terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
Coca-Cola has trimmed the amount it pays my company, Siemens Business Services, for our IT support.

SBS is responding by moving much of its operation, including my job, to Mason, Ohio.

So to keep my job, I'd have to move to Ohio. Obviously that's not going to happen. I'll be out of a job by March 8th.

Damn. I'm having such a bad month.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
I think I had a good therapy session yesterday, but the jury's still out. My insurance only gives me 20 visits per year; I've already been seven times and I feel like we've barely gotten started. I don't know if that's my fault or my therapist's, or nobody's, but it's still frustrating. Maybe I've been messed up for twenty years or more, but I want to get better NOW!

Michelle Branch was great, even though I generally don't like going to see live music. The opening band, Transmatic, was utterly unremarkable. Michelle got started a little after nine.

This was the last date on her tour, and the poor girl must have been exhausted. She told us she'd flown back from performing in the Bahamas that morning, and I know she'd done a free performance at Discover Mills at 6 p.m. (40+ miles away) before coming all the way back into town for her concert at the Cotton Club.

But she didn't let on; she was energetic and cheerful and bounced all over the stage.

Of course, she's only 18 years old.

Ryan went with me. He'd never heard of Michelle Branch, although when she performed "Everywhere" and "All You Wanted" he said they sounded familiar. He said he really liked her, so I was glad of that; I'd bought the tickets, and I feel awful asking someone to pay for his ticket when he didn't care for the performance.

Which reminds me of a few years ago, when Shonen Knife came to town to play at Masquerade. I bought two tickets way in advance, assuming I'd be able to find a date in time. I didn't, and so invited Stephano at the last minute. Stephano's chronically dirt-poor, so there was never any question of him paying for his ticket. And I don't think he liked them much anyway. The venue was only about half-full, and it wasn't a big venue either, so Shonen Knife probably won't ever come back to Atlanta. That's a damn shame.

Anyway, after Michelle Branch Ryan and I walked back to his loft, where my car was, and it was bitter, bitter cold. And it has remained so since. Hard to believe it was in the 60s on Sunday and I was running in shorts.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
All is right with the world. No problems can I see. Everyone is nice. The temperature is moderate and comfortable. I'm well-rested and well-fed.

All is right with the world, because I'm going to see Michelle Branch perform tonight! Whoo-hoo!
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
Saturday afternoon (February 23rd) I went to the Center for Puppetry Arts to pick up an application for this year's Xperimental Puppetry Theater, which is at the end of May. I did an XPT project in 1997 that I was really proud of, but for some reason I've never tried hard to do another one.

This year I have a really good idea, so I wanted to get the application and then knock their socks off with my proposal.

But it turns out the application deadline was: Saturday, February 23rd. Shit! The guy at the ticket office told me no one else had returned an application yet, so I'm still going to pound it out this morning and run over to the Center with it at lunchtime. They'll probably accept it, but I won't have a script ready, which diminishes my chances of being selected. Shit!

In other news, I ran twelve miles yesterday. The last mile was really hard, but I recited my mantra and got through it. And my ankle tendinitis didn't bother me at all. I now feel secure enough in my training to go ahead and register for Cincinnati's Flying Pig Marathon. That's the first weekend in May.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
My habits have changed in a way I did not intend and do not understand.

It's 9:35 as I write this. Used to be, I rarely even woke up before ten on a Saturday, but in recent memory I've been waking at seven or eight, even without the help of my alarm clock.

On weekdays I've been waking up before my alarm clock. My alarm goes off at six.

I haven't been getting to bed any earlier, either, so that can't explain it.

Still, I guess it's a good problem to have. The early bird gets shot by the hunter, and all that. I should embrace the change, declare myself a Morning Person, and go find something to do with these early mornings.

I wonder what it's like out today? I'll go check...

...okay, it's pretty freakin' cold out there. Maybe I'll stay in and do some writing.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
I usually hate these "Which ______ are you?" tests, but it's early, I'm bored, and I'm very pleased with how this one came out:

You are Kermit!
Though you're technically the star, you're pretty mellow and don't mind letting others share the spotlight. You are also something of a dreamer.

terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
Everyone else is doing this, so I'll succumb to peer pressure too:



If only I really was this handsome! But the skin's too dark, the facial hair too wispy and the belly is much too flat.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
1. In commercial radio, the men have distinctive voices while the women all sound interchangeable. On NPR the reverse is true: I can tell when I'm listening to Snigdha Prakash or Jacki Lyden or Sylvia Poggioli. But can anyone really tell the difference between Robert Siegel, Noah Adams or Bob Edwards? I ask you!

2. The exceptions to the above are Scott Simon, who has the friendliest, most soothing voice ever, and Ira Glass, who sounds like the kind of guy who was beaten up frequently in high school.

3. I despise the self-important Susan Stamberg. When she interviews an artist you learn MUCH more about Stamberg's opinions of the artist's work than you learn from the artist himself. And she's made disparaging remarks about tequila. And she has that awful, barking, Grimms-fairy-tale-crone laugh.

4. Oftener and oftener, NPR concludes a story by directing the listener to NPR's website for additional material, including photographs. This seems wrong to me. Radio should be radio.

5. At this point in my life, Tom and Ray Magliozzi irritate me at least as much as they amuse me.

6. When Mara Liasson finishes her stories, the way she says her name sounds like a declaration: "I'm Mara Liasson." As if she's daring us to say she's not.

7. When I think about an NPR story I usually have no idea whether I heard it on Morning Edition or on All Things Considered. The content of the two shows is interchangeable in my mind.

8. This is not the case with Weekend Edition Saturday, which has a distinctive style. I particularly like Elvis Mitchell's movie reviews and discussions with Scott Simon, and when Scott and Daniel Pinkwater read a children's book together.

9. Baxter Black isn't half as funny as most people seem to think.

10. Bailey White sounds like she's in her 80s. She's really only in her 50s.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
It's really quite fascinating. I ate lunch less than two hours ago, really more like 90 minutes, but I just now went to pee and the strong, distinctive "asparagus pee" odor was already there. It seems incredible to me that some people can't smell it.

Okay, so now I've made a new commitment to my writing, and I'm finally going to start finishing things and achieve what it takes to be a real writer: rejection notices.

I read once that Jack London wrote one thousand words per day. He never wrote less than that, and once he'd reached his thousand, he could not be made to put one more letter on paper. That's always impressed me: a disciplined, yet healthy approach to his work.

Of course I'm no Jack London. And anyway, he was (in his later years) a full-time writer, so 1000 words is probably more than I could hold myself to.

But 500 words? That's just about right. It's not much day to day, but over a year that's like a novel and a half. Email, work-related writing and biographical updates (like this one) to this LiveJournal will not count, Saturdays and Sundays are exempt. Story writing, play writing and story-draft updates to the LiveJournal (like Friday and Monday's entries) will count.

If I miss a day (like I did Tuesday) I won't beat myself up over it or double my requirement for the next day. I'll take this one day at a time.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
A poll in [livejournal.com profile] magdalene1's entry yesterday asked what we'd do if we found a wallet with $1000 in it. I've never been tested that way, but thinking about it reminded me of something that happened to me last year.

I found a book I wanted through Bookfinder (or ABEBooks, I don't recall which). It was at a used bookstore in Maryland. I contacted the bookseller through email, came to an agreement, and then I sent them a check.

A few days later the book arrived in the mail. I put it in my bookcase (it was a hardcover I'd bought to replace the softcover edition) and thought no more of it.

But then a few days later I got a letter postmarked in Maryland. There was no return address. Inside I found my check for the book (my address is pre-printed on the checks, of course) and an anonymous note saying that (whomever) had found the check lying on the street in Baltimore. It also said "God bless."

The only thing I can guess about this is that the bookseller lost my check...maybe the wind took it...on the way to the bank to deposit it, and this good Samaritan found it. You'd think the retailer would put all their money and checks in a big secure pouch or box before walking to the bank with them, but apparently not.

I have this image in my head of the bookseller, a big fistful of cash and checks in his hand, fearfully dashing through the streets of Baltimore hoping not to stumble or get mugged.

Anyway, I mailed the check back to them with a note explaining what had happened and admonishing them, "don't lose this again."

Just tearing up the check and thus getting the book for free, never crossed my mind.

Drying Out

Feb. 20th, 2002 08:31 am
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
I haven't had anything to drink since Saturday. No, I don't think I have a drinking problem, and this isn't a declaration that I'll "never drink again" or anything like that.

It's just that with the recent unpleasantness, and everything I'm dredging up in therapy, and the fact I'm training for a marathon, and that I'm trying to drop a few pounds, and that I'm trying to save money...

...I just figured alcohol is a distraction I should avoid for the foreseeable future.

So far it feels really good, but I know there will be challenges. Hashing will be more complicated, because drinking is half of what it's all about; but I think I'll be hashing less for a while also. There's too much else to be done with my weekends to spend all of them on a bunch of drunk idiots, however friendly and jovial they may be.

Also, I'm going to a wine and cheese party tomorrow evening where I won't know any of the people (and that's the point of the party). I wonder if I can get grape juice or something so it looks like I'm having wine? If people know I'm not drinking they'll think I'm a bluenose, and that's not the first impression I want to create.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
I'm partway into the third book, and am strongly feeling the urge to worship Satan. No, no, no, that's not what I meant to write. Let me try again:

1. Every evil wizard ever was a member of Slytherin when s/he was at Hogwarts. Furthermore, it is currently (in Harry-time) full of cheaters and miscreants. Why does the Ministry of Magic, to say nothing of Dumbledore, allow the house to continue? At the very least you'd think they'd have it taken over by people, well, unlike Snape, to clean house and instill better values.

My guess about why they don't (aside from the obvious one that it makes for better fiction) is that they're preparing the Hufflepuff, Ravensclaw and Gryffindor students for adult life, where there are Slytherins around every corner so you'd better get used to dealing with them.

But this does seem rather callous, as if they'r writing off all the Slytherin students as "Incurably Criminal Boys."

2. Why must Harry remain with the Dursleys? I mean, there are intelligent, caring, influential adults on Harry's side: Dumbledore, McGonagall, the Weasleys. Besides that, Harry has his own resources: a fortune in wizard money left behind by his parents.

Yet he is made to endure a homelife that is frankly miserable; barely a step up from a Dickensian orphan. His talents aren't nurtured, hell, he isn't even treated kindly. Is there really nowhere else in the wizard, or even Muggle, world, where he could spend his non-Hogwarts time?

Again, my only guess is they're all thinking adversity breeds character. But good grief, how strong does one's character need to be? It's bad enough someone tries to kill him during every school year...
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
Soon we all were lifted, wet and dripping, from the empty pool and put in the tumble room. This was my favorite part! Here we tossed and spun and caromed off each other, while the air got steadily warmer until it was pleasantly hot. It was like a sauna and a roller-coaster together; these fifty to seventy-five minutes were always the most fun of the month for me.


I assumed I'd be taken out, tied to my mate and put away as usual, but this time something different happened. Suddenly I wasn't tumbling anymore; just falling, and the darkness of the tumble room was replaced by an bright, horizonless whiteness. And all around me were objects of every description: gloves, sheets of paper, watches, coins, ballpoint pens, hats.


No two of them were alike, and we weren't even falling in the same direction. Some bisected my path behind me, rocketing off toward what I considered the left. Others fell "up," from my perspective, and I was nearly hit several times. It was as if gravity decided to be random.


I called to my mate, but there was no answer. Terror paralyzed me. What was this place? Was it even a place? Where was everyone else from the tumble room? What happened to my mate? Why was I here? What happened to me?


I kept falling, without an end in sight. Myriad other things continued to race past in every direction. Terror melted into despair. I didn't know what was happening, but I was sure it couldn't be good.


After what seemed like hours, the whiteness suddenly turned to a kaleidoscopic swirl, and then I stopped. All sensation of movement was gone in an instant, and yet I hadn't felt an impact.


I was on a surface now. It was smooth and hard, like a floor. Tentatively, fearfully, I rose and looked around.

terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
Profession: Network Engineer and frustrated writer/artist/director.

Height: Five feet seven.

Distinguishing marks: a tattoo on my right shoulder blade; a scar on the back of my head and a birthmark on my left thigh.

Allergies: penicillin.

A smell that makes you pause: swamp.

A taste that makes you melt: watermelon.

A hobby that occupies your time: hashing.

A city you'd like to visit: Rio de Janeiro.

A country you'd like to explore: Peru.

Your favorite meal: burritos.

A drink you order most often: water.


A delicious dessert: cheesecake.


A book you highly recommend: The Endurance.

The music you prefer while alone: swing.

A film you could watch over and over: Casablanca.

Your favorite time of the day: mornings just after waking up, when the day can still take any course.

Your favorite place to sit at home: in bed, with a cat next to me.

Your stuff:

You live in a(n): old bungalow.


Your transportation: 1996 Geo Tracker, 2002 Esarati electric motorcycle.

You approx. annual income: $52,000

When you sleep, you wear: a t-shirt and jockey shorts. Sometimes nothing, but usually I can't abide the free-ballin'.

Things you like to buy: love.

If you could afford it at this moment, you would buy: a clue.

You collect: comic books, glass scientific vessels, books, books, books.

Your strangest possession: a globe of Mars. No? Then how about my straitjacket?

Your most expensive possession: my house.

Your Morals

What would your reaction be if your spouse or partner cheated on you: More desperate sadness and confusion than anger.


Your religion and views of the world

Do you believe in God?: no.

What religion were you raised with: Disciples of Christ (basically liberal Baptists).

Death is: oblivion.

How you picture the end of the world: cold and barren. But humans will have moved on to other worlds by then.


Does life exist on other planets?: Almost certainly.

Have they made contact with us: Almost certainly not.

Do you believe we come from Adam and Eve: no.

Do you believe in astrology: no.

Do you read your horoscope: no.

Have you ever been treated by a psychotherapist: Yes.

If reincarnation does exist, you'd like to come back as: a girl.

Your opinions

The right to have an abortion: Yes.

The right to own guns: no.

The death penalty: opposed.

Legalization of drugs: marijuana and LSD. Not cocaine or heroin.

Equal rights for homosexuals: Yes.

The practice of premarital sex: I'll consider all reasonable offers.

The minimum punishment for those who molest children: don't punish, treat; anyone that sick in mind needs help.

The minimum punishment for those who rape: longer than Mke Tyson got, for sure.

You would fight in a war if: the opportunity had come up (I'm a veteran).

The environmental issue that concerns you most: Deforestation and habitat encroachment.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
We fell. It seemed like we were constantly falling, or being lifted. This time we fell into water, and this also was not unusual.

As I sank into the cool water, I looked around for my mate. I didn't see him, but it was a big room and there were many, many others in it with us. Some of the others were like us, others vastly different, but only my mate, my twin, was exactly like me. I had a brief moment of panic, but reassured myself: we'd be reunited soon enough. After all, we belonged to each other. We'd been together since the beginning and would remain together until the end. Who could doubt that? No one, of course. These temporary separations were nothing to be concerned about.

I felt foolish whenever I had those panic attacks. None of the others ever seemed to have them, but then many of them weren't pairs like my mate and I. They didn't understand what it's like to have your whole identity bound up into someone else's so inextricably. I couldn't imagine life as a singleton, nor did I even want to. My mate, my partner, was the other half of my soul. I was nothing without him.

The water began to swirl clockwise, or counter-clockwise (how would I know?) and we all swam our laps. The water never heated up. It never does for those of us of color. We don't mind. It's still a nice, relaxing break from our regular existence.

Later, after the water drained away, we lay in the bottom for a while, waiting. I finally saw my mate across the way, but couldn't get to him through the crowd. I didn't need to; just seeing him there calmed the butterflies somewhat. Was I too insecure? Who could say? I didn't know how to be any other way.

terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
I know this is an old question, but I still want it answered. Why do women claim that all they want is "a nice guy with a good sense of humor" when that's so clearly a lie?

Every woman who's ever dumped me told me, beforehand, what a great guy I was and how wonderfully different I was from the assholes they'd dated in the past.

I want answers, damnit. If I have to be an asshole so I don't grow old alone, I need to start learning as soon as possible.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
I know nothing about planting or livestock. But I watched Survivor 3, including the video of goat farmer Big Tom's family down on the farm and later, in the "Back from Africa" episode, Tom himself hanging out with his family and playing with the goats in Rich Valley, Virginia.

How idyllic, I thought. To live on a big property out in the sticks, with hundreds of lanky, mischievous mammals wandering around.

I'm sure it's harder than it seems. Goats, I'm sure, have to be fed and cared for, and then there's the matter of making money off them, which almost certainly involves their deaths (I know some cheese and wool come from goats, but that's probably a niche market).

How would I learn more about goat farming?
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
Apologies for the incredibly trite subject line. I'm feeling pretty good right now. Not 100%, but the best yet since Aimee dropped her "I need some time on my own" anvil on my head.

One good thing about moving to Dumpsville is that you've got more free time, and my weekend was pretty full.

Friday: After work I ran six miles, then went to the Fishbone Gallery for an opening. I'd met one of the artists, Ilene, at a Super Bowl party, and we had a lovely chat. I didn't buy any of her works, because her art is abstract which isn't to my taste. She respected that and didn't get pissy, and I respected that. She's someone who could be a new friend; I hope I see her again. That's an open question because she lives OTP (shudder).

After the gallery I went to a party at my friend Sim's house. We listened to music while watching the opening ceremonies from Salt Lake. Then I went home.

Saturday: I woke up, read for a while (and finished The Endurance by Caroline Alexander), then went to the hash, which turned out to be about four miles. Afterward, I found myself at a Mexican restaurant alone with Gary. I spoke with him about Aimee for a while, and I think he guided me toward an epiphany of sorts.

Then on to the monthly party at Jim Davies's house. He showed me several of his paintings inspired by Pac-Man, all of which are from the ghosts' point of view. Geez! Improv comedian, swing dancer, painter, AI researcher: I wish I could be half as productive or diversified as Jim.

Sunday: I ran three miles, then did the Black Sheep hash, which was another 4.1 miles (according to the hares). Aimee had said she'd be there, so I was dreading that, but then she didn't show, but that didn't make me feel any better.

Yesterday I took the day off work (previously scheduled on account of Mardi Gras, but I decided not to go). I wasn't very productive with that day, but that's okay too. It was some Glenn time.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
Yesterday was perfect. I did everything just the way I wish I did them every weekday.

1. I woke up at 6 a.m. and left the house by 6:30 with a tumbler full of V8 juice for breakfast.

2. I swam for 20 minutes at the Martin Luther King Jr. pool.

3. Arriving at work, I mostly stayed away from Straight Dope and spent all my free time on training.

4. After work, I ran 4.5 miles.

Usually I hit snooze and roll over, missing my chance to swim before work, and half the time (lately) I blow off the run in favor of surfing the adult sites I have to avoid when I'm at work.

And don't get me started on the Straight Dope at work.

I'm determined and resolute: in future, more of my days will be like 11/15/01.
terracinque: (bridesmaid revisited)
I've decided that crackers are not food. A Triscuit, a Ritz, a Wheat Thin: none of these are food.

Rather, they are systems: systems for delivering dip into one's mouth.

Who among us has ever been to a party and thought, "I'd really enjoy a Cheese Nip right now?" None of us, that's who!

Instead it's cheese dip we want. Or a cheese cube. Or French onion dip, or salsa, or guacamole, or hummus. The cracker is just the delivery method. The system, in other words.

Drat. I just realized I don't have any systems at home.

July 2010

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