very heavy blog-day, wouldn't you say? I've had little to do, and I really don't care anymore. Steve says this morning, "Isn't that the worst, when you just stop caring?" and I'll agree in part--it makes it very difficult to appear efficient and occupied when I keep getting up to fill my water bottle (even though it's only half empty), bum some chewing gum from a coworker, write six blog entries...

But what do I care?

Actually, I still care a little. The barest minimum of caring.

...

Wait, I do know where I was going with the boys-I've-fucked diatribe--Are you an ex-lover of mine? Do you remember anything about when we were involved? Do me a favor--drop me a line, I've got a couple questions. You'll be generously compensated for your participation in this study, and may be eligible for our Grand Prize Drawing, to be held in January of 2003!

Seriously. I know you're out there--at least six of you are reading this.

Gawd, I am such a slut.

It's not just that the cat's missing, although that's traumatic enough--but he's one last link to my family, one little furry part of them that I can hold and remember things like when I used to wear him around my neck like a mink stole when he was a mushy little kitten.

Enough, I have to stop thinking about it. He'll come home, I'm sure he will.

...

The other day when I was at Mom's, they put me in charge of dealing with my sister's bedroom--she's such a packrat! The force is strong in that one--mom's the same way, and I'll admit that I harbored packrat-tendencies...until I started moving. When I first moved out of Mom's house, I had eighteen boxes of books with me. Eighteen. Holy crap. And I left four more boxes at her house (Heh, I just picked those up this week. It's like Christmas in July! I have tons to re-read now, but some of it I'll have to just get rid of automatically--when am I ever going to read fucking Anne Rice again? Maybe Cry To Heaven, that was a gorgeous book, but Interview With A Vampire? Yeesh). Last time I moved? Eight boxes of books. How on earth did that happen? I know I've bought tons of books in the last five years...Literally. Tonnage. And I hate getting rid of books. Ah, well. It's likely for the best.

...

This article on CNN.com is worth a bemused chuckle:

"Rest assured, Web surfers. The Internet will keep running even if WorldCom Inc. goes under, technology analysts say."
Oh, good. The internet will keep running. It breaks so easily these days, I'd hate to see the whole damned thing get turned off.

Only six more hours until four days of freedom--and you know they're going to be loooong. It'd be bad enough if I were just wanting to get out of here to get the weekend started, but it's worse--the cat got out at some point last night or this morning, and he hasn't come home. He's in a strange neighborhood! With fiercely territorial neighbor-cats! And he may or may not have eaten poison!!

That makes me sound like a paranoid loony, but it's true! I came home the other day to find ants in the back bedroom, so Dad tells me to spray Raid wherever I see ants. That would be on the carpet. So I spray. I try to keep the cat out, because he would walk on the poison, and that would be bad. But you can't keep a cat out of a room with a closed door! That makes them want it even more. He probably walked on the poison and then licked his feet and crawled out the kitchen window because the screen was half-unlatched and went off somewhere to die and we'll never ever find him.

I feel very bad for calling him that fucking cat yesterday or whenever that was. I also said something yesterday or maybe the day before about how I just wanted to give him back to my parents, he's so much trouble--He's really not! I just hate hate HATE having cat hair on me, anywhere. I hate the smell of cat food, and I hate it when he walks on my head in the night and keeps Boy up.

And now I hate that I've written an entire weblog post about a cat. I'm a dog person, through and through. I need to be needed by my pet, I don't like the aloof nature of cats. Dogs come running when you call them, they don't hide in bushes and laugh at you for panicking.

I miss my kitty.

You've probably already guessed--I didn't get the job. Not only did I not get the job, but they didn't even interview me, citing that the HR director had changed her mind and wanted someone with 3-5 years benefits experience. way to burst my bubble, folks.

I started feeling very very hopeless, like there was nothing I could do to change the path I'm on. In a way, it's true--there's no backing out now, what with house and pet and my parents making me take on extra responsibility.

There's no running away now.

...

I went to the new house yesterday on my way home from work--99% of the former tenants' stuff is gone...and they took the plants out of the ground even. It was like the Grinch Stole My Garden, and it kind of pisses me off. Of course, I'd be pretty pissed if my landlord didn't tell me they were selling my house and just some realtor put a sign up. I don't know that I'd go to the trouble of ripping plants out of the ground...but whatever.

...

sleep. need sleep and very very rough sex. I want bruises and welts, aching thighs and rope burns. The wanting is torture--frightening in its intensity, I've never been this hot for pain. But for now--sleep.

Too depressed to write. maybe later. A shiny nickel to the first reader who can guess why (steve, no nickel for you, you already know).

Another weekend with no posts--I firmly place all blame on the absolute fucking exhaustion that accompanies emptying a house of twenty years of possessions and packing only what will fit on 50 feet of sailboat. My god, the sheer volume of stuff--that factor alone would be hellatious enough, but add to that the upcominghouse (July 13th. Lawdy!) and all the painting that needs to be done before that...I'm still having moments of intense panic when I think about those things in conjunction with packing and moving my OWN DAMNED HOUSE.

Also, I got no sleep worth mentioning last night thanks to my darling Moo Cow who walked on our heads and climbed up the shutters in our bedroom window and miiiaaooooowwed incessantly until 3am, when Boy tossed him in the spare bedroom and shut the door.

I hate fucking cats.

Cat-owning coworkers say he'll setting down in about a week, he'll get used to all the new smells and sounds in our house (and the huge fucking lake he sees through the windows--he flipped out when he saw it for the first time yesterday)...and all just in time for him to get moved to the New House! Oof.

...

Steve is making his plans to visit us around Labor Day, and I'm appointing myself as Head Tour Guide And All-Around Excellent Hostess for the duration. Uh...I'd best start thinking of things to do for while he's here. Besides making him help paint the house, that is.

I had an insane moment this morning where I figured out how to get my brother to help us paint--I'll take all his money, and when he tries to get it back, I'll tell him I'll give him $100 for every wall he finishes painting. Of his own money. ha! Brilliant.

...

There was something else I meant to talk about...Oh! Friday night. We met Dave and Quincy for a quick dinner at Red Robin before heading to the movies--and I don't think I've ever felt as goddamned old as I did in that restaurant. Usually there's no problem, I can pretend to be a fruity coed because I'm most often with Blondie--but this time, we were four adults who have careers and own homes (or own a home, and rent an apartment, whaddev) and don't wear sun visors upside down and backwards. Also, our pants sit right where they're supposed to--it's difficult to buy consumer electronics and shop at IKEA when one must constantly be tugging at one's pants to keep them from falling down.

It was kind of creepy--from where we were seated, we could see all the motivational tools Red Robin management uses to keep their plastic serverbots grinning like idiots while fetching soda refills and boozy milkshakes. And their sales projections! I don't want to know that their goal is to move $2500 worth of undercooked hamburger and bottomless steak fries an hour! an Hour. That's a lot of fucking burgers and fries.

After dinner we went to the Neptune to see Minority Report--I was apprehensive about going after the last time we saw a movie there (remember how I loudly snored through almost the entire thing? It was that Coen Bros. movie, the black and white one with Billy Bob.) but there's no way I could sleep through anything as loud as Minority Report. I liked it more than I thought I would, though! Those retinal-scanner-spider-things looked scary in the trailers, but they were nothing compared to the (SPOILER ALERT--well, not exactly a spoiler, but if you haven't seen it and want to and don't want to know anything that happens, just give me a second to freak out about this detail) goddamned eye surgery!! Gross. And those precogs are disturbing. (okay, I'm done with the Faux Spoiler)

Also of note: If you were the gentleman who came into the very full, very dark theatre and called out to find your friend Marco--thanks much for the laugh. It's still funny, four days later--people all over the theatre (including Q) called out "polo!!", and Boy couldn't stop chuckling. I think he got more enjoyment out of that than he did out of the entire movie (we were all in agreement, the film was about 45 minutes too long).

...

Work is very busy, which means less time to work on my internal transfer application. But it's finished, at least my half--now I've got to wait for my fucking boss to stop not-talking to me and do her half. I'm more than a little nervous, but anything is better than this.

I keep saying that: Anything. Is. Better. Than. This.