Because of my interrupted slumber I was totally thrashed at work, until -- for the first time ever -- I got to use an industrial paper shredder.
My God. What a rush. Anyone out there who needs a pick-me-up, forget shoe shopping or ice cream or puppies; find a paper shredder and go buck wild.

09.24.02
Thank goodness the season premiere of 'Buffy' was on tonight, so I had an excuse to update this blog. Yesterday's post was well-intentioned but rambly. I dunno -- I keep trying for meaningful, and keep coming up with Babelfish.

So -- I posted most of my thoughts on Valerie's forum, but I've got no problem with repeating myself. Tonight's episode:

I went through my entire school career as a complete outcast. I was always several steps out of sync with everyone else, and before I even reached my teens I despaired of ever being comfortable in a group situation. My best friend was pretty much the only bright spot in this arena.

Many of the reasons I was alienated were solely my own doing: as much as I wanted to fit in with others, I really didn't listen or act like someone who would be a good friend. I was too concerned with proving that I could be cool, too. And when that didn't work I just withdrew.

I really want to stress this, because I know how harsh the growing-up years can be, and how it often seems that there's no light at the end of the tunnel. If you're in high school or junior high and you're reading this -- first off, promise that you'll wait 'til you're seventeen to read 'Roundabout'. Okay? Because my desire to subvert cultural mores doesn't extend to peddling smut to the kids. Secondly -- it will get better. If you're someone who's got a great circle of friends and is navigating the childhood/adolescence territory ably, then I bow to you. You have it way more together than I did. But if you're really struggling, have faith. There is a huge world beyond your campus, and a ton of people who share your interests -- whatever they may be. And if you're like me, and suspect that there are changes you could make for yourself: be patient. You won't see the effects overnight. But there's amazing reward in just *being* a better, more considerate, more observant person. Other people's reactions to that will become secondary. And if you're already a good, honest person who's still being tormented -- someday it will end, and you'll be a good, honest person who's got as much chance as anyone else in the world.

I'm looking over the above paragraphs, and I'm worried that they're utterly incomprehensible. Basic message: hang in there, and work on yourself in the meantime. I was reading an article about the new Miss America today. She said that in high school she was teased -- I don't think that's a strong enough word -- mercilessly, and that one day "'I came to school one day to find that some of my classmates said they were pooling their lunch money together to buy a rifle to kill me,' said Harold, who won the pageant over the weekend and plans to promote anti-violence and anti-bullying programs during her yearlong reign. Harold, a 22-year-old Phi Beta Kappa graduate of the University of Illinois, is part black, part American Indian and part European....Harold said she tried in vain to stop the harassment by changing her clothes or hairstyle."

Now, I realize that being Miss America isn't every young girl's dream, but the whole thing just kind of blew me away -- I mean, here's this thirteen-year-old girl who arrives at school to death threats, and she defies this treatment to become what some consider the ultimate representation of female American beauty and grace. (I actually have major issues with the whole pageant thing, but I'm making a point here so I'll ignore them.)

I really am rambling now, so I'll stop. Again, a gigantic thank-you to anyone who's ever said anything nice about what I wrote. You all rock six ways from Sunday.

09.21.02
Tonight's Blog brought to you by the whip-cracking Dr. Dawn, who thinks she's the shit since she got LiveJournal. And also her being a doctor and all, with the saving of the lives. Plus she and her sisters make these videos that affect me physically, and...
Hell. Screw Dr. Dawn and her overachieving.

Every time I thought of updating this, I was like, "Well, my life is pretty boring and I have nothing to report." But then Dr. Dawn 'called me out', as it were, and I thought, hey -- boring never stopped me before!

I've been trying, off and on, to network my house. It's not the actual networking part that's stumping me; it's figuring out what to do with all the CAT-5 cables that now snake between every room. I mean, I'm not exactly Suzy Homemaker here (as has been pointed out to me on more than one occasion, most notably when my mom visited me in my Hollywood apartment and discovered that in the eight months since I'd moved in, the stove had never been plugged in -- she opened the oven door to find the manual inside) but even I'm kind of unthrilled by the cords everywhere. Although come to think about it, if I had some sort of stark, concrete-heavy industrial loft, it would kind of work. You know, I'm thinking of someplace where I could draw on the walls, like....that kid in the book who drew on the walls. You know. And now this is going to be bugging me all night.

The Miss America pageant is on right now. I remember watching this at a sleepover when I was about ten. When the winner that year was announced, I called her 'Miss Alpo' as she walked down the runway. I was so the bad seed.

I have a dilemma: there's this very short fic I want to archive here. But after finally finding the author's email address (thanks Salla at Valerie's board) I found the account has been "disabled or discontinued" according to the mailer-daemon message I got (which I saved for reasons known only to Miss Murchison and myself). So here's what I want to do: archive the story, and then put a notice at the top of the fic (nothing tasteless; no blinking text or anything, which only works in Netscape anyway) that I'm looking for the author's new address so I can get permission to archive it. I'll also keep a mention of it on the home page for a bit. What do you think? Is that wrong? If I can't reach the author should I not add the story, period? So confusing, and my moral compass is hopelessly skewed.

09.17.02
So, I've accepted that I can't hassle Dr. Dawn about not updating her blog when I've been pretty remiss with my own. But currently my personal life sucks beyond the telling of it. No, really. Beyond the telling. And it just seems kinda...pathetic to regurgitate it all here. Yeah, I know that's technically what a blog is for. But it's just too weird -- like the Nicolas Cage/Lisa Marie Presley nuptials. Just. Too. Weird. Also, online I can pretend that none of this is going on, just as I can pretend that I'm a five-foot-nine international jewel thief. I've always wanted to wear a catsuit.

I'm working on the latest chapter of 'Roundabout'. What will I do when it's over? Also, my boss pushed through my health benefits, two months earlier than I was expecting, and gave me my two weeks of vacation time rather than making me wait. Not too bad after five weeks of employment. Work has actually been a godsend -- I'm busy there so my mind is occupied.

FOX basically took out its checkbook and bought me. (These days I'm pretty easy.) I was barraged with ads for 'Fastlane' all summer long, and now I have this awful suspicion that I'll be sitting in front of the television when the first episode airs. I'm so ashamed!

09.12.02
I can't believe it's been over a week since I updated this. How did I go so long without inappropriate, self-indulgent sharing? Anyway, consider yourself lucky: the last several days have been a blur of adrenaline and despair and, as always, Frosted Mini Chex. Sweet, sweet Chex...

But, vindication! The not-nice girl at work spent Tuesday afternoon screaming at the top of her lungs at our boss. Apparently this became acceptable behavior sometime when I wasn't looking. He was calling to check in because he's at a conference. His mistake! As I always look on the bright side of things, I choose to see this as evidence that I am not paranoid and neurotic in my previous assessment of the work situation.

Not much else to say, except that the people I've gotten to know through writing 'Roundabout' (and you know who you are, Valerie and Miss Murchison and Dawn and Sisabet) have amazed me with their support and caring and good humor. A few months ago I never would have envisioned how much pleasure this effort has brought to me. Who knew there were folks like this in the world? You've helped me a lot. Thanks. And of course, thanks also to my parents and Cathy, without whom I would have simply turned into a porous, jelly-like puddle of nerves.

And Frosted Mini Chex.

09.01.02
I've had a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, English muffins, pot roast and Diet Coke (natch) and I'm ready to get cracking with the Tale of the Trip. Buckle up!

Drove up Friday morning and arrived at the hotel around noonish. The first person I saw was my brother, who had been waiting down in the lobby for me because I went to the wrong hotel initially. (Shut.Up.) He grumbled but obediently carried my bag upstairs. Ah, family.
Then I hung with my mom for a few hours. I was slagged from the drive and they'd only just flown in a couple of hours earlier, so we mostly just sat and looked at each other with goofy grins on our faces. Soon it was wedding time so we hightailed it over to the church, which was actually a deaf parish. Neat.
Has anyone out there ever been depressed by a wedding? It was a new experience for me, but then I figured that plenty of people get suicidal at Christmas so I can't be that far off my nut. Just something about the pomp and pageantry of it all; and the homily about having faith (which I currently don't) and the talk of starting your life over fresh -- I was all,"Hey! Sign me up for that!" Too, there were members of my extended family there whom I hadn't seen in years, and they all looked older and puffier (as do I). Whatever the reason, the whole affair left me despondent. Fortunately the reception was held at the hotel, so I was able to duck out early and without fuss. Back in the room I fell asleep as soon as I hit the bed.
Despite the strangely saddening nuptials, I am now officially in love with San Francisco. Just walking around the city today made me happy. It was old but au courant; sophisticated but honest and gritty. For once, I also wanted to shop -- for the handbag I saw that was a print of Gustave Klimt's The Kiss; for the pretty beaded top and crimson shawl I saw in Georgiou; for the brilliant earthy fabrics in the closet-sized shop beneath the hotel lobby; for the delicate patterned thigh-high stockings in the store on Maiden Lane. Oh, to have an unlimited budget. And Angelina Jolie's body.
I'd also like to make a special shout-out to the guy who tried to pick up on me as my morning non-shopping-spree drew to a close: Jeff, you were a cutie, and if you hadn't had the bad luck of hitting on me twenty feet from the entrance to my hotel, I'm sure I would have spoken with you longer. Because you were dressed quite nicely in your khaki pants and crisp white button-down -- very Banana Republic! -- and your coffee-and-cigarette breakfast of champions warmed my heart. And because you were, well, following me. Better luck with the next girl.
To sum up, I want to move to San Fran; I want to live in a loft downtown, and get more use out of my weighty, primarily black wardrobe than I do now, and walk around the city looking cosmopolitan and cool, and scoot around the streets in a sleek silver Vespa. (To be honest, I think the Vespa only featured in this fantasy because I walked by a dealership Saturday morning.)
I had decided to go home Sunday because I didn't want to deal with Labor Day traffic. You see where this is going, don't you? Don't make me engage in heavy-handed, Marti Noxon-like foreshadowing.
I didn't have much gas in the car when I drove out of the hotel garage. Maybe an eighth of a tank -- enough, I figured, to at least get me onto the freeway. Ha. Ha. I've been to San Francisco a few times before and proceed to take my usual route out of the city. Except they've closed that down -- and, by extension, the on-ramps to the 80, the 280 and the 101 South -- for some kind of parade. They graciously re-direct traffic, which would be great except that the route they send us to is also blocked by a parade. Different parade. The day before, I had exclaimed enthusiastically to a friend that I got to see the Korean Day parade that morning. He had responded that San Francisco had parades every other day, and I had wondered at the bitterness I heard in his voice. L.A. has shootouts in busy intersections every other day, so a parade has got to be better, right?
We're on our third detour now, and this one is the best: it sends us, literally, across town. And only to a single freeway entrance -- the Golden Gate Bridge to the 101 North. Which was, you know, the opposite direction that I wanted to go in. But at this point I don't care, because my gas tank is empty, remember? And I'm trapped in traffic and getting nervous, and on my umpteenth downhill descent I think I hear my brakes grind. (Note: when I bought this car I knew that I would have to get the brakes done every year, due to both the type of car it is and the hilly region I live in. I'm just pointing this out to say that this brake development should not have surprised or upset me, but it did. Because I'm insane.) I find a gas station, finally, and pay $1.90 a gallon to fill up the tank. Just as an FYI, my car probably gets the same gas mileage as Spike's DeSoto. But I'm happy, because at least now I know I won't run out of gas in the middle of San Francisco, and be eviscerated by sweating, angry vigilante locals. I'm sorry -- didn't I mention it was unseasonably hot in the Bay Area? Like, ninety-eight degrees hot.
Alright, where was I -- oh, yeah. I'm sitting in traffic, going (I think) to the Golden Gate Bridge. But here's the kicker: the path to the Bridge takes us across -- no exaggeration -- ten city miles. I should state here that if I were a NoCal native I'm sure I could have figured out another way out of the city. But it's not like you can just get on a major street and head south, because if you do that you'll just end up in the Bay. The whole fucking city is surrounded by water. I probably shouldn't feel too bad, since apparently there were a whole lot of folks in my situation. Those ten miles I mentioned were a total parking lot.
It took me two hours and forty-five minutes to get out of San Francisco. By the time I got on the Bridge I was weeping. I was tense over cutting it close with the gas, and then the brake thing, and I was feeling blue anyway from having to say goodbye to my parents. And somehow in my sick mind, this traffic nightmare has become a metaphor for my life. And the metaphor does not involve silver-lined clouds or lemons and lemonade. More along the lines of continually frustrated hopes with some heartbreak thrown in. I mean, I've just lost it. Complete surrender to self-pity and despair.
Okay. So now I'm crying in the car, right? And the best part is that I'm doing this in full view of everyone. 'Cause -- traffic jam, remember? And sweltering heat? Like my fellow travelers, I can't roll up the windows and switch on the A/C because the engine will overheat. So I just have to sit there, roughly two-and-a-half-feet away from the car next to me, and snivel and sob pathetically. Hottie Jeff, you got off lucky.
Eventually I calm down. This, not surprisingly, coincides with actually crossing the Bay and getting onto the highway. And from here on, the story isn't too bad. The bulk of the drive -- through central California -- is uneventful. In case you didn't know, that area is basically farmland. Fresno? Modesto? Think dusty pickup trucks and the sweet, sweet smell of manure.
By the time I got to Southern California I had eaten at McDonald's and sung along with Little Stevie Wonder on the radio, so I was much better. And as I said yesterday, by the time I encountered the brush fires in Lake Castaic and passed by Magic Mountain just as the theme park closed and disgorged its attendees and then the temporary closing of the 5 southbound for a police chase, I was taking it all in stride.

Whew. I'm kind of tired now just rehashing it all. That's as good an excuse not to exercise today as I can think of. I wonder if Ian's eaten all the Ghirardelli chocolate I brought back for him.

09.01.02
I just walked in the door from my trip up north. It was intermittently interesting, and I wrote in my journal continuously so that I could remember what I wanted to post in the Blog. I drove home today. It took me ten and a half hours to drive approximately 330 miles. I was hysterical by the second hour in the car, so by the time I encountered the brush fires and the freeway chase I had gotten the psychosis out of my system. I'm still a little shaky now, though, so my real Blog about the trip will be written at a time when I don't so much resemble Tweak from 'South Park'.

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