I can’t decide which is the more spiteful (and therefore enjoyable path) in my relationship. Should I die of this cold or flu to spite M. (who equated my drama and pessimism about my diseased state with my cultural upbringing)? Or, would it be better to live (in spite of my misery) and use my time here on earth to hector him?

What to do, what to do, what to do?

By the way, that last sentence (well, “last” before the wasteland of rhetorical questioning) deserves a confession of something for which I am not proud, and, if he knew the history, might not go unnoticed in a linguistic corner of Boston comedy.

There is a man, who I have been known to deride (mostly directly to his face (or his email account)) for his love of puns and “clever” wordplay on stage. (Yeah, I know Willy Shakespeare did it all the fucking time, but still and all, I find it distracting as all get out when listening to a performance.)

I used the word “hector” above mostly because of it being the thing that popped out of the old folds in the gray matter. However, and here’s where, if perchance the punning guy stumbles here, instead of doing the Daily Jumble (or whatever those kind of folks do for shits, giggles and crank yanking), I confess.

Hector is a big player in the story of the Trojan War, which Homer
put on the old ancient map.

Someone I know but will not name, who is a big player himself in the story of my weblog, is fond (some might say “overly fond”) of a certain Hollywood spectacular I almost dare not name. (It pains me to reflect on what I know I am about to write, the truth, even as I write this post.) Let’s just say, if I were in California right now, I may be enduring Brad Pitt’s buff body (OK, I could deal) and Orlando Bloom’s fey retardation again through the magic that is a newly released DVD.

And, because I care, I would have to try very, very hard (and likely fail) to not complain and/or comment and taint someone else’s movie watching joy. (To be totally fair, I thought Hector was OK in the movie. I kind of liked him as a character and as an actor portraying a character. (Although I kept waiting for him to turn gigantic and green and mention his anger management issues.)

By the way, I am the chick who digs the metrosexual, I suppose. I’m thinking I might have a thing for girlie men. There’s the above-mentioned softcore gaiety (along with the hunky, Greek-baiting version of Alexander.) And, an ex-beau actually OWNED (so, like, he could watch it over and over again) the fucking Titanic. (And, I ain’t even linking to that flick.)

I feel so shitty and achy and nasally (and whiny, did I mention I was sick?), I almost can’t sleep, but I will end on two unrelated notes.

I call a plague of something quite unpleasant involving words like pustules and boils and recta and pus upon the first guy who tainted Tylenol or Pixie Sticks. In my weakened state, I lack the strength and agility for goddamn, fucking, blister packs of blessed, symptomatic relief. Fuck you medicine and food tainters wherever you lurk.

I call forth all powers in the universe to smile with fortune and grace to the developers behind Firefox and all its nifty doodads. There’s that security thing all the kids are talking about, sure. But, I’m all up in the right-clicking mess with corners of tool bars chockful of useful info and development geegaws. You gotta dig the easy to take, easy to reach search engine list (Dictionary.com is my friend ) and the blog-bullshit ease of JustBlogIt.

Man, if I knew someone who was going to help put some warm-puppy, open source goodness into the tiny, little fists of struggling desktop users (good folk, just like you and me), if I knew someone like that, I’d have to help him out, or at least give him a hug. All clean and family friendly like, nothing too, you know, adult, unless, you know how it sometimes goes with hugs and all.

This post isn’t about this–but, if anyone wants to participate in assisted suicide, I’m looking for a euthanasia solution. I feel like absolute shit right now, thanks to a cold/flu kind of thing.

On a lighter note, I think the outside of the house is almost done. They’ve been doing fencing and stuff, but looking around a bit I can’t really figure out what the fuck all is left. I suspect the guys will be back, I just don’t know why (although it may be lacing some kind of detail into the front fence for an unknown reason).

Here’s the before picture from the city assessor’s database. It’s a bright and sunny day, so it looks actually a bit nicer than reality.

Here’s the after pictures (and today is decidedly gloomier). (If M. sees this post, by the way, the rain followed me to Massachusetts. I guess it’s me.)

Finally, here’s the last pic of the bathroom improvements. Well, penultimate, really. They still owe me the faucets I picked out rather than the craptastic, modern, looks like glass (sure), plastic ones they installed.

I suspected it would happen at some point from traveling, and I consider myself lucky it was the end of the trip. I’m tired and snivelling and whiny from a no-doubt caught on board a crowded plane head cold.

Since I’ve dodged a lot of cold and flu viruses so far this winter (what with being a recluse inside my castle of home improvements) I probably shouldn’t be bitching. Yet, here I am world, whining my sniffling ass off. (By the way, and this remark isn’t solely a rationalization of my hermit tendencies, I think staying at home keeps away a lot of illness. People out there in the world are sick.)

My post-trip malaise has really brought new meaning to slothful. I still haven’t done laundry, although my luggage did arrive at my house around 6 p.m. on Monday (only 18 hours after I left the airport). I made a day so far of having to go the dentist. (Maybe my sore throat is just a psychosomatic nod to my body’s vague recollection of the dental poisoning by bleach.)

The bright side of the dentist was that the spot on the X-ray ripe for filling turned out to be, on closer examination, a cloud on the film rather than an oozing pile of decay in my mouth. So, until the next cracked and broken filling (inevitable given the silver mine I call teeth), I’m all clean and up to date.

Sadly, since it bespeaks my pathetic craving for positive attention, I am disproportionately proud of the compliments my dentist has been gushing about the cleanliness of my facial orifice. I credit only my sister’s gift of a Braun/Oral-B pulsating 3D toothbrush.

Without it, assuredly I would be just another dirty girl providing shelter and sustenance to generations of thriving bacteria.

Seriously, them puppies sure can clean the tooths sparkly and all.

Since I set out to do three things today, and I have done but one, I must step away from the ‘puter. Tomorrow I’m only planning one activity, but it’s huge. Without a few finalized versions of my resume and a little wherewithal to send it to people, I fear employment will be virtually impossible to gain.

My plan of using psy energy to will others to hire me just ain’t working out.

I’ve done fuck all today, except repeatedly calling the America West delayed luggage number for Boston. No one is answering from about 10 a.m. to now (3:30 p.m. or so). I think I have a new idea for future jobs I want.

I did upload some photos from my trip. I’m kind of partial to this one:

It kind of somes up the rainy, kind of gloomy mood that seemed to permeate this visit. I’m planning for sunnier days ahead, though.

I guess in this zone it’s the wee hours. I’m back in Boston.

I came home to find a white picket fence and matching porch rail. (My house looks so vanilla middle-class now, I gotta move just to get a little funky/groovy back.)

There’s also doored shelves in my bathroom that weren’t there when I left, which will give me a place to store the unmentionables that folks hide, like tampons or toilet paper or an industrial strength enema hose or barbituates or what have you. Before I didn’t have a door to hide stuff, which might explain why I never could lay my hands on a couple of items in that list.

What I don’t have is the faucets I ordered, my luggage (which is best guess still in Vegas), and my man.

But, at least, I got the feeling the boyo might miss me when I’m gone, which is something.

M.’s in the shower, and then we are off to great adventure. Like breakfast.

However, if you ever find yourself in the Tenderloin district of San Francisco (like if you are looking to buy crack or obtain hooker services), here’s what you should check out:

Tad’s Steak House
I don’t know. Maybe it’s the neon and flashing Broadway-type bulbs, or the flocked wallpaper, a substance for which I have always had a fondness, or maybe the cafeteria tray line, but, honest to god, the steak dinner wasn’t have bad.

50 Mason Lounge
It’s a new space, owned by someone who was planning to add soft porn to an already pornolicious neighborhood but had a change of heart. Comedians, like Susan Alexander, are producing the shows, and you can tell. There’s definitely the mark of people who know and care about doing it right. (It puts Cambridge’s allegedly hip and alternative comedy space to shame.

Next trip (which should be the ultimate move), I’ll be looking to beg some time for sure, and I was happy to start a teeny bit of the “please give me stage time” networking I’ll have to do to start here.

I think I’ll start every post with a musical reference, even if it is a crappy 70s, feel good about Jesus one.

So yesterday’s post reflected a bit of flair for drama, including the melo kind, which is alright by me. The truth is I’m damned, fucking confused about what to do with myself and my, as they say, future, and M.’s own doubts and stress and fight picking sinks me down even lower.

Thanks to the folks who actually pointed out completely alone may not, in fact, be an entirely accurate portrayal of my life.

I guess no one ever promised me a rose garden, or a bowl of cherries, or really much of anything come to think of it. On the plus side, no one ever promised me a chamber pot either, so I have that going for me.

I wish life had all the signs and portents and various and sundry plot-twist indicators of the right path, like in movies and averagely written books.

By the way, EVERYONE is pretty fucking annoying in Wicker Park.

And, how fucking dull could Dan Brown be in Digital Fortress? I haven’t been quite so pissed off at “love” as a plot device since Neo massaged Trinity’s heart in The Matrix Reloaded. Yeah, right, cryptology and the future of the free world of free information twists on some old guy’s horny fantasy. At least Clancy gives you sex, greed, power, death, power and all sorts of other murky reasons to go around killing and spying and what not.

Here’s my last pop culture reference for today–What the fuck?

I don’t know about anyone else in the world, but I want my expert witnesses to know shit. Like shit from books and learning and stuff. Quoting an episode of “Law and Order” that hadn’t actually aired seems a tad lazy. Like watching Henry Fonda ham it up as a Joad instead of reading Steinbeck.

Fucking hell, maybe my future should be as a legal expert. I watch all of the “Law and Order” shows.

I’m busted flat in San Jose with the Boston blues again…or something like that.

When M. was stuck in Boston and then I flew here back to back, it just didn’t feel right somehow. It wasn’t fun and like a couple of castaways. It was aggravation and trying to get our schedules even minorly in sync.

Originally, I had thought a quick trip would be good, since I have so much to do at home. But, with his insistence I booked a longer stay, believing in the fantasy that together we would look at apartments or talk about jobs or look toward the future.

None of that is happening, and the future is murky at best.

I want so much to figure out what went wrong or work on making things right, but I don’t know where to begin. And, I honestly just want to run from the feeling of being in the way. I am so poor at handling another person’s anger at me, and I don’t want to slide into putting up with someone else’s anger and swallowing my own feelings just to make things “work.”

I probably shouldn’t even be writing. But, it’s been a long, long time since I’ve felt as alone as I do at this moment.

I think I’m a less than stellar houseguest, because I worry that I am less than stellar. I want very much to be wonderful and noteworthy (and invited back), so I fumble and try to act spinelessly polite.

Of course, I am overreacting and listening to the voices in my head.

But, I will say this little factoid to anyone who may ever entertain the notion of entertaining me. You know how some people won’t answer questions like, “What are you in the mood for for dinner?” because they don’t want to be demanding and/or are trying hard to be polite? I’m not one of those people.

The reason that I say I don’t know what I want for dinner is that I don’t know. I never think much about food for dinner. It’s just I get hungry, and any number of things will sate.

Every now and again, I will be in a mood for something, like a plain, old burger and fries. And, at those moments, I say clever conversational tidbits like “Hey, want to go get a burger?”

Food may be the one arena in which my pathetic, shyness-enduced social awkwardness is not invoked.

I’ll keep you posted on booze.

It looks like today I will be doing some ethnic bonding with the boyo’s landlady. Most of the year, her Irish blood alcohol is curbed by a household full of both socially and physiologically curbed non-drinkers. Enter the non-drinker’s culturally predisposed drunkard girlfriend and what you get is a lovely afternoon drive to the local vineyards.

My plan is not to get shitfaced (both a word and condition of which M. isn’t entirely enamored). I can’t imagine the thrill of coming home from work and finding your visiting girlfriend passed out, “Hi, sweetie, how was work?” and then vomit on his shoes.