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Dec. 10th, 2007
(no subject)
Dec. 10th, 2007 07:38 amA very up-and-down weekend.
We had originally planned to try to go to either Mystic or Northampton this weekend. But neither of my little brothers could join us to go to Mystic (in addition to the aquarium, it's home to my family's ancestral burying grounds, the most recent inhabitant being my grandfather), and I just wasn't feeling the driving.
So, Friday we went to B's house, and watched many episodes of Six Feet Under, and knitted, and talked, and it was lovely.
Saturday, we ran many errands, all productive. I bought books for family members, showed Light the intersection which my grandfather's sign graces (I have no idea what those are called, squares makes it sound more official than it is, and intersection makes it sound like my grandfather's name is on a streetlight - locals, help?) and we stopped by The Games People Play and now I want seventeen more board games, particularly Unspeakable Words, which is apparently quiddler meets Cthulhu. I got more holiday cards, and a couple more of the worlds second most perfect inexpensive pen. Mech came over for dinner, and I had my first guest to eat at my lovely new table (the rest of you should come as well) and then we drove down to the tree lot and picked a tree (in Mech's car). The transportation method home involved throwing the tree in the backseat. Since there were three of us, this also meant that I got to sit with the tree, the trunk of it poking out the window near my face, the tip of it poking out the other window. Mech, of course, seized this opportunity to abruptly brake as often as possible on the half-mile drive home. I was laughing so hard I could barely breath, and kept forgetting to keep my mouth close (mmm...pine needles).
Sunday, however, was mostly full of fail. We tried to go the Bizarre Bazaar, but when we got there, I was daunted by the line (around the corner, up the block) and by the idea that that many people in line indicated an equal-or-greater number of people already inside. So we turned around and went home. Then there was a potluck I was intending to go to, full of strangers, but at the last minute discovered I did not have a complete address (apartment building, no apartment number) and the RSVP number on the invitation was disconnected. So, we stayed home, caught up on the Tivo, ate my potluck offering and then splurged on Beowulf at the Jordan's IMAX, which was great fun.
All in all, I think the weekend ended up in the win column and my house smells like evergreen. Today will be for dishes and cooking and cards and taking myself to a movie if I'm feeling bold.
We had originally planned to try to go to either Mystic or Northampton this weekend. But neither of my little brothers could join us to go to Mystic (in addition to the aquarium, it's home to my family's ancestral burying grounds, the most recent inhabitant being my grandfather), and I just wasn't feeling the driving.
So, Friday we went to B's house, and watched many episodes of Six Feet Under, and knitted, and talked, and it was lovely.
Saturday, we ran many errands, all productive. I bought books for family members, showed Light the intersection which my grandfather's sign graces (I have no idea what those are called, squares makes it sound more official than it is, and intersection makes it sound like my grandfather's name is on a streetlight - locals, help?) and we stopped by The Games People Play and now I want seventeen more board games, particularly Unspeakable Words, which is apparently quiddler meets Cthulhu. I got more holiday cards, and a couple more of the worlds second most perfect inexpensive pen. Mech came over for dinner, and I had my first guest to eat at my lovely new table (the rest of you should come as well) and then we drove down to the tree lot and picked a tree (in Mech's car). The transportation method home involved throwing the tree in the backseat. Since there were three of us, this also meant that I got to sit with the tree, the trunk of it poking out the window near my face, the tip of it poking out the other window. Mech, of course, seized this opportunity to abruptly brake as often as possible on the half-mile drive home. I was laughing so hard I could barely breath, and kept forgetting to keep my mouth close (mmm...pine needles).
Sunday, however, was mostly full of fail. We tried to go the Bizarre Bazaar, but when we got there, I was daunted by the line (around the corner, up the block) and by the idea that that many people in line indicated an equal-or-greater number of people already inside. So we turned around and went home. Then there was a potluck I was intending to go to, full of strangers, but at the last minute discovered I did not have a complete address (apartment building, no apartment number) and the RSVP number on the invitation was disconnected. So, we stayed home, caught up on the Tivo, ate my potluck offering and then splurged on Beowulf at the Jordan's IMAX, which was great fun.
All in all, I think the weekend ended up in the win column and my house smells like evergreen. Today will be for dishes and cooking and cards and taking myself to a movie if I'm feeling bold.
(no subject)
Dec. 10th, 2007 07:38 amA very up-and-down weekend.
We had originally planned to try to go to either Mystic or Northampton this weekend. But neither of my little brothers could join us to go to Mystic (in addition to the aquarium, it's home to my family's ancestral burying grounds, the most recent inhabitant being my grandfather), and I just wasn't feeling the driving.
So, Friday we went to B's house, and watched many episodes of Six Feet Under, and knitted, and talked, and it was lovely.
Saturday, we ran many errands, all productive. I bought books for family members, showed Light the intersection which my grandfather's sign graces (I have no idea what those are called, squares makes it sound more official than it is, and intersection makes it sound like my grandfather's name is on a streetlight - locals, help?) and we stopped by The Games People Play and now I want seventeen more board games, particularly Unspeakable Words, which is apparently quiddler meets Cthulhu. I got more holiday cards, and a couple more of the worlds second most perfect inexpensive pen. Mech came over for dinner, and I had my first guest to eat at my lovely new table (the rest of you should come as well) and then we drove down to the tree lot and picked a tree (in Mech's car). The transportation method home involved throwing the tree in the backseat. Since there were three of us, this also meant that I got to sit with the tree, the trunk of it poking out the window near my face, the tip of it poking out the other window. Mech, of course, seized this opportunity to abruptly brake as often as possible on the half-mile drive home. I was laughing so hard I could barely breath, and kept forgetting to keep my mouth close (mmm...pine needles).
Sunday, however, was mostly full of fail. We tried to go the Bizarre Bazaar, but when we got there, I was daunted by the line (around the corner, up the block) and by the idea that that many people in line indicated an equal-or-greater number of people already inside. So we turned around and went home. Then there was a potluck I was intending to go to, full of strangers, but at the last minute discovered I did not have a complete address (apartment building, no apartment number) and the RSVP number on the invitation was disconnected. So, we stayed home, caught up on the Tivo, ate my potluck offering and then splurged on Beowulf at the Jordan's IMAX, which was great fun.
All in all, I think the weekend ended up in the win column and my house smells like evergreen. Today will be for dishes and cooking and cards and taking myself to a movie if I'm feeling bold.
We had originally planned to try to go to either Mystic or Northampton this weekend. But neither of my little brothers could join us to go to Mystic (in addition to the aquarium, it's home to my family's ancestral burying grounds, the most recent inhabitant being my grandfather), and I just wasn't feeling the driving.
So, Friday we went to B's house, and watched many episodes of Six Feet Under, and knitted, and talked, and it was lovely.
Saturday, we ran many errands, all productive. I bought books for family members, showed Light the intersection which my grandfather's sign graces (I have no idea what those are called, squares makes it sound more official than it is, and intersection makes it sound like my grandfather's name is on a streetlight - locals, help?) and we stopped by The Games People Play and now I want seventeen more board games, particularly Unspeakable Words, which is apparently quiddler meets Cthulhu. I got more holiday cards, and a couple more of the worlds second most perfect inexpensive pen. Mech came over for dinner, and I had my first guest to eat at my lovely new table (the rest of you should come as well) and then we drove down to the tree lot and picked a tree (in Mech's car). The transportation method home involved throwing the tree in the backseat. Since there were three of us, this also meant that I got to sit with the tree, the trunk of it poking out the window near my face, the tip of it poking out the other window. Mech, of course, seized this opportunity to abruptly brake as often as possible on the half-mile drive home. I was laughing so hard I could barely breath, and kept forgetting to keep my mouth close (mmm...pine needles).
Sunday, however, was mostly full of fail. We tried to go the Bizarre Bazaar, but when we got there, I was daunted by the line (around the corner, up the block) and by the idea that that many people in line indicated an equal-or-greater number of people already inside. So we turned around and went home. Then there was a potluck I was intending to go to, full of strangers, but at the last minute discovered I did not have a complete address (apartment building, no apartment number) and the RSVP number on the invitation was disconnected. So, we stayed home, caught up on the Tivo, ate my potluck offering and then splurged on Beowulf at the Jordan's IMAX, which was great fun.
All in all, I think the weekend ended up in the win column and my house smells like evergreen. Today will be for dishes and cooking and cards and taking myself to a movie if I'm feeling bold.
Most of the time, I assume I like every single person of my acquaintance somewhere between a little better and a lot better than they like me. (On the bad days, I assume that everyone I know or have ever known gets together, mocks me for a couple hours, schedules a date to do so again in the near future, shakes hands and departs. Sadly, the experiences I had in highschool and then again in college reinforcing this have yet to fade.)
Now, I've spent a long time with various therapists who have tried to coax and/or browbeat me into the idea that love, or even like, is not quantifiable, no matter what my childhood may have shown me. I don't entirely believe it, but I'm willing to accept that there are points at which it doesn't really matter (i.e. my marriage.)
And I try to factor this assumption into most of my friendships, trying to not to be too eager, trying to make sure I never look like I'm trying to be anyone's New Best Friend, trying to figure out how much people like to be liked, and how they like to see that affection displayed while also trying to make sure that the people I like know that I really do think they're awesome people. And it's cool, on the neurotic front, it's far less crippling than my inability to talk on a phone.
But writing holiday cards....ooo, it's like I pour all of my crazy into these little cards. I genuinely enjoy sending out the cards, I find stamps and envelopes and handwritten sentiments charming and soothing. I post asking who wants one, and then dither about all the other people who didn't respond to whom I'd like to send one. I find cards I really like, say most of the things I want to say, and then freeze up when I go to put them in the mail, thinking "is it all just too much? Have I been too nakedly fond of all these people?" Eventually, I steel myself, send them out, and nothing awful happens.
Oh, crazy. You're so much fun.
Now, I've spent a long time with various therapists who have tried to coax and/or browbeat me into the idea that love, or even like, is not quantifiable, no matter what my childhood may have shown me. I don't entirely believe it, but I'm willing to accept that there are points at which it doesn't really matter (i.e. my marriage.)
And I try to factor this assumption into most of my friendships, trying to not to be too eager, trying to make sure I never look like I'm trying to be anyone's New Best Friend, trying to figure out how much people like to be liked, and how they like to see that affection displayed while also trying to make sure that the people I like know that I really do think they're awesome people. And it's cool, on the neurotic front, it's far less crippling than my inability to talk on a phone.
But writing holiday cards....ooo, it's like I pour all of my crazy into these little cards. I genuinely enjoy sending out the cards, I find stamps and envelopes and handwritten sentiments charming and soothing. I post asking who wants one, and then dither about all the other people who didn't respond to whom I'd like to send one. I find cards I really like, say most of the things I want to say, and then freeze up when I go to put them in the mail, thinking "is it all just too much? Have I been too nakedly fond of all these people?" Eventually, I steel myself, send them out, and nothing awful happens.
Oh, crazy. You're so much fun.
Most of the time, I assume I like every single person of my acquaintance somewhere between a little better and a lot better than they like me. (On the bad days, I assume that everyone I know or have ever known gets together, mocks me for a couple hours, schedules a date to do so again in the near future, shakes hands and departs. Sadly, the experiences I had in highschool and then again in college reinforcing this have yet to fade.)
Now, I've spent a long time with various therapists who have tried to coax and/or browbeat me into the idea that love, or even like, is not quantifiable, no matter what my childhood may have shown me. I don't entirely believe it, but I'm willing to accept that there are points at which it doesn't really matter (i.e. my marriage.)
And I try to factor this assumption into most of my friendships, trying to not to be too eager, trying to make sure I never look like I'm trying to be anyone's New Best Friend, trying to figure out how much people like to be liked, and how they like to see that affection displayed while also trying to make sure that the people I like know that I really do think they're awesome people. And it's cool, on the neurotic front, it's far less crippling than my inability to talk on a phone.
But writing holiday cards....ooo, it's like I pour all of my crazy into these little cards. I genuinely enjoy sending out the cards, I find stamps and envelopes and handwritten sentiments charming and soothing. I post asking who wants one, and then dither about all the other people who didn't respond to whom I'd like to send one. I find cards I really like, say most of the things I want to say, and then freeze up when I go to put them in the mail, thinking "is it all just too much? Have I been too nakedly fond of all these people?" Eventually, I steel myself, send them out, and nothing awful happens.
Oh, crazy. You're so much fun.
Now, I've spent a long time with various therapists who have tried to coax and/or browbeat me into the idea that love, or even like, is not quantifiable, no matter what my childhood may have shown me. I don't entirely believe it, but I'm willing to accept that there are points at which it doesn't really matter (i.e. my marriage.)
And I try to factor this assumption into most of my friendships, trying to not to be too eager, trying to make sure I never look like I'm trying to be anyone's New Best Friend, trying to figure out how much people like to be liked, and how they like to see that affection displayed while also trying to make sure that the people I like know that I really do think they're awesome people. And it's cool, on the neurotic front, it's far less crippling than my inability to talk on a phone.
But writing holiday cards....ooo, it's like I pour all of my crazy into these little cards. I genuinely enjoy sending out the cards, I find stamps and envelopes and handwritten sentiments charming and soothing. I post asking who wants one, and then dither about all the other people who didn't respond to whom I'd like to send one. I find cards I really like, say most of the things I want to say, and then freeze up when I go to put them in the mail, thinking "is it all just too much? Have I been too nakedly fond of all these people?" Eventually, I steel myself, send them out, and nothing awful happens.
Oh, crazy. You're so much fun.