January 16, 1999
Working on it. Check back when "Pinky & The Brain" is over and the last slice of cold breakfast pizza is gone. In the meantime, don't forget to click here to check out the *Unofficial Ed-"I'll-Send-Intimate-Apparel-To-Anyone-Who-Mentions-Me-In-Their-AOL-Profile"-Kaz Website* ... and make your reservations early.
Later That Day:
My dorky fascination with the weather differences between California and my *native* Pacific Northwest continues.Overcast and drizzly in the Bay Area this weekend, off and on. Last night at the grocery store I was amused by the big display of cheap umbrellas, ugly vinyl rain-hats and foldable $5.98 "pocket raincoats," strategically plunked just inside the entrance ... as though Californians, being the meteorlogically-unsophisticated bunch they are, are so unfamiliar with RAIN that they might not know where to look elsewhere inside the store for such things.
(And the truth is, maybe they wouldn't. I once spent forty-five aggravating minutes searching every inch of an Oregon Safeway, looking for sunblock. It's a matter of geographical difference, I guess. And cunning Store Planners.)Later, David and I stood in the parking lot loading our groceries into the Subaru. We'd stopped to pick up a few "essentials" for the evening -- a pound of Italian dry salame, a jar of sweet cherry peppers, another jar of pepperoncini, a bag of coffee beans, two pounds of frozen french fries, a dozen eggs, two kinds of sorbet, a block of Swiss cheese, two bottles of cranberry juice, a loaf of eight-grain walnut bread, and a frozen pizza that cost more than the average one-year magazine subscription.
A light drizzly rain was falling. It wasn't particularly cold, or particularly vertical, or particularly WET, even. In fact, it was the most un-rainlike "rain" I've ever felt. I stood under the lamplight and watched this weird misty pseudo-rain bead up on the sleeves of my jacket and instantaneously evaporate.
"This is sorta like being in Seattle," I observed. "In July. At midnight. In the SHOWER."David of course nodded in agreement at this keen and insightful observation [yeah.right.], and we got in the car and brought our groceries home, and we spent the rest of the evening laying in bed watching TV and munching on pizza and listening to the cozy sound of rain evaporating outside our window.
Bear with me here, Dear Reader. Eventually I'm going to fully *get* the fact that we're not in TicTac anymore, Toto, and that the climate is (hello?) different here in California ... and I'll feel less compelled to write about the WEATHER every damn time I open The Castle curtains. But for right now, I find it endlessly/mind-numbingly fascinating.
David is out doing family stuff this morning, while I've elected to stay behind and get caught up on the website. Later today we'll do something together. (This morning he suggested a "Death Tour" of San Francisco, visiting spots where people have died recently: either that, or a trip to the library.)
I am officially granting myself a two-day reprieve from job-hunting. I've been so wrapped up in the process lately that there hasn't been time/energy/thought-molecules enough for anything else, basically. The Castle has begun to slide back into its *Pre-SecraTerri* state of disheveled dysfunction. I have no clean socks. My eyebrows are in serious need of pluckage. I'm still on page 218 of "Love and Houses." I only wrote one? two? rather abbreviated journal entries this week ... I haven't posted on The Fluffy Bunnies of the Apocalypse Message Boards since last Saturday ... and my friends and family are beginning to send those "Subj. Title: Helllllllo? Anybody Home?" e-mails again.
Basically: my life is going to hell in a handbasket. And all because I'm trying to find a JOB.
So today and tomorrow I'm forcing myself to set the Help Wanteds to one side. Under no circumstances am I going to check my Internet e-mail. Words like résumé and detail-oriented and pantyhose are hereby stricken from the weekend lexicon. And the only "multi-tasking" I plan to do involves rental movies, cheap Chinese food and a bottle of massage oil.
But that'll be later.In the meantime, I'm going to diddle around with the website a bit this weekend, during my self-enforced *down time.* A couple of days ago I was given the very special honor of having "FootNotes" mentioned in Diarist.Net's "Re-Entry" column (thanks to Heather, of More Than This fame). It's the first time my goofball website has been singled out for this sort of (positive) recognition -- by anyone besides my mother, I mean -- and it's simultaneously flattering ... and terrifying. Ackk. All of a sudden I feel like a nervous young bride, anticipating her first big party. You know that all of these people, strangers, a lot of them, will soon be walking around in your house ... peeking into your medicine cabinet, running a furtive finger across the top of your piano, checking to see what books you've got on your bedside table ... and you scurry around like a madwoman, frantically trying to make everything perfect before they get there. Even if it kills you. (Which might entertain the party-goers, but would make the event *zero fun* for the hostess.)
So this morning I am housecleaning. I'm getting rid of the cumbersome animated gifs and the calliope-on-crack MIDI files and the embarrassing fourteen-minute downloads of the inside of my refrigerator ... double-checking links and syntax, dates and names (protecting the innocent, and leaving the rest of 'em to fend for themselves) ... "optimizing" graphics and ditching the dumbshit *cliques* and trying to figure out exactly how a "notify list" works, exactly ...... all of this in anticipation, mind you, of this HUGE INFLUX of new traffic to my website, which may or may not actually happen, but for which I am manically preparing anyway, just in case ...
... and yet the website still looks like the inside of a big messy junk drawer. Sigh.Oh well. At least it's giving me something besides the job-hunt to obsess about this weekend. And it's forcing me to do a little housecleaning ... even if it's only the cyber variety.