One Of Those Days...

Today was one of those days. You know the kind of day I'm talking about--it was the kind of day where everything goes to hell in a handbasket the moment you step out of the door and discover that the world outside your door is not the world you thought, but rather a warzone which vaguely resembles, I don't know, the Somme in 1916? Complete with tommies and jerries crawling about looking for missing limbs and inhaling highly toxic mustard gas.

Well, this IS Southern California. Mustard gas might be an improvement on the current air quality.
Most days, working at the Library is great. It's a blast--the patrons are by and large kind and appreciative and understanding; the colleagues are funny and smart and supportive. But today? Oh, today. Yes. Today. We were closed yesterday, and so it was like the patrons had an extra day's worth of orneriness pent-up, and couldn't wait to unleash it. It was a day of bulls&%t and drama, of cluttered desks and scheduling screw-ups and nonstop GO,GO, GO. All of that would have been fine, except apparently today was Diva Day. We had a rather famous author come and speak this evening, and it brought a large crowd, which is always great...but there were one or two eccentrics that just threw things off. One such eccentric literally shoved me out of the way to get to speak to Famous Author. Another patron came in and demanded an office chair instead of the regular seats and then demanded we move it to the front of the room so she could see better, and didn't want to hear that it would be against ADA requirements to block the aisle. The best one came at the end of the night when a woman tried to get into the library after we closed and when she learned she couldn't, declared, "I'M RUINED!"

Ruined. Ruined like a 19th-century parlor maid who's gotten in the family way, or ruined like a Mayan temple? Ah. I see, not really ruined, then.

The thing is, this is my job. I don't mind it, usually. Usually it can make a good story to tell at the end of the day, or week, or life. I have to endure it, have to smile and try to develop skills of tact and diplomacy. (I'm maybe screwed, a little.) And at the end of the day--this crazy, wonky day filled with ruined people and blocked aisles--I can sit down with my red, red wine and be glad to be in my quiet home, with my music and my not-so-quiet cats. I have to put up with a little bit of BS at my job, and the nice thing is that it's only lowered the BBSL (Blood-Bullshit-Limit, as opposed to Blood-Alcohol-Limit) in my own life. It's a nice feeling, and more than a little empowering, because it helps stiffen my spine with regards to some stuff going on with me, personally.
Oh, goody, another personal growth experience. I'm getting good at those.

It's nice to sit down at the end of a hellacious day and think, "Something good came of this." It's nice to gain insight and clarity, all from cranky people who sought to make others as unhappy as they were themselves. It's a victory, a quiet and comforting victory that you can embrace as you sip at the wine and relax and realize that maybe "one of those days" are the best kind of day to have.

Laugh and the World Laughs With You; Declare Bankruptcy, and You Do It Alone!

There comes a point when you've been gone so long that it's pretty pointless to say "Hi! I'm back! This is what I've been doing!" Yeah, I hit that point about a month ago. So, instead:

Hi! I'm back!

It's fairly difficult to watch the news these days without shaking my head in disbelief at the absurdity of it all. No, I will not be watching the debates, because frankly, I think the American public deserves better than some carefully-scripted soundbites and some carefully staged shennanigans; I know we can't judge our leaders based on a 1-minute answer.

And regarding Palin, all I have to say is this: nice try, McCain, but you still suck. It would take a lot more than choosing a female running mate to get my vote. I'm voting for the Democratic candidate Obama because he shares more of my values, ethics, beliefs, and ideals, and it's not enough that Palin and I share an anatomical attribute. She's a sell-out, she offers nothing to me, and I'm loyal to my party before I'm loyal to my gender, kthxbye.

The news is pretty scary right now, with all the economy news basically dominating everything. And so, tired of worrying, I sat down on the couch at 11 PM tonight, my Maggie curled up beside me, and we watched Jon Stewart. I had forgotten how much I loved him, and let me tell you, laughing at his theme of "Clusterf%@k to the Poor House" was just the medicine I needed. It doesn't change anything, but laughter always trumps fear in my home, each and every time.

Plus, Jon Stewart's really hot.

And this is why I am going to hell...But at least I'll be able to amuse myself.

Not to re-hash the past or anything...
Back in Indiana, I had a boyfriend. Boyfriend's mother hated me. For many reasons, none of them particularly logical, I might add. Her original beef with me (other than the fact that I was dating her son) was that I wore too many black shirts. Or something. And it just went downhill from there.

It didn't help matters that I am a rather blunt, flippant person, and sometimes make offhand remarks that really offend hypersensitive and illogical people people with delicate sensibilities. Lifelong enmity was established after Pope John Paul's death, when I absentmindedly made the remark to Boyfriend's mother that I didn't see what all the fuss was about; after all, it was just a stupid man in a stupid hat.

Never underestimate the lack of logic in a lapsed Catholic. You don't go to church for years, don't do confession or Lent or any sort of thing, but god forbid I mock your pope-man. Boyfriend's mom eventually became (Ex) Boyfriend's mom (such a devoted Catholic, she was, she ended up going evangelical Protestant) who threw a party in her heart the day we parted ways. Little children, love one another, and all that.

Water under the bridge, now...

...except Busted Tees.com is trying to start World War III here. Because there's a shirt that I think would be just perfect for letting her know there's no hard feelings:

"Let's Bounce" Has Taken On a Whole New Meaning...

One of the really, really cool things about my job is that I get exposed to a lot of really wonderful books, books that I would have otherwise never known about. Shortly after moving here, two years ago, I came across a truly compelling title: I Feel Earthquakes More Often than They Happen: Coming to California in the Age of Schwarzenegger. It was a brand-new title, and the parallel to my own life gave me pause. I checked it out, but never finished reading it. But after this week, I think I'd better.

Before I moved, I heard somewhere, from someone, that they had heard that earthquakes happen all the time, every day, all over California, but that most of them were too small to notice. And damned if that person--whoever the hell it was--wasn't right. I've been here two years, and have only felt three:

1. A 3.8, back when I first moved to California. I called up LoPrete, terrified and crying, convinced that it was time to move back home to Indiana after a whole whopping three weeks. That earthquake rolled from one end of my apartment to the other, and the cats were extremely unimpressed.

2. The next one that I felt didn't happen until a year-and-a-half later, and I was asleep on a friend's couch. At 4 AM, something woke me up; I wasn't even certain it was an earthquake until I checked teh interweb two hours later. That one was a small one, and I only felt it because it was close by.

3. Tuesday. Ah, yes. Tuesday. There was no missing, no mistaking that one. I was on the reference desk, on the phone with a very high-maintenance, chatty patron, and I felt a tiny tremble. My chair bounced just a little--but I suspected I was just imagining it. Then my chair bounced again, just the tiniest bit, and I knew we had had a little tremblor. I resolved to hop on the USGS when I got off the phone with Miss Chatty McChatterson--and then, two seconds later, the floor began to bounce. Overhead, I heard the ceiling shifting, around us, I heard the building groan a little. You know what an earthquake feels like? It feels like your inner balance is off, out of whack, that you've got a little bit of vertigo, that you are on a rolling ship. For a tiny sliver of time, solid ground becomes a myth, something you foolishly took for granted all those years. For a tiny sliver of time, you look at those solid walls and think, Wow, those things are really flimsy. They are bouncing around as much as I am right now.

All this time, up until now, I haven't felt earthquakes more often than they happen. Like most others here, I don't notice, just like the folks said before I moved out here. There have been a few minor earthquakes that I somehow just completely missed. But not now. Since Tuesday, I have been feeling earthquakes more often than they happen. Maybe that actually IS vertigo, but every time I even think I sense an unsteadiness, fear and apprehension begin to build. I become very conscious of the ground, and how solid it is--and for how much longer it will stay that way. I've felt tremblors, and they haven't actually happened. They are phantoms of my imagination, mental conjurings that maybe are good for me, a way to learn to prepare. Because like almost every californicated person, I've been lulled into that sense of security that is so completely stupid.

I'm pretty sure that my California friends--Jeana, Katie, Nando--are reading this right now, chuckling. Yesyes, I am still green, a big wuss. I've handled Los Angeles traffic, I've developed a love for avacodos, I am even contemplating pedicures--but I guess the Californication process is not yet complete. I am not sure that earthquakes are something I'll ever really acclimate to. I'm not sure I can really get acclimated to buildings that bounce.

Lifestyles of the Not-so-Rich and Famous

One thing that has definitely improved since I moved to the desert is my social life. For that, at least, I should be thankful--now that I am no longer spending 2 hours a day commuting, and living my life all willy-nilly, I've managed to buckle down and make some friends. Seriously, moving out here feels a bit like I have given myself a promotion to a new life--and I'm okay with this!

Tonight's activity was nothing more flashy than a movie night at my friend S's house...we ventured out for some very very good Chinese food, and as we returned to her (obnoxiously located in a gated-community) condo, I noticed these little guys:

(This photo is very misleading. That color green you see? Completely unnatural, and the reason California's having a water crisis. Once you step out of the gated communities into the desert world, everything's either brown or tan.)

Apparently, Thumper's got a few cousins that have a thing for cacti and ocotillo. Equally apparently, they don't need a gate code.

I am trying to instate a Sunday tradition of having some of my Beaumont friends over for Buffy and drinks. So far, we've done it twice, and I suspect that this does not a tradition make. Nevertheless, we're working on it. And in the meantime, I ply them with drinks--with little umbrellas in them! I think once you serve a drink with an umbrella in it, you have officially become an adult.

Seriously, though, what makes one an "adult"? A career? Paying your bills on time? Getting married? Having children? Knowing which glass to use for which alcohol? I tend not to think any of those things make you a grown-up, but then, I have some pretty effed-up standards, like serving drinks with umbrellas in them. Or remembering peoples' birthdays and sending cards. Or being able to cook an entire meal. And the more I think about it, those actions/habits don't make you an adult, they make you a competent human being. And either way, I fail.

But what it boils down to is, I am inching closer and closer to 30, and I still haven't really began running my life in a very competent manner. Most days, getting up and arriving at work 15 minutes early, perfectly groomed, is the best accomplishment for which I can hope. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I soon ought to begin striving for more.

Look Up "Lethargy" or "Malaise"...

Normally, I don't like to blame things on my womanly bits. If I am cranky, or bitchy, or sad, it's not because I have pms, or I'm on the blob, it's simply because I am in a cranky, bitchy, or sad mood. I don't like to blame hormones for anything, because it feels like people use that as an excuse, and really, come on ladies, that's just lame.

Having said that...this week was Blob Week, and I have never had a more unsatisfactory week. Mood-wise, I was fine--just feeling very lazy, unproductive, tired, and useless. I just got nothing done, personally, and I felt like I wasn't up to my normal snuff at work, either.

And so one has to wonder--what have I done, all week, to justify a lazy Friday evening, in my jammies, with a bottle of red, red wine? Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that we had to evacuate the library this afternoon, and that later on in the evening, there was a fire? Details are still forthcoming, and frankly, I'm not sure I want to know. Just so long as I can go back to work on Monday. I earned my wine, though, dammit--it's a big building, and I've always wondered what would happen in the event of a crisis. And I can honestly say that this little librarian busted her badonkadonk hustling those patrons out. Seriously, a building without a/c, cooking in 110 degree heat? There's no way we could have stayed--I am half-expecting the books to sue us for hostile work conditions.

Having exerted myself so much, it's now time for the pay-off. Wine, solitude, movies, and some long-overdue blogging. I'll leave you with a couple of pictures of my new place, which is sloooooowly coming together...

We Are All Just Numbers...

Unpacking, etc. Apartment is in that weird, liminal space in which it gets much messier before it looks awesome. Sure.

So I will leave you with some numbers:

112: The temperature that it was here yesterday.

$4.67: The price I paid for gas last time I filled up. (I decided to get 2 gallons and drive to a station that I knew would be 20 cents cheaper.)

6-16-2008: My 2 year anniversary of living in California.

$323: The price of my round-trip plane ticket back to Indiana. Maybe I should add another $30, seeing as how it's American Airlines. In August, I'm going back for a wedding...and if there were ever a month when I would not want to visit Indiana, August would be it. Ironic, considering that that was the month I moved there.

Back to trying to get the home together.