Monday, November 29, 2004

And it's about time!

Godzilla Gets His Hollywood Star

He's the consummate professional! How many actors today would breathe nuclear fire just to get a role?

Invisible Friend

I have friends I've never seen -- isn't that a quote from an old Neil Young song? Anyway, it's true. I have friends who's hands remain unshaken, faces unsmiled-at, voices unheard, but they are friends anyway, existing as they do as constructs in my head based on words I've seen on a computer screen.

If I can feel affection, interest, even worry and love for a character in a book, why not for someone I know online? I just have to remember that, just like characters in a book, the people I know online are not required to respond to my emotions, nor are they responsible for my reactions concerning them.

All this circles back to one of those online friends, someone for whom I feel such a great affection and such an aching pain for his suffering -- and he clings hard to his suffering, as if it is what makes him. Oh, he's had plenty to suffer about, and he's so intelligent and so talented that he can suffer creatively. Unfortunately, he's so very proficient at it that he knows no other way and so produces, on a regular basis, things about which he can suffer. I'm not talking just depression or grief or sadness or malaise or generall pissed-offed-ness. I'm talking suffering, practically in the Christian sense, soul seering, body breaking misery.

I say he clings to it because...well, he accepts it as unsolvable, incurable, untreatable, unrelenting, cosmic. I may not have a world wide intellect, but I know that suffering is a choice. Many people are afflicted, but do not suffer -- they do not live inside their misery and explore every aspect of it, nor wear it as a defining characteristic, nor build their whole lives around maintaining and abetting whatever impinges upon their lives.

I say it because he will not hear anything that contradicts his acceptance of his suffering or his interpretation of its endless nature. It is as if, were he to climb from his pit of pain, if he were to find some thing that lessened it, some part of him would be extinguished and there would be nothing to take its place. I can imagine that kind of fear readily.

Part of me kicks me and says I have nothing on which to judge him, and that's right, because I cannot judge. I am not a judge, and I am not saying he is wrong or right, for it is neither my job nor my special power. What I am saying, and thinking, is that he holds to his pain as if he has nothing else, and when I look at him I see other things that he has but they are not embraced, and he says he would be free of his suffering but knows not how to heal, and I hurt with him and wish I had an answer to give him. What I know is that I cannot give him any answer, or any surcease, or even a moment's respite. If I could, he would refuse it.

Nevertheless, this invisible friend, whom I hold somewhat distant for my own protection, suffers. It is quite real, what he goes through. I hold him at a distance because it is my nature to take on the pain of those I love, will I or not. I am not strong enough to bear it unacknowledged (which he cannot), nor am I brave enough to feel it without hope of comfort. I have only one defence, that that is distance. I prefer not to suffer, nor to remember suffering past. I can't carry that much on my back. It's hard enough knowing there is baggage on me I haven't managed to drop yet, trailing behind me on thick chains, my own work to do, my own beam in my own eye.

But I love him, as I have from the first I read of him and about him and from him, and think of him anyway, despite his disdain for my feeling, despite his complete lack of need for me to care or not care. Neither of us are prepared to acknowledge anything other than casual acquantaince. And he does not need me in any way. I have nothing to offer him. He is as a fictional character, despite having body and mind and soul, and I do well to keep that in mind. I just hope that the next chapter I read will have something better in it for him. I wish that and hope that very much.

Sunday, November 28, 2004

My New Room

The bookshelves aren't done, but the painting and curtains and carpet and desk are all in place. I have a pink room -- I shake my head at the very thought, but my peony print looks lovely against the wall. It's a pale pink -- in the dizzy atmosphere of the paint section of Wal-mart, I'd selected this pink and a much hotter, brighter pink with the idea of using those special pattern rollers to blend them into something lovely. I've done it in four other rooms in the house with great results each time.

I got about halfway around the room when I concluded it looked like I was killing Valentines with a woodchipper. The two colors did not blend into anything attractive. It looked like a scene for a forensics expert on bloodsplatter. Luckily, the darker color was not a real heavy pigment and the light pink covered it up nicely. So, I have a pink room. With the rose curtains and the pale tan/peach/blue pattern on the oriental rug MIL gave me (it's the real deal, an actual Oriental rug, bought overseas and quite nice, and the dark wood furniture that will be going in, and the burgundy and dusty rose fabrics that will also come into this room, I think it will not be so much "pink" as "warm and cozy".

I'm so strange. I love lace and beads and frilly frou frou just fine, thank you, but I tend not to have them directly in my house, or even prominent in my wardrobe. I eschew the traditional "feminine" look of things while liking it just fine. I'm conflicted about such things, and here I am with a pink freaking room and I like it.

Ok, I'm gonna call it "Peony" and be done with it. "Pink" just makes me shudder. Once Husband finishes the bookshelves and I get them loaded, I'll take some pictures.

I'm sitting in here now, on one of the dining room chairs. The antique desk is obviously designed for much shorter people and Husband is going to get some casters for it to raise it up a bit, and we will probably get me another chair -- the dining room chairs are fine if you are only on them long enough to eat, but for hours of sitting at a computer, they tend to bite one's but. MIL also gave me several sheepskin rugs (actual sheep's skins, complete with wool) and I folded one to put on the seat. One of them covers the floor in front of the window, under the cat bed I dug out and placed there. Benny has declared this room his own, and has slept in that bed most of the afternoon. Now, that bed has been sitting under the cat condo for 5-6 months, and behind a chair in a corner of the living room for a year or so before that, completely ignored. With cats, it's all location, location, location. He also likes the sheepskins. In fact, all the cats have spent some time on one or other of the rugs, lounging and kneading and looking smug.

So I'm sitting here, and I've been writing. That was the point. I have to start back on the writing discipline I had at the beginning of the year. It worked, for one thing. I have to retype some of my stories so I have electronic copies of them once more. Then I have to back them up so that I don't LOSE them again.

And then I have to write, and write some more, and do the sending out of manuscripts and the collection of rejections...oh, I don't know if I can manage this.

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Turkey Coma

An easy, no-trauma, no drama day. Went to Hamunaptra to have the famous feast with the MIL et al, at one of the many clubs peppering the location. The meal was...adequate. Nothing was bad, and nothing was memorable. Didn't eat so much as to feel stuffed, and had no leftovers, thus no turkey induced coma. I haven't prepared a Thanksgiving meal in perhaps 3 years now. It feels a little odd, sometimes, when I reflect on it, but I do not have a large group of friends all displaced from their families, and now the little bits of family I do have are all nearby.

So, we had a mediocre dinner. Conversation was light, as is to be expected. Got into a slightly political post-dinner discussion about immigrants -- US (mis) treatment of legal immigrants vs illegal immigrants gaining access to benefits, which ended quickly by abandoning the table. I felt very strange about it, since I'd brought up the topic and Husband was about to start arguing with Mil's Sister (the "al" in "et al" above, "et" being Husband's godmother). I was nudging his leg under the table, as I heard the tones -- no one was going to be convinced of anything other than what they already believed, and there was nothing to be gained in a fight to be right. That's something Husband has not yet learned. I prefer to let such conversations die.

Went to MIL's house, changed clothes, Husband did a few little chores while I tormented MIL's cat (a highly tormentable creature -- walking into the room can send her into a hissy fit. Looking at her twice can incure spitting and scratching. It wasn't like I put a lot of effort into irritating this cat. Mostly I breathed.) Came home, listening to NPR and a Bailey White Thanksgiving short story in the van. Came home, settled into the bedroom, and now I'm here.

It was a day without much detail. Oh, there are details. I'm going through a collection of foriegn coins MIL has, mostly South American, most pre-1965, with unfamiliar shapes, metals, colors, symbols, and words I only half recognize (my high school Latin comes in handy here). One coin is dated 1884, and is worn and stained enough to back it up. Jay's godmother gave me some old jewelry she doesn't want, including a beautiful faceted garnet bead bracelet pair that, from appearances, must date back to the 1930's. Some of the strands are broken and I promised to make something for her from the loose beads. There is a large garnet set in the clasp, a dark, jelly clear stone in fogged and darkened metal (gold? electroplate? I can't tell until I clean it.) there are also three amethysts, all nearly matched, with more blue in the purple than I've ever seen, each one about the size of the pad on my index finger. There was a strand of begger beads, and some weird ones called "cat's eyes" which LOOK like yellow bakelite set with seashell "eyes" -- definately of late 20's/early 30's vintage.

I just don't write the details in here. I gloss over things in my life here, unless I'm lecturing. I puzzle over that. When I'm writing fiction, I love the details. I can happily plunder the concrete image then. But nothing in my actual life, in my day-to-day doings, seems to merit that kind of attention.

I can't imagine anyone sitting down to read about it. So I skip and I gloss and when I read back over the record of my days, they blur together, smeary and indiscinct, as if nothing really happens and nothing really matters.

Tomorrow the painting begins in earnest. Everything is marshalled for the effort. By Saturday, furniture should be in place, curtains up, and everything but the new book cases put in a lasting home. Once all that is done, I am out of excuses. I must start writing.

I've been all about the excuses for not writing. I'm not comfortable, I don't have a space, I don't have the right mood, I get interrupted, I get disturbed, I get distracted, the space bar and the B key on my laptop aren't working right, I don't have any idea where my half-written stories are going...blah blah blah. So, I've set a goal and after that, no more excuses. Either I write or I don't. Turkey coma notwithstanding.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

Jane and Hats

Monday afternoon was spent reading chapters of Jane AUsten novels aloud to members of the local Tea Society. The Tea Society is -- as best I can tell -- a group of women, mostly of a certain age, who gather together to drink tea, eat little bits of cake, wear hats that are no longer seen in public, and talk.

Reading to them was...interesting. I shared the duties with my buddy the bookstore owner R, who is a good reader and a sweet person. She read two chapters, and I cut my second reading when I noticed the natives were beginning to look restless. There were a few in the audience my age or younger (some much younger, the bitches) who were particularly aggitated, as if distressed over the lack of channels to surf.

Afterwards, we discussed, R and I, how the genteel pastime of reading aloud to one another has faded in this age of multi-media entertainment and 300 channels of nothing. Books on tape/CD still do well for those who only read when they drive, but the general populace has difficulty listening to another voice without being able to interrupt for their part of the conversation.

I flatter myself, based on the several post-reading compliments I got (the one being most important coming from Ruth, who is honest) that it wasn't our readings themselves. We were animated, making slight changes to illustrate the voices, and looking up as often as possible from the page. I know R worked hard and has much experience in reading to children, so she can usually hold the attention of adults. My main concern was in being heard and projecting well.

Husband loves it when I will read to him. If I find an article, a bit of a story, or anything, really, in print, he will defer reading it himself, prefering I read it to him. I should note he does not frequently return this little service. Considering my opinion of his usual choice of reading material, I am grateful, in general, for his circumspection. It's rare he actually cracks a book, unless it has pictures. He CAN, he just DOESN'T.

Still, that makes him head and shoulders above the type of person I usally see who can't be bothered to sit for more than an hour without changing a channel, passively sucking in whatever appears on the glass square.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004


The bad side of deciding to clean one's house pre-holiday is

1) being revolted by how much of a pig Husband and I are all year.
2) finding things that worry, distract, or revolt you.
3) knowing there is far more to clean than will get cleaned.
4) realising you have to clean something before you can even get close to cleaning something else -- multiple times.

So far, I have been battling paper. The pack rat gene runs strong in Husband and me, and thus Bits 'o Paper do collect on flat surfaces, in boxes, in bags, under furniture -- everywhere but in the garbage or the proper file. Since we run our own business, there's additional paperwork that must be filed and maintained. There is also junk mail. Catalogs, fliers, offers for credit cards -- you know the stuff. We get it to our personal address and to the business address, twice as much.

Our garbage men should be impressed. I've been ripping and shredding for hours. I am only halfway through the pile, though, and I still haven't filed anything. It's just gone into that optimistic "to be filed" pile. Still, there's progress...although I have been dreading the walk to the mail box.

The living room has managed to stay more or less together since I cleaned it last week. the dining room is showing potential, as the top of the table is now clearly visible. The kitchen is sort of transitional. The kitchen table is still lost under great piles of stuff that must go elsewhere.

Then there is the Garage.

I don't normally go into the Garage if I can avoid it. Husband has his workshop in there and it is usually saw-dust covered Hell. But today I had to go and I realized that under all the saw dust is a huge, throbbing, bloated pile of GARBAGE that must be tossed. Beneath the mass that is the Beast in the Garage are smaller creatures that laugh evily when I go by. Husband can speak to them with impunity, but I am tormented by the sudden fall of a rake handle or the nudge of a bucket into my path. I'm not going back in there until the place has been exorsized.

Saturday, November 20, 2004

Penguin Drag

Tuxedo shirt, with the stiff collar and cuffs. Shirt studs (only 3 because that's all I have). Cuff links. Bow tie (the semi real ones that clip around the neck). Cumberbund. Long velvet skirt, flat shoes.

That's official "Penguin Drag" for my career with the OGC. Gotta make some changes.

First, the sleeves be too long -- I can fix that, but it's all annoying. Neck actually fits, but you still feel like you are choking because the collar is so stiff. I've got makeup all over it. So, clean the collar, get an extender button so I can turn my head.

The shoes aren't bad, but aren't great. I need some that don't have a little rhineston buckle on them also. Eh, for $20 on short notice, they worked.

The concert today was at the Orlando Museum of Art in the Rotunda next to the giant Chiully glass statue. The rotunda area has a skylight and so half the stage area was bright and hot, half was cool and shady. Guess in which part I (and most of the tenors) were standing? I have no idea if we sounded good as I could hardly hear anything. Concerts go so fast that it's hard to remember more than flashes, like snapshots. I couldn't see our director most of the time for the glare. Still, 30 minutes later I was tie-less and happy.

But that tux shirt -- gotta fix that tux shirt.

Friday, November 19, 2004

To Do List

Today I must

1) purchase a black cumberbund and possibly a black bow tie
2) spackle
3) print the scenes from assorted Jane Austen novels I typed up yesterday
4) at least pretend to look at my concert music with an eye toward memorizing some of it

I love spackle. It's like frosting only you don't eat it and therefore cannot get fat from it. Aside that, all the rest of the frosting fun is there. I have a little can of it and a tube -- a tube! I can make spackle rosettes!

Technically, after I spackle (what a great word, spackle. It should be reserved for something better than home repair. It should be something someone in sequins and big hair does on a stage in Vegas -- "Did you see her spackle routine? Amazing!" Add an "r" and it's sparkle -- so the sequins are a natural choice.) I have to tape all the edges I DON'T want transformed into a marbelized mixture of medium rose and pale rose. Yes, yes, I know, damn it all, it's PINK. I cannot escape pink. I know there is a difference. PINK is the color used by Disney to shade their line of Princess play toys for little girls. It's a color that gives me gas.

Rose, on the other hand, is a soft, warm color that evokes flowers and glowing hearthfires and fuzzy blankets and early morning light just above the horizon. And I want to use the colors in the huge Peony print I have had for years now, that I bought after staring at it for almost a year and still haven't framed. Just one, huge, perfect peony blossom on a white field. It looks like an Image Composer Sprite. I love it. And I'm painting a whole room to match it. Well, it and the burgundy velvet covered Scandenavian design rocking couch (yes, couch, although it's really more of an oversized rocking lounge chair or mini-love seat -- it's hard to explain but it's one huge piece of furniture that you can sort of lay on and it rocks -- it's Scandenavian, what more do you need to know?) that will be going in there. I will also have to find fabric to recover the matching rocking chair because the horrible wooly burnt orange stuff on it just will NOT be seen in my house, much less in my pink room.

My ROSE room, damn it!

The Husband and I were arguing over the bookshelves I want in what will become my writing room, my office, my place to be creative or just stare or whatever it is I will do. You see, he's quite the carpenter and after pricing shelving, decided he would just build them. After all, shelves are NOT the hardest thing one can build. I had seen some ladder-style shelves at Pier One that I liked, and he offered to build shelves just like that. I saw some others in a catalog and showed him the picture.

"Well, mine will be like that, only with solid sides."

"Uh, I don't want solid sides. Just make regular book cases."

"Why would you want book shelves with open sides?"

"Ladders don't have solid sides. A ladder-style bookshelf with solid sides will just look like a lopsided box."

"You aren't going to see in the sides."

"They aren't going to be shoved in the corner, they are going to be centered on the wall. You WILL see the sides."

"It's a book case."

"So just make a regular book case."

"Why are you making such an issue about the sides?"

"Why did you say you could make the shelves like the ones I wanted and then decide to make malformed boxes instead?"

I'm not precisely sure what we were actually argueing about, but I suspect it's something like he wanted to give me something and I don't want what he wants to give me because I already knew what I wanted and solid sided ladder-esque book shelves aren't it. There's got to be a deeper issue involved in there somewhere.

Anyway, time to eat, dress, comb the cat-knitting out of my hair, refuse to let the state of the world as reported on the news get to me, and hunt down that cumberbund and bow tie so I can wear my penguin drag (formal concert dress) on Saturday.

I have spackled, but not taped, and I was prevented from leaving the hosue in search of cumberbund by a shocking lack of clean clothes. Thus, laundry, the dreaded beast, got onto my list and is swishing and swooshing right now.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

And now, the dishes

I survived cleaning the living room. Hurray me! There is still so much to do, not that it will get done today, but I can start on it.

That's the part where I start bitching and feeling overwhelmed. So much to do, actually. Take the old laptop out, clean the programs off in prep for donation tonight, and find all the disks that go with it. Work on some NERO stuff I don't THINK I owe yet but can't remember. Clean the kitchen as part of the "step-by-step" housecleaning. Prep for rehearsal tonight. Hope the roofers show for the estimate.

Ah, roofers are king in Florida right now. If you see three people talking, chances are they are exchanging the phone numbers of roofers. Roofing companies are inundated with calls, so many that they don't call back. Most of these outfits are run by one guy who has a crew and a cell phone. So many roofs you see are still covered with bright blue tarps and lathing strips. Those roofs that aren't either have a heavier-than-contractor-cheapshit roofing tile or have a slightly mangy look. People get excited when they get a possible date for the replacement/repair. Right now, we figure if we get the estimate this week, we might get the replacement in February some time. And we will be happy about it. There are a LOT of damaged roofs around this state.

Come June, all the roofers will be on vacation somewhere expensive.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Death Defying Vacuum Stunts

I have memories of me getting more done. I have memories of me popping (ok, sliding) out of bed and being ready to do something more with my day than staring at a computer screen or a televisions screen.

Maybe they were implanted.

I have nothing in particular pressing me -- no work until my computer is repaired and returned there -- so my days are mostly free, yet I accomplish so little. Just can't seem to find whatever it is that makes me do things that need doing.

Oh who knows? Reading over this, I hear the echoes of the depressed. Damn it all, depression is like cancer -- silent and sneaky and - WHOOMP - there you are, needing drugs. It creeps through everything, sending tendrils into every part of your life and sucking the sap out of you.

It is also disgustingly hard to combat single handedly. I am angry that I can't. This is not productive, either.

I need to cut the sugar down. Sugar, my drug of choice, is not a good thing. It's a temp fix but the aftereffects -- the lethargy, the brainlessness, the need for more -- I should be able to skip that. I actually do pretty good on vegies, as long as their is brocolli.

And the weather is cooling, oh loverly, which is always an energy booster for me. Florida Fall is all 80's, but Florida winter varies (Ok, it can hardly be called winter by some of you, but then you don't get anything like what I'd call summer, so let's just not go there) from the 30's to the 80's (and on rare occasions, even hotter.) Ah, the sub-tropical zones. You know you'll be wishing you were here around January, when I finally take my one pair of wooly socks out for their once a year wearing. You'll be wishing you were here with the blue skies and the brown lawns and the still green trees and the days in the 60-70 range and nights in the 50-60 range. I know it, because so many of you come down here just at that time and jam up all the restaurants.

So much going on this month -- A mini-concert with the chorus at the art museum, a birthday party, Miss S's Wedding (Do I now call her Mrs. S? Oh lordie), NERO stuff I have responsibilies for but won't be attending due to conflicts, and Thanksgiving which I think we are mostly skipping in favor of massive housework. December has long been the month of Panic Cleaning because MIL will be arriving any day. Well, there is no more Panic Cleaning going on in my life, but I always like the fact that the house is CLEAN for the holidays -- at least 70% of it -- and that part I'm not giving up on. I may have to hide Husband's computer to get him out of his easy-chair, and I will have to discipline myself, but those things can be conquered -- especially if I get some stuff done in the daylight hours.

Which is what I am going to do now. I'll report back with my successes later, unless the vacuum kills me.

Saturday, November 13, 2004


Most of MIL's ex-furniture is out the door at this point. She doesn't want it, but has shouldered us with the burden of SELLING it for her. Feh. We are selling it to a bedroom furniture-less friend for $100 bucks. 12 year old French Vanilla modern-esque bedroom sets aren't exactly hot at the used furniture store. If they didn't want it, it was going to Goodwill for free, so...

AH, she's not cheap, really, it's just a bother. I mean, it was made clear that the furniture is hers, but we get to lug it around and all. I'm not used to those attitudes. My parents -- my Dad in particular -- not only didn't expect me to do much for them, but wouldn't LET me do things. I remember trying to take my dad to dinner for his birthday or Father's day a number of times, and having to pull some sharp shenanigins to get the check before he did.

Today would have been my dad's 74'th birthday. I'm getting over his death, I really am, but I still miss him. I know that eventually the pain will dull and I will have to really kick at the scar to make it hurt. I'm already passed seeing the ads for Red Skelton videos and starting to cry (dad loved Red Skelton, but he never opened the video set I got for him -- it never occured to him, I know.) Christmas is still hard -- my dad was all about Christmas, and even as an adult, there were no presents open until Dad arrived. That's a hold over from being a kid of divorced parents. The first year or so, I'd rip into things like usual, but then Mom started making me wait until Dad arrived (he was always late, that was his trademark) before I opened stuff.

I really miss my dad. There are a lot of people who've lost both parents. There are a lot of people who lost one or more parents when they were young, even very young. You know what? The idea that other people hurt, too, doesn't mean they hurt less or more. I've come to believe that amounts of pain are intensely personal and only dimmly understood by others.

Happy birthday, Dad.

Anyway, I've got a room to get cleaned out and painted, so I can put furniture I've been storing for years into it and reclaim it at my very own room. Now, the whole of my house belongs to me and Husband. There are no foriegn embassy rights, no one else who is entitled to come in and make decisions or changes or disapprove or do it "better" or hide all the lids to the plastic storage containers. That's important to me, and thus a very good thing.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

O Canada!

Friends of mine are seriously considering making the move to Canada because of the election. They are going to Toronto to check it out. They are going in December.


One of them was from Wisconsin and gave away all her winter clothes when she moved down here.


Husband and I talked about it in the car.

Me: "We could move to Canada."
Him: "Yeah, we could do that."
Me: "It's cold there."
Him: "We'd have to buy winter clothes and stuff."
Me: "Is it any more expensive to live there than here?"
Him: "I guess you pay as much for heat as you do here for A/C."
Me: "The bacon's better."
Him: "We shouldn't. We just spent two years getting Mom to move down here."
Me: "Oh yeah, that would be sort of shitty of us to move north just as she gets within an hour of us. I'm looking forward to a Mom-less winter."
Him: "If we moved to Canada, she'd be spending the summers with us."
Me: "We are staying in Florida."

Bush has nothing on my mother-in-law.

Monday, November 08, 2004


I have developed a geeky and rather lame, but noe the less busy, social life. I look upon it in amazement.

Monday - Rehearsal to night with a member of my ensemble. We are thinking about singing at a local venue or two, potentially for money. We will see.

Tuesday - Watching Movies of Jane Austen novels and going over the books for scenes to read at an upcoming "Austen Tea" at the bookstore.

Wednesday - Chorus rehearsal

Thursday - NERO stuff with C, then CoH group activity (this is the most geeky day, but I am no less committed to it).

Friday -- potentially hooking up for Godzilla-fest with an old friend who recently resurfaced, before he heads back to Tokyo.

I am not used to having this much activity. Yes, I know there are folks out there to whom my schedule looks like a lazy weekend, but I'm usually a creature of my own hearth. I like my house and tend to stay in it, like a hermit crab. I've always been this way, but the invention of the Internet has just made it that much easier.

Speaking of City of Heroes, no, I have not outgrown or gotten over that particular childishness. I'm still all about it. In fact, I'm getting the Special Edition DVD version, with the extra in-game goodies and the Hero-clix model of Statesman. Just because.

Stop looking at me like that. You're just jealous.

So far, I've managed to reach level 25 with one character, after much dedicated work. There's a huge history built into the game world that pops up now and again, which really adds depth to the game for me. There is so much going on that even though you may go on the same mission with various groups over and over, they are never identical missions. And they keep adding new bits and pieces to the game. ALthough really I'd enjoy a little less constant combat and a little more detective work -- there are limits to game software, I realize -- I'm still enjoying FLYING and now I have a CAPE and...well, it's all fun.

If only I could make a living at it.

Thursday, November 04, 2004

Mood Shift

It took me a few hours to move from dissapointment to resignation to sarcastic, but if you check the sidebar down below, I've created a few little buttons/icons that express my current state of mind. If you like 'em, please take a copy for yourself.

I'm going to bed.

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Shoe Dropping Time

Got up this morning, went to the polls, waited in line -- except that Husband and I only had one of the voting guides we'd gotten, and he took it, so where I couldn't remember who we'd picked for local office, I guessed. He said that some of the names didn't appear on the guide, so he didn't vote at all. Considering the state of politics as I view them, I'm not sure that either approach is better.

However, it is done, and with very little pain. Now there is only ignoring the hype until the final decision is made -- which, I fervently hope, will be before the end of the week.

You know, if Florida is once more the focus state of electorial nonsense, I betcha Jeb will be hauled under the microscope. Twice in a row is suspicious.

Husband and I were running around a lot this weekend, and we listened to This American Life. The show was on undecided voters, and if it had a Democratic/Liberal/Kerry-esque slant, that might have been pure perception (or perhaps Republicans were not interested in being interviewed for the show). The most interesting part was a segment on voter fraud throughout the US, attempts of representatives of both parties to cheat, lie, and steal the right to vote (not the votes themselves, mind you, but the ability to vote) from selected people. It AMAZED me that this kind of stuff goes on, and that there are those who obviously think it is not only ok, but won't be noticed!

Perhaps the "crisis" we have in our system is necessary to wake us up from the complasancy decended upon us in the last 20+ years. Politics and the electoral process were never highly spoken of when I was growing up. No one in particular encouraged me, wanted to talk to me, or tried to educate me. My father would not register to vote because he did not want to serve on a jury. I registered when I was 18, but I've only voted in 3 elections since then. (I would have voted last year, but I had the flu and decided not to share the germs -- aside from not being able to drive myself.) It is easy for something we do not value to be taken away. Time to think about that.

In any case, I've voted and I'm not going to pay the slightest attention to anything concerning the election until tomorrow. While I have a candidate of choice, what I REALLY want is a clear election. That's what I want, either way.