I realized today that part of the reason I've been so cranky is that the death of my laptop has caused my routine to change.

I used to go to our bedroom around midnight, surround myself with pillows, and post my entries, write my thoughts, whatever, from the cushiony comfort of my bed. The dogs would rest their heads on my outstretched feet, or just curl up nearby, and, with Fuzzy just a room away, I'd have my alone time.

Without the laptop, I don't have that option. (I mean, my Vaio slimtop is small, but not quite small enough to cuddle with.) I feel like an addict who's gone cold turkey off whatever her addiction was. Well, without the leg shakes.

One month, and we'll be done with house stuff, and hopefully, I'll be replacing my laptop.

This morning at Starbucks I was in line behind a pair of medical office personnel who'd obviously never been to Starbucks before. They'd been given the task of fetching drinks for half of Campbell, it seems, or at least for their entire collection of coworkers.

This is not the problem.

The problem is that rather than giving the baristas the entire list of drinks, and then having her itemize the receipt, they ordered one drink, then paid for it, then ordered the next drink, and paid for it, and continued this process until twenty drinks had been purchased.

Then, they had to be told which of the drinks being passed over the bar were, in fact, theirs.

By the time my turn came, I was ready to slug them.

It was justifiable, don't you think?

I am a person who goes through phases, cycles really, where I surround myself with something, whether it be as ethereal as an idea, or as specific as the work of a particular author. I revel in whatever my current phase is until I am completely saturated by it, and then I move on to the next phase.

My phases have included everything from gambling on professional horse racing, to gardening, to art, the last of which is not a phase that lingered long, as I apparently have no talent for drawing and can only paint walls, although I still have the leftover fetish for art supplies. Indeed, when packing up the house to 'stage' it, I found not one, but TWO unopened packages of felt-tipped pens, two boxes of colored pencils, and several drawing tablets with only one or two pages used (which drawings were whisked from Fuzzy's sight, and shredded, almost instantly).

Lately, I've realized that this journal has become stuck in a rut where I whine about how tired/stressed/overworked I am, but forget the original point of journalling in the first place, which was writing practice.

This was brought home to me a couple weeks ago when I ran into at the ATM and he commented that he works less than a mile from where I live, and yet only knows what I'm doing because I bitch in here. (Um, that was paraphrased.)

The thing is…unlike that Other Place where I write, LJ doesn't let you shed user id's the way the proverbial snake sheds its skin. And changing user names is one of the ways I mentally refresh myself.

So I've started a second LJ…well, a third, since I had a LASIK specific one, although, that's going to be deactivated, since I'm more than six months out of surgery now and there's not much new to report.

Anyway…right, I've started a second LJ.
If you're desperate for stuff to read (though as yet there is nothing to read) ask, and I'll share the ID.

This entry is dedicated to a fellow Diary-Chameleon, whose name (this week) shall not be mentioned. She's also a fellow domain slut. *snugs* Candle's lit for you, hon.

I haven't been writing much lately. It's not that there aren't things rattling in my brain – I keep thinking of things to write about when we're NOT near a computer, and then I get frustrated because our computer room is blistering hot when the temp is 80 or higher outside, the white deck reflecting all the sun through the sliding glass doors. One of the reasons I'm psyched about moving is that the house will be all on one floor, and is surrounded by grass, which is cooler.

***
Saturday, Fuzzy was still feeling really clingy, which is odd for him. Usually his stoic prairie farmboy, typical Midwestern Male who never reacts to anything, and is the strong rational one, so to see him needing me so much is jarring. Then, too, there's the fact that we didn't wish to bother with a rental, so we're driving our 1990 Camry, which we generally keep just for my parents to use when they're here. It's so low and zip-less after the now-deceased 2001 Forester, which, of course, we still have no word on. I hate holiday weekends!

***
Saturday on the way to do dinner and grocery shopping we were behind a truck/trailer that had a bag of ball-hitches hanging from the rear. To be specific, there were two hitches in the bag, positioned in such a way as to look just like a scrotum, which for some reason I found hysterically funny, but only for a few minutes. Of course, I had the song, “Do your balls hang low” stuck in my head for the rest of the evening.

***
Yesterday we went to the new (well, it's been open over a month now) Camera 7 cinema at the Pruneyard, which has a scaled down version of Willow Street Wood Fired Pizza inside. Yum! I know my great-grandfather would be rolling in his grave if he knew, but I had “Hawaiian” pizza (pineapple, canadian bacon). We then saw the remake of “The Importance of Being Earnest” with Colin Firth (*swoon*), Rupert Everett (whom I'd never seen in a straight role before), and Reese Witherspoon. It was both period, and done in a style to make it look old – purposely grainy, for example. But it was still hilarious. And I'm glad I wasn't disappointed, because it's been one of my favorite plays since my senior year of high school when we read it in AP English (let me tell you, reading plays out loud takes on a whole new dimension when you're in a Performing Arts school, and the people reading can actually ACT), and our teacher brought us cucumber sandwiches and tea.

We came home and played on our respective computers for a while, and then watched Fellowswhip of the Rings, on DVD, which was supposed to be Fuzzy's birthday present, but he really needed it this weekend.

***
Today, we might go see Signs, or we might not. It's hot, though, and I've told Fuzzy I actually want to go to the office for a bit, but he was pretty emphatic about wanting me not to. So, we shall see.

I was going to do this whole long post about how Fuzzy was in a car accident last night, and Forester Gump isn't driveable (drivable? Whatever.) and was towed to Parts Unknown, and how we spent the evening melting in the emergency waiting room at Kaiser, but I'm tired, and recounting it isn't a purge, it's more like dwelling, so instead I'm writing this.

is one of the sweetest people you could ever hope to count among your friends. Thank you. We owe you. Next time you have an emergency in the middle of the night, don't hesitate to call, and I meant it about owing you lunch, or something. And thanks to for leaving you access to his truck while he's away.

And on that note, I'm going to shower, and then I'm going to go find the largest possible designer coffee drink money can buy and inhale it before going to work, where I will endeavor to concentrate and be productive before bailing out around three.

Here's hoping everyone has a wonderful long weekend.
Me? I plan to sleep. A lot.

I woke up from a nightmare to a room that was too-hot, and I couldn't remember why. Opening my eyes, I realized the shade on the bedroom window had been pulled down, and no air was coming in. I staid in bed a while, eyes closed, listening to the rhythm of Fuzzy and the dogs as they breathed sleep in and out of their mouths, as one.

But the room felt wrong, and my teeth itch, and I have a stress-induced ear-ache that's throbbing, pulsing really. Not enough pressure to blow out easily, and yet enough to be really bothersome. Ick.

So I got up, and opened the door, and the air out in the hall was deliciously cool, like a soft sigh against my skin, and now I'm sitting here, far too much ibuprofen later, and trying to decide not if I should go back to sleep, because I'm exhausted, but if I can.

I've toyed with a wet washcloth and cool water, and that's helped some, but my movements woke the dogs, and they're in here now, under my desk, guarding my feet from the treacherous cables, wires, and odd pieces of lint that wait there to torture me.

Or something.

Hey, you try being coherent while in pain at three am.
(Computer clock's wrong, I know this. It says 2:45 but the cable box says 3:08 amd now I'm idly wondering if other people have mini timewarps in their houses, too, or if it's just me. We won't even go into the pre-coffee math involved in knowing how many times one can hit the snooze button.)

Bed. Is. Calling.
I. Shall. Answer.

In order for anyone reading this to really understand its significance, you need to understand that my mother and stepfather are no mere “dollar voters” (those folks who read their organization's newsletter to decide which pizza company to boycott that week), but Capital-A Activists.

When I was twelve, for example, they were instrumental in starting the Modesto chapter of Amnesty International, while I lurked and tried to ask intelligent questions. I have been alternately dragged to, or a willing participant in, peace marches, anti-nuke rallies, a protest against Lawrence Livermore Labs, and tons of pro-Cuba, pro-Choice, and pro-Gay and Lesbian events. (I played Becky Bell in a street-theatre demonstration that involved lying down in front of San Jose's light rail, several years ago, and sang “The Engineer Song” at another demonstration, at one point, and the first time I did clinic defense, a rather notorious local OR-member barricaded himself in his van because we wouldn't let him near the clinic doors, and made so many calls to 911 that he was finally arrested for mis-using it.)

But really, this entry isn't about all that.

It's about Fuzzy indulging me for my birthday, which was a week ago, really, but my present was last night: Premier tickets to see Peter, Paul & Mary at the Mountain Winery, with a gourmet dinner on the deck of the Chateau up there, before, and passes for the private reception, after.

The food was wonderful – the theme was Pacific Rim – and selections included cashew salad, and three different fruit salads, olive bread, marinated mushrooms, their version of California roll, thai pasta, chicken marinated in some kind of chilli and orange combination, and Mahi-mahi with pineapple salsa. The view was amazing, the entire valley spread out below us.

The concert began with everyone realizing it was getting much colder than expected. And I was annoyed, at first, because the person directly in front of me was very very tall, and I'm very very short, and for a few minutes I was miffed. And then they started to sing, beginning with no introduction, just launching right into “Weave me the Sunshine,” breaking up into laughter because (as we found out later) Mary had mavved a lyric the night before, and they'd reminded her of it as they walked out.

And then they did Puff. Or maybe, really, we all did Puff, because I don't think there was anyone who wasn't singing along. Noel Paul Stookey said in another concert, once, that he felt all politicians should be required to sing for their constituents, because it's so much harder to lie through song, than it is to lie through the spoken word, but there were no liars there last night. I ceased to be miffed at TallGuy, though, when I heard him singing, off-key, but with total sincerity, and saw him reach for his daughter's hand (she was my age, or a bit older, he was probably around seventy), during the line, “Dragons live forever; not so little boys.” I mean, really, how can you be annoyed with anyone who gets all mushy during Puff?

And so it continued. We sang, they sang. The second half was their solo section, and Peter talked about his current pet project: Arts in the Schools, and Mary shared her gardening hobby with us, and her new pet project: keeping Water from becoming a trade item, and Noel (Paul) read a rude poem about Asparagus, and then sang the Garden Song, which, despite my almost complete lack of religious tendencies, has long been a favorite of mine.

And at the end, as the fog was rolling in, there was the ritual last encore of “Blowin' in the Wind,” which, of course, meant the audience was singing as well. In that moment, surrounded by redwoods, at the top of a mountain, with blue lights, and starlight, and wisps of fog, the energy was at once powerful and serene, and filled with possibilities.

And then it was over, and we trekked up the hill to the room where the private reception was to be held. We read over the literature from the host organization, Environmental Volunteers a group that goes into classrooms and gets kids excited about natural sciences.

There was dessert there: peach cobbler, chocolate dipped strawberries, and brownies laced heavily with Jack Daniels. And, more importantly, there was coffee, and it was warm!

Finally, the trio arrived, and they each spoke a bit about the concert and the evening, and then Mary and Noel bailed, but Peter worked the crowd. He teased the kids, hugged everyone, and I got my moment with him. I told him about this legacy of activsim my parents had handed to me (that I'm doing very little with…and that needs to change), and about music, and that being in that room was my birthday present, and he stopped me, and started singing, and made the whole room sing. And someone from Environmental Volunteers said, “You have to have a picture, we'll send it to you.”

Last weekend, I was having a miserable birthday because we worked and fought, and this weekend, beginning with a giggle-filled dinner with , and and Fuzzy, (where I didn't talk much, I know, and I'm sorry, but y'all made me laugh, and I /so/ needed that), and culminating with being smooched and serenaded by Puff the Magic Dragon's dad, I have been wrapped in a bubble of pure delight.

It's never too late to have a happy childhood.
And music does speak louder than words.

So, we got home from work around nine last night, after a jam-packed day of phoning, faxing, and printing for me, and rebuilding a network for Fuzzy. Now that the dogs are staying outside during the day, we really need to be better about getting home at decent hours, because Zorro doesn't handle chilly weather well, and Cleo tends to bark her head off given anything remotely encouraging. Like, you know, wind, squirrels, light, dark, whatever.

When we got to the front door, there was a box sitting beside the lock box. “Did you order something?” I was asked. But I hadn't. Still, it wasn't ticking, so we brought it inside.

It was addressed to me, and accompanied by a card, “Happy Birthday, from Guess Who ;)”

And inside: A box of Godiva chocolates…all dark…my favorite.

*swoon*

It took me a minute to process this, and then I realized who my birthday elf must have been, because we'd had a brief ICQ chat that involved questions like, “What's your address, again?” and “What's your favorite kind of chocolate.” Hey, when I've worked 12 hour days on little sleep, I'm entitled to less-than-bright moments.

Chocolate, anyone?

On Monday, our work day ended in drama. There's a new upscale retail/condo development about a city-block from my office, and that afternoon it literally went up in smoke, ultimately becoming an eight-alarm fire. It was breezy that day, and as a result, burning embers were carried across the neighborhood.

From our office windows, we watched the flames from the main fire, and from a burning apartment complex across the street, and we watched clouds of brown and black and grey smoke turning a sunny afternoon into temporary twilight. And we debated leaving early, or staying to watch.

Eventually, embers landed on our building, and the guys from my office went up to hose everything down, just as we were told to bail. E. told me later, as we sat in traffic for an hour on the way to my home two miles away(he gave me a ride), that at one point, with the hose in use on the other side of the building, and a mass of burning stuff at his feet he resorted to dropping his pants and weilding a hose of a different sort, only after the fact realizing that he was in full view of the freeway below.

Of course, an hour later, we found this hilarious. Hell, it was probably hilarious there.

Halfway home, stuck in the slow crawl of people fleeing the affected neighborhood, and people being re-routed around the same neighborhood, we watched the SWAT team and still more firetrucks heading toward the main blaze, and as one we started giggling, for there, directly in front of us, was a car with the following license plate:
PYROFAN

Two days later, there's still a faint smoky smell in the office, but I'm not entirely sure it isn't just my over-active imagination.

Still, if all Mondays held such drama…well, they'd still be Mondays.

So pointed me toward cainer.com, and I have to say, that though I almost never read horoscopes, I get a kick out of the way this guy writes. Here's what he said about Leo's today:

Imagine what this world would be like if we all understood one another. No soap operas, no farces, no comedies of errors. No diplomats, no translators, no interpreters, no explainers. Misunderstanding makes life interesting. It provides excitement and keeps us on our toes. It makes the world go round. That, and perhaps also, disagreement. You can’t beat a bit of conflict for sparking off an adventure. That said, we all, every so often, have to reach concord and harmony. And soon you’ll have your taste of that.