(no subject)

I sincerely hope the Bush team considers getting some new coaches.

Morning already. I was dreaming about coffee scented candles. I'm so relieved it is Friday.

(no subject)

I try really hard not talk about politics at work. I do. But some of the people in my group were talking about the debates and we had a reasonable discussion of the talking points. At some point, we were laughing about Bush's petulance and how they need to get him better coaches. Not being overly loud or obnoxious, just having a good hearty laugh at the man's expense.

Then the redneck soccer mom bitch in the next bay starts screaming at us to shut up. (She couldn't handle us trashing her beloved Shrub.) She screamed that she had a headache and we needed to be quiet. I sweetly pointed out that perhaps she ought to be quieter as well if that were the case, as we spend the better portion of the day listening to her blather about her children and talk on the phone. She started screaming at us, and one of my other coworkers told her to shut up.

Just waiting to see if we will get in trouble for all this. But I don't care. I despise that lazy, ignorant bitch.

(no subject)

It's a "hieroglyphic world," Newland Archer reflects in "The Age of Innocence," "where the real thing was never said or done, or even thought, but only represented by a set of arbitrary signs."

That says a lot about my own life. Not because I grew up in that world, but because at some point I made it that way. So much of my communication has evolved into that rarefied hieroglyphic form that it almost doesn't work at all with other people. I have a hard time saying exactly what I want or what I mean sometimes. It may be perfectly coded and clear to me, but no one else can see it. I live with my own private dictionary inside my head.

I wonder sometimes if I will ever be able to write that novel, if I will ever be able to communicate my vision to the rest of the world. Learning other languages has helped some, but not enough. Ironic, how communication is so precious to me and how I'm often so inept at it.

Right now I'm putting some consideration into doing the national novel month thing. I suppose I've told enough people thatI have to attempt it now. Mostly I just want to tell Meier's story, because Meier is the closest thing I'll ever have to a child. He doesn't frighten me because he could always speak, and I could understand every word.

It will be a good story.

more quiche

Alan fixed the car tonight. Thank our lucky stars for an auto parts store that will rent you the tools to take the steering wheel off, and the handy volt meter. It seems the real problem was some corrosion on the switch, causing a reduction in power to the signal on the left. My signal works now, so I can return to being a responsible driver who actually uses the turn signal. A rarity in Austin, I know, but I felt so guilty every time I didn't signal.

I made quiche again. This time they have sauteed mushrooms, spinach and onion along with some crumbled salt pork. Alan's quiche also has black olives. I'm looking forward to having some for breakfast tomorrow.

What a long day. It's only a bit after nine and I feel wiped out. I went to work early, which was a good thing as they left us go before three this afternoon. We can rip through the work when we want to do so. Never did get in trouble for yelling at the stupid woman, and it became a running joke in the bay.

So the laundry is done, the cooking is done, I ate my BLT on an english muffin and I would like to just collapse now. I'm watching this kitchen makeover show and wishing once again for a home of my own.