Today, I was at work for far too long, but Mike came to visit me a bit before midnight. We walked out on the sports fields, which had been littered with 2-foot-diameter exercise balls for some reason, and I tore into the night, kicking balls into the air and into each other like mad. There were a few other people standing around the edges of the field, taking pictures and pointing, but as Mike and I kicked and laughed and yelled, a few of them came on to the field with us for a grand few minutes of chaos. My jeans are soaked through and my toes hurt, but man, did it make me feel better.
Particular favorite: a good solid kick while yelling "And that's for Source Depot SUCKING!!" The ball flew satisfyingly far.
I'm back to a dreaming phase. In general, I cycle somewhere around three months not-much-remembering of dreams, three weeks remembering dreams, rinse, repeat (the year I was around Craig was an anomaly in that the cycles were much closer and in some cases I went two months straight dreaming heavily every night). Normally, I rather welcome the dreaming cycles, relishing the vividness of the imagery despite the increase in my perceived sleep deprivation (when I dream so heavily I often wake feeling as if I've not gotten rest at all). Early this morning, however, I had a dreadful, dreadful nightmare, one that caused me to start crying out and sobbing enough so that I woke myself. I won't share the details, as it really was too awful, but man. Times like this morning, when I woke, shaken and crying, at 5 am, I HATE the dreams.
Woke at 11:30 am today, but didn't get out of bed until around 3:30. Ah, Sunday. I read and listened to music and petted the beasts and played games on my laptop; I would have stayed longer but my back began to hurt. I suppose there's only so much supine-ness that one can stand.
Jeff and I made a lovely beef stroganoff yesterday. Along with many other things, I am so incredibly grateful to Jim for teaching me how to cook.
X-Men 3: not quite as good as its brethern, but still entertaining. A worthy birthday present for my dear fool of a brother.
So ridiculous! Having imbibed heavily at the ship party yesterday (S and I closed it out, as per our usual modus operandi), I crashed to sleep quite early last night. And woke up, completely wide awake, at 3 am. I tried for 30 minutes or so to get back to sleep before giving up... so I made coffee, RAS'd in to work, and have been quite productive for the last few hours. I wonder how twigged people will be if they notice the timestamps on stuff today? Heh.
Incidentally, I completed one of my outstanding "supposed to be done in college" items last night, when S and compatriots egged me into doing a beer bong. I understand why I did it at the time, but remain utterly unconvinced that it was a good idea. Sadly, there's pictures (I'd forgotten S had taken them until I started reading mail at 4 am and he'd sent them to me and Beth).
Nothing reminds you how much of a geek you are when you're flying down the freeway and you suddenly notice that the song you have cranked up and are rocking the fuck out to is John Williams conducting the Star Wars Main Title. Ah, nerdity.
In my dream, Kelly was getting married. She was dressed in a black gown with slender purple satin panels, her hair braided with diamonds and amethysts. Her groom carried her north along 405, preceded by a bridesmaid in a flowing deep green sari with gold accents. The bridesmaid flared scarves in the breeze as she led a vast wedding party that spread across lanes and down for miles.
In my dream, I woke, and met Kelly for coffee. I told her about my dream, and she smiled and laughed, and had me promise to write down what I remembered, to give to her.
I woke again. A promise is a promise, even a dream promise... but all day, despite my clear memory of the details of the dresses, I have still been unable to recall anything about the groom.
Today, I am reading. A collection of short stories: "Science Fiction: The Best of 2003." 2003 was a very good year; this collection is among the best I've read in a long time. Funny, though, how the underlying theme of nearly all the stories is twins. Actual twins, pairs twinned across situation, pairs twinned across time... Why was this push-pull of two entities orbiting each other so on the minds of so many authors that year? Or why was it so on the mind of the editors of the collection? The introduction offers no clues, no mention of a theme other than the intent to collect the best material of the year.
I've read myself into melancholy again.
Layers of tomato, mozzarella, and basil, drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled with salt and pepper: heaven on a Saturday evening. The house is quiet; Jeff is out with his father and the cats are out gamboling in the last dregs of sunshine. Just what I needed; a freakishly awful day yesterday led to a night of much beer (and CURRIED FRENCH FRIES at the new Irish pub in Kirkland, oh MY GOD... I'd go back for those alone, at three times the price). Feeling fine, but muted.
I finally got myself to go through all my mail from the last few weeks. I've been far too stressed out to even contemplate opening all those envelopes, but in the calm of today was able to at least open everything up and throw away what I don't need to keep. Subtle accomplishment.
Well, work went straight back to insanity by midday Monday. So much for my escape from the madness!
So instead of writing anything, as I am ex-fucking-hausted, I point to the pictures Mike took this weekend. I'm a fan of number 10, myself... although number 8 is certainly a bit more humorous.
Excellent use of a weekend. Snapshots:
Cresting a dune to see the early evening ocean roaring into shore. Yanking off shoes and racing ahead of the boys across the sand to stand knee deep in the surf, stretching arms to the sky and screaming in delight at the sun-capped waves.
A pleasant buzz all Friday evening; drinking over a book, over grilled steaks, over Scrabble ("quo" is still not a word), over Settlers of Catan. A pleasant buzz all Saturday; drinking after breakfast, over lunch, over Scrabble (three for three barring the bogus ruling for "quo"), over dinner and after.
Making cinnamon toast and French toast for everyone with Ken on a sunny Saturday morning; scarfing the most delicious and phallic hot dog ever cooked on Saturday afternoon.
Reading, reading, reading.
Laughing at wind-whipped hair, squinting in reflected sunlight, walking close to Jeffie in afternoon-turning-into-evening, hunting for pretty stones on the beach.
The laxness continues. I am going to Ocean Shores with Ken, Seth, Jeff, and Mike until Sunday. I'm hoping that I can clear my energy and my brain out a little bit over the weekend, because lord knows it's not been flowing.
I have been quite lax. My only defense is that work has been taking the wind out of me something awful.
And then, of course, after how awesome my day started yesterday, there was nothing to be done but have it utterly collapse at about 11 am. There were good points afterwards, to be sure, but really, the overall effect was distinctly unawesome. Worst part, though, was how I spent the first few hours of my day today feeling as if I'd had a huge fight with Jeff even though I hadn't... the awfulness spilling out into the next day and all over my entire emotional range.
Thankfully, Pies & Pints and Eddie Izzard and my build working and Kingdom of Loathing make a Jen much happier.
After a long and tiring week... I think that's the most wonderful thing I could have heard. It's at least in the top five. Or two.
Oh, who am I kidding. Star Wars original versions, released to DVD on my birthday? That's as good as it frigging gets.