outer-jessie's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- wow, I already have pages named Daria AND Skippy What was the last thing I said? Why does it feel like I haven't written in a week? I don't think I even mentioned dinner at my friend's house, and the near death experience that was the car rides to and fro. I think I'm getting distracted by this idea of having something to say, rather than the upkeep of the details of my life. More on that later. On Saturday, one of the instances of my harboring and feeding my friends at my apartment go'd around and came around. One of my few good friends from Mount Holyoke called me and said she wanted to make me dinner, go all out, light candles and lay down the red carpet. Forgoing the candles and carpet, we settled on tacos and chocolate pudding. Unfortunately for everyone on the roads that night, her car's idea of "defrost" was to make two tiny fist-sized droplet-free zones on the very bottom of her windshield, through which you could see nothing. It was raining and snowing and cold and dark, plus we were lost, and the whole hour and a half trip was one large collection of what was sure to be our last moments on earth. Lucky for us, nothing was sure but taxes that night. Dinner was a lovely experience, taco-ey and sour creamy and chocolatey and Gilligan's Islandy. Gilligan thought he was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and had killed all his friends, but really they were just falling into a hidden booby trap one by one. Ok. That, and surprisingly not being killed on the way home, was pretty much all I did this weekend, because I worked on Sunday. Ah, that's probably why I forgot to write about it -- I forgot it ever happened in the first place. One day weekends are very odd. Last night...oh god, last night. I remember now. I left work at four, and like a good girl went to the gym. I ran on the jumpy-up-and-downy machine for fifteen minutes and then did an arm-intensive circuit, and boy are my breasts tired! No seriously, they're really sore. Anyway, so I left there and went home about an hour later, debated about spending my last three bucks on chicken nuggets, decided nah I'd be good, got home and found a new DVD waiting in my mailbox...then discovered I'M THE WORLDEST FRIGGINEST MORON. Yesterday Do and I had a date to meet at 12:30 AZ time via telephone and talk about the details of the apartment Rob and I are looking at in Tucson. He went and checked the place out for us and was going to give me the sentence on whether it was good enough for me to send my money to. Which he did (verdict: good enough for a six month lease). We talked about that, chatted about our lives and our friends, had a good laugh, and signed off. Excellent, well and good. Except that my office is kept locked because the systems guys keep hardware and crap in it. And I have to use my key to get in. And I keep the key on the same keyring with my house keys on it. And I left those keys in the pocket of the sweatshirt I leave at work every day. And I didn't discover I had done that until I got home last night. D'OOOOOOOOOOH. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other in front of my locked door. Um, um, um. I went up and knocked on my landlady's door, but she wasn't home yet. I stood and looked up the street to see if her car would miraculously pull in while I stood there, but no such luck. So I had to go back to work again, grumbling and promising myself chicken nuggets when I got back. DAMN, were those nuggets good. Nuggets and fries, dipped in apple sauce. Boy do I like dipping things in apple sauce. When I got home, do you know what I saw? The trash had been taken out. The dishes had been put away. The bed had been made. And the radio alarm clock that makes naturey sounds that I got last Christmas from Rob's soon-to-be-stepdad had been set up on my "bedside table" (really a big blue tupperware bin). The Rob fairy had been busy in my apartment. He knew that I would be made very happy by all the cleanliness, and he knew that I've been finding it very hard to sleep since my good friend the bedtime fan went kaput. He knew that the radio alarm clock that makes naturey sounds could fill the bedtime fan's void, and baby, he was so right. I had the best night's sleep ever last night. I set the clock to "ocean" and it hummed wave noises at me all night long. I had happy dreams and felt warm and secure, and every time I woke up slightly, the ocean lulled me back to sleep. It was so so great. I love waking up happy. Buzz kill number one: lady walking fitfully behind me in wappity-clappity shoes. When I was a young child, I used to like the sound of high heels on a hard surface; I thought it was the mark of a woman. Later on I realized it was just the mark of a woman in uncomfortable shoes. Buzz kill number two: the people who are the first out of the turnstyles at the train station, first to the stairs, yet who take their sweet-ass time going up them one by freaking one and walking next to each other so no one with a perpetual need to rush up stairways can get past them. Buzzy-up-keeper number one: the cool chick in front of me with braids a-kilter and a confident step. Buzzy-up-keeper number two: getting Love Buzz stuck in my head. Buzzy-up-keeper number three: getting to work a few minutes earlier (which absolutely never happens when I take the T) because I woke up happy and refreshed rather than feeling like the Joe who versed the Volcano. Ah yes, the logical fallacy of writing in this diary because I believe I have something to say. Hogwash! I don't feel nearly as connected to this diary or this medium as many of you on my buddy list do. (This is in no way a criticism of you; it is an observation drawn by comparison between you and me.) I don't write here because I want to share my thoughts. I don't even think that most of them are worth sharing. Frankly, I don't have anything to say. I don't see my diary as a friend, or a therapist, or a confidante, or a mirror of self-reflection...honestly. I treat it like any other diary, in which I ramble about the things I've been up to in order to keep a little record for my future self. I guess this whole thing is just me talking to my future, keeping a living time capsule, so I don't forget. There's so much I've already forgotten from my past selves. I would never advertise this place; I don't know why I would. I know why you would, but I don't share those reasons. I'm not trying to make a statement to the world, I'm not trying to make you all fall in love with me, I'm not trying to be the most extraordinary writer you ever hope to e-meet. I'm not trying to be noteworthy, or profound, or deeply meaningful at all. I don't know what I am trying to do. But it's not any of that. I don't kid myself that any of this is genius or even particularly unusual. I don't have pipe dreams of its being published posthumously (ha!) and I don't want it kept as something to cry over when I'm gone. Now I forget what I was trying to say. I guess it was just: "keep your expectations low in regards to this diary." Hm. Going to see Rocky Horror this weekend! Anyone want to come? 10:04 a.m. - 2002-11-21 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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