Last night I was overwhelmed. Those damn worms. The burning of dinner while waiting for Rob to come home from work. Laundry. Dishes. Cat pee. Traffic. Worms. I look forward to a weekend without Worms.

As I got ready for work this morning, I sat on the floor to pick out a pair of shoes to wear. I really do have a sinful amount of footwear.

Four pairs of black boots - Combat boots I saved from my Army gear for hiking. Calf-high boots. Ankle high Bandolinos with a buckle. Lace-up granny boots in butter soft leather.

One pair cordovan brown granny boots.

Casual - two pairs keds, one white, one tan. Asic running shoes. Bass boaters (which is what I'm wearing now). Purple and white shower shoes aka zoris :-). Black and blue rubber sandals. Black and grey rubber slippers. (These last two are permanent outdoor residents, kept on hand for either my boys or for quick trips to the garage.)

Black - A pair of patent leather pumps. Bandolino black flats. Nine West penny loafers. Triple-strapped sandals. Jennifer Moore slides.

Brown shoes - Nine West pumps. Bandolino pumps. Nine West mules: one pair no-heel nude, the other high heeled cocoa. Jennifer Moore slides (the same style as the black ones - the infamous "who needs the same shoes in different colors?" pair). Enzo slides in cocoa. Bass slip-ons in nude.

Navy - Bandolino fabric slip-ons. Bandolino loafers. Enzo shimmering navy with pearl heel flats.

There's probably more in the closet. I have a bag of shoes I meant to take to Goodwill in the garage, too, which I'm not planning to break open in case I see something in there that I now want to retrieve.

When I was in grade school, I had two pairs of shoes: white tennis shoes as part of my school uniform and a pair of slippers for everything else. Occasionally, the bottoms of the tennis shoes would wear through and my socks would pook out from them. My mom bought shoe repair goop, so we'd cut out bits of cardboard to put inside shoe, then cover the bottoms of the shoes with black goop. I'd get one pair of shoes in September and another in January, and they'd have to last for their entire respective semesters whether they were worn out or grown out of or whatever.

In high school, I could fit my sister's shoes, so that extended the life of my own footwear. When my girlfriend Iris graduated from high school, she gave me her old Famolare's….remember those? They were what all the In Kids had. I couldn't afford them and made do with the knock-off's from Thom McAn's until I got Iris' shoes. The next year, my girlfriend Ruth graduated and she also handed me down her shoes. I'd had various jobs throughout high school and would buy my own shoes, always whatever was cheapest, usually from Woolworth's or something where you could buy sneakers for $2.50 a pair.

Up till as recently as two summers ago, I only had five pairs of shoes (heh, only), including my rubber slippers. Always bought on sale, usually at Ross or TJ Maxx. As I got more comfortable with my income, I had enough to buy new shoes at the Bon, which is where almost all of my shoes are now from. It felt so weird paying more than $20 for a pair of shoes. It still does, so I'm constantly scouring the clearance racks. Those evil people at the Bon have figured out my newfound footwear fetish and purposely redesigned their store so that I need to pass through the shoe department to drop off my payment envelope.

I think I'm making a break through, though. Yesterday, I dropped off my payment and didn't even pause on my way thru the shoes. See, now that I acknowledge my addiction, I am on the road to recovery. Hmm. Might need to get a pair of comfy shoes to travel on it, though.

Geeze, Corey , next thing we know you'll be getting a speeding ticket. :P

I hate Worms. I hate them.

It's nice to see you getting around, as it were, Corey. :-)

The flight path to SeaTac (at one point, I apparently told Rob it was named for the SeaTac indians, totally bogus as it's a contraction of Seattle and Tacoma but said it so convincingly that I didn't even recall saying it to him...but we digress) depends upon the wind but often in the mornings as Liz and I drive to work, planes cross over downtown Seattle. The first day flights resumed operations after September 11th she and I watched, mesmerized, as an approaching jet flew above us, crystal clear in the bright blue sky. We didn't say anything until it had gone beyond the Columbia Tower, our tallest building. It was almost as though we were holding our breath, waiting...waiting...whew.

In many ways, I wish NPR wouldn't run stories about it any more in the morning. That way, when I hit the snooze button, I don't drift into nightmares over what snippet I heard before I fall back asleep and when I wake again. This morning, whatever it was, terrified me and when I woke later on and glanced at the clock, realized I'd actually been awake for about 15 minutes but whatever it was that played in my dreams had just been a continuation of their report as it went on and on and I floated hazily along with it.

Either that or I can switch from waking to the radio to waking to church bells. Rob and I got our new alarm clock with two settings. His goes off first and is a series of progressively louder church bells. Mine goes off at 6AM to NPR. Maybe bells would be better for a little while.

Suz, Rob and I will be entertaining you this weekend and we hope to lighten your heart some.

You'll be cheered to note that when I commented that you're having a rough time of this, he said, "Of what?" "Of the whole situation with the terrorists." "Oh. (pause) Democrats. (big and evil grin)"

Currently, he is playing EQ on his own computer and is readying Worms on my old computer. That way, when he's gotten all full of himself in EQ and needs to rest, he can swivel around the other way to play with his worms team, Fishfood. I see now why he was so interested in me getting a new PC. I thought it was the tax write off. Now I see it's just to facilitate his gaming.

"Can't you go someplace and RP while you're absorbing?" I asked innocently. (my only visits to EQ are to hop on and chat with DeLys while Rob's back is turned).
"No." He says.

Well. No wonder nobody RPs there. They have no bright and shining example like my husband to follow.

Rob wants me to confess. I am addicted to that stinking, evil, evil, irritating Worms Armageddon. It's EVIL.

And I can't stop playing it. Even though I do mightily suck at it, I continue to play. I can't get no stinking medals. I have killed more of my own worms than the worms on other teams. But I can't stop. Can't.

Then again, neither can Rob. He made me use my new CD copier to make a back up of the CD so he can play at the same time I'm playing. It's very odd to hear his worms yowling at the same time mine are.

Rob still uses much more colorful language than I do, and with greater intensity. I holler at my worms more frequently though. It's all about balance.

Our internet connection at the office is down, thanks to nimbda. It's frustrating since I can't do anything work-related (or other than work-related). Even our email is slow in coming and going.

Last weekend, in the post that got eaten, I was sharing my thoughts about Rob's genetic coding. It seems he's missing a direction-finding gene.

We were coming back from Southcenter and for some reason I got huffy with him (imagine!) and sulked that if he were so inclined, he could jolly well find his own way home. He drives down the road a bit and at the next major intersection he sees, declares that he knows he's got to turn left here. I shriek and point to the correct direction: right.

"I don't even know which direction I'm going," he grumbled.

Glancing at the setting sun behind us, I comment, "If the sun is setting at your back, which direction is to your right?"

He claimed he didn't recognize the road, although we've been on it several times before. And actually, he did rather well navigating most of the way home after that, even turning down an obscure shortcut through the Weyerhaeuser headquarters (which left me foaming at the mouth since they've clearcut another section of the property. Like they need any more office space.).

Rob: I'm doing well.
Tracy: You sure are, honey!
Rob: Um. But I'm not sure I remember where this comes out.
Tracy: Of course you do.
Rob: (who has been down this road MANY times, with and without me) No I don't.
Tracy: Yes, you do.
Rob: Oh! I know where we are! This is the road that goes by IHOP! ::beams::
Tracy: No it's not.
Rob: Yes it is.
Tracy: (starts giggling) NO! It's NOT!

I was laughing because every single time we're on that road, he says the same thing and every single time, I have to tell him he's thinking of the wrong road. Every. Single. Time.

It's so cute to watch him though as he cruises along, turning left where we need to go right but with such confidence and self-assurance.

Tracy: I know what it is, you're missing a gene.
Rob: The roads all look alike, no one can figure them out.

Of course they do, honey. Of course they do.

So Rob wants to talk about me and Worms, does he? Well, at least when the worms talk to me, someone can repeat what I say back to them in polite company.

Worm: You had it comin'!
Rob: You sorry son of a &*!%#!!

Worm: Watch this!
Rob: Kiss my #@!% %^&**!!!!

Hehehehe!

I wrote a nice long post last night on my new PC and it disappeared into the Internet. ::sigh::

The last few nights I've woken up and felt that I had been in New York. Not any imagery just a feeling. I'd go back to sleep, hoping I wouldn't be there, yet when I wake again, there's that sensation. At one point, I dreamt our company was walking thru the building to make sure they knew where everyone was and they were teasing me because the nameplate hanging on my cubicle has my new name taped up over my old name, as though they were too cheap to buy me a whole new one. Which, hehehehe, is how my nameplate actually looks. I used our label maker to change the name myself and haven't asked anyone to buy a new one; everyone thinks it's funny and appropriate.

A couple of folks wanted to know if I had to go on active duty because I had been in the military. So far, the answer is no. As an enlisted person, my commitment is only for the term of the enlistment itself. Enlistments can be extended for national emergencies, but in my case, I got out in February so there's no extending mine.

It would be extremely unlikely that our government will be so hard-pressed for volunteers that they'd have to dredge someone like me up for service.

There is that part of me that wonders if I should volunteer anyway...my training may be out of date but my instincts are still there and a lot of what I did in military intelligence was instinctive. You see a cloud of smoke on the horizon; what does that mean? The enemy troops are energetically digging foxholes and leaping into them; what does that mean? There's new tools available that the military didn't have back in the 1980's when I was active Reserves, but that doesn't mean I couldn't learn them.

When I was in Hawaii on a two week training exercise, myself and another private just returned from her training, were working with a female Army captain. The conversation turned to thoughts of war for reasons that escape me (meaning, I don't know if there was a conflict at the time that precipitated the chat; certainly, in the Army we were well aware that war exists) and the captain said, "If we're called up to war, I'll resign my commission. I'm not going."

We were absolutely horrified, Mary Kay and I. How DARE she wear that uniform and blythely admit that at the first sign of trouble, she'd change into civilian clothes and not look back? We were doubly outraged because she was a female in a time when female soliders were still fairly scarce and her comments reflected poorly on our gender.

So now I wonder what became of her, but only with disgust. She probably stuck around long enough to retire and is living off the hard-earned benefits that others provided for her sorry behind.

And then I wonder...is not volunteering again a sign of my own willingness to "resign?" I have a skill that is useful. Am I squandering my talents out of fear or practicality?

If someone sends me that "God Bless America" email one more time, I am going to scream.

We're wearing some red white and blue to the office today; there's another email going around asking folks to do that. So I am. But that other email is starting to work my nerves.

Yesterday we had a conference call with our New York employees. They were all calling in from their homes, the alternate offices they made it to in New Jersey, and in the case of our division president, from a hotel near Princeton to which he and his wife fled when the buildings collapsed and filled their apartment with debris.

We kept our phone on mute for a while, those of us in Seattle, listening to the others. "Oh, my god! You're okay!" "Did you ever get that bus?" "How's your wife doing?" "Has anyone seen so and so? I haven't seen him!" "I was covered in stuff from head to toe...I had to throw those clothes out they were destroyed."

They needed that connection. Most of them had run off without taking anything with them that held home phone numbers of their coworkers. Some of the VP's had their laptop computers, but those who did not had no access to their email, their contacts.

There was some humor. When Liz did a role call, one of the senior vice presidents wasn't on and someone commented that he was probably still working hard at the office and the others burst into laughter. He's a known work-a-holic. Someone's bird started chatting during the call, and in response across town, someone else's dog chimed in.

Mark, our president, sounded slightly disoriented. He's the only one in a hotel. He rushed out of the office the moment the second plane hit to get his wife, his childhood sweetheart, out of their apartment in Battery Park. She was in the shower and didn't realize they were in danger as she'd slept in that morning. Minutes after he hauled her out of the shower to get her to throw on some clothes, Tower 2 collapsed and their room filled with ash and smoke. They grabbed their toothbrushes (which Liz later teased him lightly about; he needed a chuckle) and caught one of the many tugboats that were ferrying people across the river.

We compiled a list of people's telephone numbers, home phones, cell phones, home email addresses. It's surprising that no one had this information already. Even Liz as surprised she didn't have everyone in Seattle's number; fortunately, I had the ones she didn't, but still. We've asked all our regions to make sure they know how to reach all their employees, and asked them to provide that data to us as well.

Later I spoke with two of the women from the NY office. They told me their stories, where they were and what they were doing. "I'm sorry to be blabbing about this," one said. "Don't be!" I replied, "You need to tell someone and I don't mind listening."

And I don't. Only it makes my heart ache to hear it, firsthand, some of the things they've seen and had to do to get home. Then I think of all those who aren't going home and it chills me further.

The Discovery channel had a lovely show on last night about beavers building dams, followed by something about microscopic life. I watched them, feeling guilty whenever I flipped through the channels and paused to see anything more on the people trying to clear through the rubble. I know this is hard for everyone. I want to take a moment to clear my own thoughts.

Then I open my email and see fifteen copies of "God Bless America" and I can't forget for even a minute.

Some (relative) humor: As Rob and I were eating dinner and I watched the news.
"Oh, no!" I said, "A bomb sniffing dog just found a bomb at the Empire State Building."
"One that didn't go off?" Rob asked.
I blinked at him. "Well...if it had gone off, I think everyone would have been able to find it."
"Oh. Here's my sign"

Say good night, Gracie. Good night, Gracie!

The office is hectic today. Liz is the only VP in our division at an office; the others are working from home as the NY offices are closed.

Thankfully, the people I know personally are fine. We did have some hairy moments that one of our underwriters was missing but she turned up okay a couple hours ago.

Although I say "thankfully" there isn't much I feel particularly thankful for, only that my personal experience will likely be further removed since I don't know anyone by name or face or touch who is lost.

In the larger sense, I'm still numb and shocked. Last October, I wandered around those buildings, those streets. As the news coverage recapped last night, I watched from the comfort of Rob's snuggle and said, "That's the Century 21 building (just a shell now, where they filmed looking out of its blown windows across to the WTC complex). I walked by that bridge (a pedestrian overpass that now hooks to nothing). There used to be shops under there (peering into the smoldering remains where the WTC buildings stood)."

It's entirely above and beyond anything I've ever seen. Earthquakes and WTO are the only experiences I've had and those did not come close to what happened in New York or DC. This morning, the Drama Queen shrieked the moment she sat at her desk -- she'd forgotten she was supposed to be at a meeting this morning. Linda and I stared at her. "Under the circumstances, no one's going to care," we both said. DQ exclaimed, "No! I have to be there!" I shook my head. "Don't get it out of proportion, DQ. It's just a friggin meeting."

My temper is short. I know it is. I snapped at Rob last night. Normally, all he has to do is tell me that I've snapped at him and I try to calm down. Last night, it sent me further into a frenzy. :-(

My sense of security and comfort are off balance, even from across the country. All the loss of life there, the wounded, the confused. I'm afraid to give blood, I asked the blood bank to stop calling me (I have a rarer blood type so they used to call all the time to encourage me to hook up), and now I fret that I'm too afraid to do something so simple, so easy. It's not like anyone's asking me to hop a plane to sift through the rubble of the site.

In the Little Game, where I sought a head count of staff, our NY GM didn't turn up till late in the afternoon. I said we weren't going to have our normal meeting and several piped up that they wanted to have a meeting, to just sit around and be together. It frustrated me; I wanted to be alone and curl up with the cats and with Rob. In the long run, it's probably a good thing we met; a sense of normalcy, of continuity for them; and for me, a chance to think of something else.

Nothing's the same, of course. I wonder about folks I know in the military who maybe were in DC; about people I know who went to work in NY yesterday; about folks who go through this type of fear and uncertainty every day of their lives in other countries. This is new to Americans, but is hardly new to others.

You know that saying, "There's none so blind as those who can't see?" It runs through the back of my mind today.

Yesterday, I received an email from a childhood friend of mine. Not a personalized to me email, but to me and several other friends, outlining the hassles she is going through in her desire to have her recent vintage husband released from a state-run mental health facility.

This so upset my nervous system, I stopped reading after the paragraph that implied The Patient (as we will refer to her husband) was involuntarily committed, as though he is the victim of mistaken identity or bureaucracy gone amuck. My friend wishes to be allowed to escort her husband outside the facility as his treatment advocate, rather than having him receive treatment inside it from the state. The state told her she isn't qualified as a patient advocate and cannot be objective since he's her husband; she is this close to declaring it a conspiracy to keep him from the help he so desperately needs and only she can give him access to.

I love my childhood friend dearly but I cannot reconcile my feelings for her and my repulsion for her husband. They were high school sweethearts, although they broke apart and did not see each other again until after he was committed. Her happiness is obvious. She is truly in love and it's marvelous to see her so joyous. I'm happy that she's happy...I really am. I even remember The Patient as he was during the time they dated; he was funny, goofy and offbeat. That's how I want to remember him.

Unfortunately, I remember other things as well. We quote from a newpaper article concerning his commitment, removing the names ((While not particularly graphic, if you might be disturbed by reading this, g'head and skip the next several paragraphs)):

--------

"A man found not guilty by reason of insanity for shooting a woman in the face with a pellet gun and stabbing her to death at more than 20 years ago is asking to be released.

Circuit Judge M. T. yesterday granted a motion to appoint a three-member panel to evaluate The Patient and recommend whether he should be released from the State Hospital, where he has been since 1981.

The Patient, then 21, shot and stabbed S. Y., 29, as she was about to leave the shopping center in July 1979.

The Patient last applied for a conditional release, subsequently denied, in 1993.

State Hospital officials felt conditions could be imposed to ensure the community's safety if he were released, said deputy public defender D. Y..

However, the state objected to The Patient's request for release.

The Patient was diagnosed as a necrophiliac, a person with a sexual attraction to corpses. His attorney in 1981, David S., did not contest The Patient's committal, saying he was dangerous, and agreed with mental health experts that he 'intends to do it again.'"

----------


In the email, which I later read together with Rob in its entirety, my childhood friend does not disclose why her husband is incarcerated, only that it is unfair. This dismays me as I suspect the other people who received her email, not knowing the details, will instantly take her side and cheer her on.

I cannot sincerely wish this man ever be free. It worries me constantly, to think of my childhood friend in the company of The Patient, knowing what he did and knowing he wishes to do the same thing again. She has lost her sense of perspective on this, and certainly, her sense of humor. She's one of the funniest persons I know and can tell jokes that have you rolling before she gets close to the punchlines. I joked to her about something related to his situation once and she did not speak to me for days, relenting only because I sought her out. She is as relentless in love as she is in holding a grudge.

He would not harm her; that is something I'm fairly certain of, for as sure as she loves him, he loves her. Still...it worries me. And luckily, I live far enough away where I can wall up this worry and not deal with it. Receiving her updates will bring it closer and I don't know what to say. That I'm cheering on the other team? That I don't want to know (which is not true; I'm interested to know what happens so I can plan to avoid seeing him if possible)?

As for the other people who received the email...I wish I had the nerve or lack of courtesy to my childhood friend to send them this article so they know exactly what is going on. I won't...but will my silence imply that I agree with her position? None of them visit this journal, childhood friend included, so I feel safe here, safe to worry aloud and wring my hands.

My name is Tracy. I am a shoe-aholic.

The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. My problem is simple: a shoe clearance to which Liz sent me yesterday to get her a pair (she was enroute to a meeting and couldn't go herself). I got her the shoes she wanted, Enzo Angiolini slippers in black with black rhinestones.

It didn't stop there. For as I looked at the shoes in Liz's size, I saw some I wanted in my own size. After securing her dream shoes, I stopped at the size 8.5 table.

I too got a pair of Enzo's, although mine are more suited to my practical lifestyle. They're a matte charcoal grey. I also got a pair of Bandolino slides.

This morning I returned to the scene of the crime and spent my lunch hour methodically looking over not just the 8.5 tables but the size 8's as well.

A pair of black Nine West pumps (to replace a pair of black pumps from Target), Bandolino flats in navy, a pair of Enzo slides in nude and a pair of tan Keds later, I was out of there.

Except for the last pair, all were $14.99. The Keds were $12.

Last night, I didn't show and tell with my two pairs of new shoes. After the ribbing I got the last time I bought shoes, I decided Rob didn't need to know and probably wouldn't notice. However, as we were driving away from the grocery store, he chanced to comment about those shoes and guilt overwhelmed me. I laughed nervously and the jig was up. How am I going to spirit four more pairs of shoes into the house?

I tried to explain to him last night that I like buying shoes now because so often in my past, I've had two pairs and that's it. He's not a girl, though, and doesn't understand. It would never occur to him that you can't wear tan shoes with a dark brown belt.

It occurs to me, though. And I am frightfully guilty now, these shoes beneath my desk spilling from their boxes and bags. What happened to the girl for whom a pair each of black, brown and white were plenty? Why do I need these many shoes at all? I'm in an office all day. Who cares if I wear the same brown shoes every day (provided it matches the ensemble with which it is teamed)?

When Melani lived with me, I was amazed at how many shoes she has. Several pairs of black flats alone, not varying much in style, but then one can never have too many black flats, right? This is where I started on the downhill spiral to my current obsession. Melani would lend me shoes to go with my different outfits. She helped bring up my esthetic sense considerably. She got me hooked.

We are not so obsessed as those women of Sex and the City. At least, I'm not. At the sale, there are signs posted that certain designer shoes are $24.99 not $14.99. I made sure not to bother with any of those shoes. Who needs a pair of Kenneth Coles anyway, when there's a similar pair of Nine West's?

My name is Tracy. I am a shoe-aholic. Uh, can someone help me carry these boxes up to my room?

Wheee! We're going to see Broos and Suz! I'm very excited!

Rob's pleased because he'll be able to rescue the ants firsthand and can see the view that's famous world-over.

I'm painting an area, for the first time in months. One of our players designed it and won a contest I'd run during our convention to have their design produced in the game. This is the first stretch of time that I've had to work on it and I'm really enjoying myself. The process of laying it out (which is easy, since the player had even drawn diagrams) and lovingly choosing how to depict it is something that I've always enjoyed. Sometimes, when I visit the Big Game, I'll wander into an area I'd done and think, "I did this!" It gives me a sense of accomplishment, knowing that other players are enjoying something that was made for them.

It's one of the reasons I wanted to move to the Little Game, so I could spend my time devoted to writing room descriptions. My bookshelf groans with coffee table books about Greece. I have videos bought at the library book sale, specifically so I could see what I was working on. If it weren't for Suz's gentle guiding hand ("The players aren't going to learn about real history in our game, so get over it, toots.") I could have spent years in the research stages alone, wallowing in Aegean blue and tyrian purple.

We're supposed to be somewhat whimsical in our game, yet I have a hard time being other than a serious room writer. I joke around a lot (initially, we described my position in the Little Game as 'Comic Relief') but I'm really not light-hearted. When we were all tasked to write room specifically for some of our players, I got very lippy and moody -- I hated the idea that some folks would have special things just because they paid more. I've long since gotten over that attitude :-) The rooms I wrote for initially for this project are the silliest I've ever done. What a rebel, huh? Sometimes when I'm feeling rebellious, I walk through those rooms again, to remind me that out of bad things, good things can come.

Well, moderately good. I don't suppose I'll ever win an award for describing a mural of a violently pitching sea that includes a plaster-cast insect husk. Still. One never knows.

So I guess what it boils down to is that I re-energize by doing one of the things in this game that I love most: creating. My most stressed-out times were when I decided there were other things that were more necessary, and so I put aside my enjoyment for the bigger things. In the end, the necessary evils burned me to a crisp and I got bitter and frustrated with the whole process.

Melissa, do something for yourself before you hit that wall, okay?

Do you know a drama queen? And voting that it's me doesn't count :P

I've struggled to diagnose this person and this is the only thing that seems to fit. Any little thing that doesn't go her way results in pouts and postures. A paper cut becomes a transplant operation judging by the sound effects. The gasps, the groans, the shrieks...I've never heard someone have so many sounds before.

At first, when I met this person, I would often rise to the bait: "AAAAAAH!!!" "Are you okay!?" "My tea was too hot and it burnt my tongue!" "AAAAAAAAHH!!!" "What's wrong!?!" "Nordstrom's is out of my favorite nailpolish! Again!"

It could just be age; she's in her early twenties. After a certain point, it seems we become immune to certain disasters and know how to control our paper cut outbursts. As Rob can attest, I've lost my temper any number of time over trivial issues :-) However, I know when I'm going overboard. I honestly don't think this person can tell.

Once, I went shopping with her and she was trying to match two shades of black which, as any shopper knows, can be a challenge. She knew that a certain store carried the skirt that matched the jacket she already had, so was hoping to pick it up and thereby save the trouble of holding the jacket against different fabrics to ensure the colors were the same. The salesperson made the mistake of saying, "We've never carried that skirt in this store." Before the salesperson could utter another sentence, the Drama Queen stomped her foot, her voice rising shrilly as she shrieked, "You DO have it. I SAW it YESTERDAY. It was RIGHT HERE on THIS RACK!"

This is the first time I've actually seen someone stomp their foot to emphasize a sentence. It was fascinating and horrifying. I edged away to a rack of clothes at the other end of the shop while she ranted. She was flung aside clothes on the racks, determined to prove the salesperson wrong. Eventually, the salesperson also decided to melt away from the scene and when the Drama Queen recovered from her fit, we left the store.

I glanced at her and said, "You're never having donuts for breakfast again."
She agreed that perhaps too much sugar wasn't a good thing, but never said anything about how silly it was to completely lose it in public over a skirt.

There's also the dating mystery. Before Rob, I dated off and on over the years, and the other folks in the office knew who I was seeing and when we'd broken up. We're never sure who DQ is currently seeing; she doesn't seem to date anyone. They're all 'friends.' She grinds through the male of the species in a way that I've never seen. It boggles the mind. One week she's "exclusive" with a man she's met on the internet and met once. The next week, he's passe and she's with someone else. The following week, that one too is past his prime and she's picked up another one at a party. She's fallen in and out of love with so many guys in the past year, all of them just friends, most of them she met online somewhere...all of them she'd call on the phone and chat with for hours...yet she tires of them so quickly and dumps them, Linda and I gave her a rolodex to update so we'd remember which one was which. I've never seen anything like it and it's again horrifying and fascinating.

It's also interesting to note that any conversation can become a showcase for DQ. Someone can say, "I'm going to spend the weekend on my ranch in Montana" for her to chime in something related to her, regardless of whether it's about ranches or Montana as well is irrelevant. You can time it; it's about 3 seconds for a conversation to switch from any subject in the world to become all about her.

I'm at the point now where I don't go out with this person and ignore her many squeals and yelps. Because we work at the same company, I don't want to reach the point of actively disliking her. Maybe it's too late. There's so many confusing messages coming from DQ about who she is and what she wants. My Inner Mom wants to take care of her as she rushes headlong from one thing to the next, and yet there isn't anything really needed. She seems to surface from each crisis just as oblivious and filled with drama as she was before.

Maybe it's confusing to me because I can see myself in things she does, yet my choices would be different? Would my choices be any better?

Owl Chick's Nest
I think I have the archiving thing figured out however I'm still at sea as far as getting my journal name to link back to the journal entry page. On the other hand, there's always the back button. :-)

Did everyone have a lovely three day weekend? I know I did! Saturday, Rob and I went over to Liz's house to help her put up siding. As she pointed out, when could there possibly be more chances for brownie points (recall that she's my boss)? So we went over there and worked for a couple of hours, listening to the Mariners on the radio and generally getting underfoot until they decided to start painting so they could send us home. "Have you seen Wonder Boys?" Liz asked, desperate to find a way to be rid of us. "No," I said, prying a staple gun from out of my forehead, "Heard it's good though. Can someone give me a hand with this thing?" "Here!! Take the DVD! Please!" Liz pressed the DVD into my hands and sent us off, pausing to help Rob get the bucket of glue off his foot.

We are not meant to do labor.

So yesterday, as Rob so sweetly pointed out, we went to the museum and played with salmon canning. Last night we had a good laugh about it. In fact, I fell asleep thinking about him writing it up for his journal and started laughing, which set him off and then were both giggling again.

Today we went to Circuit City, where Rob purchased the remaining parts to upgrade his computer. He's taking parts out of his, putting them into the one I got from the office, then buying new things so he can continue to use his own PC. Interestingly enough, he now has top of the line video and sound cards as well as fifty little speakers scattered across his desk and onto mine. Earlier as he tested out the sound, he had the volume up pretty high, which frightened not only me but Mittens, who tried to leap from my lap in his panic, digging his claws into my legs so he could push off.

Has Rob come over to see what happened to my leg? No. Instead he whined because I thrust a bag of Oreos at him and announced that that's his supper. Men.