Why I even went to work today I don't know, because the whole day was, like, "Clark's naked ass! T-12 hours and counting!" And yes, there it was, flaming and fine. Huzzah.
But seriously, the best part of the episode? I got to watch it with GG. I never thought this would happen, ever, because he has these freaky Witness policies about levels of fraternization that he can participate in with people outside his religion, and also his semi-girlfriend is a jealous whacko. But tonight, through a complicated series of events, I ended up at EP's place for dinner and she, who is very close to GG in a non-Witnessy way, invited him over so we could all watch it together. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I about bust a gut during the credits alone: "Watch this! No no no, right there! See Bo Duke right there--no, there! Omar says that's where he looks like he's 'breaking especially pleasing wind!'" We berated Chloe together when she was throwing ultimatums around like door prizes. GG said, "Clark, you are so gay," about four times. When Lionel strode into the ruined Torch office and up into Chloe's face, we simultaneously flung our hands out defensively and yelled, "Personal space!" and then laughed and knocked fists in solidarity. Man, it was good.
GG has been especially fucked over in his past dealings with the Evil Overlord. Now that PB has resigned, he's sending his resume out to other facilities and seriously contemplating applying with the fire department. I can't even think about how much I'll miss him when he goes. This is why I think about my work situation and want to kick somebody.
I had a lovely, relaxing day until the caffeine caught up with me. I thought that the two cups of coffee from the cafe where I sat and read most of the afternoon were out of my system by dinner time, but it turns out they were merely lying dormant, waiting for me to pour two mugs of remarkably potent tea in on top of them. By nine o'clock? Holy fuck, I thought I was having a seizure. SMW and I had eaten wonderful Indian food at a place near the crappy midtown mall, so my plan was to run by the movie theater and see if I could catch Burning Down the House, but of course it wasn't playing until 10pm. So, violently over-caffeinated, I went to Foley's and wandered twitchily through their shoe section. Thankfully I didn't see anybody I knew, because, knees trembling, hands clenching spasmodically, head spinning, I both looked and felt like a junkie. And then, yea, I saw the movie, and it sucked mightily, but I have now seen Michael Rosenbaum snap flashily and say, "Jungle fevah!" and to that I say hallelujah, amen.
I replaced a fuse in my tail light today. Whee! I am so competent and self-reliant!
Okay, so JT from work showed me how to get into the tail light and told me what I needed to buy, but I bought the fuse and replaced it and put everything back together. It was actually really easy, but I still feel cool.
I talked to my jailbird sister-in-law, who sounded peppy. She's still scheduled for release in 2011 if she's good, and 2017 if she's bad. It's weird--on the surface the power imbalances between us are hugely tilted in my favor, but it's still the old inequities that matter. She's never going to have the kind of normal life that I can, but...I'm never going to be as cool as she is. You'd think that wouldn't bother me by now, almost eight years post arrest, but it still rankles.
Spent most of the day thinking about how I'd get home and read Thamiris's new story. Me: "Cons: It's 180K. There will be mythology. And probably poetry that I will hate. None of the references will be familiar to me, as I have not taken an English class since high school and I am deeply uncultured. But but but...pros: hot naked sex!" And of course the story was good, although I continue to find the fruit thing kind of squicky.
Watering my seeds of compassion and understanding by listening to Kid Rock scream about bitches and 40's. Aaaaaahhhh...
Circumstances are no less dire today--people are jumping ship left and right and my chances of getting to Germany are looking less likely by the minute--but I'm at least feeling more upbeat. My three o'clock kid brought his mom and other mom with him today--first time I've met other mom--so it looks like they got back together. I'm glad, because I like mom a lot, and she seemed so proud to be able to show off her partner.
I might possibly have a little crush on Kid Rock. Don't shoot me. I can't help it if I like internal rhyme.
Clouds everywhere...My program director, PB, turned in her resignation today after she saw her position advertised in the weekend classifieds. No, she wasn't informed of her impending dismissal prior to her discovery of the ad. I don't know what this means for our agency and our team, but I'm deeply pessimistic. PB, despite her flaws as a manager, listened to our input, worked with the clients in mind, and stood up for us to the Evil Overlord CEO. She was a buffer between us and the mean-spirited bullshit that comes down from the top of the organization.
We went to dinner as a team to discuss and mourn. We love PB, and we are scared of what's to come with her resignation. GG, who has been there longer than anyone and who has seen two other program directors fall to the Evil Overlord, says he's gone as soon as he can find another position. CMJ is moving to Oklahoma in a month or two anyway. BT is on vacation, but she hates the Evil Overlord and is hot-headed enough that quitting is a strong possibility for her. KH and I talked, and we just don't know. I love my kids, but every day I leave a little more tired, a little less motivated to work for them. I feel myself burning out, and I don't know what to do. I want to leave, but the thought of starting anew in home health care or something is overwhelming, when what I really want is to get pregnant. I don't know.
Even the sight of Clark's ass in the previews for next week left me shivery and teary-eyed. If GG goes, who will I talk Smallville with?
Today was a low-grade variety of bad--nothing overtly awful happened, but I spent most of it feeling tired and edgy. Woke up to nail the cats with the squirt bottle around 5:30 am--they've developed this hellacious habit of scratching the bedroom door at all hours of the night, stopping only when someone either throws them in the computer room or drenches them. The Hubster, more easily annoyed than I, has been doing most of the work for the past several weeks in terms of cat discipline, so I told him that for his anniversary present I'd try to break them of the scratching habit while he's out of the country. They seem to be responding well to the squirt bottle so far, but after I fell back asleep I had muddled, restless dreams full of scratching and yowling, and woke groggy and annoyed.
Was headachey and tired all day; what I think of as "hormone headache," except that seems unlikely. The brightest spot this afternoon was EM flopped like a sack of potatoes in my lap, heavy buzz-cut head on my shoulder. It was pure animal comfort, an odd sense to glean from a six-year-old, but I've had EM since he was four and communicating in single words. We have history.
Since practically the first episode of Smallville, I have been in love with the huge sweeping epic tragedy of it all. I know it's going to end badly, and that knowledge is shredding my fluffy little soul, but yo, I've seen the comics. I get where we're going with the whole "turning evil" thing. And Sarah T. just nails my frustration when she says, "You know, if you're disgruntled, feeling cheated, and unable to cope because your favorite character acts in morally questionable and creepy ways, then PERHAPS YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE PICKED A FANDOM WHERE YOU KNOW IN ADVANCE THAT THAT CHARACTER IS GOING TO GROW UP INTO THE MOST EVIL MAN ON THE PLANET."
She's got a point there. Not that I won't be weeping and wailing when the time comes, but I do know that it's coming.
Hung out with SMW and went shopping last night, which was fun, although I often get overwhelmed in clothing stores. Especially with these trends emphasizing bright colors and capri pants--my body is not compatible with capri pants. SMW and I discussed how someday soon these things will probably be medical diagnoses: you'll be able to find me in the DSM-IV under "Lowrider Ass."
The Hubster made it safely to Munich. I am in negotiations with the new speech therapist, LW, to subvert the vacation freeze so I can visit him for a week in May. Wish me luck.
You know, I don't really love Lex like a brother. Or maybe I do--Luthorcest style.
Okay, eww. But I was very pleased to see discussion of the Lex/Helen relationship in a couple of places, because I couldn't decide last night if I thought Lex was playing her or if he was honestly underestimating the amount of crap he could get away with with her. It hadn't really occurred to me to wonder if Helen had an agenda, but I think LaT sold me. Huh. Cool.
I am procrastinating right now. I am supposed to be returning a phone call to LG to have some sort of deep emotional discussion about the boundaries of our friendship, yet I am feeling kind of icky about that whole subject just now. I set some limits with her via an email discussion earlier in the week ("Having other friends doesn't mean I like you less. Get the fuck over it." Except in a nice way), but she wants to talk about it. I don't. I want to go lie face down on the bathroom floor or something equally antisocial. Bleh.
The new speech therapist starts tomorrow. Hopefully she'll be cool--my main impression of her from her interview was that she was very, very short, and moderately intimidated by me, which is I need to keep an eye on. I have a rather nasty tendancy to poke around for soft spots when someone seems scared of me, and I need to reign that in. Carpe jugulum: no!
I sound like a real bastard tonight. Maybe I'd better go to bed.
Okay, Dr. Bryce? Helen? I really kind of like you as a character, and I think you add a welcome adult presence to Smallville, but after tonight's episode? I'm telling you this as a friend--run. Pack your bags, fire up the engine, and run away. Lex is not "eccentric," he's a crazy person. Crazy like if you switched from regular Coke to diet without telling him, he'd have you dissected. You need to get out. Now.
I love him like the bald little brother I never had, and I was freaked out by Lex in this episode.
I saw The Faculty the other night--great movie, really a fabulous addition to the cheesy teen horror ouevre--and I was raving about it at work today when KH brought me up short. "You don't really think that's a good movie, right?" she says. Well. No. But I've been coming to terms with my approach to cinema consumption recently, and the fact is, I watch movies for a highly specific purpose: brainless entertainment. Period.
Of course there are exceptions--I'm not completely without class or intellect. I still hear the music from The Fast Runner in my head sometimes. Memento was a thrill. But as a rule, I just do not see movies with serious themes. A friend was recently describing The Piano, talking about the cinematography and the brilliant acting and the way the director kept the tension building throughout the duration, and I'm saying, "Holocaust? Huh, sounds interesting," while mentally moving the conversation file to the Forget Immediately folder.
Really, it's pretty easy to tell if I'm going to be interested in a movie: "Moving and emotionally wrenching?" No. "A brilliant meditation on the human condition?" No. "Sweeping historical epic with clear parallels to the challenges of our times?" No. Fart humor? Count me in!
I feel kind of guilty about this. I mean, I like to think I have culture, and more than that, I feel rather crass when I catch myself automatically rejecting a movie because there's a high probability of an original piano score. I guess...this sounds like rationalization, but I think it's true: I absorb and handle the vast majority of my emotions internally and in relative isolation. When I come out of that isolation, the last thing I'm going to be looking for is another big dollop of emotion--I want a break. I want some freaking potty humor. And, well...movies aren't medicine. I'm not going to see it "because I should." For a truly breathtaking movie, I want respectful intentions and an honest reaction. Really, that's all a good movie deserves.
It was a beautiful warm day outside, so naturally the Hubster and I spent it crouched over an industrial stove fixing chili and baked potatos for eighty people. No, really--today I fed eighty people. The Hubster volunteered us to do the buffet after the series race at the yacht club (shut up), so I bought about 200 pounds of food at Sam's yesterday and we made chili and potatos and salad. As a pleasant surprise, the proportions turned out just about perfectly, which was good because for a while there it looked like we were going to have several gallons of chili left over, and while I have a kick-ass recipe, nobody needs that much food in the freezer. We also got many compliments on the chili, including a few from native Texans who liked it in spite of the high bean content. This bean vs. no bean thing is apparently a big deal around here, so I was pleased even though as a rule I do not participate in food wars.
A word to the wise: chili for eighty requires a hell of a lot of chopped onions. Your hands will smell. Your refrigerator will smell. Your house will smell. If you transport the uncooked onions in your car, your car will smell. Your tupperware will positively reek. Baking soda is your friend.
In other news, my dad had a good visit and recovered well from the Sushi Pimp Incident. The night after we took him out for Tex-Mex, and thank the good Lord it wasn't Tuesday Strip Night or anything, so he did at least have a positive dining experience while in Texas.
Some of you may soon be in a position where, as polite host, you wish to entertain older family members by feting them at your city's fine dining establishments. Upon entering the restaurant of your choice, family and gentle friends in tow, you may discover that Mondays are in fact "karaoke night." The restaurant owner and karaoke director may greet your arrival with such words as, "So, karaoke nights are kinda wild and rowdy. That gonna be okay?"
The proper etiquette under these circumstances is to inquire as to the exact parameters of "rowdy." Some useful sample questions may include:
"I notice, sir, that you are dressed as a 70's style pimp. Will you be referring to any woman present as your ho?"
"Are you firmly attached to the idea that sake is the soul of wit?"
"Will you be encouraging patrons to cheer and shout, 'Sake bomb!' at regular intervals?"
"Is the word 'assfuck' a part of your working vocabulary?"
"Will you, at any point in the evening, be simulating anal sex with the patrons?"
"Have you ever, under any circumstances, uttered the phrase, 'I'm gonna tear your tight ass up,' in a group setting?"
"Will you be making any references whatsoever to the size of your penis?"
If the answer to any of these questions is "yes," then you, gentle reader, may wish to shepherd your family elsewhere. Otherwise, seated with your loving father in the center of a crowd of drunken, bellowing karaoke fans, you may find yourself pondering the answer to one final question: "Is it possible to commit ritual suicide using only a set of disposable wooden chopsticks?"
So last night at dinner the Hubster was talking about joining a gym this summer, and my dad sort of nods approvingly and looks at me, and I say, "I'm not joining a gym this summer because I hope to be knocked up by then."
By the way, "knocked up?" Is not one of those phrases that facilitates smooth conversational flow. I'm just glad nobody had to do CPR. But my dad seemed very pleased, and so did my mom when I talked to her later, although that conversation went about like this:
My mom: "Really? Oh Sara, that's so exciting! Oh God, your sister's throwing up again. Gotta go! click"
All in all, visit progressing smoothly.
So, Connexions (or however the hell you spell it) sounds like fun. Shell did my trial run for me, so I hope you all were nice to her. Heh.
Must go pick up my father in a few minutes. He's been in Houston at some conference on metabolic disorders--fun times, fun times--so he's going to come out and kick it for a few days. I'm looking forward to it. Whatever issues I may have about having been raised by him, my dad makes for good company. Plus, he's never seen our house, and he's only been out to my city once in the almost five years I've lived here, and that was for my wedding, so I get to play tourist board. Woo!
*We saw the Battlefield Band again Wednesday night, in the same cozy, dark cafe we've been twice before. The shows run together in my memory--a haze of dark beer, bagpipes, and the ache of longing for a history not my own. The old fiddle player, the one who made me think "Leaving Friday Harbor" was the most beautiful song I'd ever heard, has left the band and moved on to a solo career. The new fiddle guy is a prodigiously talented kid of 19 or so from the island of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides, but he reminded me of nothing so much as a very tall hobbit. He looked like Sam Gamgee after growth hormones, and this combined with the late hour gave the show a surreal air as, half-drugged with fatigue, I began to see mystical significance in the looping after-images his pale bow hand traced on the red velvet stage curtain.
*Driving home from the show I was overcome with melancholy, thinking of all the little warm bodies I've held as a therapist, and all the kids who've gone their separate ways. I thought particularly of the two I remember most from my early childhood practicum: little blond autistic B, who followed my nonsense turn-taking game right into my lap with squeals of joy, while his mother stared in astonishment. The other one I saw only once, but I still think of him--a brown-haired boy with an articulation delay who held a toy up to me and said, "E da dudai adi do." I took a deep breath, stared hard at the toy, and beamed, "Yeah! He's got a butterfly on his nose!" His face flooded with relief, he curled into my lap and rocked, saying, "Your baby, be your baby now."
*I got some sort of leadership award at work, which pleases me very much. Thing is, I'm not exactly sure why I got it--I attended the meeting where it was given out, but the presenters always like to make like Hercule Poirot and give away the identity as a climactic finale, reading the description of the accomplishments first. I was starving and exhausted--my first client of that day had required a take-down and restraint to keep his tantrum in check--and engaged in a private amusement called, "How Many Forkfuls of Thai Leftovers Can Fit in My Mouth at One Time?" Next thing I know, it's a classic double-take: somebody's calling my name, people are clapping, and I'm staring around dumbly with noodles hanging out of my mouth.
*The cell phone call from Shell in Baltimore saying, "I've got somebody here who wants to talk to you!" and the voice on the other line saying, "Hi Sara, this is LaT."
Me: "Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee--"
LaT: "So we're just getting ready to go to dinner, and--"
Me: "--eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee--"
LaT: "This con is fun for just hanging out and meeting folks, and--"
Me: "--eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
Okay, I may have made some light conversation in there somewhere, but that was the extent of my internal monologue. Squealing fangirl I am.
*That phone call set me up well for the rest of the evening--thinking about zillions of women chatting slash was a bit of a trigger.
The Hubster: "After the movie we need to run by Lowe's and pick up some caulk for the guest bathroom."
Me: "Heh. Caulk."
The Hubster: "I need to seal that space between the tub and the floor tile."
Me: "I need a lot of caulk."
The Hubster: "We could try Walmart, but I think Lowe's will have a better selection and they're probably cheaper too."
Me: "'Friday night I went out and picked up some cheap caulk.'"
The Hubster: "What is wrong with you?"
*Now have killer headache and dry, hacking cough. It's probably SARS. Dammit.
Huh. I've been...bored, these past couple of weeks. Trying to decide if it's a symptom of something larger; results inconclusive. On the one hand, I've been completely unmotivated to do anything other than alternate between "unconscious" and "over-caffeinated," which is often my first clue that the unexamined life isn't working out so well. But on the other hand, I don't, you know, feel bad. Just bored.
The high point of my day today was expanding my somewhat unorthodox relationship with V, my client JD's older brother. (I hesitate to use both his initials, as they are VD). V is an enormously tall, stick skinny high school junior who is hearing impaired. In my experience, he's quite charming, but since he doesn't use spoken English and my sign vocabulary is limited to the really important words (mine, stop, play, bathroom, cracker), our interaction so far has consisted mainly of gestures, interpretations from his mom, and frantic facial expressions. The key here, though, is that V loves Smallville, particularly Lex. There was apparently an incident earlier in the year where he cue-balled his head in homage, and you know, I respect that sort of devotion in a fan. So I never miss an opportunity to chat with him (V's mom: "V wants to know if you liked the red kryptonite." Me, leaping around wildly and massacreing my attempts to finger spell: "Yes! It was cool!").
Anyway, I always bring him back to the office and show off whenever I put up a new Lex background on my laptop, and according to mom I've scored big points for that. Well, today V stops mom as she was releasing little brother JD into my tender care, and the gist of the conversation turns out to be, "How come you don't have a picture of Lex with the bloody eye?" Me, chortling with glee: "Oh, I will get you a picture..." So just before the session ends I call V back, and show him my new background, and you would not believe how much nonverbal appreciation of Lex's coolness took place. Hee. Mom said he was very impressed.
The low point of my day was hearing that EP, the occupational therapist and a friend, has been admitted to the hospital with a possible kidney infection. She's two or three months pregnant, so the whole situation is kind of scary. I--well. I love EP, and I know a small fraction of how much she wants this new baby, so I did the best thing I could: I let VC know. VC is another one of our moms, from a Saved family, and a more beautiful person you may never meet. And that woman gets everything she prays for. So I talked to her, and she said, "Oh honey, I get together with a group of sisters once or twice a week to pray, and we will take EP and we will be lifting her up." And I thanked her, because when VC lifts you up, you are gonna get lifted. So when I talk to EP tomorrow I'll tell her not to worry, because VC's on the case. But your thoughts are appreciated too.
