I was reading TrekFic earlier, and was so wrapped up in the story that the hum of my computer became the subtle feeling of warp engines, and when I looked up and realized I was in the here and now, I was momentarily jarred. I love that feeling, when a story takes over the present, and I’m not merely reading it, but immersed in it, swimming through words and images and ideas, and feeling them flow over, around, through me. I wish I could harness that kind of energy, but I have so many things diverting my attention. I wish I could afford to stay home and write, and not have to choose between time cleaning the kitchen and time at the keyboard.

I wish I still had legible handwriting. I can barely write any more, and my once-pretty penmanship has become too like my grandmother’s cramped scrawl. She used to send us clippings from magazines and newspapers about famous people with bad handwriting, so that we’d stop bothering her about it.

I wish I had a house with one more room, and a slightly bigger income, because I have a friend who needs a safe haven and a chance to heal, and I’m not in a position to offer it. Am I selfish for not opening my home to someone, because I fear that I would only enable her to not deal with her situation, or worse, that our friendship wouldn’t hold up under the strain? Or is my selfishness of the much more petty variety: I have my own space now, finally, and I don’t want to give that up. I wish I knew. I wish I had a solution.

I wish, I wish, I wish.

I wish I only ever had to deal with reasonably intelligent, competent people. I wish I had more patience and tolerance for people who don’t fit that description.

I wish they’d stop digging up and resurfacing Winchester Blvd, in some endless game of Road Median Hokey Pokey (You put dividers in, you take dividers out, you block the whole damned street, and fuck the traffic all about), because it seems like the days with cones outnumber the days without and it’s interfering with the morning quest for coffee.

I wish I could breathe, and that my eyes would stop itching and that my tear ducts would work with some semblance of normalcy.

I wish Zorro would stop being neurotic about his dinner, and that Cleo would stop barking at everything. And yes. I mean EVERYTHING.

I wish.
I wish.
I wish.

I was expecting to have a horrible day today, but, for a Monday, it wasn’t bad, really. We submitted the one file I’ve been a little concerned about, and received word of more fundings, so, there’s hope.

And then, I got two calls for job offers. . .but I can afford to be picky, and neither of them were in places where I wanted to work, so I said, “thanks but no.” They both said they got a kick out of my “non-traditional” resume. I’m glad about that.

Anyway…
I’m getting crampy and my temperature’s all wiggy. Tomorrow’s a Curves day, and I’m swimming on the off-days. Any form of exercise that allows you to tan while doing it, and doesn’t require shoes, is a good thing. (I love shoes, but I love being barefoot, too.)

I’m craving something cheesy.
I’m out of cranberry juice, which is dire because I have a brand new bottle of vodka.

But, you know, for a Monday….I’m okay with all that.

The cool thing about blogging is that as you browse through your blogroll, you inevitably find that someone you regularly visit has posted the perfect words to uplift, inspire, or just reassure.

Liz‘s post of The Paradoxical Commandments was just such an item.

Go there. Read them.

I wasn’t really in a reading mood in April. There are only six books on my list. Partly this is because work was knocking me out, and allergies and heat have been knocking me out, and taxes always make me not want to read.

Partly it’s because I’ve been swimming.

Mostly, it’s because I just haven’t found anything appealing. So this isn’t just a list. It’s a left-handed plea for some new suggestions. That being said, here’s the list:

Extra Virgin, by Annie Hawes
Twelve Days of Terror, by Richard G. Fernicola
Close to Shore*, by Michael Capuzzo
Under the Tuscan Sun, by Frances Mayes
Bella Tuscany, by Frances Mayes
The Moor, by Laurie R. King

*Title marked with an asterisk are repeat-reads.

So, I completely and utterly fucked up a file at work. Granted, the client has been less than honest about his income, was late in getting his package back to us, etc, but, still, I’m not good at failure and I hate making mistakes.

I stewed about it all weekend, and as a result I’m tired and crabby.

So, I emailed the bosses, and told them the truth, fully expecting blasting and to be fired or something. Because, you know, I always expect the worst.

Instead, I get told, “Don’t stress; it’s no big deal, mistakes happen, and we’ll work it out.”

I really want to be an underwriter.
There’s so much less stress. Real or not.

In other news, I’m taking the test to renew my notary on 5/15. I’m not worried about it – the information is pretty much common sense. Not like the real estate licensing test, the main fault of which is that it was written by Realtors.

It is far too easy to work in this industry.

I say… and you think…?

1. Sexy:: Nape of the neck
2. Clique:: Herd
3. Pledge:: Lemon
4. Carbs:: Bad
5. Dream Job:: Columnist
6. Sweeps:: Week
7. Soundtrack:: Showtunes
8. Hero:: Many
9. Shave:: Cream
10. Christina:: Ricci

Play along at LunaNina.com

The lenses of my sunglasses make my skin look tanner than the winter-pale it really is. Winter-pale with sallow undertones. Singularly unappealing until enough sun has been soaked up. Today, I got a start on that.

The pool is still just a little chillier than I’d like, but with the warm sun, the balmy breeze, and the dogs basking on the hot cement deck, I stil had fun splashing around. I used a couple of floats to simulate the same motions as on the machines at Curves, and it felt good to be doing those motions in water. Calming.

I stayed in til I was pruned, and my lips were beginning to turn blue. I hadn’t worn a bathing suit, just a tank top and clean underwear, because finding the bathing suit wasn’t worth the effort. Fuzzy came, grinned at my see-through-when-wet attire, and wrapped a fluffy sun-warmed towel around me.

(It’s my own pool. No one can see into it unless they’re sitting on their roof or standing on a ladder at the fence.)

I sat down, still wrapped in towels, to answer an email message, and do some online bill-paying (I LOVE that feature), testing my arms to see if they felt hot. I tend to forget to wear sunscreen. They didn’t. They don’t. I got lucky. The smell of sunshine mixed with a hint of chlorine was all around me, though, and I was getting cold.

I padded into the bathroom to shower, noting that there were faint strapmarks, at least. A hothothot shower never feels better than when you’re really cold and a bit damp, from weather or from swimming. I stayed too long under the spray, but I was still finished, dressed, before Fuzzy even began his own shower. It’s Saturday, and we were lazy today…I made an omelette earlier, but otherwise we’ve accomplished nothing.

We’re going out to find dinner, and to buy a DVD I really want. I’m excited. I have the taste of grilled chicken on my brain, and really want some tonight. Or a grilled hamburger. Summer foods. Summer Saturday.

Even if it is only May 1st.

Tra-la! It’s May!
The lusty month of May!
That lovely month when everyone goes
Blissfully astray.

I’m lusting today too. Not for a person (Fuzzy, you know I adore you, that’s NOT what I meant), but for change. And more money. And a more stable job. Less commission, more salary. And finally, at the age of 33-for-a-couple-months-longer I know that I do, in fact, want to be an underwriter, and having a goal is good.

Tra-la! It’s here!
That shocking time of year –
When tons of wicked little thoughts
Merrily appear.

My wicked thoughts are only partly centered on the man still asleep in the bedroom. I bought a flat of strawberries from the guy who stands on the corner and sells them (he had mangoes, too, but I have no use for a flat of mangoes). And last night, despite the fact that strawberry seeds make my lips itch, I had a small orgy of fruit-eating. They were so sweet and succulent, that they brought to mind fleeting images of all the amazing things you COULD do with them (I mean recipes. No, really…)

It’s May! It’s May!
That gorgeous holiday
When ev’ry maiden
Prays that her lad
Will be a cad…

Actually I’ll take Fuzzy just as he is, thanks, but he is being extra sweet lately, as if he knows I’m more stressed than I’m telling, or just possibly, as if he’s clinging to me because I’m in a “lets make eight gazillion major life changes” mood. There’s a reason opposites attract. I’m a kite, blowing back and forth in the winds of change, and he’s the string, anchoring me firmly to earth, and not letting me fly too far. My poor, patient, stoic husband…change doesn’t go down easily with him.

It’s mad! It’s gay!
A libelous display!
Those dreary vows that ev’ryone takes,
Ev’ryone breaks.
Ev’ryone makes divine mistakes
The lusty month of May!

Broken vows. Is it breaking a vow to seek to leave a company that gives you tons of flexibility even though you maybe aren’t earning enough? It’s a hard trade off. I mean, I like leaving at three, but I can feel the company failing, and it makes me edgy and unfocussed. I’m not sure if this makes sense, but if the company was an entity, a living being, this one would be having internal bleeding. I could highlight everything wrong with it, but not here.

And then, what about the vow to myself? To grow, to advance, to not stagnate. Aren’t the personal vows one makes at LEAST as important as the vows made to external parties?

Whence this fragrance wafting through the air?
What sweet feelings does its scent transmute?
Whence this perfume floating ev’rywhere?
Don’t you know it’s that dear forbidden fruit!
Tra la la la la! That dear forbidden fruit!
Tra la la la la!

Sometimes I wonder if I’m cursed never to feel content, stable, or entirely happy with what I have. I’ve inherited some kind of itchy foot, and it’s harder and harder to control it.

Poor Fuzzy. He’s so patient.

He must be terrified.

Note: Song lyrics are from “The Lusty Month of May” from the musical Camelot. Complete lyrics can be found here.

I’ve had a few comments recently from people I don’t actually “know,” – people who aren’t RL friends or long-time net friends, or bloggers I’ve been reading for ages, and I have to say that each of these comments has been a wonderful gift.

A trackback ping from Liz led me to her blog, and I’ve discovered a woman who has a lot of the qualities I’d like to enhance when I’m a bit older. (Just a bit, because age is becoming less and less important as I inch toward 35 and 40).

And Jexia left a response in my livejournal that made me giddy for over an hour, just because it was so delightful, as well as her comment here.

They are not the only two, of course, just the two who are most prominent in my mind at this minute. In fact, every comment is a gift, of sorts, even the ones that are just a smilie, or a virtual hug. It’s not so much validation, as a sense that we bloggers are a sort of community.

And that’s really cool.

::Goodie Two Shoes::

Onesome: Goodie– What is your your favorite “goodie” you treat yourself to when you’ve finished a project or maybe even just survived a long day? Ice cream? …a long bath? …a good book?

Books aren’t a goodie, they’re a requirement. New pens, I guess, or new music.

Twosome: Two– Quick! Two things that make you smile! No thinking, just write!
Fuzzy
My dogs

Threesome: Shoes– …and how about your favorite pair of shoes? You know, the ones you look for an occasion to wear! (Yes, guys that ratty pair of tennis shoes does count…)
I recently bought a pair of rubber thongs with really thick soles, and a bit of a wedge shape. They’re ugly as sin, really, and were a whopping $7 at Target, but I love them. They’re so comfortable, and they make my feet look damned sexy.

Questions from The Back Porch