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Thursday, May. 13, 2004 / 9:51 p.m. ~With Nothing To Say, I Write and I Write and I Write Anyway~ This is hard. Someone throw me a topic. This could be one of those entries that starts with "Really, I have nothing to say", and then finishes about ten paragraphs later. This diary is the obligatory writing place, much like my paper daily log I write in every morning. That one is an engagement calendar, just enough room to squeeze in the pertinent details of the day before. That one is compulsion. This one is obligation. The LiveJournal is fun. That one is interaction, it's putting it out there and running. Like 'ding dong digit' when we were kids. Ringing people's doorbells and running. And coming home from school, attaching my roller skates to my shoes and skating up and down the sidewalks of our apartment complex. Falling and tearing holes in the knees of my jeans, ending up with scabs I'd gingerly pick off because the thrill was there, and the satisfaction. Remember scabbed knees? Remember falling? Now, when I walk down the stairs outside my apartment, I picture me falling, in my mind's eye, I see it happen, and I see me righting myself, looking around, embarrassed, to see who might have been a witness, and I hurt, there's pain. Sometimes I absently reach my hand to just above the railing, thinking it's there if I need it, I can grab if I start to fall, and I picture my head cracking open like a coconut, the 'milk' spilling out when I hit the concrete steps. I picture a horrible accident, so careless, so avoidable, and death ensuing. And then I'm in my car, and I'm driving wherever it is I'm driving to, usually work, and I don't think about it again. I never think of it on the way up, just the way down. Like when I'm pouring from a fresh half gallon carton of milk, what if I made a wrong move, a little slip, and milk went everywhere? That smell is so hard to get rid of, the one where it's dried and old, sour, sweet, sour. No use crying over it, proverbially or otherwise, but once I spilled a bowl of sugar. And there was a time when one of the cats used to climb to the counter in the kitchen in the old apartment, put her paw in the open sugar bowl there, splash the crystals around, the counter, the floor, the sink, I'd come home and feel the sandy feeling on the floor, look at the bowl, look at her, and the chain reaction would begin. Now, I love her no matter what she does. We've eased into our relationship, and after thirteen years I know her so well, and I've apologized for all the scoldings, told her I'm just not good with kittens, I'm not good with the training, I'm too strict, I'm so glad she's an adult. And I, as an adult, can be big enough to apologize, and remind her how much I love her. I'm afraid of losing her. My cats will die one day. I hate this fact. Along with the one wherein I grow old and infirm, on my own. Booking nursing homes on my own. "Hey, ya got room for one crochety old bitch?" I almost forgot. And in this realm, I just remembered. In addition to reading through my old comments on old self-reviews from my job over the past six years, my supervisor gave me my one month review, and it was glowing, and we talked, and we laughed, and I love to make people laugh, have I mentioned this? And we looked up the word 'rote' because I'd used it to describe what I thought my current job was going to be. I'd said, a year ago, or two, or three, or more, that I'd request a transfer to the current department (hah, I ended up there!), but I imagined it even more 'mind-numbing and rote', and she said she couldn't read the last word, I said, "Oh, rote, yeah, what does it mean, oh, I know, but suddenly I'm not sure", "There's a dictionary", and I looked it up, and we laughed, and I said, "Hah, I AM a good writer!", and I told her how challenging this new job is. It's not mind-numbing or rote, not at all. It's at times overwhelming, and extremely challenging, and in a way... I love it. In a way, I need to never work again. I need to stay home and take care of my things, I need to clean closets, and clean, clean, clean, dust, and wash, and clean, clean, clean, and get rid of so many things, and think about moving one day, getting a house, and riding a bike, and learning to paint, and taking photographs, and living, living, living, I need to be living. But if I have to be working, yeah, I told her I love how independent I am at this job, how I can ask questions when I have them, but no one is standing over me like before, and she said she doesn't micro-manage, which is what they've all said... But she speaks the truth. Mid day she was at her desk crying. Something happened and she went home. I have an idea what, but I didn't dare intrude. We overhear everything in that office. And we are 99% women. It's a job. Rupert won a million dollars. I voted for him. "Survivor: All Stars" is finally over. And now we wait until September for more. In the interim?????? "Big Brother" AND "Amazing Race". Sing Hallelujah, Reality TV brothers and sisters!!! I canNOT wait. And how do I tell my cousin I do not want to travel across the country to visit her? I don't want to fly. I won't take the time to take the train. I don't want to spend the money. I don't have the money. I don't want to leave the cats. I'd never take the cats. What do I do? And now? Tired, as usual. I had great energy all day, way too much in fact, and I drank ginger ale at work. Yes, those two items are related. To bed. Cost of the War in Iraq
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