How you know when it's time to take the Christmas tree down: you step into the living room and discover that the cats, in some sort of doomsday metaphor, have gotten to the beautiful feathered tree top angel, and she is now wounded on the carpet in a pile of down.
For the record, I have no idea why the "comment" link now reads "poseur." I assume it's French; I think you might poser une questionne. Or that might be complete frenglish--it's been awhile since college.
More thrashing around on the Eightfold Path tonight. I don't know. Is it possible to approach spiritual practice from a deductive standpoint? Inductive/deductive doesn't quite apply here--what I mean is, can one go from practice to belief or does the belief have to be there first to guide the practice? The problem is, I've never been very good at the latter, so the former may be necessary. Thrash.
While I was spending a pleasantly lethargic afternoon yesterday, alternately futzing around in the kitchen and lying on the floor reading, I came across a couple of quotes that made me sit up (not literally--please) and muse about the way the world shrinks when you're not looking. The book was Arkansas, a set of three supremely indifferent novellas by David Leavitt. I must have bought it at some book sale or other, but have absolutely no memory of the purchase. The inside flap summarizes one of the novellas as "a writer [experiencing] literary rejuvenation when he agrees to write term papers for UCLA undergraduates in exchange for sex," though, which is exactly the kind of sentence that would make me shell out for a used book. Anyway, moot point, I bought the book. The third novella, "Saturn Street," is about...some guys named Phil and something else--I dunno, they're not very engaging. But at one point Phil and the other guy are watching an old Star Trek episode on tv, and Phil says, "Now I've got the whole series on video. Not that I'm a Trekkie or anything. I mean, I don't go to the conventions, or read those fanzines where Spock goes into Vulcan heat on a desert planet and Kirk has to offer up his butt so he won't die. I just like the show." And I, of course, was all, "Hey! I like 'we're stranded in the wilderness and must keep each other warm!'" But it was kind of weird, to see slash fandom referenced in print, in a book with copyright date 1997.
Another strange quote was the one referencing the "Goofus and Gallant" column from the old Highlights for Children magazine: "Gallant asks, 'Am I hurting you?'" "Goofus says, 'Shut up and take every inch of it.'" This whacked me out because my buddy D, he of the low tolerance for incompetent waitstaff, has written a completely hysterical Goofus/Gallant slash story that, sadly, isn't currently available online. I believe it was "Goofus is Horny, Gallant is Aroused," and it was comic genius, and I am desperately curious if D had read this book before writing his story. With luck, I will see him tomorrow and can ask.
Aside from dozing and lying on the floor, I've been watching a lot of cartoons, because I got three DVDs of Beavis and Butthead for Christmas. I love Beavis and Butthead to a frightening extent. I can do the Beavis laugh. I'm wearing a Cornholio shirt right this second. And guess what? My favorite episode ever, even better than the one where B&B get speech therapy ("Butthead, you try making the S sound!" "Uhhhhh...first could you, like, lean way over and say it again?") is on one of the DVDs. It's the nosebleed episode--summary: Beavis gets a nosebleed--and it damn near made me cry with laughter the first time I ever saw it. I have a crude streak a mile wide ("My people, we have but one bunghole!"), and Beavis and Butthead are right smack in the middle of it.
This has also been a week for weird nightmares. I don't usually have an overabundance of threatening dreams, but this week I've had several. There was the ZombieVision one, a fairly standard horror trope where I would look at people and the image would flicker back and forth between normal and bloody and monstrous, and I didn't know which was real. This nightmare was memorable mostly for the scene in which I'm riding in a car and look over at the side of the highway to see a small pit barbecue joint with outdoor picnic tables. Seated on the wooden benches are four or five zombie families eating "lunch," and drooping limply over each table is the corpse of a golden retriever. When I refocus and look again, horrified, ZombieVision is gone, and it's just a regular barbecue joint.
Then there was the one where I'm back in my old neighborhood in Florida, except it's now biodomed and controlled by pod people. I manage to wriggle through a hole in somebody's fence and escape, but not before the sickening dream-running sequence, where I'm racing for my life but my legs don't work and the horizon doesn't get any closer but the pod people do.
There was also being stuck inside a strip mall at dusk as winged demons smash through the glass windows to carry off people in their claws. I was grabbing victims by the legs to drag them back down, but the demons were strong enough to lift multiple people.
Really, it's been a good vacation so far. I don't know what's up with the subconscious. Probably needs more exercise.
Today: marathon cleaning. Spent almost the entire day sweeping and vaccuming and mopping and chipping away at the layer of limestone that had formed around our bathroom sink, so the house would, according to the Hubster, "look nice for Jesus."
We went to mass this evening, possibly the first time the Hubster's been with me since we got married. The priest was Father H, a cheerful, doddering old man in his mid-eighties at least, the kind of guy where you just pray that he doesn't keel over before the end of the homily. I like him, although I hold my breathe every time I have to watch him mount the steps to the altar. After mass we drove around town looking for an open restaurant, mock-yelling at each other that we'd be forced to make our new Christmas tradition the partaking of the Holy Sourdough Jack Burger and the Blessed Side of Fries. That was not the case, thankfully.
I spent much of the evening cooking, and am now preparing to flop on the couch with a glass of eggnog and get misty-eyed over the season.
Merry Christmas to you who celebrate it. Good night.
Fluffed yesterday's update because I fell asleep on the floor at 9:30 last night. The Hubster got me into bed about 12:30, and I slept like a dead person until 9:30 this morning.
So I just got a call from my dad, an event I basically forced by calling and yelling into his answering machine: "Why is it that you do not call your daughter who loves you?! Phone tag! You're it!" which maybe wasn't the most mature way to handle the situation, but I hadn't spoken to him since July. One of us had to break the cycle of avoidance. Anyway, my dad says, "I've been meaning to call you, because a couple of weeks ago I googled my name and about a page and a half into the results I came across your name, and when I clicked the link I got directed to this website--" (Me: Ohgod, what's out there under my real name--) "--called RATales, and you wrote a horror story about a television character?" Me: (Oh thank God) "Yeah! Didja like it?"
Well. He didn't really answer that, being too busy conveying "amused yet vaguely appalled." But if he didn't, I don't know why the hell not, because it's a good story and he likes my writing style. And there's nothing even vaguely sexual about it, so I don't have to kill myself.
Still. Note to self: get in touch with your pseudonym.
Christmas Juggernaut, indeed. I have about four thousand more gifts to buy, wrap, and mail before next week, decorations to hang, and if I don't call or email some (okay, 99%) of my family members and express holiday goodwill they're going to disown me. Have massive guilt hangover as we speak.
Good things: our facility got a big chunk of change from someplace--a grant, I think--to buy gifts for our low income clients and their siblings. Most of my caseload now has a sack of wrapped presents waiting to go home with them next week. Ever seen a five-year-old spontaneously combust with excitement? It can be a beautiful sight.
The Hubster and I watched almost all of The Godfather on tv tonight, and he's now shuffling around the house mumbling about how back in Sicily he used to get respect. I'm tempted to have him whacked.
The Christmas pageant was breathtakingly cute, and JC did really well considering he was sitting on stage for half an hour. And EP and I have a whole new world of respect for this family, because the commute from JC's school to our facility took an hour and twenty minutes. One way. With absolutely no traffic.
Rainy and cold again today, and the dark seems to come earlier every evening. Days like these make me think of Alaska and wonder when the sun goes down up there.
I might be spending tomorrow evening on the road, heading to a smallish town about an hour north to attend one of my kids' Christmas pageants. I've only recently begun seeing JC, but EP, the occupational therapist, has seen him for a couple of months now and thought that it would mean a whole lot to the family if we took them up on their invitation. Mean a lot to the parents, anyway. JC himself is autistic as all get-out, and will not necessarily be able to flex his routine enough to handle therapists out of context. The Hubster, when I told him about it, said, "This is isn't going to end up as another revival, is it?" I was like, "No, certainly--hmm."
This is, after all, the Saved family on my caseload. This is the mom who, when JC whined, "I can't do it!" during my language evaluation, said, "Oh honey, yes you can. You can do all things through Christ who strengthens you." I don't say this judgementally--I have yet to see this family act in any way besides loving acceptance--but there is strong potential for "do you accept" here. Well. If I go, it'll be with EP, who's Seventh Day Adventist, so she'd be at least as squirmy as I would.
Job update: boss told us today that they're only going to hire for a part time speech therapist to replace JD, since my caseload is terminally low. Um, great? I get to stuff every available hole in my schedule with JD's kids, and then watch them fumble around trying to find someone who'll work the remaining odd hours?
Sigh. I shouldn't be complaining here--a full caseload means job security and less bitching about wanting me to shift my hours to later. I'm just dissatisfied in general.
I was slug-like again today, although when I woke up I had plans to shower and run and maybe do a little Christmas shopping for the Hubster. Granted, I did eventually bathe, and there was no way I was going outside to run in the rain with the temperature in the 50s (okay, that's not really cold, but it's chilly enough to be unpleasant when you're damp), but the rest of the day passed in a blur of mediocre fanfic. There are issues at work here, I think. Probably I should address them.
We also did not purchase a Christmas tree this weekend like we had planned. I'm a little leery of getting a tree this year, actually. I keep forgetting that we've only had Mr. Sinatra since February, so every time I think about a tree I'm lulled into this false sense of security that, no, Mr. S. won't graze on it and then puke needles in every corner of the house; he did just fine last year--oh wait. And Mr. S. isn't even the one I'm really worried about--I forsee many happy hours of plucking Zebadiah out of the tattered remains of my heirloom Christmas tree ornaments, or possibly out of the light fixtures after he scales the tree. I mean, he's young and reckless enough that I can shut him in the fridge and he thinks it's a fun adventure, like, maybe next time you could leave the lid off the margarine, huh? So he certainly isn't going to show any self-restraint around indoor vegetation.
Oh well. I guess since we're not going home this year, we have to make our own Christmas traditions.
Having spent the entire day in front of the computer in my pajamas, I now have about an hour to get ready for a formal dinner. The Hubster's getting recognized at some annual dinner of the yacht club (I know, shut up) he belongs to, so I have to bathe and iron and try to make my hair look passable. And eat something, because I'll probably be desperate for a glass of wine the instant we get there, but I'd rather not spend the entire evening plastered.
Hmm. Now that I think about it, it seems like the other time we went to this particular restaurant, back when the tech industry was in less dire straights and the Hubster's company could afford to spread largesse, I sampled the wine and later was violently ill. As in, I really think there was something wrong with the wine, because damn. Obviously I'd like to avoid a repeat performance, even if I will be surrounded by a bunch of drunken sailors.
I went--brace yourselves--window shopping with the Hubster tonight. We were up on the swanky north side of town having dinner and afterwards felt like a little Christmas shopping, which quickly devolved into wandering around Pier One and Pottery Barn exclaiming over the cute stemware. I love to visit those kinds of home furnishings stores--I hardly ever see anything I'd want in my own home, and even if I did I would never actually purchase goods there because you just know that you'd somehow be contributing to the destruction of a third-world country, but they do have darling little napkin rings. I'm so bourgeois.
It had been almost a month since I'd seen some of my Thursday kids, what with various absenses and the holiday. Today was like a mini-reunion--one where I spent most of the festivities peeling limpet-kids off of myself as they tried to scale my torso under the guise of hugging.
That is some spectacularly ill-conceived imagery. What I mean is, it's always nice to know you've been missed.
I've got an augmentative communication eval tomorrow that I'm stressing over. Wish me luck.
Was visited several times today by the client cancellation fairy, which meant I finished a bunch of paperwork that had been hanging over my head.
Hung out with church group and ate really good Chinese food.
Had marathon phone counseling session with LG, in which I practiced both emotional engagement and loving detachment. I feel pretty good about the conversation, although the autistic part of my brain now wants to go roll around in a huge pile of bus schedules until I get the icky social germs off.
My stomach's been jumping around all day, along with the tight throat and the shakiness. The pressing question on my mind right now: Antidepressants--not working so well, or keeping me from total raving lunacy?
Another advantage to Thanksgiving dinner: you can have a First Annual Thanksgiving Leftover Extravaganza party the week after. This went down tonight at our house with some success. Or, well, a little bit of success. I have to say, as a ploy to make people eat random crap out of our fridge it was remarkably successful. As a social event, perhaps not so much. The party wrapped by 7:45pm, leaving me enough time to arrange the pillows on the futon to my exact specifications for Smallville rerun watching, but hey, we have a lot more empty tupperware now. Almost makes up for the fact that I didn't get home from work until almost 7pm. (Me, stuck in SUV logjam behind hundreds of drivers who have apparently never before seen a police car or minor traffic accident, ever: "I reek of playdoh and I'm late to my own party! You people suck!")
I am a creature of sloth. I bought new running shoes Friday in an attempt to quit fucking up my IT band so I will not have to switch sports, and when I ran in them Friday evening they were fantastic. Soft, squooshy in the right places, and so very light...had only a minor, minor pulling sensation in my glute as opposed to right hip and knee pain. And there was a moment, about two-thirds of the way through the run, when I looked down and realized that my stride felt even. I have a noticeably uneven gait when I run--either the cause or the result of the IT band problems--which shows up as a sort of weird rolling limp in my stride. I'm aware of the instability, but haven't found a way to correct it yet. And I think the problem runs deeper than footwear, but I was encouraged by even a temporary abatement.
You would think with all that positive experience I would have, say, put the shoes on again, wouldn't you? Well, by golly, you'd be wrong. Instead, I have entertained myself by practicing the All Stuffing, All the Time diet and lying around in a bloated carbohydrate stupor. I've copped out of the marathon this year--the plan is to do the half marathon instead, since I like that distance a lot better and the training probably won't injure or kill me--but if I don't get out on the road again soon, my muscles may atrophy completely.
It's the first of December, which means I'm attempting to kick a new holiday tradition into gear. Last year I participated in Jette's Holidailies, a daily December update diary ring, with enjoyable results, so I thought I'd try it again. Unfortunately, for some reason this year the rules prohibit weblogs (sites using weblog scripts are okay, though), so I'm participating informally. If it sounds interesting, you can go to Celluloid Eyes over there in the sidebar and find more information. Jette might have a graphic up on the front page by now; if not, she talks about the diary ring in her last November entry.
Yesterday we inaugurated one of our family's yearly holiday traditions: the annual throwing down of the seasonal beverage gauntlet.
Me, greeting the Hubster at the entrance to the kitchen: "Now, I bought you something when I was at the HEB today, but before I tell you what it is I want to have a little discussion about my expectations."
The Hubster, lighting up: "Eggnog! You bought eggnog!"
Me, placing restraining hand in the center of his chest: "Yes! I bought a half gallon of eggnog, and--"
The Hubster, shouldering by me with glazed eyes and slack jaw: "Egg...nog..."
Me: "--I expect to get more of that half gallon than the four ounces I already drank! Is that clear?"
The Hubster, slavering: "Beer stein full of eggnog..."
Me, leaping to guard the refrigerator door, forefingers raised in front of me in a makeshift cross: "Back! Back!"
I had a lucid dream sometime early this morning. This is a first for me, although I have occasionally tried various methods of inducing lucid dreaming, such as conjuring up a trigger image just before sleep. The experience itself was...peculiarly disappointing.
The dream starts somewhere I don't remember, and emerges into a car ride down South 2nd in my hometown, past the tidy little downtown club scene and out into the weedy, ramshackle tenements of one of the many poor sides of town. I'm with someone who shifts between SMW and RG from my graduate program. We pass by an overgrown cemetary that's surrounded on all sides by boarding houses; I can hear little kid shrieks as they play among the tombstones and this creeps me out deeply. SMW/RG insists on stopping to explore the boarding houses, although they are clearly occupied and I am certain that the tenants will be hostile toward intruders. We pass through a long series of dusty, sunlit hallways done in shades of blue. Occasionally one of the occupants will appear at the end of the hall, clad in bathrobe and slippers, with a faint aura of menace. Or maybe it's not so much menace as that I am acutely conscious of being out of place. My companion shifts definitely to SMW, and she urges me up a flight of stairs, looking pleased and adventurous as though she has no concept of invading the tenants' privacy. I follow, unwilling, but afraid to let her burst into a stranger's apartment alone. Strangely, the door at the top of the stairs opens into a bright, busy, high-end giftshop (heh). We file out into the store and begin to browse among the glass shelves of expensive trinkets. I am smitten with a set of tiny, blown glass apertif goblets on a little tray, and hold them waiter-style as I wind toward the checkout counter. I also spot a set of miniature stone sake cups, and I think I decide to buy those too.
This is the point where the dream becomes lucid. Within the dream, I "wake up." I think to myself--this is a direct quote--"Hey! I'm dreaming! Cool!" I step outside the shop, glasses and SMW forgotten. It's late afternoon and sunny outside, and there's a crowd gathered around waiting for something or someone. They seem to be looking up at the sky, and it crosses my mind that perhaps they're waiting for Superman. "Dude," I think. "People always talk about flying in their lucid dreams. I should try that." So I take off, but instead of soaring like a bird, it's more like fighting my way up through particularly silty water. I don't go very fast, and I can't really control my legs so I mostly kind of bob around about ten feet up. "This is lame," I think, and manage to successfully picture myself up near the treetops. Flying is a little cooler at this height, although I still lack control and narrowly avoid grazing some power lines. I'm looking out over the countryside in late afternoon and it's pretty and all, but I'm already kind of bored. I can control the dream, but I can't think of anything fun to do. "Maybe I should try to make out with Lex," I think. "That seems like the kind of thing people ought to do when they're dreaming." So I try to concentrate on making Michael Rosenbaum appear, but then I realize that I'm not really all that interested in making out with him. For some reason, it doesn't occur to me to try to get front row seats for some pornalicious Lex-and-Clark action while I'm running the dream. So there's no Lex sex, but the dream does shift to a dorm room lit by that same dusty, late afternoon sun. There's a metal cot with a thin striped mattress on it, and for some reason I'm lying on the floor next to the cot. JT from work is there, and possibly somebody else. Things get a little fuzzy at this point. I think I talk to JT about Lex, or the lack thereof. I make out briefly with JT, who I find only mildly attractive in real life. At this point, I can't remember if I wake up for real or go back to sleep within the dream. In any case, I lose control over the action.
That sucker is so fraught with symbolism I don't even know where to start. I mean, hallways? Staircases? Doors? SMW and RG, who works at the place I interviewed on Wednesday? Good Lord. Not to even mention the whole problem with entertaining myself. I swear, my subconscious could write for the WB.
The life, she is not ended. Or, maybe the apocalypse isn't upon us just yet.
I'm in a remarkably better mood today regarding the whole job morasse. I'm still worried and freaked out and bitter and sad and fucking scared of really looking for another position, but, you know, in a reasonable manner. Our team meeting today was pretty helpful--once everybody got past the immediate punch to the gut that was JD's, "I'm leaving," (JD with tears streaming and hands pressed to her face to keep herself calm), we talked about how a new person wouldn't really need to start until January, which gives our boss plenty of time to look for another therapist. A good one, like the one in our ECI program who might be seriously interested in the position. And the fact that JD's planned her departure to coincide with when her lease ends in December, which in turn leads to that big long gap between now and when a new therapist would start, means that I have a hell of a lot more leverage when I need to say, "Sorry, you've had six weeks to find a replacement. I will not be grabbing my ankles because you didn't start advertising until last week."
Hell, I might have a different job by then. At Blockbuster, even. I have no idea.
This is what I hate, more so than my job frustration, or my boss's complete lack of tact or business acumen, or even Evil Overlord CEO's random and idiotic "management style." I have no idea what's coming, and I hate it.
And I had a reaction to some medicine I was taking and I'm rashy! Rashy and itchy! My arches itch, dammit! Does it never end?
I swear to God, Smallville better not suck tomorrow.
Okay, this is a bad scene. Had week of incredibly high work-related anxiety. Had panic attack at work on Thursday, almost had another on Friday. And this was before I got the call tonight from JD, the other speech therapist, saying that she's moving back to Dallas next month.
This puts me in roughly the same situation I was in a little over a year ago when LH got fired and I got the entire speech caseload. That was...horrible.
Okay, they might find somebody to hire. It doesn't necessarily have to be the worst case scenario--maybe they'll hire somebody great. But I doubt it--our organization has, like, the kiss of death in this town as far as public image goes. Therapists I've never met before say things like, "You work where? Gosh. Does the administration still suck?" And with the pay...experienced therapists are not going to apply.
I can set boundaries. I'm a certified clinician now; I can leave and get a job somewhere else if those boundaries aren't respected. But I try to imagine myself saying, "No, I won't be willing to work those hours. No, I won't be willing to rearrange my caseload to fit in JD's kids. They can go on a waiting list until you goddamn well get us a PRN network like any reputable place of business should already have," and I'm scared.
I hate my job. I hate it. I was seriously looking for another before I talked to JD. But now I'm feeling guilty over wanting to leave a place that's provoking anxiety the likes of which I haven't seen since B, because it's not good for our kids to have both of us leave at once. Fuck.
I have an interview on Wednesday.
I need a vacation. I need to look for more jobs in case this one doesn't pan out. I need...to quit being a therapist and work at Blockbuster for a while, until this shit sounds like fun again. I need for my current job to not be staffed by fuckwits (except for my team. They're not fuckwits), so I can stay there and keep my kids.
I need a lot of things I'm not going to get, and damn am I pissed off about that.
The short list of People Who Do Not Handle Anxiety in a Constructive Manner:
1). Lex Luthor
2). Sara
Oh my God that was amazing. It would never even occur to me to take a nine-iron to somebody's car. I am so in awe. Just...wow. I take back everything I ever said about using slash as a method of disassociating myself from my sexual identity, because mother of God that was so hot I'm practically hyperventilating. You heard it here first: I would fuck Lex Luthor.
So, Sara over-identifies with characters with repressed--and not so repressed--anger. Snort. Film at eleven.
I suppose there could be something to this, though. The counselor last week suggested talking to my doctor about a low dose of something to handle anxiety--it seems most people don't turn to distance running as a way to make themselves sleep through the night. Who knew?
I'm probably game for it, but I'm still kind of mulling over the idea. I mean, we're not talking about anything major here--I'm plenty functional, just a little twitchy. But it feels strange, because I've always looked at my mood problems through the lens of depression, not anxiety. And depression kind of fits, but not...quite right. It's like going to the eye doctor--lens number one is a little blurry, but the second lens, the anxiety lens, makes all the details snap into focus. Like, that would explain the waking up at night fretting about the recycle bin. And the irritability, and the jitters...and the way I used to shake all the time back in college. Huh.
It's kind of nice to have a name for it besides "lack of shit keeping togetherness."
In other news, I simultaneously am intrigued by and violently resent the possibility of a Lex romantic subplot with a girl. At first glance I liked the doctor character, and I'm much more willing to watch Lex get his groove on with someone who doesn't annoy the fuck out of me, ala Carrie Castle. (Is that Kerry Kastle? She pissed me off, I didn't make a note). But then again, hello, fluffy bunny one true pairing whore. So I'm kind of conflicted about that aspect.
And then, over-riding all of that is, "Anger management classes? Jonathan Taylor Thomas? Aaaaiiieeee!!! It's all going to end badly!"
It turns out I'm a lot more pleased with it than I thought I would be. A lot of the content is still relevant only to me, but that's okay.
Play list:
Break Me Shake Me -- Savage Garden
Small Town Bringdown -- The Tragically Hip
#1 Crush -- Garbage
Come On -- The Headstones
American Girl -- Tom Petty
Glass Half Empty -- Jonatha Brooke
The Ghosts That Haunt Me -- Crash Test Dummies
Whatever -- Butthole Surfers
Don't Come Close -- The Ramones
O Holy Night -- N'Sync
Son of a Preacher Man -- Dusty Springfield
Pinball Wizard -- The Who
Sea of No Cares -- Great Big Sea
Born in the Water -- The Tragically Hip
I Will Survive -- Cake
A Little Less Conversation -- Elvis (JXL Radio Remix)
Committed more floricide in the front yard today--is it my fault our "natural" yard's default setting is "primordial rainforest?"--then spent much of the afternoon crouched on the floor in front of the coffee table, labeling pictures in our honeymoon album and listening to the unmistakeable sounds of Zeb blowing cat snot all over the clean bedsheets. He's sick again, although not nearly as badly as when we got him. The vet seems to think he might just be kind of puny--sensitive to changes in the weather and such.
I've been feeling kind of puny myself lately. Fairly convinced I have seasonal allergies--a little stuffy, a little sinusy, coughing, and flirting with laryngitis. Nothing too bad, but enough to be a drag, especially on slow days at work.
Good things:
*Went running today for the first time in over a week. Didn't feel great, exactly, but it wasn't torturous either.
*Working on a "Lex Mix" CD. Of course, by "working on" I mean "plotting, because the Hubster still hasn't done whatever he needs to do to make the necessary CD burning programs functional." And the CD is pretty much guaranteed to amuse only me, what with the extremely tenuous connections between songs and theme, but I can live with that.
*Have not yet found another job, but just the act of looking has made me much more relaxed about my current position.
*Bought books to address spiritual crisis. Haven't so much as cracked them open, but again, any step towards action seems to bring relief.
*Mr. Sinatra is back in lovey-dovey mode, where he wants to lie on his back in my lap and gaze at me with adoration, occasionally reaching up to hold my face in his paws and lick my chin. What is it about cats and chins, anyway? Zeb likes to stand with his paws on my shoulders and purr and bite at my jawbone while I type. And Mr. Sinatra, before we had one too many 2:00 a.m. games of Beware the Foot Demon and stopped letting him in the bedroom, would frequently awaken me by sprawling on my chest and licking my face.
*Did multiple loads of laundry this afternoon. Clean clothes are my antidrug.
Still no luck with the Catholic schoolgirl pic from Sorority Boys. Help me out if you can.
Driving to work yesterday morning, listening to Great Big Sea, of all things, an image appeared suddenly in my head. It was a brilliantly clear, artfully backlit flash of Clark and Lex kissing, Lex's palms on Clark's cheeks to steady him, thumbs stroking the thin skin under Clark's lower lashes. I was taken aback, because, okay, content aside, that's not how I think. I see words, flashes of text, sentences unreeling behind my eyelids. I have visual memories, certainly, but I don't think in pictures unless they're heavily captioned. It made me wonder whose image it was, and how I'd slipped into their head without knowing.
Today was long and draining, and I stumbled through most of it as though I'd been kicked in the chest. I was deeply tired and discouraged, both by my body and my work. Think I have some allergies going on or something--my nose feels like it's draining directly down the back of my raw throat into my gut, making me nauseous and irritable. Mood was not improved by my evaluation, where I struggled once again to respect the emotional timetable of a parent deeply in denial regarding his child's obvious developmental delays. For God's sake, man--I don't care how shy she is, a three and a half year old should have more words than "ball," "socks," and "birthday cake." Quit swinging your goddamned dick with your goddamned superior genetic material around and get her some help. Yes, even if you are of a different culture than the therapist. Yes, even if your culture is highly patriarchal and the therapist is a woman. Stop fucking around.
Argh.
And speaking of respecting people's emotional timetables, which I loathe, if you are my mother, stop calling and asking what my holiday plans are before I take out a hit on you. I don't know what my holiday plans are. As soon as I do, I will tell you. And if you're my buddy whose counselor just recommended antidepressants? Consider taking them. If your stupid brain chemistry wasn't reinforcing the idea that you suck and the whole world thinks you're a loser, you might start to believe it. And then I could for the love of God stop sitting with you in your suffering and maybe we could go to the movies or something, because actually I think you're a fun person. And I'll hang in there with you as long as necessary, but please take the drugs.
I would be a terrible counselor. I cannot fucking detach.
Does anybody know where I can get that picture of Michael Rosenbaum from the Sorority Boys credits where he's in the little plaid skirt with the knee socks and the stack of books and the midriff shirt? Because I need it for, uh, very important personal reasons. I've looked everywhere I can think to look on the net with no luck. Any suggestions or hot tips?
The other morning on my way to work (Work! Aaaiiiieeeee!!! I hate my job! I'm quitting! More on this later), I passed a little white pickup truck with Clarke Kent Plumbing stenciled on the back.
I'm almost certain there was a snappy slogan on the side panel, but I was heading up an overpass as I went by and couldn't get close enough to see.
Do people know what kind of associations that name provokes for me? Seriously. I don't think about plungers, that's for sure.
Since I was here last: I have a new hobby and a nickname.
Sara's new hobby: The Story.
I have discovered the joy and fulfillment of "working in the yard," as I like to call it, rather than the perhaps more descriptive "raining destruction down upon innocent flora." I pretty much knew when we bought the house that there'd better be some joyful discovery if we didn't want the yard to swallow us whole, but I had so far managed to completely avoid the call of the wild. Last weekend, though, I had one of those experiences where the scales suddenly drop from your eyes and you think, "I can't find the mailbox for all the dead weeds! What if someone wanted to send me a postcard? I can't go on like this!" So I spent much of Saturday and Sunday out there with the gloves and the shovel and the big heavy clippers, pruning like mad. The weather had turned that weekend, and I felt very much in the spirit of fall and Halloween and the death of the old year. Clearing the front bed of the huge dead rosemary bush took on the atmosphere of a ritual sacrifice. Picture the clouds heavy and dark overhead, chill wind whirling oak leaves across the lawn, a pile of gnarled, twisted branches in the driveway, and me, sweating, blood dripping down my legs from myriad tiny scratches, apologizing to the plant. "I swear to God...ooof...I wouldn't rip you out if you weren't...already...dead! Ow! Motherfucker! You're dead!"
So yeah, it was great. I hope to do more "yard work" soon, possibly with the aid of a chainsaw.
The Nickname:
There was a yearly event at work, the kind where about 200 people show up to a banquet hall and have a decent meal and talk about their accomplishments as an organization. My boss, as one of the program directors, gets up at the podium to spout off about all the great things we've achieved this last fiscal year, while my team and I grind our teeth at the hypocrisy. (Memo to PB: "No staff turnover!" does not qualify as an accomplishment). But really, we just do a little teeth-grinding and then we get more or less sucked into the feel-good vibe of the event, so when our ID badge photos pop up on the screen like a batch of mug shots it's kind of a surprise. Then PB starts in with the, "If I had to use one word to describe each member of the team..." spiel, and we're looking around at each other and grimacing, because PB is one of those people who, depending on how charitable you're feeling, can be described either as a free spirit or as an example of early-stage dementia, meaning God only knows what she'll come out with. She starts at the top of the page, describing GG as steady and dependable ("I'm a rock, baby! Like Gibraltar!"), JD as "pure sunshine," and JT as a "Sure can!" kind of guy. I'm sweating and wringing my hands. BT is confident. CMJ "just glows." ("Did she just say I blow?!") I'm up next, and come on please don't make me have to kill you..."The best way I can describe Sara is that she's sparky."
Oh good Lord.
All 200 people giggle. My team, even those who blow, laugh till they cry. People have been reminiscing with me all week ("How's it going, Sparky?")
It could be worse, I know. She could have said "insufferable," or "really fucking moody." But come on. A little panache?
Feeling a little less apocalyptic today, although still not really up to par. But keepin' on, and I made some appointments and set some balls rolling, and we'll just see how it all goes. Goddamn brain.
So I was trying to come up with some thoughts about this week's Smallville, and I realized that this is one of those episodes where I'm totally waiting for someone else to generate my opinion for me. "Duplicity" was such a mixed bag, and while I have some sweeping impressions I suspect my conclusions would break down under close scrutiny, so I'm not comfortable getting too attached to them. It's like, put brain in neutral and wait for LaT to post episode review. I'm so lame.
I mean, okay. I'll admit to it up front: I used to watch the basketball scene in "Three Point Shot" (The Sentinel) over and over for the pure cheesy goodness. I love sports montages, sweaty sweaty boys, and Clark's huge, sunny, look Ma I'm normal grin. So I liked the end of "Duplicity," goofy as it was.
The other 95% of the episode made me want to throw stuff. I think that, from a rational standpoint, there will eventually be points that I appreciate, like Clark having consequences for his lies! Lionel being creepy and pathetic! Pete serving a function other than "waste of camera time that could have been spent on Lex!" But right now? Aaaaiiieeeee!! It's all going to end badly!
It's still there, coiling heavy and dark, but I'm hiding. But it's still there.
I got up (been better), drove to the conference (darkening), drank coffee (one of us is hiding), and sat. And sat, and felt more wrong than I can remember in years. Thought, my brain hurts. And it hurt, and it hurt, and I didn't think shaking would help, but I tried anyway. It didn't help.
1) What's on your bedside table? Alarm clock. Lamp. Coaster. Wooden dish with ear plugs and chapstick in it.
2) What's the geekiest part of your music collection? What part of my music collection isn't geeky? I have honor band tapes. From middle school.
3) What do you eat when you raid the fridge at night? Don't raid the fridge at night.
4) What is your secret guaranteed weeping film? I dunno. Men in Black?
5) If you could have plastic surgery, what would you have done? Remove the part of my brain that hurts when I'm depressed.
6) Do you have a completely irrational fear? That someday I will forget to blow through the straw after I unwrap it, and there will be a dead bug in there and I will unwittingly suck it up and choke and die.
7) What is the little physical habit that gives away your insecure moments? Hand wringing, knuckle cracking, lack of eye contact...
8) Do you ever have to beg? I've usually given up long before I get to that point.
9) Do you have too many love interests? Yes.
10) Do you know anyone famous? Sort of.
11) Describe your bed. Charming grey and green patterned quilt covering sweaty sheets.
12) Spontaneous or plan? Plan.
13) Who should play you in a movie about your life? I swear to God, the only person who would possibly want to make a movie about my life would be Andy Warhol. Thankfully, he's dead.
14) Do you know how to play poker? Kind of. Do I care? Not at all.
15) What do you carry with you at all times? Watch. Wedding ring.
16) How do you drive? Huh?
17) What do you miss most about being little? Not feeling the passage of every single damn second.
18) Are you happy with your given name? Yes.
19) What was the last song you were listening to? Something by the Tragically Hip.
20) Have you ever been in a school play? Yes. I was one of the beans in Jack and the Beanstalk.
21) Have you ever been in love? Yes.
22) Do you like yourself and believe in yourself? More or less.
23) Have you ever done any illegal drugs? Very, very few.
24) Do you think you're cute? Sure.
25) Do you consider yourself to be a nice person? Yes, although no longer nice to my detriment.
I'm supposed to go to some conference on assistive technology tomorrow, but I seem to have misplaced the paper that tells me when, exactly, the events start.
They probably don't start at 8am. But they could. And the conference is at a hotel way across town.
Or, you know, they might be crazed weasels. But then maybe they'd be interested in the sick brilliance that would be a Lex/Lionel vid to the Cake version of "I Will Survive."
Huh. Fanfic Meetup. Perhaps people in this city other than SMW and the Hubster would be interested in my opinions on Clark's SuperStance and his brilliant career opportunity conducting psychic pap smears.
It must be October, because today I stayed home with a blurry head and vague aches and pains, eating McDonald's cheeseburgers and reading crap SV slash for hours. Thought about going in to work around noon, but the act of pulling my socks on left me shaky and despairing, so I gave up and staggered back to my computer. As is typical, I don't actually know if I'm mildly sick or just tired and low; both states feel about the same. Am hoping that if there's actual illness involved here, today will work as a preemptive strike. As much as I love fall, I would prefer not to repeat last year's battery of cool weather viruses.
Speaking of, Zeb appears to have passed his kitty illness on to Mr. Sinatra, who is wheezy and red-eyed and warm. The Hubster's taking both of them to the vet again tomorrow, while I am watching the rabbit carefully in case the virus jumps species. The good news is, being under the weather has lowered Mr. S's defenses, and I spent most of the day with two cats twined around each other on my lap, alternately sleeping and washing. Occasionally they would get up to chase each other around the house in an apparent blood frenzy, but as nobody's actually dead yet, I think they've adjusted.
The Hubster just came home with an offer of a prospective Halloween costume--his friend BG from work wants the three of us to go as Blue Man Group. I'm uninspired, but it's a good, easy group costume so I'll probably do it. Plus, buying blue face paint leaves the door open for what I really want to go as, which is Death on a Horse. 'Cause, you know, it's not geeky enough that I want to dress up as a character from Highlander, I have to be a character from a specific episode of Highlander. Probably what I'll end up doing is being Methos--I mean, "a barbarian"--at work, and using the Blue Man Group for C and S's Halloween 2K2 party. Double your fun, as they say.
Survived visit with relatives. Yay! Much rejoicing.
It was good, actually. My mom and I may have had a breakthrough in terms of relating to each other as rationale human beings; we'll see how it plays out.
Zebadiah is also much improved, and we've started introducing him to Mr. Sinatra with promising results. They're still a little uneasy around each other, but we've only had to separate them with the spray bottle once. With a little time, it looks likely that they'll get along. Also, I can only imagine that tensions will decrease as soon as Zeb's big enough to be neutered. I think half of Mr. S's annoyance stems from concerns about his manhood.
I'm feeling a little off balance in the wake of my mom and sister's departure. Read Kat's romantic taxonomy and hooted until I got to this part: "The one your friend has fallen for like a ton of bricks and whom she keeps babbling to you about on the phone for hours, and you'd be happy for her except you just know it's going to end badly: Smallville," after which I was violently struck by the urge to rend my garments, shrieking, "It's all going to end badly! Aaaaiiiiiieeeeee!"
I pray the Clark In Heat episode isn't as cheesy and awful as the trailer portends.
The new cat, Zebadiah? Has an upper respiratory infection, and is sneezing and hacking like mad. He's so scrawny and so sweet and so completely disgusting. The spare bathroom is covered in antibiotics and cat snot.
I think I'm not gonna talk about Smallville just yet. I get...overwhelmed, sometimes, by the sheer force of fannish emotion after an event such as a season premiere, and find myself simultaneously desperate to know what everyone else thought and unable to cope with the turmoil. So, I liked "Vortex," but I think that's all I have to say at this point.
I've been thinking about this reaction a lot in light of shell's September 20th post about fan possessiveness. That post sparked a few connections for me, because lately I've been struggling a little with my personality as a fan (and my job, and my religion, and my awareness of world politics, but for right now we'll stick to fandom and leave my impending identity crisis out of it). Spending time with SMW the past few weeks has really driven home to me the extreme passiveness of my fandom involvement--I take an almost exclusively "empty vessel" role when it comes to internet interaction. I read fanfic. I read blogs and livejournals. Occasionally I'll visit a fan site that's not devoted specifically to slash, but with the exception of TWoP it's pretty unusual. I rarely comment on blog entries, and I almost never send feedback anymore unless the story flays me alive. I'm very closeted in my involvment as well--until I met SMW, I didn't talk about fandom or slash with anybody except the Hubster, who on a good day can muster polite disinterest. (Which is one of the many reasons why meeting SMW was such a boon). I'm basically a receptacle for the input of other fans, and while I don't exactly feel bad about that, I've been wondering what it says about me that I avoid purposeful engagement in something that's such a big chunk of my life. And, yeah, fandom is a big chunk, and I'd be lying if I tried to say otherwise. William Shatner be damned.
I don't think it's apathy. Laziness, possibly, or some kind of depressive reaction, or even more likely, the result of a nasty case of fan possessiveness. I am a huge, embarrassing, fluffy bunny, One True Pairing whore, and sometimes I just don't fucking want to hear about other people's conceptualization of the Clark/Lex relationship. I'm aware of canon, I have much respect for canon, and I have undying admiration for people who can interpret canon, but at the end of the day Clark and Lex (and Fraser and Ray and Jim and Blair and Mulder and Scully and Krycek) are in my head, and their world runs how I damn well say it runs. And if occasionally there are hearts and flowers in that world, well, bite me.
So I realize that this possessiveness is a bit, uh, unseemly, which I think is where the passivity comes in. Like, God forbid I start spouting this crap off in a (more) public forum and blow my image as the jaded cosmopoli-fan, so I'd just better stay out of the fray altogether.
There's another post in here somewhere about possessiveness and Betty Plotnick's "queered headspace" and What Slash Means to Me, but I've got to decide if that should go down on record or not.
I had much to say about my recent Buddhist experience, and my cute new haircut that got me macked on by a six-year-old client, and our even cuter new cat, Zebadiah, but I think I'm tapped out for the night. My mom and Beloved Younger Sister M are coming into town for a few days tomorrow night, so I'll be on an internet holiday. Have fun while I'm gone.
See, we had people over for dinner last night, among them CMJ from work and her husband M, and the Hubster's sailing buddy RG. Much of the dinner conversation centered around how RG had recently lost her job with a biotech firm here in Texas, and is taking a position with some company in Brisbane, in eastern Australia. Blah blah what an exciting challenge for you blah, and by the way, what exactly is it that you'll be doing at the new job? Well, I'll have the chance to work with some genetics programs, says RG. I'm pretty stoked about that. Me: Hey! You should totally email my dad. He's big in the gene therapy world.
Now, I have the vague understanding that my father is top dog in his particular slice of the genetics field, but you know how sometimes people are your relatives and all throughout your childhood they like to lecture at you in captive situations such as the dinner table, and you learn how to tune them out and think about rock music while still appearing attentive? And then later sometimes you realize that you might actually be interested in what they're talking about, but it's far to late in the game to ask what exactly that acronym stands for and why it applies to their research, so you just continue to nod and smile and hope that maybe sometime one of your friends will ask about your relative's field of work within your hearing? Well. Anyway. So RG say, "Oh yeah? What's your dad's name?"
Me: PL.
RG: Oh my GOD. Are you shitting me?
Me: Uh. No?
RG, squealing and fanning herself furiously: I don't believe this. Your dad is the shit! Whenever one of his articles comes out, we immediately call a staff meeting so we can discuss it! Oh my God!
Then the Hubster brought out our wedding album, with the pictures of my dad wearing a tux and walking me down the aisle and all, and RG practically needed CPR.
Now, my dad is awfully smart, and moderately attractive if you like older skinny Greek guys with weird glasses, and he's fairly nice, and I supposed he's probably witty if you didn't grow up hearing him tell the same stupid jokes every evening at dinner, but there is nothing whatsoever about him that says squeeeee! And yet RG was about ready to start an Estrogen Brigade.
How was I professional today? Let me count the ways!
*When the father of the child I was evaluating gave me the evil eye for the entire hour, I did not say, "Okay, man, what the hell is your problem?"
*When the Client Services Representative, whose job it is to check in and obtain valuable medical, insurance, and payment information from our clients, had no idea that my client had ever shown up, let alone been evaluated and gone home, I did not say, "Well, isn't that your fucking job?"
*When I had to take the mother's phone call and explain to her that, sorry, although she'd been in our facility for a good two hours and spent another two outside waiting for her cab, she was still going to have to make another trip in to fill out the paperwork because we screwed up, I pointedly did not blame the entire crisis on the Client Services Representative.
*When GG interrupted the charming Finnish exchange student's presentation on social services in Finland approximately every thirty seconds with a disparaging, frequently contradictory remark about how Government in All Forms Is Evil, I did not put my hands over my ears and sing, "La la la shut up GG I can't hear you!"
*When the very funny and charming father of my equally charming four year old client JG asked for suggestions on how to handle inappropriate sexual behavior while using the term "the humping monkey," I did not fall on the floor shrieking with laughter.
I don't know one thing about vidding. I have neither the time, the money, the equipment, the technical knowledge, nor even really the interest necessary to take up the hobby. And yet, this morning in the car on the way home from marathon training, I was ambushed by a vid idea so tasteless, so hideous, so incredibly wrong, that I can't stop thinking about it. I was laughing out loud in the shower, I am so in love with this idea.
Smallville. The Headstones, "Cemetary."
Went down to the cemetary looking for love/got there and my baby was buried/I had to dig her up
Lana at her parents' graves. Lana in the crypt after Tina conks her. Clark smashing the stone lid in half to get her out. Chloe in the coffin in the field, Clark punching into the earth and dragging the coffin out while it's still trapped around his wrist. Martha in the grain cellar. Jonathan and Clark digging frantically. Lex's mom's tomb. Whitney's father's funeral (the rain and the wind and the cemetary dirt).
She's embalmed in love juice--Lionel, holding a brandy glass and looking diabolical.
Okay, obviously thematically and POV-wise it's a little rough. But ahahahahahahahahahah! I kill myself.
So, summer reruns are getting really tired, posts to the archives are few and far between in the anticipation of season premieres, and you were thinking, "Why doesn't anyone these days write quality Scooby Doo fanfic?" Well, look no further: my beloved younger sister M has stepped up to the plate. Below, completely unaltered, is the email she sent me this afternoon, which as far as I know is the product of her own wacky autistic brain.
Velma and Fred's Secret Crush on Each Other
One day while Velma was walking down the street, she saw Daphne and Fred
coming towards her and said,"Hello, Daphne. Hello, Fred. What's up?" In
return, Fred said,"Oh, hello, Velma. Anyway, Daphne and I were just going
over to her house and spend some quality time together." Velma said,"See
you guys later." While the older, brownhaired girl was walking, she
bumped into her very good friend Shaggy, who was out walking his dog
Scooby-doo. Suddenly, Scooby-doo caught sight of Velma and said,"Ris rhat
Relma, Raggy?" Shaggy nodded his head and said,"Yes, that's Velma,
Scooby-doo." While the three friends were chatting away, Daphne and Fred
showed up. Velma said,"Jinkies! What are you guys doing here?" Fred
said,"Well, truth to tell, Velma, Daphne and I decided not to renew our
relationship, so now I have a crush on you." Daphne sighed and sadly
said,"It's true, Velma. Fred and I are no longer the perfect couple that
we used to be." While everyone was talking, they heard an eerie noise
coming from somewhere that made them all jump out of their skin. Shaggy
gasped in horror and said,"Zoinks! Like, let's make a run for it, Scoob!"
But before the older, brownhaired boy and the chickenhearted dog could go
anywhere, Fred grabbed them and said,"Not so fast, you two. We've got to
figure out what or who's making that eerie sound." Daphne nodded her
orange head and said,"Fred's right. And the only way to solve this
mystery is by way of the Mystery Machine that my father gave to me."
Meanwhile, inside the Mystery Machine, Fred turned to Velma and
said,"Hey, Velma, how'd you like to go out on a date with me after we
solve this mystery?" Velma's eyes shone with excitement and she said,"You
really mean it, Fred?" Fred nodded his blond head and said,"I sure do,
Velma." And without another word, the older, blondhaired boy leaned over
and kissed Velma on her cheek, which caused her to get all lit up inside.
Fred said,"I guess you haven't met my family yet, so I'm going to take
you home to my house, Velma." Meanwhile, at Fred's house, Fred said,"Mom,
Dad, I want you to meet a very special friend of mine." Mr. and Mrs.
Jones said,"Welcome to our home, Velma." Velma said,"Pleased to make your
acquaintance." Fred said,"Come on upstairs and we'll go out onto the
balcony where I can put my arms around you like I was meant to do,
Velma." Velma said,"Have you bought the engagement rings yet, Fred?" Fred
laughed and said,"No, I haven't, Velma. But when we get married, your new
name will be Velma Dinkley-Jones." Velma said,"Velma Dinkley-Jones. I
like the sound of that, Fred." Fred said,"Or how about Daphne
Blake-Rogers?" Daphne, who was standing nearby, said,"What did you just
call me, Fred?" Fred said,"I didn't call you anything, Daphne." Daphne
said,"Good. Because I don't want anything to do with Shaggy or his mangy
dog Scooby-doo." Suddenly, Shaggy showed up and said,"Hold it right
there, Daphne! Are you saying that Scooby-doo has mange?" Just then,
Scrappy-doo arrived on the scene with his cry of "Puppy Power!" Velma
moaned and said,"Jinkies! It's that annoying little pup named Scrappy-doo
again!" Shaggy said,"Zoinks! Someone needs to get rid of Scrappy-doo once
and for all and that someone's going to be me."
She used to send me Pokemon episodes in the same vein, but my family no longer gets the Pokemon channel, so I guess she's had to make do with Scoob.
This past Saturday I bought a coffee grinder. I know, it doesn't sound like the ringing of the last trumpets, but understand: I have never owned coffee paraphenalia in my life. SMW, I didn't tell you this, but along with the coffee grinder I had to buy a coffee maker, because no way was I dousing my fancy fresh-ground beans in hot tap water Ray Kowalski style, and I don't know how to free-form java. I've only been willing to drink coffee at all for the past year or two; I first had to figure out that adding sugar won't cut the sharpness, so you're better off just adding milk and embracing the acid reflux. Combine my Coca Cola Ham-calibrated palate with my tortured relationship with caffeine, and you might begin to understand why I am a late arrival on the coffee scene. It's probably the purest love-hate relationship I've ever known--I want it! But it's bad for me! But I really want it and it makes me not want to kill other commuters! I still don't know how having coffee readily available will work out. The Hubster already made me promise to store the grinder out of sight to reduce temptation; it might be like Sara's House of 12 Steppin' around here.
Or I might just make a little coffee on the weekends after running group. Because I have self control.
Earlier in the day I wrote a couple of paragraphs about how my social circle is expanding and now, for the first time in my life, I have all these different categories of friends, and how great that is. And then blogger lost it.
I'm bored today, with that sleepy, thick-headed feeling. I've been doing the slash binge 'n' purge that I do every few weeks; the one where I spend an entire day or an entire weekend reading everything I can get my hands on until nothing is sexy and even the happy parts make me cry. I think it's a hormonal thing, really--my head feels kind of strange, the way it sometimes does before a little dip into depression or PMS. I guess we'll see tomorrow.
Luckily, I've been absolutely swimming in new music recently. I love to buy CDs, sometimes more than I like to actually listen to them--it's probably my only habit that approaches expensive. And yet, I don't buy CDs very often for exactly that reason, so when I make a really good purchase or I find somebody who's willing to give me an extended loan it's a big thrill. Right now I've got two, two, two Great Big Sea albums on loan from SMW, plus the one that I bought for myself before we went to the concert last Tuesday, plus some Tragically Hip albums that I acquired through devious means, plus the mix CD I made for my coworkers because I am a big dork. Plus the fifty or so other CDs I have to have with me in the car at all times. And I just found a new band, so soon I will buy even more music. So, okay, the Headstones? I'd heard a lot of people talk them up, and my reaction was pretty much blah blah blah fangirlcakes, even though I personally am quite attached to my two dS official soundtracks. But the other day I was in the car with SMW on our way to the ahahahahahah Ah do declare Southern Living party, and while we were driving lost up and down this one stretch of darkening highway looking for a turn-off that was not actually, um, on that road, she popped in Nickels for Your Nightmares, and man. That's good stuff.
SMW, relax. It was a fun party, I just find the concept humorous. Heh.
Interesting development this weekend: in the course of fandom overindulgence, I watched another earlyish episode of due South, "North." I was mostly kind of checking to see how I felt about Fraser and Ray--I've been consumed with Smallville recently, and I've never been good at maintaining simultaneous fandoms. Well. Tight shot of Fraser's rear climbing into plane causes nostrils to flare involuntarily--check. Theme music makes eyesight blur slightly--check. But this time around, I also noted the first blip ever on the Vecchio Lust Meter, which was unexpected. There was this tight close up of him standing at the airline counter trying to muscle the check-in guy (Red Green! I love you! Eeeeee!), and it must have been the buzz cut or something, but my hormones did a little box step. I don't know if it'll last, but it was a fun moment.
We had an enormous, highly entertaining, and successful open house this weekend. I discovered that not only do we know a hell of a lot more people than I thought we did, to the point where I was walking around introducing myself to my own guests: "Hi, I'm Sara. I live here. And what's your name?" but these people also know each other in some kind of cosmic game of connect the dots. Like, SMW never actually met B and N, but they are soon to be clients at her place of work, and that sort of thing.
It was easily the largest party we've ever had and really just wildly successful as a social gathering, but the problem is that several people very kindly brought us tasteful housewarming gifts that I did not label with black permanent marker immediately, and thus I have no earthly idea who they are from. So if you brought us a lovely silver picture frame or some bottles of wine from the local vineyard that we like so much, for God's sake stand up and identify yourself so I can thank you properly.
In other news: I am out of sorts again. I think it's the heat; today after our awful frustrating staff meeting--in the unairconditioned office in 100 degree weather--I was so desperate I just got in the car and drove north. Had no place to go, and had to turn around and go back in time for my afternoon clients, but I needed to move, needed the illusion of reaching for the cold. In times of stress I sometimes think, I'm just biding time till I head north, and I try not to think like that, but when I feel hemmed in by the heat and the endless summers down here I sometimes can't help it.
I've been dreaming of Lex again; vague, shapeless, menacing things that leave me dissatisfied. It must be the heat.
Tonight I saw My Big Fat Greek Wedding with EP from work; she because of Joey Fatone, and I because of the Greek part. I'm feeling a little...stunned, I guess. I've grown up feeling somewhat acultural--perils of a weird kid from a not-so-close family. It's a purely subjective feeling, obviously. I'm southern, I'm Catholic, I was a band kid, and so forth. I've had the option of belonging to plenty of cultures, and conscious rejection of those offered is a culture in and of itself. One does not need an enormous ethnic family in order to claim a background. But I had no idea how much of that movie I would recognize. I'm Greek on my father's side, but I'm not culturally Greek--my mom makes spanakopita, but I taught myself from a recipe in the Life and Arts section of the paper. I know about ouzo (that shit is nasty), and I have a vague recollection of dyed red eggs on Greek Easter, but I don't speak a word of the language and I don't like lamb all that much.
I look like everybody in that movie. My family looks like everybody in that movie. The cheekbones, the noses, the skin tones, the build--Toula is a dead ringer for my aunt K. The sign of the cross with three fingers to represent the Trinity, the doilies, the horrible shell lampshades, the old women in black, the dancing, the yelling, the Greek Orthodox services with their interminable standing and chanting, the eating, and the accent, my God, the accent. When the father spoke, I heard my great grandmother, my own Yiayia, saying of the Hubster-to-be, "He a smart boy? Get good job; not just take you to McDonald's."
I felt bruised at the end of the movie, because it was so familiar, and yet so not mine to claim. I'm a Greek pretender; a wannabe. I say, "Only the dead don't eat," and try to feed people, but I can't even spell "opa." It's like being homesick for a place you've never been, or a person you've never met. It's not my culture, but it could have been, and I feel cheated.
Last night I dreamed that I had sex with Anna Nicole Smith in a bathtub.
Why?! Why can't my subconscious give me Angelina Jolie or Vin Diesel like a normal person? I haven't had one erotic thought toward Ms. Smith in my whole life. (Well, I have now. And I'll never be clean...)
Okay, I think I'm over my little hissy fit of yesterday. Grudgingly, I concede that other people may have lives about which I am not informed.
"Gakking" a "meme" (I'm down with the lingo, I am):
Things I can't do (that lots of people can):
1. Wear fingernail polish without inducing a panic attack
2. Follow any type of sport with any interest
3. Watch sitcoms
Things I can do (that lots of people can't):
1. Run a marathon
2. Make spanakopita
3. Put your idea into words
Things I like (though my demographic group is supposed to hate them):
1. Highlander movies
2. Children's folk songs
3. Getting enough sleep
Things I hate (though my demographic group is supposed to like them)
1. Volleyball
2. Seinfeld 3. Ani DiFranco and fucking Dar Williams, like, white hot fire of a thousand burning suns aaaauuuugghhhh...
These things are available at regular stores, but I go out of my way to get the schmancy variety:
1. Port
2. Local organic tomatoes
3. Insoles for my running shoes
I'm the only one among my friends who likes these things:
1. Staying inside vs. going outdoors on the weekends
2. Shipwreck songs
3. Sour patch kids
Now hold on just a damn minute here. Francesca and Speranza are the same person?! Fuck! Why don't I ever know these things? And I didn't think I had a real strong opinion about the whole pseud/sock puppet issue, but it turns out I do. I think they suck!
Okay, am I really upset about this? Obviously, no. I've had only glancing interactions with, uh, either of them. I'm not buddy-buddy with anybody who knows them really well, and it's not like anybody has to send me a memo here. In retrospect, there were plenty of clues that I was ignoring. But, irrational though it may be, I still feel weirdly betrayed.
I met a fan! I met a fan! Aaaugh! I don't know if she wants to be identified for location purposes, but I met her! Wooo!
Okay, seriously? It was great. I have one or two fannish friends where the personal content of our emails is as high or higher than the fannish, and there's one blast from the RL past who recognized me on a Sentinel list, so she knows I'm a slasher, but I've never before met up with anyone with the express purpose of talking slash. It was so cool. I was crazy nervous driving downtown to meet her (Me: "I wonder if I should wear long pants. It's too hot for jeans. But what if she's wearing long pants? Am I sweating?"), and kind of freaky and tangential at first, but she was extremely sweet and laid back and wearing the same kind of shoes as I was, so eventually I calmed down, and ended up having a wonderful evening.
We saw The Fast Runner, which I had already seen, but had no problem seeing again. I enjoyed the movie very much the first time around, but I think I appreciated it a lot more the second time. Having a better idea of the story allowed me to notice how integral each individual scene was--there was no wasted time in those three hours. Plus, I could recognize the characters, which transformed a big chunk of the early scenes from, "Yep! That thar sure is a bunch o' Inuit!" to meaningful character development. After the movie we went and hung out in a local diner, where, I kid you not, our waiter looked exactly like Lex. Same bald head, same facial profile, same build, same walk with the chin up and the shoulders back, giving him that same sweet space between the shoulder blades...We over-tipped him extravagantly.
So that was Saturday.
Sunday was collapsing under the cumulative weight of seven or eight days of sleep deprivation and extreme bitchiness and going to bed at 7:15pm.
Today, in the "Wish I Wasn't Fucking Psychic" file:
I have this client BM who I've been seeing for a little over a year, although he's doing really well and I plan to discharge him soon. He's been accompanied to probably 80% of his sessions by his dad, AM. Dad is one of those people that you have to work pretty damn hard to form a rapport with: concerned, a little tense, a little self conscious, a lot reserved. He's also sweet-natured and polite with occasional flashes of goofy, self-effacing humor, and the times when he's shown respect for my clinical judgement or expressed personal wishes mean a lot to me. They've been out of town for the past week and a half or so, and during that time I dreamed about the family twice. Joked with the Hubster and JD that I should email AM, as I was getting a little worried. Decided not to, as he probably would have thought I was a freak and a half. I saw BM and AM this morning, and related the story with the dreams. AM gets this look on his face and says, "Well, it's strange that you mention that, because our younger child was diagnosed with cancer last winter and she just passed away."
She was little--maybe 18 months old. It's a terrible thing, and the family is so reserved. I worry about them.
You know that scene in The Wedding Singer where Adam Sandler's character is helping Drew Barrymore's Julia choose her own wedding singer, and in the course of it he ends up performing his original song for her? The song goes something like: (sad plinky guitar) I don't feel so great/my life isn't all that hot/because I am sad...SOMEBODY KILL ME/JUST PUT A BULLET IN MY HEAD/PLEASE KILL MEEEEEEE/OH GOD PLEASE LET ME DIE...
That's what work was like today.
So now it's a little after 4pm and my late kid cancelled, so I cut out about two hours early so I could come home and lie in my chair and drink beer. It's possibly the best idea I've had all week.
We spent the weekend in Las Vegas at another computer convention -- a considerably larger computer convention than the one in Milwaukee -- and I think I'm still a little jet-lagged. Or, that's how I've decided to explain my extreme pissiness the past couple of days. Vegas was...fun, I guess, but I'm in no hurry to get back there. They call it the City Without a Soul, and I agree. There were strikes against me, I'll be honest. I don't like to gamble. ("Just take twenty dollars and play off that!" people kept telling me. Okay, twenty dollars? Is forty cans of delicious, caffeine-filled coke I could have had). I don't like big cities or crowds or the night life, and I can only really drink for one day before I panic about hydration. So I knew going in that it wasn't going to be the Best Trip Ever. But Vegas...Vegas is fucking hot, and I say that as a child of the Deep South. It's like, you're thirsty all the time, but the tap water tastes like sulfur. Inside the casinos it's freezing, but outside your cheekbones sweat. There is no hotel porn, but hawkers hand you adult flyers at every street corner. There's liquor in the Walmart, but no vegetables anywhere. I'm not anxious to go back.
Good things about Vegas: We caught Tragically Hip in concert, and it was a fantastic show. I was falling-down tired and recognized maybe four songs in the entire show, as I have not yet worked my way up to their more current albums, and it was still one of the best concerts I've ever attended. An hour and a half straight of pure energy. Canadian energy at that.
I saw Signs there. Not everybody likes this movie -- xen, I'm sorry -- but it kicked me right in the gut. Not so much because of the Treatise on Faith, but because it picks up what I saw as the theme of M. Night ShhyeahIwishIcouldspellthat's previous films: what if all the stupid little pieces of my life made sense? What if there was, not necessarily a higher purpose, but at least a pattern? And what I particularly liked about Signs was that it didn't fall back on a superpower. Nobody's seeing ghosts, nobody's a modern day Achilles. The movie doesn't hinge on the kind of "rejected outsider whose special powers emerge as a result of his trials" cliche that Jessica speaks so strongly about. The pieces just fit.
Marathon training starts next weekend. I can't wait.
A couple of months ago Kat was saying something about the way she visualizes the calendar year. A cursory search didn't turn up the link, but as I recall she says she pictures the months in a 2D, linear fashion, where January is the start of the line and December is straight ahead at the far end, and this always causes her to need some mental readjustment come New Year's, because she has to jump back to the start of the line to January again. (Kat, I hope I'm getting this right). I remember the entry sparked a synapse somewhere--it had never occurred to me to wonder how other people conceptualized the passage of time. My own mental representation of the calendar is that of a flattened oval, the shape of a quarter mile track. The winter months stretch over one short end (here in the south we have short winters), spring runs down one longer side and rounds the curve into summer, and fall tracks on around the other long side to meet winter. Picturing the year by itself, I see the track from above (The Year 2002), but when I think of where I am along that loop it's like the camera zooms in and down until I'm running the track myself. August: bright and hot with the curve rushing away toward fall. September: warm, blue sky at the start of the long, mild fall stretch. December balances grey and wet on the top of the curve, and by January we're already picking up speed toward the straightaway.
I guess it's a little Zen to think of the year as a continuous loop. I don't know; it gets a little overwhelming sometimes. It's all too easy to imagine hitting the wall midway through the summer leg of the track, for instance, and spending the rest of my life in August. Like right now, when it's about 115 degrees at 5pm and I can't imagine running if my life depended on it. Marathon training starts again at the end of this month. I wish we'd turn the corner into fall a little faster.
So I see this kid I.V.--five-year-old spastic quadriplegic, cute as all get out, pretty normal intelligence from what I can figure, but can't talk. And we've been working with a pretty high tech communication device, one that has synthesized voice output and all kinds of fancy scanning options so he can access it with a switch placed under his chin. It's a lot of technology for a kid his age, but if we start him young he could very well use the device to attend regular classes, as opposed to getting farmed out to a Life Skills class unecessarily. We've been working for close to three months now, and frankly I was starting to get a little nervous, because he wasn't catching on nearly as fast as I'd expected. Then, sometime in the last two weeks or so, it's like a switch flipped in his brain. He's watching the pictures as they scan and making accurate choices! He's navigating between screens without help! He's exploring the device, and, for the first time in his life, being assertive. He gets this desperate look on his face when we have to move him away from the device for some reason, like, "Give me back my voice." Today I programmed in a couple of phrases about activities that he likes to do at home, and over and over he kept hitting, "I like to watch wrestling on television," and laughing. Then, completely independently, he navigated his way to the Feelings page and hit, "I feel happy."
It's not enough, it's not nearly enough, but it's a start.
"Vaguely queasy" has got to be the worst feeling in the world. I've been feeling...off...all day, for reasons I cannot pinpoint. If I didn't know better, I would think I was hung over--it's that same jumpy-stomach, "Am I hungry or am I about to yak?" sensation. Except I had maybe a beer and a half last night, and come on. I'm not that old. But I felt kind of icky this morning, although I did have a decent short trail run, and then at lunchtime there was almost an Incident at the barbeque joint we went to. I've always liked their food in the past, but today I ordered a chopped beef sandwich, and urrrrgh. I took one bite and had immediate texture revulsion--squishy, gristly beef that was emphatically not trimmed of the fat. Fought the reaction down--Think of it as survival school. If you were Inuit, blubber would be a delicacy--took another bite, and almost ralphed on the table. Opened up the bun to see soft, quivering lumps of fat inside. Shoved the sandwich to the opposite end of the table and gulped iced tea until I could control my gag reflex. Even thinking about it now makes me gag. Why I'm revisiting the experience in print, then...
Much ado since I posted last. I attended two weddings, one of which was highly personal and relaxed (ER and RP), and one of which which was not (AH and EC). In the course of wedding attendance we went to both Dallas and Florida, where we saw multiple family members. At the Florida wedding I drank a staggering amount and was monstrously hung over the next day, a day which was spent juggling outings with my recently-separated parents. In spite of that, the relative visiting went mostly well. The Hubster went to visit his sister K, the one who's in prison, for the first time in a couple years. I'd wanted to go, but you have to be on some kind of approved list and it's pretty heavy duty, so we weren't able to get the papers together in time. Or more like, the Hubster would not get off his ass in time to find out what documentation might be required, so I couldn't get it together. I'd be more pissed except, dude. Jailbird sister. He has issues. I'm trying to be supportive.
I also hung out at a camp for children with disabilities for a week. Hung out, yes. "Assisted" would be much too strong a word for what my work buddy KH and I were doing, which was primarily gazing benevolently at the amazing high school-aged counselors while waiting for our next free meal. Due to some severe weather the previous week, the session we attended was absolutely crawling with autistic kids rescheduled from the previous session, which allowed us to see a fascinating range of expression for the disorder. I chatted up my first kid with Asperger's syndrome (well, officially diagnosed Asperger's. He sure as hell wasn't the first I've ever seen), as well as met my first real live autistic kid who communicated in commercial jingles.
Other stuff happened. I've been kind of blah lately. Blah.
**********************
I've been organizing the guest bedroom/study area, and am trying to rid myself of accumulated piles of paper with pithy quotes on them. In the interest of neatness:
*"She reminds herself for the millionth time that Mulder is a fictional character. It is not healthy to be lusting after fictional characters." From some story by Susanne Barringer. This was going to go on my XF page, back when I had a web page and free time.
*"I choose my friends for their good looks, my acquaintances for their good characters, and my enemies for their good intellects. A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies." Oscar Wilde, found on a preprinted paper placemat at Fado's. It made me think of Lex.
*This Land is Your Land, the Canadian chorus that haunted my every waking hour for months until I tracked down the lyrics:
This land is your land,
This land is my land,
From Bonavista
To Vancouver Island,
From the Artic Circle
To the Great Lake waters,
This land was made for you and me.
I would like to state up front that I do not find Alan Rickman to be a sexy bitch. I do not find him to be much of anything, other than kind of washed out in black. I have been tossed by the fandom tide onto many strange and wonderous shores, but not this one.
Been thinking about connections recently--Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, The Internet, and You. I used to swap X-Files tapes with a guy in the band Harvey Danger, who appear on the soundtrack to Disturbing Behavior, which is directed by David Nutter, who also directed the XF episode "Irresistible," which starred Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny, as well as Nick Chinlund, who played the creepiest fucking villian ever, Mr. Donnie Pfaster. David Nutter also directed "Metamorphasis" and the pilot episode of Smallville.
Laura JV is thinking about going to grad school in my field. I know of Laura JV because I once gave constructive crit on a The Sentinel/due South crossover she wrote. Subsequently, I asked her to beta my own abandonned dS story, "Auditory Closure." Auditory closure is a term referring to the brain's ability to fill in information, i.e. sounds or syllables, missing from the auditory signal based on prior experience. Laura JV mentions that because of difficulty with auditory comprehension she has to consciously use this process under certain circumstances, which is one of the reasons she found herself interested in speech pathology.
I was listening to the Clash on the way home today. I bought a Clash CD because in Speranza's story "Merry Go Round" Fraser refers to the band's "intriguing West Indian under-rhythms." Next to the Clash is my Billy Idol CD, which I bought because somewhere, sometime, somebody got the idea that Ray Kowalski looked like him, and I had to agree. And I like RayK, so I must like Billy Idol, right?
I planned my honeymoon around a Stan Rogers song, which I found through a CD I purchased because of due South, which I started watching because Resonant wrote a story about square dancing. I knew Resonant through The Sentinel, which I watched because I loved Miriam's writing. Which I had found through a brief dalliance with Paris/Kim. Which I read because I'd already memorized torch's XF stories, and I chose her P/K over her Vampire Chronicles when I needed to branch out. I still use torch's page as my jumping off point to the web.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this, other than when I think of "A Sound of Thunder," I always believe.
Ananse the Spider of African folklore is both wise and foolish in the best tradition of tricksters. If you're like Ananse, you're clever and like to be thought well of, but sometimes you outsmart yourself. You're always trying to figure the best angle and you're intelligent and creative, but you have a crude streak. Still, you like to show off your knowledge and that makes you a good teacher..
I bring this up because it is surprisingly apt, particularly the part about the crude streak. And the showing off. Also, it brings to mind a list of topics that I posted several weeks ago with the half-hearted intention of picking them apart in writing, sort of a blogging to-do list. "Changing self-perception" or some such was on that list, as my nod to the Quarter-Life Crisis phenomenon. I've had this idea of self-concept thrust rudely into the forefront of my consciousness recently, as I watch myself operate in the workplace with a distant kind of shock. Personalities evolve, yes, but sometimes these days I open my mouth and barely recognize the person talking.
I've never thought of myself as quiet, but I've been told I was for years. Not any more. These days I don't get, "Still waters run deep," I get, "Put a sock in it." I'm finding that I talk. A lot. With force, and definite opinions. That I have a reputation for getting straight to the point; that people think of me as someone who cuts a swath through office rhetoric. A coworker recently called me "political" and meant it as a compliment: "You always know how to phrase things the way people need to hear them."
I'm finding that I'm impatient and sometimes openly arrogant, although I mock myself plenty. I'm the kind of person who goes head to head with the visiting physician who questions my judgement in staff meeting. I speak sharply to my boss when she asks particularly uninformed questions. I sometimes leap into conversations without warning, let alone invitation. I'm finding this, although when I first moved to Texas I went through a period of painful, gut-churning, panic-attack-in-crowds-or-with-strangers shyness.
I've never been a comic, but I'm finding that I'm a ham. And I'm not just seeking attention, I'm getting it, because when I shoot my mouth off people think I am freaking hysterical. "You're so funny, Sara," says JD, although I didn't used to be witty.
I'm finding that I volunteer to chair committees. That I have Leadership Skills. That the support staff get me the information I need on time because I know how to phrase my requests.
I have a Command Voice, the kind of voice that says, "You will not jump from the top of the eight foot ladder onto the tile floor," and is obeyed.
I snark at eight-year-olds and they like it.
I don't recognize my own voice these days.
That's not entirely true. Sometimes I sound like my dad, but I don't know how I feel about that either. Self-confidence, qualities of leadership--these are of the good. I'm not complaining about that.
I've been having a little break from fandom and the internet in general. I may still be having a break; I'm trying to decide if I miss the computer or if I'm merely finding other, albeit more productive, ways to eat up my time. Stillness as a pursuit is hard to track--productivity as a desirable goal is so deeply ingrained in my habits and thinking. It's so hard not to look forward, but to look around.
I went to Milwaukee this weekend with the Hubster to attend the Midwest Classic gaming convention. It was a tiny convention, with the con-goers split about equally between guys entering their cool retro 30's and boys in the throes of their incredibly awkward adolescences. I saw a lone young teenage girl there who seemed to be vying for a spot in a teen makeover flick: sweet round face, glasses, long mousy hair in a low ponytail, honor band competition t-shirt hanging over loose jeans, sneakers, and a fully-functional fanny pack. She reminded me of AC when we were young, right down to the computer skills. I didn't see her speak the whole time I was there.
Milwaukee is lovely. I know I have a natural bias toward any town north of the Mason-Dixon line, but I don't know that I've ever seen a more charming city. I don't much like bigger cities, even the beautiful, charismatic one I live in now; I grew up in a town where a 20 minute drive was a serious commute, and if you were feeling ambitious it was perfectly possible to bike everywhere. Urban areas flat out make me nervous. I think it's the size--I've lived here for four years, and there are still chunks of the town I've never even visited, let alone learned. Atlanta, New York, Chicago, Los Angeles--I don't know that I could claim to live in a place where I could only ever see slivers. Milwaukee is big (at least 650,000 if the population signs are right), but it felt manageable. And it was green and calm with wide flat streets and northern architecture. The downtown was full of huge, carved, quasi-Gothic stone buildings, and walking through it I felt safe. Even in my own downtown I don't feel safe. Safer than, say, New Orleans, yes, but that's because I don't give a shit about vampires or voodoo or romance in the humidity, so I am free to admit that New Orleans is a hellhole. Every time I go there, and there have been many, I think, "This time I'll see the appeal, this time I'll figure out why people love the city so much." Nope. Every time I just end up praying I get out before somebody kills me to use my skull as a tequila bottle. But Milwaukee I liked. I could live there, I think.
The Hubster is going to lie on a blanket in the backyard. Think I will join him. Goodnight.
Great things I have discovered about the new house:
*Much more kitchen storage than I had previously suspected.
*So much closet space. So much.
*Master bath could probably accomodate half a dozen people at one time, let alone two. Not that I have any immediate plans to test that theory.
*The previous owners left it more or less clean, so we can just go ahead and unpack.
*Good A/C.
Things that are not so great:
*Our duplex is still a wreck. Improving, but still a wreck.
*I suck at packing. I'm perfectly capable of putting stuff in boxes, yes, but can I move them once they're full? Hell no.
*The pantry is not yet moved, so I've been subsisting on a steady diet of McDonald's cheeseburgers for almost a week. And I would totally eat those if the world were ending tomorrow, but urrgh. Too much of a good thing.
*I believe I am currently experiencing some sort of caffeine-related attack. Or perhaps possession.
Why did I think I liked to pack? I don't. Never again will I forget this.
Good news on the job front--Friday afternoon my boss pulled me into her office and told me that she was putting in for a 25% pay raise for me, to be retroactive to the date I should have had my yearly review. The numbers have to be approved, of course, so I may not actually get that much, but in this case the thought is definitely what counts. My problem with my salary has always been more about the pride than the money--certainly the money is nice, but come on. I'm a speech therapist for a non-profit organization. I knew there weren't going to be big bucks involved when I signed on, especially as I was uncertified at the time. But it's one thing to accept a lower salary in the name of community outreach, and quite another to feel like you're getting paid peanuts because that's all the boss thinks you're worth.
Goddammit. That last sentence just set me back weeks in terms of my spiritual relationship with money. Money does not have to be a measure of worth, seeing as it does not buy happiness and all that. Sacrament, damn it, think of it as a sacrament. Oy.
You know what I want? I want a photo collage of all the moments where blood has been important in Smallville canon. Lex in "Tempest" with the blood streaming down his face, Clark's nosebleed in "Leech," Lex in the rain of blood...there must be others. If you wanted to get twisted, there's the shot of Lionel reaching over Lex's shoulder with the wineglass--shed for you, like Te's livejournal icon. Please, somebody make this.
