I recently started physical therapy for some feet issues I have had for a few years now. Nothing too terrible, but firmly in the I-should-probably-do-something-about-this-before-it-gets-worse category. I was given a startling amount of homework to accompany my therapy, and so far I have learned two things:

1. It is much less unpleasant to ice your feet if you are drunk at the time.
2. No matter how tired you may be, it is highly unlikely you will fall asleep while your foot is stuck in a bag of frozen peas.

Last night I dreamed that I chased down the hulking man that stole my purse, climbed on his back, and held a knife against his throat demanding its return. He questioned my resolve, so I dug the knife into his neck until it drew gurgling blood. It remained unclear by the time I woke up if he was going to be alright.

Disturbing dreams are standard procedure for my unconscious mind. But this theme of deliberate violence on my part is new. Sure I've had plenty of dreams in which I was responsible for terrible things, but it was always terrible things in the past -- things I only held the memory of and bore the guilt for, but did not actually experience.

In other news, I started watching a show, Miracles, the other night. I'm only a couple of episodes in, but thus far it seems like a cross between The Prophesy and Supernatural. Plus, it was canceled after only one season -- so it must be good, right?

whatimeantosay prompted me to tell her about my shitty day in haiku form. I thought I'd share.

My computer? Sucked.
Project finished... then delayed.
Abundant drama.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

The house I grew up in was, I realize now with the perspective of adulthood, pretty amazing. Growing up of course, with the innocent entitlement of a child, I thought it was all perfectly natural.

To say I grew up in the house is a bit of a misnomer. It was the house my grandparents lived in when I was young, and even then for less than a decade. But where my mom moved a lot, my grandparents stayed in place. For much of my childhood I would visit them weekly, and spend holidays at their house. They were a huge part of my life and my stability where everything else always changed.

The drive to my grandparents took you from civilization, through golf courses of retirement suburbia, up windy mountain roads with boulders looming over the street. The trees thickened, and eventually you found yourself on a a road lined with white picket fences called "Caminito Quieto" meaning "quiet road" in Spanish. Finally, you turned up a steep, windy private driveway.

The house sat on four acres of avocado trees, which my grandfather spent a huge amount of time maintaining. He had a four-wheeler, and if I was very lucky I would get to ride it with him to go repair a sprinkler.

In the front yard was a playground that my grandfather had built for me, complete with a swing set and play house. Beyond that, behind yet another white picket fence was a garden of fruit trees. I very vaguely remember, for I must have been very young at the time, him excitedly planning the garden, telling us of all the trees he would plant. The gated garden always seemed a little bit secret and magical to me.

All of my clearest memories from childhood came from that house. I remember planting a garden with my grandfather every year. I remember the strawberries that we had planted, and watching them with great anticipation while they turned from green to red, until it was time to pick them. I remember chewing on sour grass and licking honeysuckle. I remember the sweet scent of the gardenia hedges that my grandmother planted around the outside of the house.

I spent nearly every weekend there. Late Saturday mornings, I would get up and jump into my grandparents bed and watch cartoons with them. Birthdays took place in the gazebo, and on holidays the whole family would gather at the long table in the dining room.

The thing that I remember most from that time of my life was the the closeness and love of my family. In reality, those family bonds were seasoned with a hearty helping of obligation, psychological abuse, and an assortment of familial dysfunction. But I was too young to understand that. Like the fairy-tale aspects of my childhood, the unhealthy aspects seemed normal. What I did know was that I was surrounded by people that loved each other, and that I was loved. No matter what happened later or how my perspective changed with maturity, I still count myself blessed for that.

That house is so deeply rooted in my psyche that I still sometimes dream of it, a backdrop to some imagined life. It is only upon waking that I realize with a pang that all of that is gone.

My grandparents divorce drove my grandfather past a sanity that had held only tenuously, and within a year he had a break down. He staged an elaborate plot at which he was the center, both hero and victim. The story involved the powerful family of a jilted lover coming to seek their revenge by threatening him and burning down his, and my, home.

I remember vividly at nine years old sitting on the turret of my playground, crying as I watched the flames consume my childhood. The next day, walking through the damp charred ruin of the halls that had been my whole world.

I do not blame my grandfather for this brief bout of self-centered insanity. He too was watching his life crumble before him, and lacked the fortitude and resilience to adapt. At the same time, I don't think I'll ever forgive him for taking my home and my childhood away, all in one abrupt and spectacular night.

The people at emusic.com are sketchy bastards, barely on the other side of outright scam artist territory. Be warned. Protect your children.

A few months ago, I got my periodic new music itch, and decided to sign up for the emusic free trial. I thought the monthly subscription might goad me into getting new stuff, where otherwise I tend to just angst fruitlessly. It wasn't long before I discovered that the service requires some windows only desktop client to actually obtain the files and promptly canceled my account.

Four months later, I notice that they've been charging me every month since. (Yes, I should pay more attention to my credit card statements.) Upon calling in, I knew there would trouble when the first option on their automated call system stated, "If you have received a charge on your credit card that you believe to be invalid, please press one." Ho boy.

After explaining my situation to the customer service representative who answered, he launched into a scripted response patiently explaining why it was in fact my fault that I was still being charged in spite of having deleted my account, and there was nothing they could do about these perfectly legitimate charges. I made a brief attempt to point out the gaping void of logic or sense in this assertion, but this was met by the brick wall of The Script.

"Ok then, if you are unable to help me I'll just go ahead and dispute these charges with my credit card company. I am fine with that, but did you want to check with your manager real quick and see if they would rather just refund me?"

"...Please hold."

Having broken him from The Script, I was able to get assurance of a refund in short order. But before processed my request, he needed to ask me one more question.

"Before I cancel your account ma'am, can I just ask why you decided not to stay with us?"

I didn't see fit to justify that with an answer.

My tea making process.

1. Think, "Hum. I think I might like some hot tea."
   
2. Put some water on the kettle.
   
3. Twenty minutes pass.
   
4. Think, "Hum. I think I might like some -- oh, damn."
   
5. Put some water back on the kettle.
   
6. Five minutes pass.
   
7. Combine water, tea bag, and teacup. Wait for it to cool.
   
8. Twenty minutes pass.
   
9. Think, "Hum, I think I might like some -- oh, shit."
   
10. Discover lukewarm tea.
    
11. Go to bed.
    

I'm not sick.

No, no. You don't understand. I'm not sick.

For what seems like forever, I feel like I've been walking around in a fog. While I've only been sick most recently for about three weeks, I feel like I have been running at ten percent capacity for far longer than that. My energy has been low, and it is quickly exhausted. My thoughts come slowly and only with great effort. I can accomplish one thing that requires intellectual or physical energy before my reserves are spent. A full work day always does it; running errands, cleaning, even just watching time pass. And science help me if I don't get enough sleep or otherwise fall behind.

For the last few days, I have been repeatedly shocked by how much energy I have. Within a mere hour or so of waking up, my brain feels functional. I can work a full day, then go home and work on something else. One day this last weekend, I cleaned my house AND ran errands AND when to visit whatimeantosay. All in one day! Twice in recent history when faced with the option to wait or rush, I've found myself dashing across the street. Yes, that's right, dashing. When I climb into bed at the end of the day, it is because it is my bedtime and sleep seems prudent. Compare this to my usual bedtime ritual which involves finally allowing myself, with great relief and anticipation, to give into the bone deep exhaustion that has been threatening to claim me all day.

I've cut down to one redbull per day (from an average of three). I am less irritable, and more patient. Things that annoy me, annoy me less because I have more capacity to deal with them. I have a new at-home project. When considering taking on a project or event, I find myself thinking "that might be fun" instead of "that sounds like a lot of work."

I had pretty much accepted that the amount of useful time available to me was far less than most people, and that I must guard it jealously, spend it only thriftily. It is a valuable lesson to learn, regardless of my situation. I dare not hope that this new-found health and liveliness will last but for now, I will treasure it.

Five old fat white men pile into the elevator a floor before mine.

They are wearing slacks and button up shirts, a cheap tie scattered here and there. They seem comfortable in these clothes, the pale blue stripes fitting over their fat bellies like a second skin. The clothes may be considered professional, but these men choose to wear them because they couldn't imagine wearing anything else.

They come off as salesmen. Perhaps they do not actually sell things. Perhaps they make deals or form alliances. It doesn't really matter. They are the type of men who think in terms of networking and angles. When you see them walk into a room, you know they are there because they want something from you.

One of them says something to me, which I do not hear above the Tool blaring in my noise canceling headphones. I watch his friends stifling giggles, acting as though they are school boys watching some clever prank in progress.

I look intensely put out as I remove one earphone, and wait for him to repeat himself.

I always make a point to display my annoyance when a stranger ignores my obvious desire to be left alone, and demands that I remove my headphones to give them my attention. It doesn't seem to make any difference. I don't think the kind of person who ignores all of the other signals that I do not wish to interact with them are likely to pick up on one more. But I do it anyway, because I believe in social pressure. Besides, it's more fun that way.

"Are you the one who pushed that up button?" he asks. His tone is one of affront, but it is belied by the mischievousness behind his eyes, and the expectant attention of his friends.

"Yes," I reply.

"We didn't want to go up. We want to go down," he accuses.

I don't have to feign the withering look I give him. "Then perhaps you should have looked at the indicator before stepping into the elevator."

The men laugh uproariously at this, as though I had just provided the unexpectedly perfect punch line to their joke.

"She's got you there!" one of them manages to get out between guffaws.

The elevator door opens. I hurriedly squeeze between them, glad at least to have learned that my floor is not their destination.

Summer is usually busy for me, but the last few weeks have been crazy in rather unexpected ways.

Last week, a good friend, Jacqueline-of-no-livejournal, came to visit from LA. Or Atlanta. It's kind of hard to say. You see, we both lived in LA before. Then she moved away to Georgia, and I moved to San Francisco. Then she came back to visit LA, and took a couple days out of her LA trip to visit me in the Bay. How does one express that succinctly?

Anyhow, our time was mostly spent lounging around my place, occasionally venturing out to a nearby cafe for food. (Since my kitchen has become a barren wasteland.) It was really wonderful to see her, however brief, and made me realize how much I miss her. It also made me realize how healthy it is for me to have people like her in my life. I tend to be so pragmatic at best, and a total stress monkey at worst. It is really good for me to have light hearted, fun-loving people in my life to infuse some joy into my otherwise curmudgeonly self.

The big event this week, (just a few hours ago as I write this,) was getting my eyes lasered. I have had my eye on the technology for years, watching as my friends got it done. Their post-op reactions ranged from happy to "I am an idiot for not having this done years ago." I'd heard all the horror stories, most of which were not really all that bad. Add to that the fact that I chose a place that I felt really good about, (read: very expensive) who provided me with detailed information about every step of the procedure, I felt totally prepared for it.

The procedure was the most fun you can have when people are tinkering with your eyeballs. Which, as it turns out is none at all. I would say, on a traumatic scale of 1 to 10, (1 being some at all, and 10 being nightmares, PTSD and therapy for years to come), it was about a 3. I am very, very glad that I opted to go with the top-of-the-line place. Having complete confidence and trust in the doctor and facility made the whole experience several notches less terrifying than it could have been.

All in all though, I was out of there in less than two hours, and after a nap can see mostly normal again. I may post a more detailed entry about the whole experience at some point. For now though, all is well. ish.

Finally, next week I'll be going to France, from the 23rd through the 30th. Dude. France! This trip has been rather spur-of-the-moment, but we'll be staying in the Latin Quarter in Paris, and spending some time in Bordeaux. And that is all you get to know right now.

Now I am going to see if I can make myself go to bed again so soon after my nap, so I can get up bright and early for my post-op appointment in the morning. I have high hopes. *yawn*

The last few days have been like being set free after a long imprisonment. All of those things that were just out of reach before, held back by the bars of brutal time constraints are now within my reach. I keep finding myself thinking, "Ugh, that's right I still haven't... hey, waiddaminnute! There's nothing stopping me from doing that RIGHT NOW! Why, I think I will!"

One does not usually find one's self approaching things like laundry, taxes, and calls to technical support with such gleeful enthusiasm.

This newfound zeal for life is thanks to two completely unrelated deadlines, which had converged to form a monster deadline larger than the sum of it's parts, having both passed successfully. I am surprised to find myself with so much energy -- usually upon completion of a project that I've run myself into the ground over, there is some amount of time for which the most impressive thing I can hope to accomplish is stare at a blank wall without drooling on myself.

Instead, not only have I been highly productive in daily life issues, I've also found my mind practically skipping along and doing cartwheels in its newfound unburdened state. The world seems so full of interesting phenomenon, just waiting to be dissected and analyzed.

Of course, then I got sick. Ah well.

In other news, I need new icons. Though I can't even begin to imagine where to find them.

I was awakened about an hour ago by stomach pain that, in addition to being intense, is worse when laying down. So it would seem I'm up for a bit.

I discovered Cinder sleeping by my side, which came as somewhat of a surprise. We have settled into a routine of sorts, the boys and I. Cinder comes to bed with me, and I wake up with Onyx by my side.

Cinder is a temperamental and delicate creature. Even when he wants, and is in fact getting your attention, he will spend quite a bit of time readjusting himself and making little disgruntled noises to express his uncertainty about this whole letting-you-touch-him thing, before eventually settling into a calm and happy state. During this adjustment period, he is quite testy, and a carelessly placed hand will have him fleeing in terror.

So it works out well that he falls asleep by my side when I have the attention to dedicate to his eccentricities, and wake up to Onyx who, while still being a more skiddish cat than average, is all love and cuddles with me. A state which is much more well suited for my morning adjustment period of uncertainty and disgruntled noises.

I do wonder what occurs to trigger the switch-off. I imagine Onyx clocking in at -- I now know -- sometime after 5am -- and exchanging small talk about the night watch. "How's she been tonight?" "Eh, it's been a quite night. Watch out for the left foot though."

I used to read others relate stories of the antics their cats would preform to rouse them from sleep, and I would think, "Man, my cats are so good! They never do that!"

Then, upon realizing that my cats were too fat to fit through most standard cat doors, I switched them from free feeding to scheduled meals.

Oh. Now I get it!

They are still pretty good. They say pets are like their owners, and I think mine have absorbed my live-and-let-live philosophy. I tend not to pick them up and squish them in indignant ways to express a sudden irrepressible burst of shmoop, and likewise they tend not to attack my feet at night or climb up on my sholders. We respect one another as creatures who live in the same space, and occasionally enjoy one another's polite affection.

So, when they hear my alarm going off and realize that this means food will be coming soon, and the proper action is for me to get up and make it happen, they will perch by the side of my bed staring at me. When I inevitably fail to rise, I will feel a moist nose and whiskers brushing my dangling arm, as if they could somehow detect the reason for my continued stay in bed by scent.

As the third or fourth alarm goes off, they will begin to get desperate and silently head-butt my hand. This will generally succeed in luring me to consciousness by sheer force of its unbearable cuteness.

I have to say, I think I will miss it when I receive my portioned auto-feeder and they will no longer feel compelled to sit by my bed, willing me awake through adorableness.

I am considering having a Halloween Party at my place in a couple of months, once it is more suitable for company, since I more or less missed out on Halloween this year. Maybe... for Christmas.

Hrm. Any of you Bay Area folks family-avoident on holidays?

Walking down the street the other day, I pass a mechanics shop. Sitting in the open doorway is your typical mechanic. His greasy hair is not entirely pulled back by his baseball cap. His once-white wifebeater is a kaleidescope of filth, brown worn deep into the fibers of the fabric, peppered with smudges of oil to match his face. A cigarette with a long tail of ash dangles from his lips, and he occasionally puffs through it without the need to lift his hands to his lips. His hands have so often been stained with grease over the years that it seems to have seeped into lower layers of his flesh. His long gnarled fingers, covered in stains, callouses and smears of blood, tap furiously on the gleaming silver MacBook perched on his lap.

There are many official looking signs posted throughout the train, informing you to vacate these seats for disabled persons or that you must carry your transfer at all times as proof of payment. Most of them are the typical informative, finger-wagging that one would expect to see while riding public transportation. This one though, never fails to amuse me.



This leads me to believe that assault on passengers is acceptable. Which is a damned good thing too. Many MUNI riders are in dire need of assaulting.

The other day, on a relatively empty train, we were all rather startled when one of the train doors unexpectedly slid open, revealing the dark interior of the underground tunnels whizzing by. While this didn't appear to be of any immediate danger, it was... well, disturbing.

At the next stop, the driver was informed of the situation and proceeded to address it. As he emerged from his protective plexiglas enclosed chamber to lock the door into place, all I could think was, "He's out, guys! Lets get him!!!"

Sometime a couple weeks ago, I noticed my voice mail light blinking. While shuffling boxes around, I called to listen.

"Hey Alissa, this is Mom. Jayson wanted me to call you to let you know that we are okay. (...huh?) I'm sure you weren't worried, but the fires aren't close to us, (...fires?) so we're fine. I also wanted to know how your move went. (*looks online, and sees the scarry google mashup with the whole of Southern California on fire*) So give me a call back, (Oh my god, there are FIRES!! Mom, are you guys ok!??!?) and let me know..."

A couple days ago, my mom called.

Mom: "Hey, I just wanted to make sure you are okay, and the earthquake didn't effect you."
Me: "...earthquake?"

It occurs to me that it would be pretty easy to trick me, for a few minutes at least until I had a chance to go online.

"Hey, Alissa. I know you are still here, but I just thought I'd call and check in and see if any of your friends were taken in the rapture. Anyway, hope you're okay. Give me a call back."

"Hey Alissa, I just wanted to check in on you. Have the alien overlords conquered your area yet? We're fine over here, hail Zaphod. I hope your assimilation goes well."

Aww, Halloween themed elljay. *squee*

Eh hem. Anyway.

My typical method of acquiring furniture and other home necessities has been to lean heavily on donations, and otherwise find the cheapest suitable options available. Need a coffee table? Look there's one on the curb. Need a desk? There's one that will fit your space on craigslist. Do they even pretend to match? No? Ah well.

My typical approach to moving has historically been to endure a hellish day of moving everything in, and then proceed to leave it wherever it landed, until such a time as it became necessary to load it into another u-haul.

I've decided that this move, I wanted to change all that.

One one hand, this seems like it will be a much slower process. Aside from the careful planning is the fact that buying furniture from places other than goodwill and garage sales is quite expensive. So, my acquirement of furniture will be a slow one.

On the other hand, I kind of expect it to go much faster than previous moves, at least in terms of having a home that is pleasant and habitable. It may well take several months to collect all of the elements I need and craft them into the kind of home that I want to live in, but I lived in boxes for virtually the entirety of my stay at previous apartments. When compared to that, it's practically instant.

Today my task was to build my new desk and set up my computer. This mission has been accomplished... in a manner of speaking. The desk has been built, positioned, and all electronic devices have been connected and plugged into a power source, as neatly arranged as that sort of thing is likely to get. The only minor missing ingredient is the fact that I seem to be lacking a single three pronged extension cord of suitable lenghth to reach to the nearest outlet. Sigh.

I also really wanted to build the wonderful new bookshelf that has been sitting in the middle of the floor, unopened in three rather heavy boxes. However, I went home early today since I wasn't feeling well so that I could go to bed early. Not only would it be silly to stay up late working on something challenging that I will be unlikely to accomplish tonight anyhow, I also took some xanax to speed me along to the land of nod. Under the circumstances, it seems unwise to wrestle with Ikea merchandise and "instruction" manuals.

Bits of furniture to acquire in the semi-immediate future:

A dresser

A bookshelf

A very simple shelf for the closet, suitable for storing high boots

A very simple shelf for the closet, suitable for storing extra bedding and linens

A matress(*)

There is more. Much, much more. These are the top priorities though, so I can start, y'know having places to put things. (Other than stashed in the closet.)

I'z gonna write more, but now I'm tired. So instead, I shall bid you farewell.

Goodnight.




(*) Don't get any funny ideas about buying me this stuff. I haven't made final choices and checked measurements yet. However, if you feel compelled to get me something for my belated birthday / Halloween / national coming out day / thanksgiving / Christmas, gift certificates to Bed Bath & Beyond, Ikea, Cost Plus, Pier One, Target or a department store would be much appreciated.

Last night I had nightmares about cats, money, friendships and relationships. Oh, and not having internet. I'm quite impressed with my brains ability to fit such a broad range of stress topics into a few short hours and a comprehensive storyline.

Yesterday I called my dentist due to pain in my one of my lower back teeth. As I was talking to him, I realized that the pain was really more my jaw than my tooth. He said I was likely grinding my teeth due to stress, and it would probably go away in a few days. Huh. I can't think of anything that might be causing STRESS in my life right now.(*)

This morning I was half-woken up by a bird call at 6:45am. A thought drifted through my half-conscious mind that, hey is today Thursday? And didn't I park on the Thursday street cleaning side of the street? And isn't the street cleaning at 7am? At which point I jumped up and ran outside in my pajamas to move my car. I was fortunate to find a spot within a couple of blocks, and only on a mild hill.

But. Things are good. No, really they are.





(*) In my head, that sentence was spoken by Penn Jillette.

The move was as brutal as one would expect. It was also just as interesting as one would expect, which is not very much. But I decided I'd tell you about it anyway because you people allegedly like me and might want to hear about the odyssey, and besides it is a good excuse for the content that has been so severely lacking in this journal these days. ( So, hang onto your seat folks... )

I've fallen and I can't get up.

Ok, so really I sat down to take a break after having successfully finished packing the first 95% of the kitchen, and now the idea of moving onto the bathroom seems... unlikely. Furthermore I'm rather disturbed to find myself on a normal schedule. Here it is before midnight and I'm lusting after my pillow. This whole thing where I have to get up in the morning seems to be hanging on, even on my off days. I was rather startled to find myself awake at 9:30 in the morning today.

Oh yeah -- I forgot to mention. I'm off work, in LA, moving.

Anyway, the upshot of all of this is that I can go back to happily guzzling caffeine up until the moment before going to bed without any apparent ill effects. (Where by "ill" I of course mean "stimulant".) Boy does that open up my beverage options.

In other news, our internet here is teh suck. I watched the first half of a Heros episode on iTunes, but now I am waiting for the second half to download. It claims there are 4 hours remaining.

That's it! I'm moving to San Francisco.