Wednesday, May. 19, 2004 - 11:34 a.m.
Greetings,
So. I got to hear “Hey Ya” last night and I was right. I had never heard it before. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t the kick ass song I expected to hear since apparently it’s one of the 50 Best Songs of the last hundred years or so – or so I’ve read… In fact, I can’t even remember it this morning. So you know – maybe I had heard it before but it just slipped out my brain the minute the music stopped. Hardly inspirational.
What was inspirational was the Front Line Assembly stuff Tommy was playing last night AFTER “Hey Ya”. I was reading the fourth Harry Potter and kept breaking off from Hogwarts to listen to the music and think about how great and moving and powerful it was. (Especially, to beat a dead horse, compared to “Hey Ya”.)
I’m supposed to be in a class learning all about Outlook this morning but work crippity crap prevented me from attending. My boss, he is not happy. (Nothing to do with ME, thankfully) So everything is sort of falling to the wayside and there are all these pieces that need to be picked up, smoothed over, and pasted back onto the board. How’s that for nifty, ambiguous metaphorical writing? Pretty shitty, huh. I agree.
Thomas offered me the PC last night at 8:30 to play Sims and I actually turned him down so I could go read Harry Potter in bed. The obsession is perhaps finally letting go?
I was up at 5 a.m. playing though, but that doesn’t come under the heading of obsession, that falls under the category of “Getting to Work On Time”, but then I was late to work because I spent 15 minutes telling Thomas about what was going on at work and thereby blew all my Sims hard work out the window. I may as well have slept until 6.
Although I was glad to get up at 5 because I was having this strange nightmare/dream about a future world and a President who is elderly and wears a suit and has a wife and a manservant and lives in the penthouse suite of a tall building and never goes outside – which is good because outside there appears to be a plague of some sort and people are dead by the score and all his wife is concerned with is that she can’t have orange juice for breakfast and doesn’t want to drink the water the manservant desperately drained from the back of the toilet tank because “it’s not sweet enough”. So the President stirred some sugar into her water and told her to drink it and she, sitting there in her furs and diamonds and silvery hair, did. Then their daughter showed up with one of those HazMat suits on so she wouldn’t breathe the outside plague-ridden air, and drove the mother somewhere outside of the plague zone but for some reason the President and the manservant elected to stay behind and go down with the sinking ship or something. And the mother could do nothing but bitch about potholes and her daughter’s driving. I’m thinking the President and the manservant had the right idea about ditching that bitch in fur.
Here’s a horrid thought: What if she was ME???? AUGGGH! People have to wear HazMat suits around me and/or drink toilet water until there is more and they die.
I think I might take myself off to the library for lunch this afternoon since in anticipation of working through the class time lunch I didn’t bring my book to work. And now that I’m working through the class, I’ll actually get to have a lunch.
And here I am thinking of lunch at 10:46 a.m. But just because I want new books, not because I don’t want to work or anything. Obviously I’m not working because I’m writing this.
Even though I gave it to him two times yesterday and put it on the schedule he is bringing with him (and the overlooked fact that IT NEVER CHANGED IN THE FIRST PLACE), Ken has asked me, yet again, to give him my cell phone number for the trip so he can call Saturday night. I imagine I will get one last impassioned email this afternoon before he leaves work asking for it again. And then he’ll probably call me on his cell phone as he drives towards Collinwood and departure for the Cape. (That is if Monkey hasn’t torn apart the kitchen and made dinner that will have to be cleaned up before they hit the road, thus delaying them long enough for him to send out yet another SOS What Is Your Cell Phone Number Again Sorry email.)
Yes, I know. I’m cranky and cynical. And PMS’ing and all that “moon time” bullshit.
Speaking of “moon time” is anybody else out there half offended, half horrified that there are people on this planet that will refer to a woman’s period as her “moon time”? What is this? A Jean Auel book? I keep hearing that my period is supposed to be connected to the moon, but how? I’ve never seen it. Sometimes it comes at the full moon, sometimes it doesn’t. I don’t look up into the night sky and think of being on the rag. Never once have I voluntarily associated the moon with my period. The most I will concede is that a woman stuck in a forest without a calendar who somehow wanted to predict when she’d be on the rag MIGHT match up her cycle with the phase of the moon. But it would all go to shit the first time she was irregular. It’s not like the moon is affecting her uterus the way it does the ocean tides.
So moon time. Don’t say that in front of me. Please.
I AM the President’s wife, aren’t I?
Oh, weekend, where art thou?
Until next time,
Olrun
