Continuing Education

What a crappy weekend. And the holiday just meant it lasted that much longer.

First off, I got completely slammed at work on Friday, which is not a big deal since I was expecting it. The upsetting part was that everyone else on the floor went home early. Most of my co-workers were out the door by 4:00, and I was stuck at my desk until 7:00. With no lunch. I did sneak out at one point to smoke a cigarette, and I think I took a bathroom break around 2:30. That should hold me, right?

I had every intention of hitting a drive through before going to Sudsy's for the poetry reading, but I ended up running errands for Roger Mexico, who was doubled over with a kidney stone. OUCH! Sick friends always take precedence over a Burger King extra value meal. Of course, that meant he couldn't go to the reading, but I was less concerned with his presence at the show and more concerned about his health. And at that point, I was so stressed out from work and all that had gone on that week that I wasn't too psyched about reading. He insisted that he would be fine, though, and shooed me off to the show.

We were supposed to start reading at 9:00, but of course Sudsy's was running on rock-n-roll time, which translated to 11:00. By that point, Guildenstern had already left for work, so Diamond Doug had to fill in as our emcee. The show went well, I suppose. I was so out of my head by that point that I barely remember what I said. I think I plugged The Laramie Project, the intern show at Playhouse that Roger Mexico did the sound design for, but all I remember was stumbling over my own words, being proud of myself that I didn't burst into tears when I read "Last Sunday," and being told by a poetry heckler that I was full of shit. Lovely.

Everyone else did well, the bands rocked, and I did my best to enjoy myself. Hopefully I won't be as scatterbrained at the next show.

The rest of the weekend was spent doing nothing except watching bad TV, checking in on Roger Mexico (who ended up going to the emergency room on Saturday afternoon and spent the rest of the weekend doped up on Vicodin), and mentally re-evaluating the relationships in my life.

OK, yeah, I was doing a lot of wallowing in self-pity. I'm not having an easy time with Roger Mexico's impending departure. I've been bursting into tears at inappropriate times, and his news that he'd be leaving at the end of the week as opposed to mid-June didn't help much. I think part of what's upsetting me is that he already seems to be emotionally gone. I guess it's from moving around so much, but it's like he's packed up his feelings about the move in one of the boxes aligning his living room wall. And all I can see from my never-left-home perspective is another friend moving with his life, never to be seen again.

Wallow, wallow, wallow. Self-pity is bad for the complexion.

And as if all this wasn't bad enough, Life decided to add insult to injury. Two people in the period of less than 24 hours have pretty much told me that they have no interest in my life or feelings. OK, granted one person was just an acquaintance and was trying to make a bad joke, but the other person was someone I considered a friend. I thought this person was someone I could turn to when the world was crumbling around me, someone who cared. I suppose I misjudged again.

Maybe not, though. Maybe it's just another instance of me expecting people to act the way I do in similar situations. When a close friend is obviously in some sort of emotional distress, I try to see if there is something I can do to help. I at least ask what's wrong. If a friend is involved in some sort of creative project, I show interest in it and support his/her efforts. I guess I shouldn't hold others up to my personal standards; it only seems to lead to disappointment.

Again, I'm not saying I'm perfect. I think it's safe to say I'm nowhere close to being a shining beacon of moral standards. But there is a thing called common courtesy, and more and more I'm realizing it's not all that common.

This little lesson in friendship hurt much more than last week, and I'm really going to have to do some long hard thinking about where my relationship with this person is headed. I've tried to be supportive of this person, and sometimes he's a loving and supportive and caring friend. At other times, I wonder if he even remembers my phone number. There have been times when this person has come through on a supportive level with flying colors, and there have been moments where I feel like I'm standing outside screaming into the wind. I really considered calling this person when I was feeling down about Roger Mexico leaving and now that I've found out how little he cares about what goes on in my emotional life, I'm sort of glad I didn't.

I don't want to give up on this person. But I'm beginning to wonder if there will be any alternatives left. I give 100 percent, and I get back 25 - 50 percent if I'm lucky. And I'm tired of putting my energy into a relationship with a person who considers me an obligation or a nuisance.

Needless to say, I'm not sleeping well because of all this. Some days I sleep too much, some days I don't sleep at all. When I do sleep, my dreams wake me up. I'm becoming too edgy to eat like a normal person. I'm really becoming apathetic about everything.

I sound like a Zoloft commerical. If only I could afford the therapy....

(After walking away from this post for a few minutes, I need to add something. I never wanted to use my space on the internet like this. I never wanted to write posts saying "so-and-so hurt my feelings" and "whatshisname is a bad person." But, frankly, I'm frustrated. I'm at a pretty low point in my life right now, and the fact that I can't turn to this person for support because that's not what he wants to hear is like a kick in the teeth. It makes me doubt the relationship I had with him prior to this moment. Makes me wonder if the unanswered phone messages and emails were just oversights from a hectic lifestyle and procrastination like I previously thought. After a while, "that's just how he is" becomes a less viable excuse. And I don't want to think that way. I don't want to lose this person. I want to believe that my friend cares, but I'm having a harder time believing it.

This disappointment I'm feeling right now is the kind of thing I used to be able to share with my friend. What do you do when the problem is that friend?)

Two Years is Not Enough!

It's not often that we remember the exact moment we meet someone. I don't have any idea when I first met most of my close friends. Probably somewhere during the beer soaked years at R-Club. I think I can pinpoint Zappagirl, JohnnyB, and Guildenstern to sometime during that era. Rosencrantz was around in the Mr. K's/Film Society days, back when we used to drink the guys under the table on quarter draft Mondays.

I do, however, remember when I met Roger Mexico. It was two years ago today - May 25, 1999. I'd stopped by Arlin's for last call after a poetry reading, and a mutual friend introduced us. From that point on... well, let's just say it's been an amazing ride.

I started thinking about this for two reasons. First, the rescheduled Full Contact Poetry show again falls on May 25th, opening for Gojira at Sudsy Malone's. (And if you're reading this on the evening of May 25th, stop reading and get down there. This entry will be here when you get back.) Weird, weird déjà vu.

And more importantly, in a few weeks Roger Mexico will be moving away from the city, to his new job in eastern Pennsylvania, far far away. States away. Not right around the corner anymore. No more late nights hanging out, watching movies and working on music and writing. No more long honest heart to hearts over a few beers or a bottle of cheap merlot.

I hate thinking about it. I know it's inevitable, but it's tearing me up inside. The last time he left town with no return in sight was sheer hell, and at that point I'd only known him for two and a half weeks. (Thankfully that job never worked out....)

Man, does this suck.

So since this date's been weighing heavy on my mind, I decided to write about Roger Mexico tonight. Well, actually I wrote a lot of this about a month ago in one of my various notebooks, while he was working on music. And yes, it's actually written to him rather than about him. I have a tendency to write down things I'd like to say, but don't get the opportunity to share with him.

Here goes... bear with me.

Last night at your place was one of the best nights I've ever spent with you. I love the fact that I can talk completely open with you about my writing and my job, my strengths and shortcomings and how lost I sometimes feel on my Life Path, about my occasional odd philosophies and new-agey spiritual side, and how I think my brain is lopsided, and you reassure me that it's all OK. I love how you really listen to what I say. I love that when you speak to me, you say my name - it reminds me that I exist and that you're talking to me. (Sometimes I feel invisible, and it reminds me that you can still see me.) I love that you honestly want my feedback on your music, even though I don't feel qualified to give it, and sometimes my critiques are strange and ham-handed attempts to translate the visual images and emotions that 32 or so measures evokes in me. I love how you patiently explain the technical things to me when I ask, like how your computer works in conjunction with the keyboards or how a synthesizer can be out of tune. I love watching/listening to you put a song together from a single drumline to a multi-layered miracle, only to get frustrated because the melody eludes you. I love the fact that you haven't smacked me yet for asking so many questions about your creative process; the one you go through is so externalized compared to mine that I'm fascinated by watching you work. (C'mon, watching someone scribble in a notebook is not all that entertaining.) I love that you're a bigger feminist than I am. I love the fact that you feel secure enough with me to discuss practically anything, and that you aren't offended when I ask you in-depth questions about your past and your beliefs.

Sometimes I forget what an incredible person you are, and I'm ashamed that my mind could slip that far.

Sometimes I think the reason why I'm still single is that I have the most amazing relationships with my male friends, and you're a pretty damn good example. No man that I've ever called "boyfriend" or "significant other" has ever allowed me to be as open, has ever taught me more about myself and the world around me, has ever made me think about my philosophies and question my beliefs about Life more than you have. I am constantly in a state of profound amazement at my good fortune to have such a person in my life. Who needs to date? I've got the best non-boyfriend in the world.

I got the brochure announcing next year's season at Playhouse in the mail, and got depressed because it reminded me that you wouldn't be working any of those shows because you won't be here.

Rosencrantz once postulated that every person we meet in our lives, be they good or bad, has something to teach us, and sometimes it would be easier if they just put it down on a 3x5 card. I've always seen more than a 3x5 card in you. Once I estimated it more as an OED. Two years later, I'm still a believer in that. I feel like I'm just cracking open Volume 2.

Whenever I know I'm going to see you or get to hang out with you, I get excited and nervous like a teenaged girl waiting for the prom. Everytime I spend time with you, I know I'll get to take something home with me - a snippet of good conversation, a piece of the song you're working on and the feelings it invokes in me, a moment - that I get to store away in a mental keepsake box.

When I get angry or nervous because I haven't seen or talked to you in a while, it's actually fear that I've lost you from my life, and that thought devastates me. I keep trying to live in the moment, enjoy every second I have left with you, but the inevitability of your departure is always there, breathing down my neck. The idea of saying goodbye to you again is overwhelming.

I wonder if you realize how special you are to me, how much happier my life is with you in it, and how empty my heart will feel when you leave.

I've got to stop now, or I'm gonna be too bleary-eyed to drive home. Have a good weekend, everyone. And if there's someone in your life that you haven't told how much they mean to you, go do it now.

Anywhere But Here

Believe it or not, I'm actually going on vacation this year.

The last time I went on a real honest-to-god vacation was about six years ago. Six years! I went to New York with Rosencrantz, Mike Dangers, and his friend Todd. We spent entirely too much money, pissed off the bartender in the Detroit airport bar, walked all over East Village, went out to a club and made friends with the bartender, got mistaken for locals more than once, called people from odd places (we called my then-roommate from the top of the Empire State Building), and came home with a page's worth of inside jokes and non-sequiters ("Be careful! That bathroom door doesn't lock!"). Most of our adventures ended up in Rosencrantz's novel. (Will someone please publish this damn book? It's an amazing piece of work, and I want everyone in the world to read it.)

It was fun, but not enough fun to last me for the rest of my life. I'm ready for a lengthy trip away from the Queen City. I had a great opportunity last year to take a cruise when Roger Mexico was working for The Evil Cruise Line, but one of the other ships had propulsion problems and all friends-and-family trips were cancelled so they could accomodate the passengers who had booked cruises on the disabled ship. So much for my trip to Grand Cayman.

So this is it. No fooling around this time. I'm funding the trip with my tax return and a little supplemental cash from the next few paychecks. I've already requested the time off at work. I've already started to window shop and make little lists of stuff I'll need to buy for the trip. It's not until July, but I'm already getting excited. And a little apprehensive.

See, here's the thing. We're going camping.

Granted, it's at a campground for a festival (yeah, it's one of those neo-pagan gathering things) so it's not like we're going to really be roughing it. They have a hot tub on grounds, for crying out loud. There'll be tons of other people and workshops and performances and merchants. Yeah, camping is tough.

But it still will involve me sleeping in a tent for a week, which is a big thing. The last time I slept in a tent was when I was a 10-year old Girl Scout, and even that was in semi-permanent tents with wood floor platforms. My troop was pretty lame.

But I can do this. I have little fear of bugs or getting a bit dirty. I'm not super outdoorsy girl, but it's not beyond the realm of possibilty. And the way I figure it, if JohnnyB survived a weekend camping with Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and the Urban Sasquatch, then I can survive a week in the wilds of western New York. I am most certainly not going to be shown up by the goth pimp daddy; I'm tougher than that. Hell, even he knows I could kick his ass.

But just because I can physically do this doesn't mean I can materially do this. I have no tent. I have no sleeping bag. I don't even have a good pair of walking/hiking shoes. All of my backpacks are bookbag sized. I am so not prepared for this trip.

So I'm perusing a website I thought I'd never touch (Dick's?) so I can get an idea of how much this is going to cost me. I'm expecting a call from JohnnyB so we can discuss carpooling to the campground. I've been driving Rosencrantz crazy with millions of questions about what I should pack.

I know it's a little early to announce my vacation plans to everyone here, but it's been on my mind today for a few reasons. I got my federal tax return, so now it's monetarily possible. And I'm still expecting that call from JohnnyB to start preliminary planning.

But the main reason is that work completely bit today, and I had to think of something good to keep from screaming out loud.

Big reminder! The rescheduled Full Contact Poetry show with Gojira and Condemned to Extinction is this Friday at Sudsy Malones. Please cancel any previous plans and come out and see us. Poetry, loud music, beer and laundry. It will make your whites whiter and brighter. And if you can't make it, I swear the Full Contact Poetry site will be up eventually, and there will probably be pictures of all the fun.

Must go home now. It's the season finale of Buffy and Angel and I must prepare. VCR set? Check. Snack foods bought? Check. Wide array of beverages? Check. Empty ashtray? Check. Kleenex on hand? Check. (Somebody's gonna die tonight, I can just feel it. And the way things have been going, it's not gonna be pretty.)

Sorry I'm not more entertaining tonight. Go read Zappagirl. The kitties are posting. That's what she gets for leaving the computer on while she's at work.

The Weed-Out Course

"I finally got some sense knocked into me...and I've got the bump to prove it." - Simba, The Lion King

More and more, I'm finding out that Life constantly has lessons to teach us. Many of us learn quickly and skip ahead to the next chapter. Some of us get stuck in the remedial class and have to repeat lessons over and over until what we are supposed to learn finally sinks in. And sometimes what Life has to teach us is unpleasant and painful.

Me? I'm on the remedial curve in a lot of ways, but there seems to be one particular lesson I've had difficulty with....

Oftentimes I have the tendency to give people a lot more credit than they deserve. I overlook people's faults, forgive too easily, give the benefit of the doubt when I should just walk away.

Take this weekend, for example. On Friday night, a friend of mine let me down in a big way. He'd done the exact same thing to me months ago, and I forgave him, chalking it up to a moment of insensitivity. It seemed impossible that history would repeat itself, that he would screw up that badly again.

Nothing is impossible, I suppose.

So late Friday night, I found myself absolutely livid and driving to Rosencrantz's to blow off some steam, mentally kicking myself for laying my trust out on the line to be destroyed again.

There's a fine line between being nice and being a doormat. Let's just say I've had more than my fair share of muddy footprints tracked across my back.

I'm cursed, you see. I'm a victim of the Nice Girl gene. I'm not going to say I'm perfect (far from it), but I was raised to believe that people are basically good at heart. I was raised to believe that if you care about someone, you treat them with respect and compassion. I was raised to believe that forgiveness is good and holding grudges is rather useless.

As a result of this learned belief system, I've sometimes trusted people I shouldn't have. I've buried my anger when I shouldn't have. I've pored over situations where people have wronged me, looking for a place to lay the blame upon myself. In some cases, I've found so much fault in my own actions that I find myself apologizing for things I haven't even done, making up paranoid and delusional scenarios where every move I make is the wrong one.

The worst part is sometimes I'm fully aware that I'm setting myself up for the big letdown as I'm doing it, and when it happens I can't even say, "I should've know better." BECAUSE I DID.

That was the case this weekend, and after spending a fair amount of time mentally berating myself and wallowing in self pity, I read this and found myself crying in front of the computer yet again. Damn. Maybe I should be watching Oprah. At the very least, I owe pamie a drink if I ever meet her.

Maybe the reason why I find it hard to stand up for myself and express anger when merited is that I'm afraid of coming off as an insensitive bitch. I've been on the receiving end more than once, and I would never want to send that kind of emotional ickiness someone's way.

To the offending party's credit, I don't think he intentionally meant to screw me over. (See what I mean? I'm doing it again!) I think he's an OK person who just has the tendency to be too self-centered. Does that make him a horrible person? No. It just means he's most apt to think of himself, sometimes at the expense of other.

So do I remain friends with him or take his name out of my phone book?

See, that's where the moral judgement comes in, and that's the part I'm bad at. There's so much to factor in. How long you've known the person, how close a friend they really are, how many times they've screwed up before, how many times they were supportive in times of need. The level of their transgression. The depth of their integrity. Add all that together, then factor in what you heart tells you about the situation.

I never was very good at chemical equations.

I'm not sure what my decision is yet in this situation. I'm not fully sure how to apply the lesson I've learned to everyday life. But I have learned one thing: for every person in your life that sucks at any given time, there's at least four who don't. Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, Roger Mexico, and Zappagirl - thanks again. You're all the best.

(And after I've re-read what I've wrote, I realize that this could be interpreted by some of my readers to be about JohnnyB. No no no. Nothing of the kind. Johnny, you know I still love you, baby. Even though you piss me off sometimes.)

It's a Girl!

I'm back, kids. And I have a new niece. Born May 11, 10:16 am, 7 lbs 8.6 oz., 20 3/4 inches. She's beautiful.

My sister headed to the hospital on Thursday morning, when her water broke during breakfast. Of course, it was the busiest day of the month at work, so I didn't leave the office until 8:30 that night. I stopped at home, changed clothes, and headed to the hospital...to find my sister propped up in bed watching Will and Grace. Labor was not progressing, much to her dismay. The hospital staff kept promising that they would induce labor, but the times kept changing. Midnight. 3 am. 4 am. Sis was not amused. (After being in labor for something like 37 hours with her first child, I don't blame her.)

Mom and Dad were already there, as well as her husband. (I really must come up with pseudonyms for my family members. Umm...let's call my sister Sandy and her husband Danny, since she really likes Grease. Not as much as her best friend - that's freakin' obsession, but that's also another story. And, um, first daughter will be...Mary. I don't know. This is why I asked people to come up with their own names.) Anyway....

We waited. And waited. And waited. Things failed to progress. Mom and Dad and I moved to the waiting room to watch Late Night with David Letterman so Sandy and Danny could get some sleep. We all attempted to get some sleep as well, but the waiting rooms at the hospital were apparently designed by some sadistic decorator, because the chairs were uncomfortable enough when you were sitting in them. Sleeping? You must be joking. I think I got an hour or two of sleep - total. I'd drift off, get about twenty minutes in, and my back would start screaming in pain. I'd get up, stretch, watch a little more TV, read a few more pages of my book, then attempt to find a comfortable way to take a nap. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I finally gave up on the sleep thing around 6 am, and decided to wander back to Sandy's room to see if there had been any progress. I managed to get the door open about 5 inches before Danny slammed it in my face. I took this to mean that some sort of medical personnel was doing some sort of procedure that would go better without interruption, and twiddled my thumbs out in the hallway. (Turns out they were administering the epidural. Labor had been induced around 3:30 am.)

From that point things progressed smoothly, and the baby (we'll call her Cathy) was born with nary a problem. The party was moved from the Labor and Delivery Unit to the Mother and Baby Unit, and Danny left to go pick up Mary so she could meet her new baby sister.

Aw man. You want to talk the cutest Kodak moment in the entire world? "Mary, this is your new sister. This is baby Cathy." I don't think Mary grasped the idea of sister, but she sure was fascinated by her. (Cathy couldn't have cared less and slept through the entire thing.)

I finally left the hospital around 4:30, completely exhausted, hopped up on caffeine, and on the biggest neonatal rush allowed by law.

I feel extremely priveleged to have been present at the birth of both of my nieces, to be there when they took that first breath of air and let loose with that unmistakable newborn cry. It's truly an amazing event, and wouldn't have missed it for the world. It was worth every second of lost sleep, every last sore muscle in my back and neck. And I really shouldn't be complaining being tired and in pain. It's not like I was the one giving birth.

So now I have two nieces to spoil rotten, and the heat is off in the "When are you going to get married and start having babies?" department for a while. I have someone new to play in the living room floor with, a new reason to shop for cute outfits. I have a new child to watch Sesame Street with, someone new to read to, a new Hokey Pokey dance partner.

I get to watch the world get discovered for the first time again. Lucky me.

Chaos Reigns Supreme!

Is it Wednesday already? I had every intention to update before today, but things have been a little crazy around here lately.

First off, I got back from my weekend at JohnnyB's early Monday morning. I've found I focus better on the drive home if I've slept prior to departure, which unfortunately entails me getting up at 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning to pack up the car and drive home. Not a huge deal, but when the batteries in my boombox started dying before I reached the expressway...fortunately there was enough juice left in the batteries to play cassettes all the way home. Unfortunately the musical selections got a bit frightening; I wound up listening to a mix tape I made in 1988 of the most depressing songs in the known universe. Lots of Smiths and Depeche Mode songs. After listening to that tape, it's a wonder I made it through the 1980s alive. (When the last song on the tape is entitled "Unloveable"...well, you get the point.)

The other tape I found turned out to be a mix tape of local bands (most of whom no longer exist), which made me happy since my cassette of Vahn's short-lived band, Darius Pogue, went missing when my car was broken into a year and a half ago, and the songs I'd liked off the EP were included on my compilation (as well as a few songs by Guildenstern's old band, Speakboy). I sang all the way home, and headed off to work.

I decided not to stay late to post Monday night since the grand jury findings on the Thomas shooting were to be announced at the same time that I got off work, and there was no telling what might happen if things didn't go well. The jury decided to indict Officer Roach of negligent homicide and obstructing official business, two misdemeanors that could result in 9 months in jail if convicted. The city prepared for the worst, boarding up windows downtown and placing Ohio Highway Patrol and Hamilton County deputies on standby. There were a few peaceful protests, but nothing of any consequence happened. I ended up passing out on the couch before 10:00.

Tuesday was Buffy and Angel, and I went over to Zappagirl's to watch them. I had every intention of posting after that, but we started watching MadMatt stopped in with a friend, and we ended up watching Toy Story 2 on the DVD. The post again failed to happen.

Add to this the fact that my sister's baby is due on Sunday (yes, Mother's Day...isn't that sweet?) so I'm surgically attached to my cel phone and you've got a few hectic days.

The latest insanity happened this afternoon. I went to pull up the Full Contact Poetry site-in-progress and found that it had unceremoniously been deleted for no apparent reason. The vague message I received when i tried to log on stated that I had violated my terms of service via one of the following: a) spam, b) pornography, or c) remote loading, none of which happened. It was a publicity site for a poetry group, folks. It wasn't online. It consisted of a skeletal home page and 12 photos and fliers to be placed later this week. And to make matters worse, this message blocked me from logging into my personal site in progress. I sent an email to the host company, but seeing as how I'm still waiting to hear from their support team regarding a question I asked over two weeks ago, I'm not holding my breath. So, I'm back to shopping for a new free site.

Tripod sucks. I'm just sayin'. Lycos will never again get my business. Not that they were going to make any money from my sites, but if this is how they treat their new members, it's a wonder they have any old members.

So, yeah, I'm a little bitter, but I hadn't really finished all that much on the site. Not much was lost. Once I find a new home for us, it's just a matter of typing in the bios and pertinent information and uploading the pictures again. It probably won't be up by the show at Sudsy's on the 25th, but I promise it will be soon.

OK, enough of this. Given the Tripod debacle, I'm highly considering going out tonight with Rosencrantz (who is graduating from NKU this weekend!) to work out some aggression on the dance floor. I've also heard tell that an old friend of mine is back in town, and has been turning up at the Warehouse and Vertigo. With all luck, I'll be able to catch up with him.

And then, of course, there's karaoke tomorrow night. Zappagirl and I didn't make it last week, and we need to make it up to Nash. Time to figure out what to sing....

Good Feeling

I'll try to keep this brief, since I'm very anxious to get out here as quickly as possible.

I'm off to visit JohnnyB for the weekend, mainly to get a crash course in PhotoShop. After the scanning fiasco at Zappagirl's this past week, I decided it would be just as easy for me to drive to the Small Northeastern College Town to use JohnnyB's scanner and PC under his tutelage. Plus it's a excuse for me to visit with him and catch up, which is a major bonus.

It's been rather difficult having one of my best friends living four hours away from me. I'd gotten used to seeing him on a regular basis (usually once a week), and although he's visited as much as he can I miss having someone to discuss the latest plot twist on Buffy with. I spend most Tuesday nights after 10:00 focusing on the phone, mentally willing him to call me. (My bills are atrocious enough; long distance calls are generally brief if I make them.)

He's a bigger procrastinator than I am, so email correspondance has been difficult. It's not that he doesn't care; he just gets wrapped up in other projects and forgets to keep in touch with his friends. Sometimes it hurts my feelings a bit, and I have a tendency to take things a bit personally, usually resulting in an acid-tinged email bitching about his lack of reply. The next day I'll receive an email in which he apologizes and reminds me that he's not the best at returning phone calls and emails, and that I should know this after all these years, so I just need to get over myself.

So yeah, sometimes he ticks me off, but whenever I get a chance to talk to him, all is forgiven and we're fighting to get a word in edgewise while we chat about everything and nothing.

I'm leaving straight from work, and I've been in a good mood all day. I'm trying not to let any of the everyday on-the-job stresses spoil it. Last minute requests from pushy brokers? Whatever. An assistant telling me an out-and-out lie over the phone to cover her ass? Irritating, but expected. So what? I left the book I'm currently engrossed in at Zappagirl's house last night? Oh well.

The only thing that could throw a wrench in my plans for a fun-filled weekend is my sister's looming due date. She's due on the 13th (Mother's Day - how apropos!), but you know how things go. It could be any time, but I know if I sit at home waiting for her to go to the hospital this weekend that it won't happen. Unless she has one of those super-short deliveries where she has one labor pain and the baby comes flying out like a bullet train, I should be fine. It's only four hours away, and she has my cel number as well as JohnnyB's number. The only time she might have a problem getting ahold of me will be when we go to see The Mummy Returns sometime this weekend. (I try to be a conscientious cel phone user and turn my phone off whenever I go to the movies.)

I'm all packed and ready to go. Road music has been selected (mostly techno and dance-y stuff; after the trip I made in January I've since learned that pretty acoustic stuff is sleep-inducing). I've been clockwatching all day. I'm anxious to get on the road. It's not a tough drive and I think my little car knows the way pretty well. (Actually, JohnnyB just called me to confirm that I had directions, and it's official. I know how to get there without looking at a map.) The only thing that could make it easier is if the city of Columbus disappeared. Way too many stupid lanes changes up there. OK, I-71 is the left lane! Now the right lane! Move! Now! Pay that Mack truck no mind!

I might check in over the weekend, but don't hold your breath. He's got to recap his entire San Francisco sojourn to me, and we've got three weeks of power packed vampire TV shows to dissect. And he's bought some new Playstation games that he wants me to try out. And I'll need to play with the family dog and watch entirely too much cable and do the experimental cooking thing and...

Visiting with JohnnyB is always like a mini-vacation. I'll be lucky if I get any work done this weekend.

Cults and Karaoke

(side note to Crew: I will never use the word "kewl." Because it's not.)

Yeah, I know it's been been a few days since I've posted anything. I wish I could say it's because I've been too busy doing exciting stuff. Actually I can sum up what I've been up to with a single lyric by the Artist Formerly Known As a Stupid Little Glyph: "Seems that I was busy doin' somethin' close to nothin'..."

Not much is going on here, and a lot of the time I spend staring at a blank screen, trying to think of something to write about that will be interesting for more than three sentences.

Here's a quick recap of the week so far:

On Sunday, I went to lunch with Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Diamond Doug at Kaldi's. Afterwards I went back to Zappagirl's in hopes of scanning in photos and old handbills for the Full Contact Poetry website. (My personal site is on the back burner, since I'm desparately trying to get the FCP site up and running before the show so we have a web address to put on the flyers.) It wasn't pretty. I'm not very proficient with the Mac, and I know zilch about scanning and formatting photos. Zappagirl gave me a basic tutorial and went to bed, leaving me to quietly berate myself everytime I messed up a photo crop.

On Monday, we discovered that the Mac had saved everything as HUGE files rather than jpegs. We fiddled around with the settings for hours and finally gave up to go watch VH-1. Folks, VH-1 is video crack. We spent two hours watching a countdown of the greatest hair metal bands of all time. Names of bands that I had taken years blocking out of my memory came back with a vengeance. (Dokken, anyone? Winger? Sheesh.) And I don't even want to start on Behind the Music. If I had cable, I'd never leave the house again.

Tuesday night was, of course, Buffy/Angel night. (Dear Joss Whedon: Thank you for finally making this year's villain scary instead of a twit, but please stop with the angst. You killed off Buffy's mom, you let Glory kick the snot out of Spike, and now you've let the hellgod of bad perms suck out Tara's sanity. Please stop hurting characters I've become attached to; I'm running really low on Kleenex. Oh, but keep focusing on the demon karaoke host on Angel - he's made a really bad running plot device entertaining as hell. Your fan, Myopic) I was so depressed about the ending of Buffy (and the freaking Dateline I watched about conjoined twins - don't watch these shows when anyone you know is pregnant, kids) that I plunged headfirst into a tub of Caramel Caribou ice cream in hopes of killing off my melancholia. Or at least giving it a nasty ice cream headache.

Yesterday was an icky day at work (the company I work for just completed a merger with a smaller company, and yesterday was the first day of dealing with our new clients), so I went over to Zappagirl's to watch Bring It On (yes, again...she started it this time). We stopped at the local Creamy Whip on the way from Kroger's (to buy coffee - what else?). Ahhh. Nothing says spring like messy soft serve ice cream dripping down your hand and making everything sticky. My ice cream dexterity apparently hasn't improved since I was eight; I had it all over my face and half expected my mother to appear out of nowhere to clean off my face with a Kleenex doused in mom spit. (Yes, gross. But everyone's mom did it at least once, right?)

So we're caught up. Was it as good for you as it was for me?

Today is a big to-do at work. I work for a brokerage division of a big humongous local bank (we're towards the top of the Barron's 500) that is slowly but surely taking over every little bank in the Midwest. I won't mention the name, but today's date is a big hint. But anyways, today is the official bank-wide celebration day. It's kind of like...oh hell, I don't know what purpose this day actually serves. It's kind of like a "thank you" day for the employees, but it's not all that big a deal. They gave us coupons for free donuts and bagels at Dunkin' Donuts, brought in a sandwich tray for the department, and we had a pot luck (and of course, I left my contribution sitting on the kitchen table, where I'd put it the night before so I wouldn't forget it in the morning). And of course, the company encouraged us to wear our "spirit wear" (the various articles of clothing bearing our logo that the company encourages us to buy all year).

Now this is where I start thinking it's funny. Every bank in the downtown area gives its employees little gold lapel pins with the bank logo, so during lunch on Fountain Square all you see are people in suits and these silly little pins. They give you these pins during orientation, and they expect you to wear them regularly. (In my department, they're only sticklers about it when we're having a division meeting or if someone important is coming up to the floor.) Why do they want you to wear the pins? Because it makes the CEO happy.

Folks, I work for a cult. Wear the pin! Buy the T-shirt! Wear the T-shirt! Give out the referral cards to all your friends, and we'll reward you monetarily if we hire them! We will pay your benefits in stock for our company, profit sharing through our trust department, and FREE CHECKING! (Actually, I'm not knocking the benefits. They rock.) Let the world know what a great company we are! Soon the entire Midwest will be ours! Soon the entire WORLD WILL BE OURS! Mwah-hah-hah-hah-hah!

If the festivities at work aren't too overwhelming, Zappagirl and I are planning to go to Longworth's tonight to do karaoke. I've been a couple of times with Nash and actually worked up the courage to sing once. (The beer helped, too. I sang "A Common Disaster" by the Cowboy Junkies, if you're interested.) Most of the other nights I flip through the song list, looking for a song that I could hypothetically sing while I snicker at the drunk guy on stage mutilating some Creed song. (Creed, in my opinion, is painful enough to listen to. Creed being sung by a guy who's had a few too many Jagermeisters and can't read the lyrics on the screen...there should be therapy provided afterwards for the audience.)

Zappagirl has never done karaoke, and is a bit apprehensive. I personally don't think she has anything to worry about. I think I have a passable voice and don't really hesitate when singing along with the radio when there's someone else in the car, but Zappagirl was a music major, for crying out loud. My sad little alto pales in comparison to her singing voice. But then again, I do understand the fear factor, because it's there for me as well. It 's one thing to sing in the shower or in the car, but on stage in front of a microphone in a crowded yuppie bar is another thing altogther.

Who knows. We may both wimp out and spend the evening laughing at the drunk sorority girls who try to sing "Oops! I Did it Again!" worse than Britney does.