Nothing Got Done Yesterday, Something May Get Done Tomorrow, Today Has Been Tedious, And I Need Friends

I had a list of things that I was going to accomplish last night, but the only one that got done was posting a blog entry. Since that it is the one on my list that I am most likely to complete on any given day, it hardly counts as an achievement. I was going to do at least one load of laundry, start on my art project, work on some personal writing, water the plants, and let the bunny run around (he needs constant supervision as outlined in yesterday’s entry). What did I manage to do? Post a blog entry.
Part of the reason for this is that I am just plain lazy most of the time, but another part of the reason for this is that when I arrived home from work, the taps were once again removed in my bathtub. Bastards. It has been at least two weeks since the landlord’s underlings started taking apart my bathroom, and I am getting fairly fed up with the limited amount of bathroom usefulness. At least upon noticing that the taps were once again removed, I also noticed that they have started putting wall back in around the tub. Bathing in a tub surrounding by a gaping hole on two sides that looks into a musty wall that is nearly one hundred years old just doesn’t lend to helping me feel like I am actually getting clean, especially when bits of plaster and rust keep falling into my bathwater. The entire time that this repair work has been dragging on, no one has bothered to inform us when work is going to be done, or what the work will be, or when it might be finished, which is really annoying when all you want to do is actually have a bath. Yesterday, a new worker did the first part of the wall repair, and I want to give him presents for his kindness, because he actually left me a note telling me that the taps would be back on today. For once, I have been assured that I won’t be forced to spend the whole weekend stewing in my own filth.
Aside from the tap disappointment, though, I have only myself to blame for not getting anything done. After work yesterday, I blogged while dribbling coffee and bits of frozen pizza on the keyboard, and then I settled in for some good old crime television and dribbled bits of tortilla chips and salsa on the arms of the chair. (Maybe that’s why Gordon likes to lick the arms of that chair so much). The television, as usual, wasn’t that good. With as much tv as I seem to watch, you would think that I liked it, but I don’t. Usually television ends up being a sad parade of half-hour our hour-long segments of disappointment. It almost never manages to live up to its promises of unstoppable entertainment. When I finally peeled my butt off the chair, I went to bed to read the third book in a series by Louise Rennison, Knocked Out by My Nunga-Nungas. This book is nowhere near being the apex of high culture. The first one was funny and over quickly. I should have left it at that, because now that I have started the third one, I feel compelled to finish it. Thank god that it’s not as painful to slog through as that Malamud book, The Tenants, which I also felt I had to finish once I’d started it.

I have a couple of goals for this weekend that I want achieve. The first one is second-hand clothes shopping. In my old city, I lived near a couple of really good second-hand places and updated my wardrobe semi-regularly, but in this city, there weren’t decent second-hand stores nearby until fairly recently. I’m excited by the prospect of owning clothing I can wear and feel good about again. I’ve lost a bunch of weight, so none of my spring/summer clothing fits properly anymore and looks really frumpy. I bought the items I do have when I was chubbier, so I picked boring, no-personality items so I could blend in. I don’t think that being chubbier means you should dress to camouflage yourself with the furniture, but that’s how I was feeling over the last couple of summers. I need everything – tank tops, t-shirts, pants, skirts, shoes, underwear – and I need it super cheap. The Fiery One is not going to have to look at a lumpen, boring, nearly sexless twit with low physical confidence for another summer, goddammit! This year, any clothing that makes me feel like I’m hiding behind the curtains is going to be recycled and replaced at bargain basement prices. My rule is that I can’t buy anything that costs more than $10. Even that will be stretching my budget this month after the silly amount I paid for my new haircut, so I’m going to have to save some clothes buying for next month. My second goal is to get a decent start on the art project I’ve concocted for myself. I have all the supplies I need, I think. I always find I need something or other that I hadn’t thought of, but I should be able to maybe even finish it if I really get into it. I do hope that it turns out halfway decent to look at, because the Fiery One and I are going to have to be looking at it for a long time. I made this clock once that I can’t bring myself to discard, even though I look at it on the shelf sometimes and wonder what possessed me to do what I did to it. It’s part way between an abomination of the clock world and an interesting conversation piece. If I can achieve something a little more aesthetically pleasing to my eye, then I will feel successful, and if the rest of the world can’t handle my tinfoil art, they can fuck themselves. Fuck you, world, and your anti-tinfoil snobbery!, I will say at the first sign of scoffing.

Hmmm. It is 9:36 in the morning, and I have already blathered approximately 1400 words in your general direction. This could prove to be a very long day at this job of mine. This could also prove to be a very tedious entry. Oh, I’m sorry. I just looked back and realized that I have been going on about my bathroom and how I want to buy clothes. I’m already being tedious. If they let me surf the net here, I wouldn’t have to put you through this. Many apologies. Read on at the risk of even more extreme levels of boredom.

I’ve decided that I’m going to whine now. Right now. When the Fiery One is around, I don’t really notice how few friends I have in my life here, because he’s my best friend, and we hang out all the time easily without getting on each other’s nerves too much. When he’s gone, though, and the weekend rolls around, and I get it into my head that I would like to do something, anything more than knitting a warped scarf in front of the absolute zero that is non-cable weekend television or sitting in the communal laundry room waiting for the towels to dry, then it hits me. I have hardly any friends here. I can go to Cosmopolis and feel popular any weekend I want to, but here I could sit around for weeks with nary a phone call. (Of course, I don’t do my share of calling, but this is a pity party for Christ’s sake). I’m contemplating calling up a woman I know who works in another department here to see if she would like to go for drinks after work, but part of me doesn’t want to do it because it feels desperate. It’s not desperate to call her, because she’s nice and we’ve gone out before. It just feels desperate because I feel desperate. I’m not sure why this feeling of desperation descends on me whenever the Fiery One leaves town, but I grow anxious here alone. I definitely have enough things that I do on my own to keep me occupied. I journal, I blog, I write fiction. I make stuff. I read. I guess it’s my need for people. I’m more social than I let on to myself. There, I’ve whined, and now I’m going to call Red, and see what’s she’s up to after work. . . . . I gave her a call. She’s heading out of town for the weekend, so drinks after work are out, but we had a really decent conversation, and I feel ridiculous for having had such an attack of insecurity. I am not the biggest loser this world has to offer. I’m sure of it.

I’m not completely alone in the world today! I will be out drinking beer shortly. Yum. Drinking beer and enjoying the doubleplusgood weather we’re having today. While I am out having fun, you can check out the following links:

Lorbus has been keeping me happily entertained for weeks. For a while I almost believed that Lorbus was Owain, but Owain was neither Venezuelan nor a freelance designer/musician. He was more the learning-how-to-speak-Old-Icelandic and learning-about-Russian-orthodoxy type, whatever that is.

Do the Brain Works Self-Assessment Test. (My boss had me download it to the computer at work, so I believe in its safety). I am apparently an ever-so-slightly left-brained centrist. Do not hold this quiz thing against me. I am generally an online quiz hater, but this one’s not bad, I promise. At least it doesn’t try to give you some stupid answer like you’re this kind of fairy or that kind of muppet.

A Desperate Melancholy Descended, But I'm Holding My Own

The Fiery One Has Left The Building And Some Things May Prove To Be Difficult