:: The Freewheelin' Di Winson ::

:: Thursday, January 29, 2004 ::

These Boots Were Made for Slidin'

Not sure what prompted that earlier rant.

What I really wanted to write about was snow.

Glorious snow.

Several kinds, today:

Slow-motion snow, floating downward, the direct opposite of those tiny little bubbles I love to squirt out of the dishwashing liquid bottle, that float up toward the ceiling before popping, one by one, halfway back down ...

Big sloppy white feather snow, coming down in clumps, snowballs halfway formed before they ever touch the ground ...

Tiny snow pellets, covering my car windows and splashing up in my face, wind-blown, when I run the scraper over them ...

And mostly the snow covered the ice that still remains, and as I carried a bag and a box of trash to the garbage can, I remembered a time when I measured my shoes not by their size or their style, but rather by how well I could slide in them.

And a couple of my boy friends had the ultimate sliding shoes, which were actually boots. Brown cowboy boots with gold rings at the ankles and 1-inch heels. Probably great for sticking through stirrups, but not so good, traction-wise.

But, alas, none of my friends had horses. Except for a girl named Mindy, who was 3 years older than I and had a pony. (I didn't really know her, then, but we became good friends when she was in high school. And had a cool old car.)


:: Di 8:04:00 PM [+] ::
...

Thursday

There was a time when Thursday was my favorite day of the week. Actually, there were a couple of times when Thursday was my favorite day: My junior through senior years of college, and a period during the mid-1990s when I was totally into Seinfeld.

I liked Thursdays when I was in school because they were, for all intents and purposes ? and all intensive purposes, too, for that matter ? the official unofficial start of the weekend. Classes on Thursdays were always grueling because they'd last at least 90 minutes, but I hardly ever had more than a couple of classes on a Tuesday or a Thursday. So, no biggie. And I'd usually work at the newspaper every night of the week, writing or composing or what-not ("Hehe ... what're flats??!"), but we published Monday through Friday only, so when Thursday rolled around ...

Ahhh. We knew we were officially at the end of the week. And when we put that paper to bed sometime before 11:30 p.m. ...

Ahhh. We knew the weekend was here.

And so we'd pile into Felix and head to the Uptowner. A full 90 minutes — or more, if we got done early! — for drinking, and after that: After-bars!

Fridays were normally spent hungover and often NOT in class ... yet I'd manage to revive in time for 4 o'clock club ... which always lasted into the early morning ... rinse, lather and repeat for Saturday ... Sunday, sleep 'til noon, get up in time to make it (barely) down to food service, sleep some more, maybe study (some), get a hot ham 'n' cheese at Hardee's or a Jimmy John's sub or order Domino's for dinner, hang out with the girls, glance ahead to Monday.

Yeah. Thursdays were the start of it all.

And then in the real world, where I was known to work Monday through Saturday, to some extent, and occasionally on Sundays, there was no day signifying, "This is the end of the week." I always felt pretty fortunate once I got past Wednesday, but still, 3 more days to go, so really, most days were equally bad.

At least, eventually, I could look forward to must-see TV on Thursday night. Jerry and the gang. They were on early enough (8 p.m., my time); not like I'd be going out or anything, anyway. Had to work on Friday. And Saturday. And sometimes Sunday.

It surprised me, a little, to realize the other day that I have worked full-time pretty much non-stop since the summer after I turned 22. And don't get me wrong: I'm glad of it. (What an awkward-sounding sentence THAT was. And isn't "awkward" an awkward-looking word? Hell, I can't even tell if it's spelt right! This, from a girl who was RIGHT on earlier today when asked to spell "mostaccioli"!)

Yet, still, I am glad of it. Yes, I'd love to be independently wealthy with houses on both coasts, a '65 Mustang and maybe a Porsche or two (I don't ask for much, really), but I'm not. I'm like most of the people I know: I go to work and I pay my bills and I live my life. It would be cool not having to work, but I don't wish for not having to work because I know people who aren't working, can't work, in fact, because of an injury or an illness or a something, and they don't want their lives to be that way, but they are.

Which reminds me of some show I saw last night about Christopher Reeve. Clark Kent/Superman. Now paralyzed from the neck down because of a horse-jumping accident. An equestrian mishap. (I like the word "equestrian." Not sure I've ever said it aloud, though.) But: Is he paralyzed? Seems he's making strides and obviously he's raising awareness for spinal cord injury rehabilitation, and even though he might not ever fly again, let alone walk, there is obviously hope for the future. His future, maybe.

Made me well up a little, even, but then I had to switch back over to the Traffic mini-series on USA Network. Which I enjoyed, somewhat, although in places it was a little too similar to Traffic, the movie ... except, no Benicio Del Toro ... although the mini-series did have Cliff Curtis, the dad in Whale Rider, and one of the show's last scenes showed him pulling a gun out of the glove compartment and being on the verge of shooting the guy in the back seat, who had managed to get involved with a guy who smuggled illegal aliens ? a couple of which were Whale Rider Dad's wife and daughter, who had been killed on a ship that was also smuggling the smallpox virus into the United States.

I liked that I couldn't figure out if one of the main guys was bad or good, but I didn't like that I pretty much knew all along who one of the main bad guys was ... primarily because that guy ALWAYS plays the smarmy bad guy. And I also liked the illegal alien smuggler guy, and the guy who was just about to get shot in the back seat was kinda cute — had a bit of a Chris O'Donnell thing going on — except for an annoying scar through his right eyebrow which actually had me thinking, at one point, "I wonder if he would've been cast for this part if he didn't have that annoying scar through his right eyebrow?"

Plus: Baboo (sp?) the Pakistani from Seinfeld was in it!

: )

On an entirely unrelated note:

I heard this song Saturday night when I was strolling through a Galyan's store in Indy. I like Galyan's because it has a little bit of everything, sports-wise — all the stuff for all the outdoorsy (and indoorsy, now that I think about it) things that I occasionally think I might like to do. Like kayaking and cross-country skiing and camping ... 2 out of 3 of which I have never done.

Anyhoo, I head this song and immediately called my sister to see if she knew who sang it, but she did not. Managed to look it up today: "Secret" by Orchestral Maneouvres in the Dark. Same group that sang the song from The Breakfast Club that I can't think of right now. ("If You Leave"?)

Secret

I've got a secret I can't explain
All the time I've waited for this day
All along I was never in doubt
I always knew it would never get out
There are things that I cannot tell
And there are things that you know damn well
This is getting very hard for me
I guess you'd better just wait and see

This is all, this is all

You heard a message and the message was clear
And all the time you wipe away that tear
All I want is to hold your hand
To see the sun and walk the sand
You make me sad and you make me glad
And now you see my secret is this love
Is love, Is love
All my secret is this love

Everyday you're always there
You comfort me and make me feel it's worth my while
And then I look around and you're not there
And everyday you say you care and I'll beware

This is all, this is all

I've got a secret and I can't explain
All I want is to hold your hand
All along I was never in doubt
To see the sun and to walk the sand

— OMD

:: Di 5:03:00 PM [+] ::
...

Icy Trees



This morning I went to the Grand Opening of the new Wal-Mart SuperCenter in my town.

Well, actually, it's not in MY town. It's in the town located right next to my town. Actually, the town is a village; it has a village board, anyway. And I guess my town is actually a city, for it has a city council.

I've always thought of towns as ... well, towns — a "town" being any place that has fewer than 10 intersections w/stoplights and no more than 3 buildings over 5 stories high. Actually, I just thought up that definition and, after doing a quick count, confirmed that I do, indeed, live in a town (4 stoplights, 1 building of 5-plus-story height).

* Suddenly having a Mary Chapin Carpenter "I Am a Town" moment *

Anyhoo, I went in to work way early, just so's I'd have time for the ribbon-cutting blah-blah, which for me mainly meant snapping some front-page photos. Big news around here.

And I got my pictures and fortunately didn't really have to talk to anyone and then I was on my way, and as I was pulling out of the parking lot, I glanced to my left, and up, and I saw icy trees. And I took a picture.

And as I drove back to work, I saw more icy trees. Everywhere.

And I was happy.

: )

I Am a Town

I'm a town in Carolina, I'm a detour on a ride
For a phone call and a soda, I'm a blur from the driver's side
I'm the last gas for an hour, if you're going 25
I am Texaco and tobacco, I am dust you leave behind

I am peaches in September and corn from a roadside stall
I'm the language of the natives, I'm a cadence and a drawl
I'm the pines behind the graveyard and the cool beneath their shade
Where the boys have left their beer cans, I am weeds between the graves

My porches sag and lean with old black men and children
My sleep is filled with dreams, I never can fulfill them
I am a town

I'm a church beside the highway where the ditches never drain
I'm a Baptist like my daddy, Jesus knows my name
I am memory and stillness, I am lonely in old age
I am not your destination, I am clinging to my ways
I am a town

I'm a town in Carolina, I am billboards in the fields
I'm an old truck up on cinderblocks, missing all my wheels
I am Pabst Blue Ribbon, American, and "Southern Serves the South"
I am tucked behind a Jaycees sign on the rural route
I am a town
I am a town
I am a town
Southbound

— Mary Chapin Carpenter

(I adore the line, "My porches sag and lean with old black men and children / My sleep is filled with dreams, I never can fulfill them," and the piano part as she sings, "I'm a Baptist like my daddy / Jesus knows my name.")

Matter of fact, I pretty much adore the entire Come On Come On CD ... even though she COULD use a comma in there.

: )

:: Di 3:32:00 PM [+] ::
...

I want more of me.

One reason I could probably never be a manager is because I would want everyone who worked for me to work as hard as I do and to be as good at their jobs as I am.

Which is probably a very arrogant statement, but it's the truth, and if a person doesn't feel this way about herself, then why bother? Why be half-hearted, about anything?

I just dispensed some marital advice. Which, when I give out advice, is mostly about common sense and courtesy. (ALWAYS easier to give it, rather than take it; why is that?) Mostly, I just told her to call him to let him know that she needs some time alone and is not coming back tonight. Mainly so she is doing her part to keep the lines of communication open, and so he won't spend the night worrying about her.

I need a phone call ...

One of the worst feelings in life is having about a zillion things to say to someone and not being able to say a single word. For whatever reason.

Anyway, I fully admit I could NEVER be a counselor or a psychologist or whatever. I could not listen to peoples' problems all day, offer up my words of wisdom, watch them continue NOT to take my advice and then have to listen to it all again next week.

Nope. Couldn't do it.

I'd probably get paid a helluva lotta money, though. And no doubt, somehow, I'd be good at it.

: )

:: Di 11:40:00 PM [+] ::
...

Life as a Journalist, Part 1

I could subtitle this entry: "You Know How You've Always Heard How Most Criminals Are Really Stoopid, But You've Never Had the Pleasure of Finding Out for Yourself?"

: )

I have now been on my new job for *checking watch* 14 days, 8 hours and 36 minutes. My new position requires me to focus my attention on the entire paper, rather than just my lil' sports section (well, all 2 pages, if you can consider that a "section"). Occasionally, this means I have to run out and snap a photograph suitable for the front page.

And lemme just say: It doesn't take a whole lot for something to be "suitable for the front page" at a small daily newspaper.

Anyhoo, on Monday, I was faced with that challenge. Fortunately, it was VERY cold here on Monday, so I thought to myself, Hmm, self, how about taking a picture that depicts the very cold weather? As luck would have it, it also happened to be flurrying (Is that a word? And if not, did I just invent a word?), so I had confidence I'd be able to find something good.

We also had a full-color ad running on the back page, which meant we could run color photos on the front. (Most days it's B&W, which is OK, but almost everything looks better in color. I think, anyway.)

Additionally, Monday was Martin Luther King Jr. Day, which meant no school. So, in my mind's eye, I had a vision of the perfect photo: 2 or 3 kids playing outside in their yard, all bundled up in their colorful coats and hats and scarves and mittens, with little puffy clouds of breath coming out of their mouths.

I drove around town looking for signs of kids playing outside. Nothing!

Then I thought to myself: Hmm, wonder why there aren't any kids playing outside? Then I thought: Well, it's too #*%&-ing COLD to be playing outside!

(Truthfully, I don't see all that many kids playing outside when the weather is warm. I don't know what I was thinking on this 14-degree day!)

I headed back toward the news office, shifting my focus, looking for signs of ANYONE who was outside, doing ANYTHING.

About 4 blocks from the newspaper office, I saw a pickup truck with a flat-bed trailer parked next to a railroad. Three men dressed from head-to-toe in coveralls (hmm, I guess that's why they're called "coveralls," huh?) and wearing hard hats were loading railroad ties onto the trailer.

The men looked cold. Perfect!

I drove around the block, came back, parked across the street from where they were loading the ties and got out of my car. I had my camera around my neck and my notebook in my hand; I told them I worked for the newspaper and was wanting to get a photo of the cold, and I asked them if it would be OK if I took their picture.

One of them said, "Yeah, that'd be OK."

So I snapped a few shots ... a couple of pictures of the men lifting the ties off the pile, a couple of them laying the ties onto the truck. Then, as is my standard practice, I asked them their names and where they lived, and recorded the information in my trusty reporter's notebook. (I had to CARVE some of the information into the paper — my pen had been in the car and was TOO COLD TO WRITE PROPERLY!)

I asked one of the guys what he used the railroad ties for, just to provide more information for the cutline. He told me he used them for landscaping.

After that, I was on my merry way back to the news office. I downloaded the photo, wrote the cutline — including some info about what to expect, weather-wise, for the rest of the day — and finished the page. And that was that.

Or so I thought.

Tuesday morning, one of my co-workers told me that the owner of the railroad ties had called and asked her to fax a copy of the photo. Apparently, the 3 men had been STEALING the railroad ties, right there in broad daylight (it was 12:30 p.m., according to the clock in my trusty digital camera) — AND THEY HAD ALLOWED ME TO TAKE THEIR PICTURE!

(Which pretty much made me laugh, actually.)

I didn't hear anything more about the matter until this morning when an officer with the local police department came to the news office to get a written statement from me. He also got black-and-white printouts of the 2 photos I had saved and a CD with the actual jpegs of the photos.

He told me the matter is "under investigation" and could possibly go to the state's attorney!

(This morning, I told my boss I had no intentions of being an investigative reporter when I accepted my new job!)

: )

:: Di 4:27:00 PM [+] ::
...

I got the music in me.

Back in my head.

There's always some song swirling around in there, usually. I was worried, though, because ... I dunno, it was almost as if music had left me or something. Or maybe I've just been too busy to notice it.

(Not that that's a bad thing. Sometimes the best thing of all is to be so incredibly busy that you don't even have time to think.)

Anyway, the song in my head right now is "Blackbird" by the Beatles. WHICH I thought I had on CD but apparently do not, so I am fixing to listen to Sarah McLachlan's version on my I Am Sam soundtrack, but in the meantime, there's "Two of Us" by Aimee Mann and Michael Penn, and that's a pretty fine little cover, also, so I am smiling.

You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches
Out ahead ...

What a happy, peppy and bursting with love little song!

And the Australian Open has started. And though it is probably my least favorite of the Grand Slam tennis tournaments, primarily because that whole 16-hour (more more!) time difference gets me totally discombobulated ... WTF, it's STILL a Grand Slam, so I MUST watch as much of it as I possibly can! It is also the Slam I am most unlikely to attend in person because, A. I've already been to Wimbledon and Roland Garros, and B. I can't imagine ever wanting to fly all the way to Australia.

Although that beach shot they just showed on Espen is pretty enticing ... espec. since the Australian Open takes place during summertime in Melbourne. And today it is a balmy 20 degrees here in the Midwest. So, yeah, 20 some hours in a plane suddenly doesn't seem all that overwhelming.

Now playing: "Across the Universe." Rufus Wainright's cover.

Nothin's gonna change my world
Nothin's gonna change my world ...

:: Di 1:45:00 PM [+] ::
...

OK, so here's a poem:

I wrote this one a L O N G time ago ... like, the summer betw. my sophomore and junior years of college, circa 1985, on the way to (or from) some town (Raleigh, maybe) in North Carolina with 7 other members of my college's yearbook staff.

Later ... Much

Years from now
When you hear my name
Will you remember the face?

Will you recognize my voice?
My laughter, once
Familiar as your own

— DLW

Written for the amazing JKS, but currently dedicated to the missing MFY ...

* — Forgot to note what the * denoted in the post that follows. Nothing, really, except that I really like to say "niblets."

: )

:: Di 2:58:00 PM [+] ::
...

Oh, what a beautiful morrrrrrrning!

(Oh, what a beautiful dayyyyyyy!)

I awoke around 9 a.m. to a glorious rainy Saturday morning, courtesy of a call by some telemarketer (no, I did not sign up for the no-call list; yes, I AM an idiot ... but there's always that volume "off" button on my phone), whom I told, when asked, "May I speak to Diana Winson?": "No. And please don't call again." CLICK!

Let's just see if he listens to me.

Song in my head: "Hey, Baby, They're Playing Our Song." Something from the oldies station I've been listening to for what seems like the last 5 months; I have no idea who sings it.

Niblets* from my dreams for the night/morning: I am in Charleston with Lisa E., and part of the time I am looking for The Girl ... walking through a hallway in Lisa's house and noticing a green tandem bike with black seats, only this one is a bicycle built for 3 ... pulling up to an intersection that is kinda like one in Vegas, with, like, 8 lanes of traffic, and when I get the light, all eight lanes have to back up, a little, so as not to be in the crosswalk or out into the intersection as I make my way through ... discovering that my voice is all raspy, so, whilst we're stopped at the gas station, I am trying to sing "Everything I Do" by Bryan Adams (whom Lisa adores! Fore real!) because I am CONVINCED I sound just like him (but I don't) ... wandering through some huge school or hotel or something ... looking out the window, early evening, and seeing a lake and sunlight and gray clouds and telling someone, "There's going to be a beautiful sunlight this evening" ... and having sex. With a woman. (Which isn't always the case, in my dreams.)

: /

I've been a little concerned about myself lately because I haven't been watching movies and I haven't been listening, really listening, to music here lately.

And part of it is time. I haven't had time to go see Big Fish or Cold Mountain or Mona Lisa Smile, all of which I've had a hankerin' to see since before they were even released. Or maybe I've had time but haven't wanted to devote a chunk of it to going to the movies.

And as for music ... I couldn't tell you what's good right now. Who's hot, who's not. I'm stuck on that aforementioned oldies station because ... well, I don't know why. Maybe 'cause there aren't really any good radio stations around here, and at least the oldies station is local, so occasionally I hear some local news.

I miss my movie/music guru/sensei/girl.

: (

I am glad that it's raining. I do hope that the rain doesn't decide to freeze.

:: Di 10:11:00 AM [+] ::
...

Hair

Just noticed that I (thankfully) missed tonight's episode (the premiere, perhaps?) of The Apprentice.

Still, again, I just have to wonder:

How can Donald Trump be that rich and have such bad hair?

(I just don't get it.)

I mean, I live for the occasional good hair day. And for me, it ain't always easy because I don't have that much hair, and I don't feel comfortable with much hair, but ...

Come on, Don! You are one of the richest guys on the planet (I guess? Honestly, I have no idea how much moolah ol' Donnie has!); how can you NOT afford a decent haircut? Head shave? Whatever!!

(That comb-over isn't fooling ANYONE.)

:: Di 8:07:00 PM [+] ::
...

Tuuuuuuuuuuuues-day ... aah-aaaaaaah-fternoon ...

I just censored myself! I really love that "edit" feature; perhaps because I really am an editor?

Although sometimes I am an editor in name only — for example, when I was the sports editor and was, in fact, the only person on the sports staff. So, in effect, I was the sports writer, the sports photographer, the sports copy editor, etc.

In other words, the sports staff.

Now I am really moving up in the world: I am the news editor. And I have an actual person (besides me) on the news staff. However, because no one has been hired for the sports editor position, I am still handling all of those duties, too.

I am the news editor AND the sports staff.

(I'm sure my paycheck will reflect this. Not.)

: )

I keep looking at the Christmas card I received from my friend Jean, whom I have not seen since her wedding more than 10 years ago. She and her husband have three beautiful daughters; she tucked a black-and-white family portrait into the card, half of which was covered by her hand-written note telling me what she has been up to in the year since our last correspondence.

My favorite part of the note is this question:

Are you happy?

Like me, she's a journalist — well, technically, she's in public relations, but still — so she leads up to that question with some others:

What's up with you? Are you still at the paper? Still teaching? Are things going well for you?

Are you happy?

In succession, just like that. And I like that she asks about my career ("yes" to the paper, "no" to the teaching — and just two days in, I'm not missing it one bit) and what's going on (nothing, really) and if things are going well (mainly, yeah), but I actually LOVE that she cares enough to ask the most important question of all:

Are you happy?

Yes. Yes, I believe that I am.

And it's not that I've ever not been happy — it's just that, for a while there, I was beginning to forget what it felt like. And when that happens, if you let yourself think about it too much, for too many minutes in a row, you start to wonder what happens if you really do forget what it felt like.

Will you recognize the feeling when/if it ever returns? And will you appreciate it, then, even more because you know how you felt when you were not happy?

Or will you be too happy to notice?

:: Di 1:41:00 PM [+] ::
...

Don't overwork your meat.

I was gonna title this one, "I don't like Mondays," but right about the time I was logging in or on or whichever it is (log-in? log-on?), Rachael Ray — looking ever-so-snappy and even slightly sexy in her navy-blue shirt and black pants — gave me a better one. She's making a chili burger today — a burger with all the chili ingredients inside! — and even though I've seen this one already ... ah, I can't resist.

30 Minute Meals.

And suddenly I'm timing how long it takes to cook up a batch o' this Lipton Pasta Sides Stroganoff.

According to the instructions, this pasta stuff takes 8 minutes to cook. I'm rather happy about it because, A. It's well past lunchtime, and I'm hoongry!, and B. I have tried some of the Lipton Rice Sides, and they're OK, but the simple truth about me is:

I am always gonna prefer pasta to rice.

Except when I'm eating Chinese food. Then I prefer rice — fried rice to white rice, but either will do, really. I am downright disdainful of those lo mein noodles. They just don't seem right.

Everyone at the news office was in a good mood today. EVERYone. It was frightening, really.

And outside, it is fucking gorgeous.

One day closer to summer ...

:: Di 1:56:00 PM [+] ::
...

I can BREATHE!!

Through both nostrils, even. And it feels so good!

: )

Although, at the moment, I've got a lungful (or 2) of carpet cleaner fumes, so the duration of my breathe-ability might be rather short.

No matter. I am enjoying it while I can.

Just breathe ...

Since I am in the cleaning mode, I am going to need to update those linkages at the left. For starters, Clarke's Place appears to be defunct, for now and perhaps always. Maybe I should add some blogger links? I have been reading a couple of online journals lately, nearly religiously:

1. Second Person, Singular — A blog by a guy named Matt whose writing is so good, sometimes, that I can actually feel it.

His current post discusses blogs, and whether people who keep blogs keep them away from the people they know in "the real world."

As usual, this Matt-post made me think. It also helps, I suppose, that I have thought about this topic before. Matter o' fact, I thought long AND hard about writing an online journal — for starters, because I've never been so good about keeping ANY kind of diary or journal, and also because I, despite thinking of myself as "an open book," am sometimes as closed as a person can be, about certain topics and issues and what-not.

I don't always want people to know what's going on in my life, in my head.

Especially when I am extremely mad at or upset with a specific person.

So I made a decision not to vent (too much) in my blog. I decided maybe it's best not to write anything negative about people I know. Truthfully, it's a good idea not to say anything bad about anyone, period; after all, isn't that one of the Four Agreements?

Be impeccable with your word.

Yeah. I thought so.

Anyhoo, I have shared my blog address with people I know online but have never actually met. I have also shared it with people that I do know, in person, and also have kept in contact with online. I have shared it with my sister (she thinks I use the word "fuck" too much) and have actually brought her to tears with one of my posts.

I have not shared it with my mother; I don't want her to worry about me anymore than she probably already does. (Actually, she doesn't worry about me all that much. I have always been a good kid. Well, except for that stretch during my h.s. years when I was a pure smart-ass.)

: )

2. Tequila Mockingbird — This blog is by a girl named Julia who simply has a great way with words ... and plenty of great stories to tell.

(So great, in fact, that I can even overlook her refusal to capitalize.)

This past week or longer, Julia has been going through somewhat of a blogger's nightmare: Someone has been plagiarizing her blog. Yes, cutting 'n' pasting right from her journal and passing off her words (and other bloggers' words) as his own.

Yes, I am just paranoid AND cynical enough to believe that someday, perhaps even I will be copied 'n' pasted on some other site in Bloggerville. Although ... man, how boring would someone's life have to be for them to take excerpts from MY life and pass them off as their own??!

On second thought: I don't really believe that would happen.

However: That is one of the reasons I don't post any of my poetry and/or fiction online.

(Another reason being, of course, that I haven't actually WRITTEN any poetry and/or fiction in the last year or so. But that's a whole 'nother matter.)

: )

:: Di 9:41:00 PM [+] ::
...

New

Started the new job yesterday. And I wanted to write about it last night, but I couldn't, and even though I lay in bed for at least an hour, unable to fall asleep, I still couldn't make myself get up and stare into the glare of the monitor.

I have heard that phrase "too tired to sleep," and I've always thought it was pretty stupid, but I have felt that way the last several nights. Starting with the 2nd of January, when I actually caught myself thinking, "Man, I feel INCREDIBLY healthy! I feel so good!" — and then, in-between shifts at work, I put my lil' head on my pillow for a late-afternoon nap, and when I awoke, I felt crappy. No kidding.

And haven't felt too good ever since ... except maybe Saturday when it was actually 63 DEGREES outside and I was wearing cargo shorts and a sweatshirt (currently, it is 14 degrees, according to this Weather Bug thingie that managed to show up on my desktop). Of course, on Saturday I had already begun obsessing about the job, so I didn't feel all that great.

My eyes are burning and my nose is partly stuffed up. Sinusitis? Allergies? Who knows.

And the job. The job.

Not really in the mood to write about it, after all.

I did clean my desk, though ... which always makes people think I'm quitting. Au contraire! So I am living up to at least one of my resolutions.

Still can't figure out why, after calling my dept. chair at the college and telling her I would not be able to teach this semester, I hung up the phone and immediately burst into tears. Tried to explain it to one of my co-workers: "I guess when you've done something for eight years, it becomes a part of you," I said.

"You'll cry harder than that when you leave this place," she said.

Yes, I probably will.

I really hate good-byes.

Expressed or implied ...

:: Di 8:55:00 PM [+] ::
...

Et cetera, Whatever

What is it about Robert Smith's voice that sounds so honest, so sad?

So far tonight, I've seen that "Pictures of You" commercial with the Cure song playing in the background. Don't even know if that's the name of the song, or what the commercial is for (!!), but I know I always like hearing Robert Smith's voice.

I am starting a new job tomorrow. Same company, different job. I don't know exactly how I feel: nervous, excited, anxious, sad. I am SOOOOO resistant to change sometimes. So ... we shall see.

And today could not have been gloomier.

Ooh, watching one of the all-time GREAT movie endings: Presumed Innocent. SO excellent when he sees the blood and hair on that hammer-thingie. And Bonnie Bedelia (sp?) — who has MAJOR hair issues on her new show — is quite good in this movie.

:: Di 9:29:00 PM [+] ::
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I won $20 playing bunco!

New Year's Eve RULES!!

Ended up with a record of 10 wins and 14 losses, which wasn't even CLOSE to garnering me a share o' the pot; however, my 2 buncos (buncoes?) earned me some cold, hard cash.

Bunco: A dice game requiring absolutely NO skill whatsoever. Although it does help if you can roll the dice fairly quickly (gives you and your partner more time to "score"). Basically, you have 4 people per table, partnered up with the person across from you. You each take turns rolling 3 dice, trying to roll as many of each number in a turn as you can before anyone at any of the other tables (in our case, we had 3 tables going) either scores 23 points or gets a bunco (all 3 dice matching the number that you are attempting to roll). You start with 1's, then 2's, then 3's, and so on, until you've done 6's, and then you start a new game.

At least, that's the way WE play it.

(My mom hosts bunco once a month. I subbed one time. I remember laughing a lot and eating some good food.)

I should be listing all my resolutions, but I resolved long ago not to make resolutions. Instead, I wait 'til Ash Wednesday and give up something for Lent ... even though I'm not Catholic. (I found out that Lent lasts only a few weeks, as opposed to a whole year ... plus it doesn't start as soon!)

: )

This year, though, I have a few areas of ... something (improvements I need to make? concerns I have?) ... I dunno, just THINGS I know I need to work on.

1. Be tidier, at home and at work. Mainly at home. I concentrate better when my place is in order. A stunning realization, after 38-plus years of being a complete mess!!

2. Get fit. Hey, I ain't getting any younger.

3. Be the best I can be, in everything I do. Sounds kinda hokey, but how many times have I allowed myself to slack over the last few years?

4. Apply the Four Agreements on a everyday basis. Be impeccable with your word. Do not take anything personally. Do not make assumptions. Always do your best.

5. Write something I like. Preferably something I like A LOT. Doesn't have to be a masterpiece ... doesn't even have to be good, really. Just something I like.

OK, that's enough.

The beans are soaking ...

:: Di 1:34:00 AM [+] ::
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