In two days...

Fanny'll be visiting me! I'll have to put on my party hat.

Insidious.

I hate Facebook.



I hate Facebook because it lulls me into thinking that I'm actually keeping in contact with friends.



I hate Facebook because I am, in actuality, not keeping in touch with friends, but merely reading one line "updates."



I hate Facebook because rather than showing up with a cupcake, or hug, or hatching egg, I push some buttons and voila!, no actual effort needed.



I hate Facebook because my 50+ year old supervisor is on Facebook and I think he may be the type to search me.



I hate Facebook because there are patients on Facebook (who I have searched) and I can post limited amounts of information.



I hate Facebook because, really, I wouldn't actually put anything very salacious up.



I hate Facebook because this reminds me that I don't have anything very salacious to put up.



I hate Facebook because I am addicted to Facebook.



And what the fuck is with the new IM-feature?

Fuh.

The presentation thingie went well. Or at least people I work with are telling me it went well to make me feel better and won't actually sack up and say "You made no sense, you were rambling and incoherent and the pathetic bits of humor were really quite pathetic bits of humor."

Ahem.

No paranoia or performance anxiety or anything. Not. At. All.

In other news, I find myself, for various reasons, thinking about people from the past. Last night a friend from high school contacted me after years and years and years and it was...kind of weird. Which got me thinking about the ridiculously intense friendships I seem to fall into. Or at least used to fall into. And not in a borderline-y way. But in that way of girls/women/females/ladies who find that friend who seems to get you and it feels like a friendship that will last forever and all the secrets are splayed out and whenever anything happens, the other person has to hear about rightnow. And she/they is/are that important person you run to first, regardless of whatever boy is around just then.

I don't know. Is it maturity that's helped me form more balanced, healthier friendships that actually last? (Aww...Bum...are you squirming in discomfort now?) In some ways, I like these friendships better. They make more sense. They have nothing to do with my depth of caring about the person. But it's no longer twined all up, kind of destined to flame out.

But still.

Thinking about one friend in particular which flamed out spectacularly, I will never regret the memory I have of us, at sixteen, my brand new license in hand, driving her mother's Trans Am on a dark and rainy night on winding backroads, feeling so very grown up, and really just two little girls, so excited to be actually driving ourselves.

We were just much too cool.

Spinster.

There is a cute boy who works in my building. And of course I say "boy" though he is likely in his thirties. This keeps me in the "girl" camp because oh my God I am not a woman yet. Or womyn. Or lady. Though I do like the phrase lady-bird. I don't know why. Perhaps because I see a bird in a very elaborate hat. And that makes me smile.

Anyway.

So this boy-man who works in my building. I do not think I've tipped the stalker-scale yet. We've noticed each other in the garage. We've exchanged "oh, the dollar bill feeder isn't working" pleasantries at the vending machines. We've tossed shy smiles back and forth.

And I am a total pussy.

Because I will not go any further than this. Will not lay myself open to vulnerabilities and rejection and, lord save us, possibilities. Gracious, no.

I can hear Bum hitting her head against the keyboard right now. Perhaps screaming at me in that way that makes her voice go up just a little with exasperation. All very charmingly accented.

Because I feel like my days of flirting without alcohol are past. And I will be the woman in her house with millions of dollars worth of art that articles are written about and journalists can't call just "woman" or "lady" or "that crazy old bat." No, the call her spinster.

Except I will be the spinster with millions of dollars worth of cosmetics and trashy novels.

That?

That right there?

That's called catastrophizing. Pro tour.

Because I need this.

This has been an exhausting week. I'm going to chalk it up to coming down with a cold and leave it there.

My head is in a sappy kind of place. Where I want to have meaningful conversations with those I love and re-affirm relationships that matter and make sure people know how much they mean to me.

Obviously I am making myself vomit. A lot.

Not to mention this will probably make Bum squirm and refuse to speak to me until I get my head out of ass (arse?). Which will be soon.

The saving grace is that while I am in this ever so drippy frame of mind, I also have a drippy nose and scratchy voice and am blowing my nose every Goddamn minute. Therefore, I am not speaking to anyone very much right now. And so loved ones have been spared the "You know how much you mean to me, don't you? Why the beautiful components that comprise you fill me with joy and light and make me a better person in all ways? I want to shower you in rainbows and have unicorns follow you around, while chipmunks sing to you. In Italian."

Apparently I am also a little bit drunky-drunk when I'm sick and exhausted.

Perhaps it's the pseudeoephedrine.

Whatever it is, this makes me happy in my heart.



Happy weekend.

buh! (aka "the most wonderful place in the world")

For the past 2 weeks or so, I have been mostly alone. Not in the “I am an island, let me float” sort of way but in the “everyone at university is on vacation. I have no one to talk to” sort of way. Yesterday, this changed as I went to an event where there were (gasp!) more than 12 people. It was an evening spent playing scrabble in a pub. I knew the organiser and a few other people but I didn't know the people I was sat next to.

It was therefore rather disconcerting to be on the end of a rather tough Q&A session from the person who was sat next to me. I was asked what I did, why I did what I did, why I was not interested in the political primary (because I don't vote and was waiting for the Daily Show to tell me all about it later), what the US rules for choosing a President are (umm...thanks), what are the rules in my country and a long, insistent (and repeated) question about what my favourite place in the world is (and why).

This last question turned into a long harangue about how I was not passionate and was “very reserved” because I answered that there wasn't anywhere that I'd been that I'd not liked. Well, there hasn't been. Person told me I “should have feelings one way or another”. I kept saying, “well, saying I like most places is a feeling”. Then, I was asked “so why are you here then? In the United States?” Fair enough but I hadn't actually expected to be grilled on my reasons for being in the United States when all I had in mind was a few drinks, scrabble and listening to people's stories about what they were up to. I was (thankfully) rescued when one of the people I knew showed up (I may have almost fallen on their neck and wept with joy in reaction )

My question is: When did we decide that “oh, it's all right” as a response to a question was not enough and, instead, one has to write poems praising (with passion!) or detesting places (and things). Just saying, “oh, it's okay” or “not too bad” seems inadequate and feelings are asked for. As a frequent "barfly" (as Fanny calls it), I like listening to people's tales about what they've done and where they've been but only if they are keen on chatting. And, if they say "oh, I like it here", I think "well, of course" and move on. It's also a reciprocal exchange, not a grilling.

At the pub I usually go to watch football, most of the patrons are from overseas. We mostly ignore each other (except when cursing various teams or criticising the ref), we grunt and nod if we catch each other's eyes and we watch the matches. There's a lot of cursing and yelling but no Q&A session or questions about why we are in the USA. It's the perfect social activity for me, I reckon. (I answered, "why not?" in case yous are interested )