Стіна, Для тебе, і Мить
Gearing up for a concert that I don’t yet have tickets for… but I have THREE alarms set on my phone so I don’t miss the presale.
That’s not obsessive, is it?
I just came back from a week in Phoenix and I AM DYING.
I went on this business trip with an extroverted co-worker and even though we had separate hotel rooms and were in separate classes, she was like this huge energy vampire whenever we were in each other’s company.
I got home well after midnight last night and was just so emotionally drained that there was no chance I would be functional today.
I’m pissed and disappointed, but judging by the amount of energy I’ve had today, I definitely wouldn’t have survived. I lost $75 if they won’t let me reschedule. I don’t mind losing it; it was for the best.
I also cancelled my trip to the Putnam Den to see Black Mountain Symphony.
In happier news - here’s a kick ass cover of Okean Elzy’s “In Heaven / In the Sky” (depending on the translator, I guess)
I can tell you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper in death…
My first introduction to music, real music, was at my aunt’s house. Bowie and the Stones were played in constant rotation. My aunt had a love for Bowie that was only rivaled by her love for Mick Jagger. She loved Bowie so much, she dressed up as Ziggy Stardust for Halloween.
Bowie’s music was so woven into the tapestry of my life that when things disintegrated between my aunt and I, my CDs and mix tapes went into deep storage. I only listened to him when I happened upon his music via the radio or tv. To willingly listen to it tore open wounds that - a fuck ton of years later - still haven’t healed properly. It’s weird how music gets tangled up in the mundane operations of day-to-day living to the point where the situation and the soundtrack are so intertwined that you can’t have one without the other. Bowie will forever be trapped in 1975 - 1992, at 26 Marmor Court, Wethersfield, CT… and the mere thought of hearing any of Bowie’s music takes me right back there. It’s not always a happy place.
Worlds collided in an unexpected way the other day when I saw the headline on the Ukrainian language version of the BBC’s website. The photo caught my eye, and I skimmed the headline looking for words I recognised. It was easy enough: Died Singer David Bowie. I was so thrilled that I understood the headline, that its meaning didn’t sink in right away.
And then the tears came…
And Ziggy played guitar…
the twelfth doctor, ladies and gentlemen
I can’t tell you what Harry Potter / circumcision rabbit hole I jumped down with both feet a few weeks ago - and fuck me if that isn’t possibly the weirdest sentence I have ever written in my entire fucking existence to this point - but there is a very nice picture out there of a totally nude Daniel Radcliffe. Who is uncircumcised. If you care about that sort of thing.
(And the voices in my head just started arguing that “If it’s good enough for the Chosen One, it’s good enough for me…” *shakes fist at anti-circ friends*)
For the record, don’t do Harry Potter fanfic research whilst trying to keep up with yet another argumentative thread on Facebook about circumcision, kids, it’s like… I have no fucking idea. Drunk googling probably couldn’t have gotten me to that picture even if it was my sole objective to turn the computer on.
Change of topic, yeah?
Hmmmm. What could I possibly say to top that little revelation?
Yeah, I got nothin’…
I like the new job a lot more now I’m able to play without much adult supervision. I’m finding a lot of things that the previous person(s?) hadn’t been doing, but that’s because I’m approaching this position from an accountant’s POV, not a dispatcher’s. That’s not a slam against the most recent person at all, because I actually like them, but they don’t have the accounting background to see these things and understand the impact they can have. They don’t care that I’m finding their mistakes, and I’m having a blast finding them.
Of course, we’ve already had to have the “GET OUT OF MY HEAD!” chat, which is even more fascinating because I was told I wouldn’t like that person. I actually like them quite a bit.
You can graduate high school but you can never leave.
The best part of all this ridiculous drama is that EVERYBODY has decided they can talk to me about everyone else. It’s absolutely fascinating. I’m just sitting there, absorbing it all, and promptly forgetting it as soon as I get in the car.
I was nervous for a while that I had made the wrong choice, but eh… I’m going to be just fine there.
i’m not gonna lie… this is hot (stolen from deviant art, artist judy depp)
I don’t know if I like my new job’s hours.
I work 7-3:30 and I should be LOVING it. It’s not like I never went into work at 7, and I tend to burn out by 3, so these hours should be perfect… but after three weeks, I’m struggling to get my body into the rhythm of the new hours.
I haven’t been doing anything with my Ukrainian. I’ve had to stop with the tutoring because the hours that work for me usually (due to the time difference) no longer work for me. I’ve been trying to find the motivation to go to the library between 3:30 - 5, but that’s missing, too. I’m not sure how to reboot myself, but it has to happen soon.
I posted this on Facebook yesterday:
For those of you who like a good ghost story—I had to find a letter referring to a benefit I received when my father passed away. It was not where it belonged. Not the safe, not the ‘active’ files in my office, and not in the ‘storage’ files upstairs. I looked EVERYWHERE. So, I pulled some file folders related to the estate that shouldn’t have had that letter in it…
As I’m looking through PAGES of documents and about to give up I hear my dad say, “It’s the next page.” (I shit you not. It was as clear as if he had been sitting next to me.)
It was. Tucked between a pissy letter to the Toledo Coroner’s office (long story) and the addendum to the death certificate. EXACTLY where it belonged. *grumble*
The longer version is that I needed proof that my father’s pension payments would come to me for the rest of my life. I don’t know why, but the bank was requiring it as part of our mortgage refinancing. I called to request the document (because I couldn’t find the original), but I needed it ASAP, so I went on the search. The letter I needed should have either been in my office or upstairs in storage… in a folder labelled “PENSION DOX”. It wasn’t.
As I’m going through my storage area, I find three different folders full of my father’s estate crap. I’m not sure how long I need to keep it (although we’re going on 14 years now), but I haven’t had the emotional strength to go through all of it. So… I’m going through literally hundreds of pages of legal documents, notes I’ve made, my father’s address book, his to-do lists, everything and anything that I accumulated as part of closing that chapter of my life.
I get about 3/4 of the way through, and I am DONE. I can’t look at another page of this stuff. It just hurts so much, you know? All the letters from the collection agencies (dead men don’t pay bills and their daughters can’t afford to pay them either), all the back and forth with the attorney, the absolutely TERRIBLE obituary my father’s siblings wrote…
So. Just as I decide the document is gone, and I’m going to have to wait for the company to get their shit together, I hear my dad say, “It’s the next page.” Like he was sitting right the fuck behind me. I could even smell him: shoe leather and cigarette smoke. I decide to trust him, because, when disembodied voices of long-dead people tell you to do shit, you do it.
I finish reading the letter a co-worker wrote on my behalf to the Toledo Coroner’s office about the rude asshole who gave me a hard time when I asked for a copy of some document the life insurance company needed, and there it was. In all it’s two-paged, scribbled on, glory.
Of all the places that document should have been, that was the last place it belonged. I don’t know how the fuck it wound up in there. It shouldn’t have wound up there. The last time I needed that document was when we moved to Da Brook, and I had to change the direct deposit information. All the direct deposit information was in the active folder in my office. By rights, or pure laziness, it should have been in there as well. Paper clipped to it. (And I do have a very distinct memory of actually paper clipping that shit together and putting it in the yellow file folder in my office.)
How the fuck did it end up in an orange folder, labelled “Dad’s Estate 2/3” in between the angry letter and the addendum to the death certificate? (And why wasn’t the addendum paper clipped to the original like it should have been?)
I really wish I knew… Thankfully, D.O.D. is still looking out for me.