Confusion and Bad Hair Days

I wish I knew what to do about Joe. He and I are having a rough patch over his blog. I missed a couple of misspelled words (I think blogger did something but I'm still taking responsibility for it) in one post and now I'm no longer proofing his blog. (Of course when I pointed out to him that it was one time then he tells me it was more then once and when I asked where he refused to tell me.) He's not telling me the whole story until I piss him off and then suddenly he's spilling it all. And I'm not supposed to be upset about it. He says that he doesn't want to hurt my feelings but because I don't go gently into this good night, my feelings do get hurt and I lose trust in him.

Frankly, he's treating me like a girlfriend that he's about to break up with.

He says that our friendship is the most important thing, so if he had to pick between the being friends or me doing his site, he would pick being friends, but knowing now what I do about him, it feels like he's edging towards having someone else do his site. I asked him if that was the case and he denied it, still who knows. I don't. I used to think he was being completely honest with me, now I look back and am not sure. So many excuses that used to ring true are now clouded in distrust. I really hate this.

I put forth the idea that we should make our friendship separate from our business, because he needs to be able to tell me anything about the site and I need to feel secure in our friendship. He's giving it a try, but he says that he thinks it seems schizophrenic.

I bleached my hair tonight. The bleach that I got had a tint in with it that would tone down the orange/yellow. And well... Let me put it this way; you know how sometimes you're walking down the street and you see an old person with purple hair and you think, "Oh, how sad, they didn't know what they were doing."

I now look like I don't know what I'm doing.

At least my outsides match my insides now, so I've got that going for me...

You Are 24 Years Old

24 Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe. 13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world. 20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences. 30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more! 40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

Something I thought

You're the kind of crazy that only dogs can diagnose.

Not sure where it came from, but it is funny.

Dylan Moran

He's been doing stand-up for ages, but I only knew him as an actor but last night I saw him on BBC America doing his material. He's amazingly funny. Here's a taste of his comedy that I found in an article on line.

"You tend to lie a lot as an adult. It's part of your means of getting
around. You know, when you're late and you arrive and say: 'I'm so
sorry. Traffic. Traffic was terrible. And there was a fire as well. A
small boy - I had to give him an eye operation and all I had was a
spatula and a banana.' You should just tell the truth. You should just
walk in and say: 'I knew you were here. I knew you were waiting. I was
at home and do you know what I did? I had a bun. And it was delicious.
Because I knew you were waiting. I'll have a glass of wine - thank you
very much.' And people do that as well when they break up. People always
try and bullshit one another. 'I'm leaving you because you're such a
nice person. Because you're such a good person. I'm not worthy. I have
to go and live under a bridge.' Just tell the truth. Grab them by the
teeth, hold them to you and say: 'I'm leaving you because you are the
most boring fucker I've ever met in my whole life. I hate you so much it
gives me energy. You remember that crazy sound you used to hear when you
were going to sleep? That was me, chewing the bed.' "

I made myself laugh

I was watching a UK DVD and for whatever reason it kept pausing and turning the picture into squares. I kept backing up then hitting play, but it would only work for a couple of minutes then it would pause again.

Finally I looked the DVD player right in the frozen counter and shouted, "You pixelating mother-fucker!"

And then I busted up laughing.

Yeah, I live alone.

Telephone stalker

Yesterday I had a number of calls from, who my Caller ID identified as, Mary Bill. Mary, if that's who it was, had a tiny hesitant voice, like a school girl who had too much to drink.

The first time she called, she asked for Grossman. I said, "I'm sorry you have the wrong number." I paused because I expected a thank-you. Instead, she asked, "Are you sure this isn't Grossman?" I said yes I was sure she had the wrong number and because I was also sure that this woman was not going to thank me, I hung up.

A minute later the phone rang again, this time it Caller ID showed the number but no name. It was her again. "Do you promise this isn't Kathryn?" (I guess that she was asking for Kathryn when I heard Grossman, but I was neither so it worked out the same.) "Yeah." "There's no Kathryn there?" I went into bitch mode. Normally this takes longer, but I'm weening myself off of anti-anxiety meds and had my first snippy argument with Joe so I was in no mood to be patient with this woman. "Who are you?" I growled. "Are you some kind of nut?" I paused to let her admit she was a loony but when she didn't say anything, I said, "Stop calling here," and hung up.

I thought I would tie up the phone by going online so if she called again the line would just ring and ring. I picked up my email and surfed awhile then decided to finish watching a DVD I had started watching the day before.

Ten minutes later the phone rang again. It was Mary again, calling from the first number. I answered it and she asked, "Do you want to know who I am?" I said, "I don't care who you are." She asked, "Can I tell who I am?" "No. Now go away." Again I hung up.

A half an hour later the phone rang again, it was her, but I didn't pick up. She hung up when the answering machine beeped.

I went back online and did a search on Mary Bill and on the phone numbers, I didn't find anything.

I don't think I would be as interested if the name she was asking for wasn't so close to my own, but I don't want to talk to her. She sounded really needy in that "I'm drowning, you're trying to swim me back to shore but I'm going to claw and grab and push your head underwater until I kill us both" kind of way. Who needs that? I'm trying to keep myself from drowning I really don't need the extra struggle.

Arg. I really need to get these meds out of my system.

Why I love Neil Gaiman (apart from his writing)

This is from Neil's website. Apparently author Margaret Atwood has created and patented a machine that will remotely sign a book for a fan, have some interaction from the author and then there would be a tape of the interaction for the fan to take with them. Here's what Neil thinks.

The way I see it, the whole point of a signing is to be able to say hello to the people who buy the books and for them to say hello to you, and for them to know that you picked up that book and scribbled something illegible on it. (In my case, I doubt there are any two signatures exactly the same.)

Not that signing a book is anything like being kissed (unless of course, you are kissed during a signing), but the Atwood Patented Booksigner seems to make as much sense and promise to be as much fun as a machine that would kiss you on the cheek, thus reproducing a kiss on the cheek from a celebrity you fancy, who's a thousand miles away kissing a screen, which then issues you with a slip of paper informing you that you had just been kissed by the person in question, for, as Ms Atwood puts it, posterity.

I'd rather just not be kissed than walk away with my "You were just AutoKissed by..." slip, just as I'd rather not go on a signing tour than use an Atwood machine. In my opinion it's something that should be personal, intimate, faintly silly and include all the spelling mistakes, the illegible bits and the ink-blots. (Signing that is. Not kissing. Unless you're the sort of kisser who produces ink blots.)


He cares for his readers (this is what he calls the people who enjoy his books; he thinks that the word "fan" is demeaning.) in a way that many authors and actors etc. have no understanding. He cares for us as people. The same way that he is people.

Respect and caring. Sweet.

GIMME GIMME GIMME!

Oh man, oh man, oh man, I want this so bad I can taste it.

I hate that I'm broke.

Yesterday

January 4th is Dave Foley's birthday, but because I was sick I missed wishing him a happy day on this blog.

I feel like a bad fan. He's always been so nice to me, even the time that I couldn't stop saying his name. I could see that he wanted to ask me if there was something wrong with me, but he didn't. Nice guy. Didn't have to be, but he was.

Happy belated birthday, Dave. I hope that the celebration is still happening.

Today

When I signed on this morning I had 35 messages sitting in my inbox.

They were all spam.

Now I'm depressed.

No calls. No emails. My feelings are hurt.

So much for a happy beginning to 2005.

2005

I have friends who had what they believed to be a bad year and I feel bad for them because I can see that they had a good year, but that's for them to decide.

I had a good year. It started out low; depression so bad that I didn't know who I was any more and such a large swallowing of pride that I'm surprised that I didn't choke to death on it. But I was able to not only swallow it but I kept it down, too. I asked for so much help that I'm stunned that I didn't start saying "help me" instead of "hello." I asked the right people because they helped me. I got back on meds, started talk therapy again and worked harder on me than I ever had. I somehow saw that I was worth it.

I didn't do much writing but the way I see it being happier will allow me to write different things instead of the same thing cropping up again and again.

Once again, I'm blessed with wonderful friends who love me more than thought I deserved to be loved and I loved them fully and, for the first time, without fear. Sorry guys, it's about me, not you.

I hope you all have a wonderful year and thank you for being.