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Monday, 20 December 1999 (document) 7:45am I don't know if digital projection is the future of movies. Probably not, but damn, it looks neat. Granted, Toy Story 2 is a cheat since it was created entirely digitally, but I'm still glad I got to see it as such, and even more glad that I was able to drag Madeline along, both for the presentation and just for the movie itself, which is terrific on its own merits. I've said it before and I'll say it again: a very crucial compatibility test is how you watch a movie with someone, and in that respect, Maddy and I click. Even better, she's a credit-watcher just like me. True love. The only (?) other movie we saw was Sleepy Hollow. Okay, first things first: yeah, fine, in the original story he was a teacher, not a policeman. So the fuck what? Over Thanksgiving, my sister-in-law's brother was dissing the film on that count, acting like it was a heinous crime. I sincerely doubt the drunken okie redneck dimwit (I have to give my mother credit for deliberately baiting him and his mother by making disparaging comments about rednecks, and they didn't seem too happy when I used the word "okie"—damn, okies are sooooo sensitive) has ever read the Washington Irving story, or even diverted his eyes from the football game on the teevee or put the beercan down. But no, the movie doesn't have Ichabod Crane as a teacher like in the story. Oh, blow me, hick. (My sister-in-law has, of course, very much risen above her ostensibly okie roots. Not all are so fortunate.) Anyway, I liked it. Not Tim Burton's best work—in my mind, Ed Wood will be tough to beat—but a definite return to form after the earnest misstep of Mars Attacks!, and perhaps most importantly, it's a grossed over $80 million so far. Tim needed a hit, and he has one. I'm glad one. Maddy had already seen it, actually, but wanted to see it again because it's such a beautiful film. Ha! And she claims she isn't a film geek, or at least isn't as much of one as me, which is admittedly very true. Still, she was attracted back to the film for its cinematography, so she might as well put on her propeller beanie, grab a yellow highlighter pen and sit in the corner with an old issue of Cahiers du Cinema with the rest of the geeks...
A week, and still no word from my landlords about Maddy and the cats. Maybe they haven't read their email yet.
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Sunday, 19 December 1999 (reparation) 11:51am Movies. After having been dormant for a few weeks (since Maddy's arrival, probably not coincidentally), my movie jones has returned with a vengeance. As such, I'm currently planning on breaking a few of my own rules (not going to popular movies on weekend mornings, particularly family-oriented ones) and am being lured by a digital presentation of Toy Story 2 at the AMC 1000. I've seen it already, but Maddy hasn't. After that, at the same theater, hopefully Sleepy Hollow (she's seen, I haven't) and End of Days (neither has seen, both will probably deny having done so afterwards). What the hell. This is me indulging myself.
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Saturday, 18 December 1999 (would not come) 4:44pm Sometimes it hurts worse than other times. From the first prick of the needle, this was one of those times. Ouch. I don't know why. I'd already taken two vicodin, but maybe the other chemicals in my system (Contac and NyQuil, the latter in hopes that it would help me relax) were counteracting it somehow. At best, electrolysis feels like pinching, or maybe the sting of a very dull bee. At its worst, it feels like an electrical current being applied the root of the hair follicle, which is of course exactly what happens. Without proper medication (topical or internal), this can really friggin' hurt. Today, in spite of the medication, it hurt. I also found myself crying for the first time in months (during electro, that is). The vicodin might not have been doing its job disassociating me from the pain, but it was fucking with my emotions as usual. Madeline drove me and stayed during the session, something The Ex never once did, and at one point while Maddy was out of the room Phil made a comment more in reference to The Ex that really got to me. Now, I know better than to take seriously roughly 90% of what Phil says. He's a sweet guy who means well, but to quote Sailor Ripley, how his head works is God's own private mystery. I don't know if he was ever quite aware of my tears or not, and I'm quite certain Maddy wasn't, sitting and reading as she was on the other side of the room. If Phil noticed, he probably chalked it up to the physical pain, and I doubt the sobbing is entirely uncommon amongst his clientele. On more than one occasion I considered asking Maddy to come over and hold my hand, but I also knew that doing so would be like completing the circuit. It was will as much as anything else which was allowing me to be quiet and keep the trembling to a minimum, and if I touched her I'd lose that will. It was up to me. I couldn't rely on her for support in this; I had to just try to not think about it (why can't you all just leave me be? i'm sorry i can't make things the way you want them, please, i'm doing the best i can, forgive me for my weaknesses), not simple considering that the other thing vying for my attention was the actual electro. And I didn't want to slow that down, since Phil was obviously trying to get as much done as possible in three hours we had together. As such, he wasn't quite as diligent with the painkiller as he might have been otherwise (not even applying the heavy-duty EMLA to my upper lip, usually the most sensitive part of my face), and I wasn't saying a word. Put bluntly, my martyr circuitry was kicking in. If I wasn't willing to suck it up and deal with a little (or a lot of) pain, then I shouldn't be doing this at all. Nobody said it would be easy, you miserable whiny bitch, so shut the fuck up. Tourfilm (R.E.M.), Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie (Alanis Morissette), Happiness (Lisa Germano), Automatic for the People (R.E.M.) Just so long as I'm healed up by xmas.
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Friday, 17 December 1999 (malediction) 6:28am I swear, I'm not being a hypocrite when I advocate taking public transportation over driving, even though I drove for the (fourth? fifth?) morning this week. It just made sense this morning, since I was up early enough to park in the Batcave, and I'm still sick so taking the bus seemed much less of an option. Well, I see a logic in that, anyway. As it is, I'm settling in for a 12-hour day. In addition to having a lot of stuff to catch up on from yesterday (my two hours here resulted in me saying "Sorry, not today" to many people), The Ex is coming by between six and seven this evening for what I'm hoping will the very last of the Stuff Exchange. Just some CDs, the camera, things like that which have slipped through the cracks or which one or the other has borrowed. Hopefully this will make the slate a little cleaner, and set Maddy's mind at ease. What will happen when/if we cross paths with The Ex next week in Fresno, I can't say. Meanwhile, I haven't heard back from the landlords yet regarding Maddy and the cats since I wrote on Monday. Which I suppose is probably a good sign, preferable to an immediate response of "Get out now." There was something Oscar Wilde said about suspense...
Shrine tonight or not is the big question. I'm getting zapped tomorrow so I haven't shaved since Wednesday
morning, hence I'm a bit furrier than I normally care to be seen in at a club. On the other hand, both
Laurel and Tiff are going to be there, a strong persuader considering I haven't seen either of them in
a long time, and neither has met Madeline. And it's not as if anyone will suddenly realize the awful truth
about me just because I haven't shaved. Hell, the shock value alone...
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Thursday, 16 December 1999 (it's a miracle) 12:54pm It's very seldom that I call in sick to work. I do my best to stay healthy, and for some reason I feel guilty when I'm not at work. Hell, I felt guilty when I got my wisdom teeth pulled. So it was somewhat reluctantly that I called in sick today, but I knew based on how my head felt that I needed down time and I needed it now. Naturally, a few hours later, I get the frantic calls that the sky is falling as usual. So here I am, and I've mostly cleaned things up and am about to leave again, but goddamnit, just once, just once...all this and getting chewed out for not participating in forced socialization. Fuck. Must now go back out into the entirely too bright sun and drive back home. I'm sick of the sun. Rain annoys me too, I admit, but this sun in mid-December makes no sense. Did I mention that I'm sick and getting sicker? I have an appointment with Phil on Saturday morning, and The Ex is coming by the office tomorrow afternoon to drop off some stuff (her coming to the apartment is a no-no), so I kinda need to get well now. The world can fucking spin without me for a little while.
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Wednesday, 15 December 1999 (three wishes) 7:19am The stars were very bright. But they always are. 7:54am Leigh just warned me that my absence from the departmental lunch yesterday was very much noted by The Big Boss, and that I shouldn't be surprised if I hear the heavy footsteps outside my cubicle this morning... 8:32am Could it be I've lost two pairs of sunglasses in as many days? Ow, so sunny outside...so very painfully sunny... 12:06pm So I got the expected talking-to from one of the department honchos. Not The Big Boss, but his nominal second-in-command, the person who Elizabeth felt persecuted her out of the office. It was surreal, feeling more like being chewed out (if very, very calmly, which is almost worse than a raised voice) by a parent for coming home late without calling first. Apparently, my absence caused a great deal of consternation, and many people were extremely worried about me. Had I gotten lost? Had something happened to me? A stranger with candy, perhaps? To hear them tell it, there was almost no topic of conversation other than why I wasn't there. I know a guilt trip when I'm being taken on one. I cut to the chase: after the fiasco that was Fun Day, I refuse to be around The Big Boss when he has access to alcohol. Period. They didn't quite argue the point, but insisted that he's been getting help and is making progress. Sure, of course he is, good for him. I still don't want to be around him when he has access to alcohol. If they weren't aware of my feelings about the Big Boss and all the attendant issues therein, they are now. And while I didn't hold back on my overall feelings about the man, I kept Summer's name out of it, even though I'm very familiar with her experiences with him, his attempts to sabotage her transfer, etc. Tempting though it was, it wouldn't have been right, and in it's very important to keep one's head above the moral water in these situations. I agreed to tell them ahead of time that if I won't be attending this sort of thing in the future, but I didn't back down from my essential positions. I was asked if there's any chance of me forgiving The Big Boss, and I replied that it's between me and my conscience, and irrelevant anyway. Maybe I'll forgive him, but I sure as hell won't forget, because I intend to learn from my mistakes. Summer insists that I should tell HR, but I don't think it's necessary. My job wasn't threatened at any point, and indeed I kept bringing up my job performance at every opportunity. Although I may not put on the most openly professional demeanor (being in full warpaint and a Manson t-shirt at the moment), the work I do is exemplary, and that's what matters the most. The words "teamwork" and "working environment" were tossed around like the rhetorical hand grenades they are, but insofar as I have a team at all, we do just fine. I have very little contact with the majority of the people in the department, and there are certain ones whom still annoy me greatly even though we don't work together. Although not wanting to be in an enclosed space with TFQ and the big guy were also very strong motivating factors, it seemed wise not to mention it. My personality conflicts (for want of a better word) with The Big Boss at least have a certain history behind them; the crawling of my skin, on the other hand, is not sufficient reason. It wasn't all bad, though; afterwards, I found out who my "Secret Santa" was. Granted, it's a practice which I normally don't care for and which I find even more troublesome when the company doesn't even give xmas bonuses, but sometimes you just gotta play along. The name I'd drawn, ironically enough, was the management honcho into whose office I was called. I'd played it safe (or cheated, depending on your perspective) and gotten them a gift certificate from Tower. Sometimes simple is best. My gifter, however, did the smart thing and went straight to the person who knows me best: Summer, who was apparently only too happy to oblige. Indeed, Summer had been teasing me for weeks that she knew what they were getting me. It's a good that I'm very patient when it comes to this sort of thing, or else it would have been torturous. If there's anything Summer loves, it's tormenting someone, preferably with their own fears. (If you have a fear of either ducks or clowns, for your own sake, pray she never finds out.) She was teasing me over ICQ so I never did see the gleam in her eyes, but it was probably the same one was when she asked me many months ago if I liked Madeline, back when the two of us were only corresponding via email. I hadn't known that she was asking on Maddy's behalf, a classic example of high school-style epsionage. If only she'd passed me a note during Algebra, it would have been perfect. I don't recall if she was wearing one of her fifties-style dresses that day, but I'd like to think she was.
Anyway, as a result I got a book and a pair of stripeys—indeed, Summer knows me well. The stripeys are actually
of a kind I've never seen before: purple and black on one leg, and red and black on the other. Very neat.
The book is a John Shirley collection I don't have yet, the no doubt aptly named Really, Really, Really, Really Weird Stories. Signed, of course. So perhaps the universe
isn't too angry with me at the moment.
I think that just about describes it, yes.
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Tuesday, 14 December 1999 (too much rope) 7:43am My computer at home remains crippled, and I suppose it will be until I'm able to get Windows resinstalled, the proper patch obviously not working. Perhaps this is exactly what I should have expected to happen; you get a computer through your ex-girlfriend, gee, what could possibly go wrong? I was talking to her boyfriend about it on Friday, until he just kinda sorta disappeared altogether. Until she found out he was talking to me, maybe. A line of sorts was crossed when I did that. Yeah, so I'm feeling paranoid right now. I'm going to be doing a lot of running and hiding this morning, from both a company-wide meeting and the departmental lunch. Brian was trying to talk me into going, but no. No, no, no. I promised myself after Fun Day that I wasn't going to let myself get dragged into a position like that again (which is to say, the Big Boss being shitfaced), and I intend to keep that promise. Maddy's downtown at the staffing agency taking some tutorials and deliver her revised resume, which she would have gotten to them last week had it not been for the computer mishap. If you don't know what you've got until it's gone, then you also don't know what you can live without until you don't have it anymore. Maybe this is the universe trying to tell me something, slapping me on the wrist for my consumerism, my materialism. I was collecting the MP3s and churning out the CD-Rs like nobody's business, enjoying myself thoroughly and expanding my collection considerably, and now I'm not anymore. Perhaps because I shouldn't have been in the first place. (This has nothing to do with the morality of "stealing" from the record industry. Fuck them.) Part of me has always had an intense, almost existential degree of liberal guilt over the relative comfort of my life, over having more than just food, clothing and shelter. What more do I need than that? Any other comfort or luxury is just that, a luxury. So this could just be the universe's way of slapping me in the face, of reminding me that I'm overindulging. So why is it so damn hard to purge, then? If I can lose everything on my computer (anything that can't fit onto 1.44MB floppies, that is), why can't I get rid of the clothes I never wear or the books I've read or CDs I don't listen to? The apartment is a masterpiece of clutter, and though I've made progress, I need to be much more brutal than I have been. When the things you love can disappear in one fell swoop, then the stuff you're merely ambivalent about shouldn't be a problem to get rid of at all. Meanwhile, in the brief time I'm here at work, I'm about ready to find a wall to punch. It's times like this that I wonder if it's really all worth it. It is, of course, and there's no chance in hell of me quitting, but Christ, sometimes...
The worst part is, I seem to have left my sunglasses at home. So I have to look these people in the eye.
No, anything but that...
The Fidget Queen, and my highly biological neighbor. Of course. My personal albatrosses. Interestingly, after having been unsuccessful in his attempt to talk me into going to the department lunch, Brian is now ditching it as well. Ironically, we'd had to walk over to the old building for a different meeting, where the company-wide one is being held as well. While over there I ran into Summer, the first time I've seen her in weeks. Just another reminder of how much things have changed around here. TFQ just left. At least that's something. And I'll be leaving soon, too.
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Monday, 13 December 1999 (consonance) 8:10am On Saturday morning, Madeline experienced the magic that is what happens when Miguel is introduced to a new head of hair. In spite of what she was told by the hairstylists in Kansas (did anyone ever tell her the truth about anything out there?), her hair can in fact handle bangs. She genuinely believed that her hair was too fine for bangs, which really doesn't make a damn bit of sense. But she put herself into Miguel's capable hands, and was very pleased with the results, calling it "the best thirty dollars I've ever spent." No, they're not quite as solid as mine since her hair isn't as thick as mine, but they still look damn good. There's nothing quite like the feeling emotional satisfaction that can come from a good hair job. (Yeah, yeah, I know, that sounds like "handjob.") Her hair still needs to be recolored, but Miguel didn't have any of the right kind of color in at the time; hopefully he'll get it in before we go to Fresno for xmas. Miguel also recolored my hair and trimmed my bangs, although partially for variety's sake and partially so Maddy and I didn't look too precious I had him put my hair in Wednesday-style braided pigtails, which he hadn't done for a while. From there we proceeded into the East Bay to see my brother and do some shopping (seems Wal-Mart is the only place in the Bay Area which carries black bedsheets, what the fuck?), ultimately ending up at The Old Spaghetti Factory in Jack London Square. Look, I hadn't been there for almost a year and Maddy had been jonesing for pasta, okay? Besides, traffic across the Bay Bridge was atrocious; when you're in the East Bay after 3pm on a Saturday, you might as well just be content with staying there until late unless you want to spend the evening on the Bridge. Anyway, I was exiting one of the stalls in the men's room as a guy was entering one of the other stalls. I walked to the sink to wash my hands; he watched me, then dashed out. After a pause which seemed just long enough to check to make sure he was in the correct restroom, he came back in...stopped, look at me a for a few more seconds, then walked back out. Mind you, I wasn't wearing any makeup save for eyeliner, although my hair was of course still in the pigtails. When he came back in for the third time, I informed him that yes, he was in the correct restroom, using the rather obvious urinals as a point of reference. He thanked me curtly and went into a stall, and I'll admit I was grinning when I left. So last night Maddy and I are watching Futurama, her for the first time. Recognizing Leela's voice, she starts to ask, "Is that..." then trails off. I reply, "Katey Segal." She nods, satisfied. A few minutes later, she realizes that I finished her thought.
Oh, we are so meant to be.
December's been a busy month. I am no longer living alone; my girlfriend Madeline has moved in with me. She moved out here from Kansas when an opportunity to do so presented itself. (We'd both visited each other already, so it's not as though we'd never met, and in fact have been corresponding regularly since April.) Irony being the primary motivating factor in my life, this occurred shortly after I'd acquired that cat I'd been talking about getting--the ironic angle being that she has a cat, too. No rodent would dare challenge the feline presence now, lemme tell ya. Both cats are housebroken (her cat Oscar is practically fastidious), and the kitten will be fixed and declawed as soon as she's old enough. Okay, so I fibbed a bit, twisted things, adopted Mina retroactively, tried to make the two-cat issue seem more workable. I hope. I'm probably worrying much more than I should; worst-case scenario is the rent going up a bit more. I can't imagine they'd kick us out, or demand that we reduce the cat population by one (which is certainly Maddy's worst-case scenario, but I'm gonna be optimistic). I'm sure once they meet Maddy, there won't be any problem at all, which is usually the case when people actually meet her for real.
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Sunday, 12 December 1999 (conversion) 6:45pm All attempts to repair the patient have proven unsuccessful. A Windows reinstall may be necessary. May God have mercy on us all. The pigfucker.
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Saturday, 11 December 1999 (defamation) 11:32pm You're in the men's room. See the urinals?
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