The work day, as well as the work week, are just about over, and my headache has finally gone away, so I'll stop whining about both my day and my hair now.

Focus on the good: It's Friday night, for one. Tess and I are going to get our Vin Diesel fix by going to see Boiler Room at the dollar movies tonight. Tomorrow I can sleep a lot. I do have to work Monday, but hardly anybody else will be, so it should be a pretty light day (during which I should have time to answer all of my e-mail), and then Tuesday is, of course, a holiday. Then it'll only be three days until another weekend. Good stuff. Life is good. It's only work that's hell.

One more thing before I go ...

Linky Love! Linky Love! Linky Love!

Have a good weekend, folks. I'm sure going to.

If my headache doesn't go away, or if things don't stop going wrong, I think I'm going to last about 5 more minutes before I hurt somebody.

One good thing: My haircut passed the best friend test, so I guess it's not as bad as all that. It's just going to take a lot of getting used to. It hasn't been this short since I was 23, when I had it all whacked off out of depression and frustration after my dad died. Then I liked it, but it was a conscious choice to cut it short. Not like this time, when I said "trim it up to just above my shoulders," and she interpreted "just above" to mean "4 inches above."

I don't want to sound vain, but I have pretty good hair. It's a good color, it's just the right texture and thickness and it has just the right amount of natural curl, so I can make it really curly if I want or just brush it out and have it fairly straight. I don't really consider myself to be very pretty, and my hair -- my long hair -- was the one physical attribute that I really liked about myself. Now it's gone, and I'm left with the rest of me, which just isn't all that impressive.

I want my hair back.

Today seems to be a Murphy's Law kind of day, which is to say, it has most certainly not been a good day. I only hope that this trend is confined to the office and that it will stay behind when I leave this awful place.

Eleni is a lot braver than I am. I really do think there would be unpleasant consequences if I put that picture up as my wallpaper. The folks here don't exactly have the most wide-reaching senses of humor, and there has already been some consternation over my current wallpaper. 'Sides, I'm too smitten with Ash right now to take him down.

I have a headache. What fun today has been so far.

At least people are complimenting my too-short hair, which makes me feel a bit better, even though they're probably just trying to be nice. I'll go have lunch with Tess in a few minutes. I'll know by the look on her face when she sees it whether or not it's truly awful.

I am so tempted to put this up as my desktop wallpaper on my work PC. I wonder if people would keep stopping by my desk to chit chat then?

I have short hair now. So far, I'm not happy about it.

To paraphrase some famous person or other who made a lot of quotable statements, history is written by the victors. We won the war, we get to tell the story our way, so quit yer whining.

I just got an e-mail from Travelin' Chad. He spent last night in Spain, watching a soccer match between France and Portugal, in an Irish pub with a gaggle of Austrailians.

I wish I could go to Europe.

Things that make me want to cry, #6: Getting toner from the laser printer all over (and I do mean all over) my favorite pair of khakis, and knowing I'll never completely get it out of them.

Umm ... didn't the headlines "SURVIVOR WINNER CHARGED WITH CHILD ABUSE" a few months ago, all followed by articles about Rich getting pissed at his son for gaining weight while he was off on his island adventure, kind of already spoil the outcome of the show?

In today's Fish:

the English cartoon you guys linked to has been downloading for
almost 10 minutes - nothing's THAT funny.

Colin

Not true, Colin. If it made your computer crash, for example, just as you were finishing up the last draft of a suicide note that you hadn't saved, and as a result you decided not to kill yourself, but then while
rebooting you had a power surge and were electrocuted, that would be really funny.

Sucksters

I love those guys.

Not feeling great today. I'm not sure whether it's the pollen or the mold spores that I'm allergic too, but whichever it is the count must be really high today. My eye is swollen and red and nasty and painful, and it and my nose keep running, and as a result my face is red and splotchy and I've got Kleenex wadded up all over my desk. People keep stopping to ask me if I'm okay, because they think I'm crying. That doesn't help.

<DREAM SEQUENCE>

This morning I dreamed that Luke Skywalker told me he's my father. I remember thinking okay, it would have been nice if he'd told me before now, but like father like son, I suppose, and at least he didn't cut off my hand before he told me. I was also really happy because I thought this meant I could become a Jedi, which would just be kick-ass. Then my alarm went off and woke me up.

I hit snooze and went back to sleep, and dreamed that Tess and I were standing in some unidentified lobby, waiting for Mark Hamill to come out of the restroom, and I told Tess about my previous dream. She dared me to run up to him when he came out of the restroom, throw my arms around his neck and sqeal, "Daddy!" I told her no, because he's starting to get up there (in age), and what if I frightened him into having a heart attack, and he died, and then Warner Bros. animation decided to start making new episodes of Batman? They wouldn't be able to make any Joker episodes without Mark Hamill, and if they did them anyway with another voice they wouldn't be any good, and it would just ruin the whole show for me.

Then my alarm went off again and I got up for work.

</DREAM SEQUENCE>

Last night, on Exposure, I discovered Vast. I spent most of this morning trying to find Vast mp3's, which, let me tell you, are not easy to find. I finally managed to gather "Touched," "Pretty ...," and "Dirty Hole." I like this guy. He has that droning, depressive, techno sound I like so well. Nice voice, too.

Makeover Studio is fun. I think I found a new haircut.

Damn. I'm going to miss Dirk.

Alright, I confess. I'm hooked on Survivor. And, I'm rooting for the Pongo tribe. I'm glad they're kicking Tagi's ass. I don't like any of the self-serving, back-biting people on that team. Dirk and Sean are probably the only two Tagi members that I actually like, and one of them are probably going to get kicked off tonight. If I got to vote I'd vote to boot Kelli. What a hateful brat.

Tonight, EXPOSURE is going to air Tim Burton's "Frankenweenie."

From the feedback I've received regarding archives, it seems that very few people actually ever read them, but most people feel better knowing they're there. So I fixed up mine and added an archive link. I'm sure you're all a-quiver.

Speaking of comics, Ben Edlund, the Tick's daddy himself, says "THE NEW [live-action] TICK KICKS ASS!!!

Yippee! If it's good enough for Edlund, I'm sure it'll be good enough for me.

I have no self-control. My payment to my little $200 credit card just posted to my account this morning, so what do I do? I run it right back up again. This time I bought a digital camera (Mindspring is hawking a nice little one to it's members for $69.95), comics for the month of June, and the Evil Dead Trilogy. My little card is now maxed out again, but oh, am I ever so happy to be getting such neat-o stuff.

Jean latches onto the newest blogger meme and rethinks her blog ...

Nope, this isn't one of those heartfelt, soul searching posts in which I declare that Blogger is the heroin that has depleted my very soul of joy and creativity and now I'm going to quit blogging forever (funny how forever seems to amount to about a day or two in bloggerville) and go outside and pick some daisies and take back my life and/or my web site. This is just me thinking aloud, or e-loud, as it were.

So I've been thinking that maybe I should refocus -- or, should I say, simply, focus -- this blog on ADD and what it's like to have it. I've always wanted to devote part of my site to educating people about those topics, especially those under informed, propaganda spouting dunderheads who think it was made up by the psychiatry and pharmaceutical industries so that they could push Ritalin to little kids and create a nation of drug addicts, but whatever, that's a whole 'nother issue.

Anyway, I'm not thrilled with my past attempts, and none of my other ideas (i.e. that "Short Attention Span Girl" comic that never happened) have managed to fly, and since I already have an ADD related title, maybe I should just convert this blog to one which covers ADD.

But how would that work? Would I post exclusively about ADD? Would it be only linkage to external info, or should it be more of a journal relaying my own experiences with the disorder? And since I do have ADD and all, would I realistically be able to retain my new focus the next time Fizgig does something cute or my job pisses me off or somebody somewhere on the web says something funny or touching or informative or what have you? Probably not.

Then I remembered the purpose of this blog: To provide a link between me and the world outside of my workplace, to pass the unbearable boredom and tediousness that comes with sitting at this desk day after day, and to act as a dumping ground for whatever I feel like dumping. I don't blog for other people. I blog for me. Sometimes I blog for my friends. If strangers think my dumps are entertaining enough to keep them coming back regularly, then God bless 'em. Sure, I have sitemeter, because let's face it, those repeat visits and hit counts are pretty soothing to the old ego; but if nobody but me ever read this page, I'd still keep doing exactly what I'm doing, because for now, I'm having a good time doing it. So why mess with a good thing?

So this is still going to be about my narcissistic musings and bileous attitude toward my job, and about being a writer, but it's also going to be about ADD. Not entirely, but it is a big part of my life, and I think I'm wrong to ignore it. My other option is to start a second (third if you count Internal Monologue, but it's not really a blog, so I don't) weblog devoted specifically to ADD, which might actually happen sometime in the not-too-distant future, but time constraints combined with sheer laziness prevent me from doing so for the time being.

So to make a long post short (too late!), this is not becoming a blog about ADD, but it will become more of a blog about someone who has ADD.

That's all. Carry on.

I'm a cog paddler.

Note -- add to bio page: Jean has an occasional potty mouth.

There is nothing that pisses me off more than when people come up to my desk, plop their stuff down, and then proceed to talk to each other, and not to me, like my desk is some kind of public impromptu meeting place, there for their convenience rather than for me to do my job. I've expressed this every way I can think of that won't get me fired, or at least sent for counseling, but it doesn't make a difference, because they just don't care. Why should they? I don't matter, I'm just the fucking help.

I only got to test that page on my laptop last night. Now I see that the font needs to be either larger, or darker, or both. I'll fix it when I can.

I redid my bio page.

Must read: Evolution of a weblogger, by Torrez.

Erich updated, therefore I shall blog his site.

At home, I'm cleaning. Taking down the tree was just the first step. I'm finally dealing with the piles and the boxes left from when I moved in last Thanksgiving, taking heavy duty carpet cleaner to the spots left by Mitzi when she got too old to control her bladder, and the surprise packages left by Fizgig in places I didn't think he was small enough to get into. When it's all done, I'll be out of excuses, and I'll have nothing left to do but write.

That's the idea, anyway.

What I really need is a place to write. That sounds like just another excuse, but it's not. I loved my desk at my apartment, even when it was a cluttered as it is now, and when the apartment was as messy as my mother's attic is now; but I had a big picture window looking out over a wooded creek, where I could watch the wildlife when I became blocked, and the apartment was full of light, and when I sat down at my desk there I felt like a writer.

The attic is dark and cold, even when it's 90 degrees outside and I turn off the a/c it's cold, and I have one window that looks out over my mom's cocker spaniel's pen and the propane tank. If I stand up on the window seat and squint through the trees just right, I can catch a glimpse of the lake, but just barely. When I sit at my desk there, I don't feel like a writer. I feel like someone with bills to pay, and web pages to upload, and e-mail to answer; but not like someone who writes.

It shouldn't matter so much, but it does. Sure, I can write anywhere, just give me a pen and a pad of paper; but if I haven't gotten into that writer mindset, it feels like a chore, and my output is uninspired and cold. Give me a place to write with just a little bit of romance, that's comfortable, well lit and inviting, and I can't wait to sit down and write. Even if the words don't come, just the act of sitting there makes me feel like a writer.

I don't have a place like that now, and I'm not quite certain what to do about that.

Okay, so I did a Napster search for "99 Luft Balloons" (because I'm in an 80's kind of mood), and mixed in with Nena's version there were several listings for a cover by Bjork. Cool! thought I, and I proceeded to download. I also downloaded the original. Upon listening to both, I can not tell one single difference. So, is it that Bjork purposefully made her cover sound just exactly like the original version, or is it that some dumb young person (or persons, as there were several listings for this particular MP3), having never heard of Nena, listened to the original, said to themselves "I'm not absolutely positive who this is, but it sure sounds like Bjork!" and labeled it as such? I'm guessing it's the latter. I've a feeling if Bjork had recorded the song it would have an unmistakeably Bjork sound.

My Swedish Chef impression: "Bjork! Bjork! Bjork!"

I'm stuck in one of my blah phases where I find it really difficult to care about my appearance. At this point my coworkers are just lucky I even bother to change into real clothes before I come to work, let alone fix my hair or put on makeup.

It's not that I don't like to put on makeup, or fix my hair all pretty, or wear pretty clothes with just the right accessories. I do. I'm a womanly woman, if not a girly girl; but every single day? Feh.

This is why, if you work with me, you'll see me looking nice for about two weeks, then I'll go about a month looking just barely pulled together. I get to a point where I can't stand to put on one more stroke of lipstick, or to wear one more pair of pantyhose, to pluck one more eye brow, to match up one more pair of earings, or to put one more styling product in my hair. So I don't. I'm at that point right now. A couple of weeks ago it was all business suits and cute shoes and frilly hair do's, but for the last couple of weeks it's been khakis and t-shirts and hair stuck up out of the way with a big clippy. Even that seems to take a tremendous amount of effort in the morning.

God, but how I wish I could work at home, to not even have to change out of my jammies in the morning if I don't feel like it. This is all I ask. Is it really so much?

I just posted a new entry in Internal Monologue.

Here's my daily Touched by an Impudite link.

I changed my mind. I'll tell you what I did over the weekend, because I am not ashamed. In fact, I think it's a good thing that I simply had better things to do all this time.

I took down my Christmas tree.

Yes, that's right. Little more than a week from Independence Day, I undecorated and disassembled the damn tree, and packed it all away. I finally got tired enough of looking at it to do something about it.

I considered leaving it up all year, so I wouldn't have to mess with putting it up again around Christmas. I also considered redecorating it for each holiday between now and Christmas; but to redecorate it I'd first have to undecorate it, and once I did that, the worst part of it, I might as well just take it all down. So I did. And that, my dear strangers, is how I spent my weekend.

I've a feeling that tree won't be going back up this Christmas.

I still need to redo my archives to match the redesign. Or do I? Does anybody care? Is it worth even bothering over? Does anybody ever actually read the archives? If so, I'd really like to know.

I'd tell you about my weekend, but there really isn't anything to tell.

So instead I'll tell you about my morning so far, which has proven far more interesting (at least to me).

<DREAM SEQUENCE>

It began with me waking up from a very odd, rather disturbing apocolyptic dream (the second such in as many weeks. I blame Coupland) in which my mom and I drove through Claremore and passed an El Camino that was surrounded by police cars. In the back of the Camino sat a teenaged boy and a bunch of important looking Middle Eastern men. Camera crews and reporters were swarming the police, trying to get through. We wondered what was up, so we went home to catch it on TV.

We turned on the TV to find it on every channel. For some reason, this unknown teenage boy was being forced to mediate global peace talks right there in our little town. We didn't understand why the boy was handling this, and neither did he, apparantly, because he kept saying so. There was nothing special about him, the police just grabbed him as he was passing by on his skateboard and stuck him in there with the Arabs and told him the fate of the world rested on his ability to convince these Arab leaders to sign a peace treaty.

To further complicate matters, the US government had somehow tagged every US citizen according to age and was able to target a nuclear missile to a specific person or people. Every time the boy screwed up, they were going to fire a bomb and take out an entire age group, starting with 60 and over. Sure enough, the boy screwed up, and this Secret Service looking guy in the back of the Camino pushed something that resembled a Jeopardy! buzzer and everyone in America age 60 and over did an impression of a cartoon being electrocuted, then they recovered and looked around at each other wondering what happened. At that point the guy with the buzzer said, "There go the old folks," and the news cut to footage of nuclear missiles being launched.

</DREAM SEQUENCE>

That's about when I woke up, feeling very disconcerted, wondering if I should go take shelter somewhere, because I knew that it was impossible for them to blow up one person with a nuclear missile without also taking out everything else around them for miles. Then I realized that I'd been dreaming, so I got up to walk my dog.

It was raining. Fizgig doesn't like the rain, so I had to carry him out to a spot where he could go, and then I had to stand there and hold my umbrella over him while he did his thing. I got soaked. So did he, actually, as the umbrella was pretty ineffective.

After getting cleaned up and coming into work (by which time the rain had stopped), I poured some coffee, checked my messages, answered my e-mail, and began to ready things for an interviewee when the fire alarms went off. Fire drill. Whee.

Since I am the Fire Warden for my floor, I went 'round to all of the cubes and conference rooms and offices and the break room and made sure that everyone at least had the opportunity to make it out okay. By the time I finished and was ready to evacuate myself, I realized that, had this been an actual emergency, I'd probably be dead by the time I finished making sure everyone else got out alive.

Instead of evacuating myself, since I figured if it were not just a drill I'd be dead now anyway, I hung around the office, in case the interviewee showed up. Wouldn't want her coming in to an empty office with the alarms blaring. Probably wouldn't make a great first impression.

Since I didn't evacuate, I was deemed a casualty by the Fire Drill Police. I asked them if, since I'm dead and all, I can go home, but they said no. So here I am, avoiding work, and hoping that my weirdness quota for the day has been sufficiently filled. I haven't had nearly enough coffee yet to be able to deal with any more.

One more thing ...

About my frustrating-to-revise pop-up menu: It's draggable. If you don't like where it's positioned, or you can't see the whole thing, you can click and drag it to anywhere on the page, and it will stay where you position it. Nifty, no?

I just added a new monologue.

Have a good weekend.

Crap. I was just rummaging through my little pop-up weblogs menu looking for Impudite. Not there. Oh yeah, I was going to list his full title. Wait, no, it's not under T, either. Crap.

Erich, sweetie, I promise, I didn't leave you out on purpose. In recompense, I shall blog your site once every day, or at least every day that you update, until such time as I am able to add you back to my permanent links. Look, you're already up by two.

I'm not sure I'm in love with this menu I'm using. You can't go in and simply add or remove a link. If you want to make a change, no matter how minor, you have to scrap it and reconfigure the whole thing from scratch, which becomes more annoying with each item I realize I left out. I don't know if this problem exists with the registered version, but I don't think it's worth paying $20 to be able to edit when I can get an easily editable javascript pop-up menu for free.

It seemed like a nifty idea at the time, though.

We've always assumed that if intelligent life did or does exist on Mars, they either were or are way more advanced than us and either died out before we even got started or are still there, cleverly masking themselves from us, sabotaging our attempts to explore their planet, and biding their time until we're ripe for a takeover (okay, so maybe nobody but sf writers and paranoiacs [like there's a difference?] assume that last part).

But what if we've got it all wrong? What if intelligent life does exist on the red planet, but they're some kind of primitive, underground-dwelling society, and they're scared witless by the probes and cambots and land rovers we keep sending up there? What if WE are the impending alien invasion, preparing to once again steal a bunch of land from a less advanced civilization?

... and the cogs in Jean's brain spin round and round ...

Last night I finished Girlfriend in a Coma, by Douglas Coupland. The only other thing I've read by Coupland was Generation X, which, being his first novel and all, was rather subdued in comparison. Girlfriend was much more out there. I liked it, and I liked the book's message, about how we're too obsessed with time and work and efficiency and how we're all the less healthier for it, though I thought it a little heavy-handed. If you're an X-Phile, he makes several X-Files references that you may appreciate.

That's probably it for my book reading for a while. I have things to write that won't leave me with much time for idle reading. I have plenty of books on my shelf at home that I've never gotten around to reading, but I think I'll just save myself for Neil Gaiman's next novel.

I, Jean, am hereby caught up on all of my e-mail. Except for Jennifer's, which I am going to go answer right now.

Even though I took down the Harem button (along with all of my other buttons, so it was nothing personal, you see, just a design issue), yay!

I've got the news on while I fiddle with this new layout. They just said an OU basketball player (I didn't catch his name, but the sportscaster sounded like he was one of the more prominent team members ... I honestly don't follow the sports, so I couldn't tell you) was arrested for shoplifting a bunch of DVD's from the Norman Wal-Mart. All I think is, how come nothing that exciting ever happened when I worked there?

After several technical difficulties, it's done ... more or less. For reasons that I can't fathom, Netscape isn't displaying any of the random images underneath the title, and it's choosing to completely ignore some of my stylesheet designations. As much as I like to root for the underdog, I gotta say it: I hate Netscape.

My redesign is ready and rarin' to go. Now all I have to do is upload it. There but for the grace of God ...

A redesign is pending. Just of this page, not of the whole site (well, maybe also of my "about me" page). I thought I'd finish it last night but my new logo went all FUBAR when I tried to make it transparant and I spent all night trying to fix it. Finally I gave up and went to bed, deciding to scrap it and start over tomorrow. Now tomorrow is today, and I still have work from yesterday to try and finish, but if I get any spare time I'll work on my redesign.

Redesigning is a good fix when I don't have anything to say.

Oh, how I long for this work day to be over. I've been going 'round and 'round all day trying to set up several different meetings, and I haven't been able to finalize a single one. I worked hard all day, and haven't been able to check one single thing off of my to do list. The best I could do was check "in progress." Add to that the fact that there seem to be several people who suddenly think they know how to do my job better than I do, and what you have is one bitch of a day for Jean.

You would not believe how much and how often people are managing to piss me off today.

Do preppy frat boys ever stop looking like preppy frat boys? I know guys who are at least 40 years old who still dress, talk and act like preppy frat boys. Still wearing their preppy frat boy frat rings, still going to their preppy frat boy frat reunions ... come to think of it, the same can be said about preppy sorority girls. You can always tell who belonged to a sorority in college, no matter how old they are. They still have a certain look about them, and they're still just as irritating to be around for very long at a time as they were in college. Once a Greek, always a Greek, I suppose ...

Come on, people. If the four years you spent drinking and hazing in college were the best years of your life, that is profoundly sad. Get over college already. Quit wearing sweater vests and pony-tails with big-ass bows in your hair. The big bows in your hair looked stupid when you were eighteen, and they most certainly look stupid now that you're fifty. Quit reminiscing about your glory days. Your glory days should be now. Quit living in the past and live for the moment. And for God's sake, quit expecting your coworkers to bond with you the way you bonded with your Greek brothers or sisters! Leave me alone, dammit!

I actually have what looks like a full day's worth of work today, for a change, which leaves me with very little time either to read or post to weblogs, or to read or write or respond to e-mail. I can hear your collective sigh of disappoinment. Or maybe that's just the wind.

Anyway, if you still want to waste time here at Random Thought Process, go read my essay. Or peruse the archives. Or ... hey! I bet you've never read any of the stuff on my writing page! Granted, I haven't uploaded most of what's listed there yet, but there are a few active links that might be mildly entertaining, if for nothing else than making fun of my early writing attempts.

Eleni redesigned, which must mean that it's about time for me to redesign, because that's the way these things usually go.

Tess just sent me this:

Subject: Another GAS OUT

It worked in April of 1999 and April of 2000 - Let's see if it will work
again. Now that gas prices are rising every weekend by .20 to .30 a
gallon.

Last year on April 30,1999, a gas out was staged across Canada and the
U.S. to bring the price of gas down, and it worked. It's time to do something
about it again. This time, lets make it for three days instead of just
one.

The oil cartel decided to slow production to drive up gasoline prices.
Let's see how many Canadian/American people we can get to ban
together for a three day period in April, NOT TO BUY ANY GASOLINE, during
those three days. LETS HAVE A GAS OUT.

Do not buy any gasoline from June 23, 2000 THROUGH June 26, 2000. Buy
what you need before the dates listed above, or after, but try not to buy any
during the GAS OUT. If you want to help, just send this to everyone you
know and ask them to do the same. We brought the prices down once
before, and we can do it again!

Come on North America lets stand together.


While the slight conspiracy-theory aspect makes me suspect the validity of the e-mail's source, and I have no idea about the success of the last two Gas Out attempts, I don't think this is a bad idea. It certainly can't hurt. If gas prices keep going up the way they have been lately, I'm going to be forced to find a job closer to home. I'm not overly fond of my current job, but it's a hell of a lot better than anything that's offered in my home town, and so far it's been worth the 45 minute commute (each way) every day. Unless they raise my wages again (since I've already had two raises this year, that doesn't seem likely to happen), or gas prices reach a reasonable price, I won't be able to afford the commute anymore. If I can do something to make the latter option happen, then by golly I'm going to do it!

Especially seeing as how it conveniently falls right in line with my regular fill-up schedule ...

I just updated Internal Monologue.

Nice, but I miss Krillin.

Why don't they just carve it on the surface with a big laser cannon like Chairface Chippendale?

link snagged from Chocolatey Shatner

Since Saturday's post got pushed off of the page before anybody actually saw it ...

Here can be found pictures of my new doggie, Fizgig.

Today's Suck has a somewhat clever, somewhat snide link to Weblogs.com in today's somewhat clever, somewhat snide article on the return of Java.

I am very curious as to how much, if any, effect that will have on members' hit counts.

I watched a re-run of X-Files last night, the one where CSM takes Scully on a joyride promising to give her a cure to all of life's illnesses at the end. I watched it because the first time 'round it left me confused.

This time I noticed two things of interest:

One, Mulder has a fish tank. I've never noticed his fish tank before. Why is that important? Because in that funky zen-like episode directed by Gillian Anderson, at the end when I saw the fish tank, I just assumed that they were at Scully's place, but apparantly they were at Mulder's (I could be wrong here). Suddenly, the possibility that Mulder was asleep in his own bed and not Scully's, as I had previously believed, makes the opening of that episode much less suggestive, and steals away some of the credence from the "Scully's having Mulder's baby" theory.

Two, that scene where Scully's asleep in the car when she and CSM arrive at their destination. Instead of waking her up, he puts on a pair of gloves and leans over to brush her hair out of her face. Next scene, Scully wakes up the next day in a strange bed in a strange pair of pyjamas. She accuses CSM of drugging her, but he swears he didn't and that he merely tried to be helpful by making her comfortable. Suuure.

So I'm thinking that Cancer Man has something to do with her pregnancy. Whether he did it the old-fashioned way while she was asleep (can I just say, Eew?), or some more high-tech, indirect method, I'm betting he's got a lot more to do with putting the bun in Scully's oven than Mulder does.

---------------------------

Update on the car: It was the starter, and my brother fixed it. Yay for big brothers!

Have you seen the television ad for this site? The one with the "Fearsum" virus warning? Did it get your panties in a bunch? Did you rush to enter the URL to see what the heck it was talking about? Did you get a little wigged out by the Civil War era pterodactyl picture? Did you leave not knowing what to make of it? Still not sure?

If so, you were the victim of some effing brilliant promotional advertising for Fox's upcoming conspiracy/supernatural/X-Files-wannabe thriller, Fearsum, from the same people responsible for the "is it real or isn't it" advertising hook behind a little movie they made called "The Blair Witch Project."

Feel better now?

For my friends and stalkers ...

What I did the rest of the weekend:

Saturday night Tess and I went to see Titan A.E. I can't speak for her, but I LOVED it. It was almost as good as anime, it was so darned special. Support good animation with grown-up plotlines: go see this movie.

Before the movie we went to one of the malls for Chick-fil-A (actually, I had Sbarro's for a change). I drove around for a while and tried to find a legitimate parking space, but when I couldn't find one within a half-mile from the mall I did what I always do: parked in the big lined grids on the end of the row in front of JC Penny's.

As I pulled in I was bumper to bumper with this big van that had a couple of middle-aged guys in it. The one in the driver's seat looked like he was reading something. The other one, in the passenger seat, directly across from me, I noticed, was staring at us. Not just gazing idly in our direction, mind you, but staring, pointing us out to the driver and making comments, and looked like he was getting ready to jump out of the van as soon as we got out of the car.

As if that weren't creepy enough, I also noticed, he bore an incredible resemblance to the Cigarette Smoking Man from X-Files (speaking of CSM, I suspect he may be the father of Scully's baby, but more on that later). His hair, the look on his face, that evil grin wrapped around his cancer stick ... everything about him just oozed evil.

Tess and I sat in the car awhile trying to decide what to do. No other parking places appeared to be opening up, and besides, I didn't want to give this guy the satisfaction of knowing that he spooked me. So, we came up with a strategy. Get out of the car, don't make eye contact, if he says anything ignore him, and if he gets out and approaches us run like hell to the entrance.

So we get out. I try to be casual, but then I see out of the corner of my eye that the CSM clone is rolling down his window. I exchange glances with Tess, and we both pick up our pace. Finally, Creepy Guy makes his move: "You girls are gonna get a ticket for parking like that!" he shouts after us. We slowed down and exchanged glances again. Wtf? All that discomfiture over a cranky old codger who just felt the need to tell off some reckless youngsters for reckless parking. I shook my head and cleared my brain of the whole incident.

Tess, however, was not so quick to let it go. "What was his problem?" she asks.

"I don't know," I answer, "I guess he was just cranky."

"He was more than that," says she. "He was scary. I hope he doesn't do anything to your car."

Shit, I think. "Why would he do anything to my car?"

"I don't know," she says, "he just didn't seem too with it. He might just be mental enough to do something to prove a point."

"Nah," I say, "I don't think he'll do anything." Good front, but secretly, I worry. Please, Lord, I pray, don't let that guy do anything to my car.

We go eat, and I try not to worry, but I do anyway. We poke around the mall a bit, decide to go to PetSmart before the movie, and head towards the exit. As we approach it, it occurs to me that the scary man might still be out there. What if he is, I ask Tess.

"We'll just ignore him, get in the car, and leave," she says. She's so sensible.

We exit Penny's, and sure enough, he's still there. I try to act casual as I unlock the car and get in, even though I know he's watching us and I'm so creeped out that my hands are shaking. We get in the car and pull out. As we drive past him he's still watching us. Inside my mobile car, I suddenly feel brave, so I look directly at him, smile brightly, stick out my hand, and give him a thumbs up sign. Kill him with kindness, I think. He looks shocked, and turns around. Probably thinks I flipped him off.

"Glad that's over," I say.

"What if he follows us?" Tess asks, always one to feed my paranoia.

We drove away from the mall. He wasn't following. We got to the pet store, and inspected my car before we went in. No visible signs of vandalism or sabotage. We went in, I bought goodies for Fizgig, we left, and went to the movie.

That was pretty anti-climactic, wasn't it?

So Sunday I went to Wal-Mart. I took Fizgig with me because he likes to go bye-bye in the car. Since it was hot, I took him in the store with me. He rode in my purse. Yes, he's that small, but then again, I also carry a big-ass purse. I bought all of my groceries, including lots of frozen dinners, and then went to leave. My car wouldn't start. At first I thought my battery had died, but when I realized that all of the electrical stuff was working, I figured it must be my starter switch.

No, I didn't suspect that this had anything to do with the scary man at the mall, and I still don't. My starter used to do this on an almost monthly basis. Last time it happened, almost a year ago, the repair guy said this time he fixed it for good. Apparantly he didn't. Either that, or it's something more serious than my starter, which I simply do not need right now.

I took the dog out of my purse and went to get my phone, but then I remembered that I'd taken it out at home to make room for Fizgig. Panic began to set in, but then I remembered this miraculous piece of technology called the Pay Phone. I called my mommy, who mere minutes later appeared in her shiny mini-van to rescue me, my dog, and my frozen dinners. The plan was for us to get my brother and go back up that evening to see if he could fix it, but it being Father's Day and all his family had taken him out to dinner and an IMAX movie, and they didn't get home until well after we went to bed.

So my car is, as far as I know, still sitting in the Wal-Mart parking lot, and therein, on the dashboard, lies my downtown parking permit. I drove the shiny mini-van to work this morning, and parked it in my usual place, and maybe, just maybe, no one will notice that it doesn't have a permit and I won't get a ticket. Here's hoping.

Fizgig meets the word!

Finally, I managed to stay online long enough to upload pictures of Fizgig. Since I'm not blessed with a digital camera, I had to settle for scanned in polaroids, so the quality isn't that wonderful. Anyway...

Here's a shot from one day after I found him. This was taken after a trip to the vet to get cleaned up and checked out. Even so, he still looked pretty rough.

Here he is today (literally -- just a few minutes ago, actually) after just a couple of week's worth of TLC. Hardly even looks like the same dog.

Isn't he cute?

Killing time until they get to the one section that covers something I don't know, I took a detour on our little Internet tour and looked up some resources on screenwriting and filmmaking. Here are some good ones I found:

Screenwriting:

• Screenwriting on About.com
• Hollywood Screenwriters Network
  
• Mark's Screenwriting Page

Filmmaking:

• Internet Movie Database's indie film section
  
• Cyberfilm School
• Filmmaking on About.com
  
• Internet Filmmaker's FAQ
  
• Frontline: Filmmaking on the Web
  
  and, of course,
  
• Bruce Campbell's advice on filmmaking
  

Now they're teaching us how to explore the Internet. Whee. They're about to teach me what HTML means and what a .gif file is. Nosiree, this isn't a waste of time at all!

Bah! This class is boring! We've been going over basic Outlook all morning. So far they've yet to tell me anything I don't know.

Well, I didn't get around to the e-mails today. I'm not intentionally neglecting them (well, maybe the past couple of days I have been, because let's face it, as much fun as e-mail is, it can also be a pain in the arse ... there's a lot of spam and declined credit card notifications in there to weed through, folks). I rememberd today that I'm being sent to an all day training session tomorrow, and therefore all of those things which must be done by week's end that I planned to do tomorrow I found I must actually do today. In other words, I'm busy. And since I'll be in class all day tomorrow, you won't get your e-mail then, either. And since my ISP sucks like Phil Collins, I most likely won't be online all weekend, so you won't get your e-mail then, either.

That happened to me recently. No sir, I didn't like it.

Persistence is the key. I know, how trite; but it's true.

Being an amateur writer, I spend a lot of time talking to other amateur writers who, like me, long to see their work in print, to see their byline staring up at them from glossy, professionally bound paper, or to see their name in large print across a book cover. So, also like me, they take something they've written, or they write something new, spruce it up, put it in it's best Sunday clothes, and pack it off to a publisher, and hope for the best. A few weeks later, when they're met by a rejection letter (about rejection letters: hand-written ones are nice. They make it easier to believe the editor's sincerity when he or she tells you that you're talented, that they liked your story, but it just doesn't fit their needs at this time. The worst ones are the form letters, the ones that begin "We regret that we cannot accept your story at this time because (check one):" followed by a series of common reasons for rejection, each bulleted by a little check box. I hate those.), they take the rejection to heart. It's not just a rejection of one story, it's a commentary on all of the author's perceived talent (or lack thereof). Read between the lines. "This story does not fit our needs at this time" really means, "You suck. Give it up, you no-talent, wannabe hack. Find yourself a nice day job and quit bothering us publishers with this drivel, we have better things to do. We hope you had a fallback career in mind, because face it, you will never sustain a living as a writer, unless you take a job at a newspaper somewhere writing crossword puzzles, because that's about all that your writing skills are good for. Have a nice day."

No, it doesn't, but that doesn't keep a lot of aspiring writers from gleaning that message from a rejection letter, anyway. This is usually met with one of two responses (or sometimes both, the second most often following the first, after wallowing in self-pity for a while becomes tedious): One is to decide that you do, in fact, suck, and to give up, deciding never to submit anything again. The other is to say to yourself "okay, well, they didn't think my story was good enough, but that's just one person. I'll keep trying;" and then either re-submit the story, as is, to a new publisher, try to figure out why the first one had a problem with the story and make some revisions to improve it and then send it to a new publisher, or decide it really is no good, or you can do better, and toss it out and start from scratch on a new story to submit.

Too many authors go with the first option, and never advance to the second. I've been tempted to do so myself all too often, even though I can count the pieces I've submitted on one hand. I've no business giving up so easily, I haven't even paid my dues yet.

So many would-be pro writers not only crave, but actually expect King-sized success (Steven King, that is ... and I'm not talking about his current success. I'm talking about how his very first novel, Carrie, was not only published, but became an immediate best-seller, and was turned into a hit movie, ensuring that he would never again have to live in a trailer and make ends meet by forraging for loose change at the local laundromat, all at the tender age of 23), with no understanding of how extremely rare that kind of success actually is; and when they don't get it on their first try, they consider themselves failures, and give up -- not necessarily on writing, for a true writer will keep writing no matter what, but on trying to get published.

They don't realize that it is much, MUCH more common for best-selling authors to have been at it for years, sometimes even decades, and that they got so much rejection on their paths to greatness that they could wallpaper their entire houses with the letters. Nor do they realize that for every mediocre author that has a book published because they were persistent, there are probably a dozen really good writers who aren't published because they give up too easily.

So don't give up. Keep at it. Keep trying. If at first you don't succeed ...

And keep this in mind: every time you write something, you're practicing your skill, sharpening your technique, refining your style and voice, and ensuring that the next thing you write will be better. With that logic, if you have as much talent as you think you have, if you have even half as much talent as your high school English teacher told you you have, if you just keep writing, and keep trying, eventually your writing will be good enough, and you will sell your stories, and you will be a professional.

And if not, there's always iUniverse.

This is, of course, as much a pep talk to myself as to any other writers out there who dream of going pro.

My e-mail is backing up again. I realize some people e-mailed me over a week ago and I still haven't answered them. If I owe you e-mail, expect to get it today (or tomorrow at the latest).

Alrighty. After a couple of coffees, I went back to the supply room and got a wire notebook, across which I wrote the working title for my script. I picked out a pen I like, printed out Bruce's advice on screenwriting (don't worry, I've got a manuscript format guide at home, this isn't all I'm going on), poured myself some more coffee and, most importantly, proceeded to record my notes. I've got main plot points, characterization, and even a few lines of dialogue.

Whee! I'm writing!

I'm actually afraid.

I've had a story floating around in my brain for a little over a month now, that I figured I'd eventually turn into a short story, maybe a novella ... I don't think there's quite enough there for a novel. At least, not yet.

A comment I get frequently when people read my stuff is that I should write a screenplay, since dialogue is my biggest strength. For some reason, I've always had an aversion to writing screenplays. It just seems so cliché, though I suppose not any moreso than writing a novel. It's not as if I live in LA, where every waiter and their mother has written a screenplay. This is Tulsa, for crying out loud. How many people here have screenplays sitting around on their desks? Likely not as many folks as have novels in the works. Plus, it makes sense, I suppose, since my story ideas always play out in my mind like movies, but I don't know. That was just never part of the dream. I've always pictured myself as a novelist.

Lately I've become fascinated with independent films, and the whole filmmaking process. I don't mean traipsing into the woods with a video camera and no script, alá Blair Witch, but real, old fashioned storytelling via film. Fascinated enough to want to be part of the industry, even if it means just being an unpaid PA on a local low budget indie production. No, that's not really enough. I want to be involved in the creative process. I want to make a movie.

At lunch, I mentioned this to Tess, and she said "okay." I said "no, I'm serious," to which she said "yeah, okay. That sounds like fun. We really should try to do that." So, we got ourselves all psyched up over the prospect of creating our very own independent film.

So, I'm going to write a screeplay. Up until about an hour ago I had no idea what about, but then it struck me that that story idea I've been pondering would translate really well to film. So, I opened up my word processor to jot down a quick plot outline, character notes, etc., and I froze.

It's not that I'm blocked, I know if I start writing, the words will come. They're all in there, eager to get out. It's just that, it's been so long since I wrote an original piece of fiction, starting from scratch, that the prospect of starting on something new for a change instead of revising some of my old stuff flat out terrifies me.

Maybe I should do it in long hand. If I write it by hand on a legal pad instead of typing it into a word processor, it won't seem so official, and might be less intimidating. Trouble is, I'm so used to typing that it's actually pretty difficult for me to write stuff out by hand (a sign of the Internet age, I suppose). It's never legible, and it's so slow.

Whatever. I don't really have a point here, I'm just procrastinating because I'm a 'fraidy cat, and I really need to just suck it up and go do it already. But maybe I'll go check in on a few blogs first ...

I just posted my first real entry to Internal Monologue.

In response to an e-mail I sent Terrence yesterday ...

From: Terrence
To: Jean
Subject: Re: True Friendship

i hate my roommate.

i hate that i ride a bike everywhere.

i hate that my modem is jacked and that i have to use my roommate's computer to get online.

but, i love my friend who sends me such funny and/or cool email that i spend the rest of the day smiling about it.

love,
terrence


{GRIN}

My head still hurts, and the office smells funky.

My head hurts.

Note to anyone in Northeastern Oklahoma (or surrounding states -- even Texas; a lot of the "local" ISP's also serve Dallas): I am still looking for ISP recommendations.

I went outside at lunch, only to find that my perfect summer weather had been replaced by high winds and patchy clouds, with heavier, more ominous looking clouds on the horizon. I just went over to peek out a window, and it looks like it's back to sunny and sweet (much like yours truly -- nah, who'm I trying to kid with that one?), although weather reports are warning of possible severe weather later on tonight. Let's hear it for tornado season!

Remember that big, bad-ass, F6 tornado that ripped through Oklahoma City's surrounding towns last year? We even made international news with that one. That was scary, even way up here in Tulsa. The same storm that reduced Moore, OK to a post-apocolyptic nightmare was on a direct path to T-town. I lived in Tulsa then, in a second-floor apartment on the side of town that would get hit first. Coward that I am, as soon as I saw the news footage of that thing heading up I-35 I grabbed my pets and my prized possessions and high-taled it to my mommy's house in Claremore. We were all up till about 2 a.m., watching and praying, getting more and more ancy as it raped and pillaged its way towards us. Finally it reached the Tusa metro area, and the storm tracker radar, zoomed in to city block detail, showed that it was headed directly towards my apartment complex. I braced myself for the probability that I was about to be homeless, but gave thanks that I had somewhere to go for shelter, and said a prayer for my neighbors who couldn't say the same. Imagine my overwhelming relief when, a mere three blocks from my home, the tornado pulled back up into the sky and the storm began to peter out.

I went to bed, relieved and thankful. It wasn't until the next morning that we learned the true extent of the damage. It was an overwhelming feeling. I felt glad to be alive, and thankful that I'd been spared, but at the same time I didn't understand why I deserved to live when all of those people had been killed, why my home was left standing when so many people had lost theirs. I still don't understand, but I don't think there's any rhyme or reason to it. You can't assign blame to nature. It simply is, and all we can do is try our best to keep out of its way.

Which all makes me really glad that I now live in a house with an underground room.

If 3 people go here and register, I'll get a free t-shirt.

A new addition to Random Thought Process: Internal Monologue: essays, rants, et cetera, by me.

I had one of those moments today. You know the ones, at least, I hope you do. One of those moments when, for no reason in particular, the wonder and beauty of this world strikes you, and no matter what else is going on in your life, at that moment, it's all good.

It began as I was pulling out of the neighborhood gas, food & bait shop. I'd stopped for gas, and I was more than a little irritated because I was late for work, and the store was out of Frappucino (and I don't like their coffee), and gas prices had gone up another ten cents from yesterday, when I should have gotten gas, but I didn't because I was too tired. As I pulled out of their driveway, kicking up newly laid gravel as I eased on to the highway, with no traffic in front of me to slow me down, I stepped on the gas, and at that moment I was struck by the beauty of my surroundings. The morning sun bathed the trees and grass and concrete with a pale, golden light, not too bright to hurt my eyes, and as I made my way around the curve and onto the dam, it reflected softly across the lake, and the water, smooth as glass, perfectly reflected the sky, which was bluer than I'd seen in days. Gulls swooped back and forth across the dam, and a lazy hawk seemed to hang in the air, keeping a steady parallel with my car.

At that moment "Give it Up" by Avalon came on the radio, providing a perfect soundtrack for it all. As I began to sing along, all of my stress and irritation slipped away, replaced by joy, and I knew, I just knew, that everything will work out. It will all be okay. I felt like giving thanks, so I did.

Today is a good day.

Well. I guess I'm not going to Borders. I just learned that nobody will be home to medicate my dog, so I've got to go home and do it. Ah, well. Can't say I'm too disappointed, really, since I dressed up for work today and forgot to bring a change of clothes for after. I don't suppose not going to the cafe is any excuse not to write tonight, is it? Guess tonight I'll finally clean off my desk ...

Y'know, back when these weren't available I actually e-mailed Pets.com to beg them to make them. Now they have, and I must have one.

link via SwallowingTacks

There are about a half dozen little chihuahuas sitting on my desk. Most (but not quite all) of them are Taco Bell^TM collectibles. People started giving them to me because they resembled Mitzi (also included in the collection are a couple of Beanie Babies^TM -- one chihuahua, and one bat, given to me by someone who thought that Mitzi looked just like a wingless fruit bat). Now that Mitzi's gone, and I'm the proud mother of a balding toy poodle, it seems funny to have all of these little big eared, bug eyed creatures sitting on my desk. I fear that people will see them and think that I'm some kind of Taco Bell^TM enthusiast. Yet I don't have the heart to remove them.

Maybe I'll keep collecting them. Soon I'll have my own little plastic chihuahua army. We can all go storm the drive-through. "Drop the chalupa or my Taco Bell Dog^TM Smarties^TM dispenser will start spitting candy at you!"

Tess's adventures in cubical land ...


From: 'Tess'
Sent: Monday, June 12, 2000 12:01 PM
To: 'Jean'
Subject: RE: hey

Oh my goodness!!!!!!!! One of the record keepers came in here and showed me her tick bite. It was on her stomach and she's not a small woman. She was in here talking to me and she started rubbing her stomach. She then unbuttoned one of the buttons in the middle of her shirt and pulled it wide open for me to see. Now why in the world would I want to see that?!?! I just said oh and turned back to my computer. There is no way I'd do that to someone. I don't know why she would want to share that with me. Sometimes this place can just be disturbing.


**sounds of poorly muffled guffawing issuing from Jean's cube**

Whee!

Ah, the joys of an entirely unproductive weekend. Well, not entirely unproductive ... I did some laundry yesterday. It was either that or come to work without any underwear. Nobody wants that.

Otherwise I spent my weekend pretty much exactly the way I said I would. I didn't rent any movies, but between Herules, Xena, Brisco County reruns, and various B-movies on cable, I still managed to get my Bruce Campbell fix. That guy is everywhere. I even found some time to read, though not as much as I'd anticipated, so I'm only about a third of the way into my current book. I was hoping to finish it.

Mostly I spent the weekend bonding with my dog. I started him on Benadryl, which seems to be helping, because he only has to stop to scratch every few minutes instead of every few seconds, and I found some salve that I used to use on Mitzi whenever her hair would fall out around her flea bites (I always end up with these sickly, allergic dogs; I hope this isn't a foreshadowing of what my kids will be like), and put that on his legs. It seems to be doing a fairly decent job of keeping him from chewing on his sores.

I actually tried to get his pictures online this weekend, but my ISP wouldn't cooperate. I need to take new pictures and put them up, too. After only a week, he doesn't look like the same dog I brought home. He's becoming comfortable enough in his surroundings to start acting territorial, he's confident enough now that he doesn't have to stick to me like glue and has begun to explore the house, and, despite his lack of fur in several places, he's just as cute as a button. I can't wait until he's all healed and settled and his true personality comes all the way out. I really think this dog and I are going to like each other.

Now that I've gotten more rest than I could stand, my creative energies are returning, and I do believe it's time to get serious about writing again. And I don't mean just sitting around with my serious face and pondering the art of wordsmithing, either. Tonight I'm going to resume my regular sojourns to Borders and start actively writing again. Yay, me. What I'm going to write about, I don't yet know, but it's the process that's important at this point, and not so much the result. At least, that's what I'll tell myself as I stare at that blank paper trying to get the words to come.

Aww, Eleni is so sweet! Now to teach her about permanent links ...

There is an extremely high probability that I'm a mutant. If I had to be a mutant, I'd want to be Jean Grey. I bet she'd be a really good pool hustler.

Hey! Somebody go and discuss the Tony awards with me!

I'm so happy to be able to put "dog food" on my shopping list again.

There was something reflective and poignant that I wanted to say here, but I can't remember what it was.

I'm going to go to Wal-Mart and buy some foodstuffs and allergy medications for my dog, then I'm going to go home and begin my weekend of solitude, during which I will watch The Invisible Man, which airs tonight, and Gormenghast (finally!), which begins tomorrow night. Seeing as how my new obsession are Evil Dead movies and Bruce Campbell, I'm debating on whether to stop off at the video store and rent some movies. And if I do, I'm debating on whether to watch the Evil Dead movies again, or try for something with Bruce Campbell in it that I've not seen before. Yeah, I know, these obsessions kind of get on my nerves, too. The interesting thing about having mild OCD and ADD at the same time is that just when my obsessions/compulsions start to become too pervasive, I get distracted and move on to something else for a while. But each of the objects of my obsessions always continue to hold a special place in my heart long afterwards.

At least I've never carried on like this over actual people (not counting certain actor-types). It's not like I'm a stalker or anything. Just a fangirl.

I may or may not be online this weekend. It depends both on how I feel and on how my ISP behaves.

Also, I may or may not upload those pics of Fizgig. See above.

My second convert! I don't really know if I can take credit for converting Eleni, but I'm going to anyway.

Harry's right, the Blair Witch 2 trailer isn't very impressive.

It's Friday (just in case you didn't know that already). Which means that I can go home tonight (after a stop off at Wal-Mart) and shut myself in for the entire weekend. It also means that this is the last day before all of my bosses come back from vacation, so I'd better get busy making up for all of the slacking off I've done all week. Time to load up on caffeine and turn up my mp3's and get cracking.

*SIGH* I just chewed the hell out of my nails. And they were still so nice and pretty from the wedding, too. Damn nervous energy.

To do:

1. Unpack my laptop and hook up the scanner
2. Scan polaroids of Fizgig
3. Pay my bills
4. Ask Jennifer to critique my novel
5. print off my novel and submit it to a new publisher
6. Take Fizgig back to vet's for shots, etc.
7. buy some groceries
8. order my comics
9. buy video tapes -- to record Gormanghast, and for Robert's Phantom videos
10. sleep
    

I would be absolutely thrilled(once I picked my stunned self up off of the floor, that is) if one of my coworkers would initiate a conversation about Sailor Moon. And I'm not even a goth .

This settles it ... I'm still going to have to get myself another Chihuahua. Not until Fizgig's good and settled, though.

Did I mention that he bit me yesterday? I'm not making too big a deal out of it, since I'm pretty sure he was just confused because he was surrounded by several other, bigger dogs when I went to pick him up, plus he's so little it didn't even phase me. I just hope he doesn't turn out to be a biter. Mitzi was a biter, and I would have to tell little children that they couldn't pet her, and they would always give me this pitifil look like I was this mean lady who didn't want them to touch my little dog. It always made me feel bad. I was hoping this one would be more kid friendly.

I lost my dog, once. Thankfully, I got her back. I hope Doug Bagley finds his.

<!-- In which Jean rants about the telephone -->

<rant>

I wish I never had to answer my phone.

Unfortunately, it's part of my job, so I have to answer it at work; but I hardly ever answer it at home. I carry a cell phone, but I don't leave it turned on. When people ask for my cell phone number, I tell them I have no idea. They look at me strangely, and then I tell them that the cell phone is for emergencies -- mine, not theirs. If my car breaks down and I need to call AAA, that's an emergency worth using my phone for. If they need to call me when I'm out to lunch because they can't find a file, tough. They can wait till I get back to the office.

I hate the phone. Sure, it was a great invention back in the day, when there was such a thing as phone etiquette and communication didn't run our lives, but now the phone is just intrusive, annoying, and not really necessary. I feel intruded upon when I get a phone call just as I'm settling down to watch a brand new episode of Buffy, and I feel like an intruder when I call someone, because most likely they're doing something that they would prefer not to have to stop doing in order to answer their phone. This is why I never call people. People tell me to call them. I tell them I probably won't, and ask for their e-mail address instead. It doesn't mean I don't want to talk to them. It just means I'm neurotic about the phone. In a perfect world I would never use the phone. I wouldn't even own one. All of my communication would be done either in person or through electronic means. I would never have to hear that nerve grating ring, or buzz, or chirp, or whatever, I would never have to feel guilty about not returning phone calls, and I would never have to feel that sick feeling of dread that I always get just before I answer the phone. I could know for a fact that Ed McMahon is calling me to give me ten million dollars, or that Vin Diesel is calling to ask me to marry him, and I would still get that feeling.

I just hate the phone, is all.

</rant>

I just got off the phone with Tess, with whom I was discussing lunch plans and her on-again, off-again ambition to quit her accounting job and become a hotel manager in Vegas, and she mentioned needing to pick up a card for Father's Day. I had completely forgotten all about Father's Day, not that I had any real need to remember. Then it occurred to me: today would have been my dad's 62nd birthday.

And again I say, Yay!

link snagged from Seven Weeks

When I drive to work in the mornings, I usually listen to the Christian music station to help me keep calm in traffic and to help me remember that flipping off the person who cut me off is not a very Christian thing to do. I listen to a lot of Christian music, usually while I'm in my car. I wish I could be cool and say that I listen to all of these alternative Christian rock bands, Jars of Clay and Audio Adrenaline clones whom my nephew likes but I've never heard of, but no, it's just mainstream music, Steven Curtis Chapman and Michael W. Smith and Point of Grace and such. Not that there's anything wrong with that, it's good stuff; but I would never listen to their secular counterparts, because normally I hate that easy listening, pop, and pseudo hip-hop crap. If I'm going to listen to secular music (which I do, quite often), give me The Cure, Sleater-Kinney, Smashmouth, Cake, Depeche Mode ... you get the idea. Needless to say, groups (I refuse to call them bands) like N'Sync and the Backstreet Boys give me the willies.

I've noticed lately that this boy group virus is beginning to infect Christian music. First there was Brother's Keeper, Christan music's answer to the Backstreet Boys. Now there's a Christian N'Sync clone, Plus One, who're getting a lot of airplay. This scares me; but what truly scares me is that I find myself liking their music, in spite of myself. On my way to work this morning, I caught myself singing enthusiastically along with Plus One's new song. When I realized what I was doing, it really startled me. I wanted to hate the song on principal, but I really couldn't find anything to dislike about it. Maybe it's because, being Christian groups (and therefore being underexposed in the media), these guys aren't in my face all the time like their secular counterparts, so I can't really hold them in contempt. Also, it's easier for me to take teenage boys singing about their love for God than it is to listen to them sing about how they want to make sweet love to their girls.

What truly bothers me is that this might signify some kind of repressed desire I have to bop to shiny, happy bubblegum music. That thought makes my blood run cold.

I'm overdue for a dose of Terrence. I wish he would e-mail me. I want him to tell me how his life is like "Clerks," and which character he thinks he is. He strikes me as a Dante.

I'm so bored I'm surfing my own 'blog. Umm, just checking the links to make sure they work properly ... yeah, that's the ticket.

That's just sad.

I don't want to do anything, or go anywhere, but home, and sleep. Reading other weblogs, it seems there has been an epidemic of not enough sleep the last few weeks. I wonder why.

There has just been too much going on with me lately, that's why (in my case, at least). The wedding, sick pets, wedding related parties, dead pets, bridesmaid duties, anticipation, rejection, bad dreams, new pets, work stress, staff meetings ... and not enough sleep and rest in between to balance it out. I want a period of nothing. No outside stimuli, no leaving the house, no getting out of my jammies, just me and my bed and a pen and a legal pad in case I get to feeling like a writer again. When that gets old I could move out to the living room with my pets and watch movies and old Dr. Who episodes until my eyes ache. Then I could go walk my dog. Then I could come back in and sleep some more. And maybe read the book I started a few weeks ago and haven't picked up again since.

I think I'll have to stay home this weekend. Even though there is some big movie that I've been waiting a long time to see opening up this weekend (not sure which one, but it's summer; there's bound to be some big movie I've been waiting a long time for opening this weekend), even though I haven't spent any real quality time with my friends in a couple of weeks, even though for all of the socializing I've been doing lately I haven't really been connecting with people -- I just need a couple of days by myself, being absolutely non-productive. Then I can get on with my life.

Do you ever just have to remove yourself from the entire world for a while?

You certainly are no fraud, Eleni.

Nice poem.

See? I told y'all Torrez is a cutie.

Some days (usually they're Wednesdays), I'm hard pressed not to suspect that Heather Havrilesky has spies who follow me around and report back to her with story ideas. Forget that "Heather's alter ego" crap. Polly is really me. She just has a better job than I have.

Yay!

I just added some new links to the menu down there at the bottom.

I'm feeling somewhat better today, thanks for asking. Oh, that's right, you didn't.

I'm actually in a rather silly mood this morning. I didn't get that full 8 hours of sleep, but once I did finally get to sleep I stayed there all night. No dreams that I can recall. It was probably the first truly restful stretch of sleep I've had in days.

No pictures of Fizgig yet. As you might have inferred from yesterday's entries, I didn't feel like messing with it. He's doing much better, though. We had a breakthrough last night; he finally associated going outside with relieving himself, which is nice for my carpet. This morning I noticed that the fur is just beginning to grow back in on his ravaged front legs. And he's taken to wanting to sleep with me.

I'm really beginning to love this dog.

Boring and useless. And oh-so-tired. Thought caffeine might help, but it didn't. Maybe some time with my dog will. Therefore, I am going home now. Later.

I must be tired. I always go through raging periods of self doubt when I'm in desperate need of rest. Especially if instead of taking a day off to rest when I need it, I come to work and sit here, stuck in the office, doing administrative things, punctuating my day by viewing/reading/listening to incredibly creative things done by other people. Then I start to feel like a fraud. Like I've never had an original idea in my life. Like I call myself a writer, yet I haven't done any serious writing in at least two months, not counting web writing and revising old work. Like I don't have the chutzpah necessary to escape my corporate bonds and Do What I Love. Like all of my dreams are merely delusions and all of my attempts to follow my dreams are simply distractions designed to keep me in denial of the fact that I'm doomed to an administrative career; and then I start to feel depressed.

Kind of like how I feel right now: empty, shriveled up and talentless, and too tired to give a damn.

I think I'll feel better if can just get a good night's sleep. I haven't had one of those in well over a week, maybe two. If it's not outright insomnia, it's people or animals or freaky-assed night terrors waking me up in the middle of the night and making it impossible to go back to sleep.

I just want to go home and play for a while with Fizgig and go to sleep for a good solid 8 hours, a deep, dreamless sleep, then wake up and spend the day cultivating ideas and turning them into reality. If I could just do that, everything would be good again.

Hee!

Taking in a previously unwanted, unloved creature, watching it learn that it's both wanted and loved, teaching it that it's okay to trust again, witnessing how it blossoms as it begins to realize that it's safe ... that's one of the best feelings that there is.

Last night I took some Polaroids of Fizgig to establish some "before" shots. I'll scan them in and post them here tonight.

Correction to an old post that everyone's probably forgotten anyway: Ratbastard's the one that had the thing about his cat that cracked me up, not Monstro. Not sure how I mixed those two up, but I did.

I can't concentrate on anything. I'm just killing time until I can leave here and go home and pet my new doggie. But first I have to stop off and buy him some food and toys and other goodies. He's small enough that most of Mitzi's things will work for him, but she didn't have any toys. She never had any interest in toys, and the cat ended up stealing every toy I ever tried to give her.

Confession: I'm the one who keeps stealing the Wired mags from the office library. I don't do it on purpose. I'll start to read an article while I'm at work but then I never have time to finish it, so I'll take it home to finish over the weekend, but then I keep forgetting to bring them back. I think I'm the only one in the office who actually reads Wired, anyway, but if I point that out they might cancel our office subscription. I need to bring them back.

I just read through my last entry, and realized that the Tylenol PM hangover I've been struggling with all morning has rendered my writing skills nil.

Anyway, back to the movie. Mind you, I knew who Bruce Campbell was. I'd seen him in other things. I liked him in Brisco County, Jr. I even considered myself a fan of his; but I never really understood the fanatical outpourings of adoration on the AICN forums proclaiming him to be King of All Things and insisting that he's perfect for Batman, the Tick, just about every male member of the X-Men or their enemies, etc. etc. etc. ... but now I get it. Bruce Campbell is the King of All Things. Hail to the King, baby.

So Sunday I really wanted to stay home and sleep, but since I'd already had the tickets for a year, instead I went to see Titanic: The Musical. It was pretty good. The first act was slow and a bit boring, but once the ship started to sink and people started to die it picked right up. Seriously, the big opening number was gorgeous, and the second act was really very good. I wasn't enthralled enough by it to run out and by the cast recording CD, but I'm glad I went to see it. And no, it is not a musical version of the movie. And yes, the movie (plot-, excitement- and romance-wise) was better.

I hurried to get home Sunday night to see the Tony Awards. They were much better than last year, I thought, though I was disappointed that Aida didn't get nominated for best new musical. I really wanted to see scenes from that one.

Best moment from the awards: When the girl from Aida won for best actress and thanked her mommy.

Biggest disappointment: Not actually getting to see Christopher Walken perform any scenes from James Joyce's The Dead.

New musicals I most want to see: Aida (even though they didn't perform any of it last night), and Contact.

New musical I least want to see: The Wild Party. Sure, I'd like to see it now because it has such a great cast, but the current cast (including Toni Collett, Mandy Patinkin and Eartha Kitt) was the only thing about it that interested me. Still, I wouldn't skip it if it ever came here.

What am I forgetting ..... oh yes! I got a new dog.

Tess went with me to see Titanic, and when I got to her house she pointed out a little dog cowering under her truck. She said it had just showed up there that morning, and they suspected someone had dumped it. I said "Aww, poor thing," and we left. On the way to town, she said that her mother, who was fed up with people constantly dumping their unwanted animals in front of their house, was threatening to take it in and have it put to sleep if it was still there the next day, to which I replied "No, if it's still there when we get back I'll take it home with me."

Naturally, when we got back to her house after the show it was still there. When it saw us coming it took off running down the road, so I got out of the car and started walking that direction. He got off of the road and cowered in the grass, and when I called to him he just sat down. I went over to him and he flipped over on his back and held still while I inspected him. He was a tiny little thing, and he looked like he was covered in mange, and he had worms. His fur was all matted and nasty, and he smelled like dead animal flesh, and I didn't really want to touch him, but I patted his stomach, and I could feel every single one of his ribs. I went ahead and picked him up, and the poor little thing just went limp. So, I took him home.

We quarantined him in the laundry room, where I fed him and gave him Mitzi's bed to sleep on. My mom took him to the vet for me this morning, and after they inspected him they determined that what I've got is a 3 to 4 year old full blooded toy poodle, white once we get him cleaned up, in basically good health except for the skin condition and the starvation and dehydration and traumatization and such. Rather than mange, he has treatable skin allergies, and he had simply chewed all of his fur off (and chewed his skin raw) because he itched. Rather than worms, (warning: this is really gross) the fur on his hind quarters was infested with maggots that were getting ready to burrow into his skin (I warned you it was gross). The vet said if he'd been left one more day he probably would have been too far gone to save. After we get him cleaned up and healed, he'll probably need medication for his allergies for the rest of his life. We figure that the assholes who had him before probably dumped him when they learned he was a high maintenance dog. I would love to be able to get ahold of those people. At any rate, he's my puppy now, and all indications are that he'll be a great dog once he's healthy again.

I think I'll name him Fizgig.

My little sister is married. We can all get on with our lives now.

The wedding went well. The morning started out a bit rough. Liz got a phone call informing her that one of the bridesmaids was at the hospital in ICU. Apparantly the idiot had gone out with friends after the rehearsal on Friday night and od'd on dramamine. Dramamine! What the hell? Damn stupid kids. Anyway, the girl is going to be okay, but needless to say, the wedding was short a bridesmaid.

After Liz got back from trying to visit her friend at the hospitial, we went to get our hair done and run some last minute errands. The hairdressers took longer than they'd promised, so we got out of the salon just in time to be severely inconvenienced by a Shriner's parade. We managed to make it onto the side of town we needed to be on and got our errands done, then headed toward the mansion to commence getting dressed for the wedding. On the way to the mansion we got stuck behind a stray tiny shriner car, and when we arrived there were about a hundred more tiny cars in the parking lot across the street (where the wedding guests would be needing to park).

I got Liz upstairs and got her calmed down, and started on her makeup, at which point it started to rain (did I mention the wedding was supposed to be held out on the lawn?) and she started to freak again. So everything had to be moved upstairs and rearranged in the ballroom so that we could hold the ceremony there. Which meant that we would have to make our entrance coming up the stairs.

Finally everyone was dressed and ready, nerves were shot, and we were all ready to get this thing over with. The other bridesmaid headed up the stairs, and I followed, tripping on my gown every other step. I finally managed to pick it up out of my way towards the top of the stairs, but it slipped at the top and I very nearly made my grand entrance by falling out of the stairwell and onto my face. But I didn't. I made it over to the new wedding spot and the preacher pointed to where I was supposed to stand, and stood there for what seemed like a really long time. Long enough that I was about ready to leave my post and go check to see what the hold up was when mom and Liz finally came up the steps. The wedding was finally underway.

As they went through the first part of it I decided to get ready to hand Brandon's ring to Liz. I had decided that my middle finger would be a good, safe place to keep it. I practiced sliding it off several times before we came upstairs, and it slid off just fine. In front of everyone, however, it decided to stick. I tried to be really nonchalant about turning my back to the audience so they couldn't see me struggle with the ring, and I think I pulled it off. Nobody mentioned it to me, at any rate. I think all eyes were on the three year old ring bearer, who had decided he didn't want to hold his pillow anymore and punted it across the room.

By the time they asked me to read my poem everything seemed so surreal that it didn't even feel like I was really there, so getting through the poem was no problem. Same with the toast at the reception. So now it's all over with and we all have to find something else to become the central focus of our lives for a while.

After the wedding, my oldest nephew was coming out to our house to spend the night. He had not seen any of the Evil Dead movies, either. So we stopped on the way back and rented Evil Dead 2 and Army of Darkness so that I could share with him the wonders of a union between Sam Raimi and Bruce Campbell. I have a confession to make. Before last week, I had never seen Army of Darkness all the way through, either. I had seen bits and pieces of it, late at night as I was flipping through channels, but never had I watched it from beginning to end. I didn't even realize that it belonged to the Evil Dead series. So when the Sci-fi channel aired it last Thursday, I popped some popcorn, turned out the lights, and watched the whole thing. Mind you, I was still riding an Ash-induced high from having seen Evil Dead 2 for the very first time the previous weekend. As I watched the opening sequence, everything clicked and I realized that I was about to watch the continuation of Ash's journey I got so excited I started jumping up and down on the sofa.

Oops, I'm out of time. This will have to be continued after lunch.