constance | Stress test

It feels like ages since the last time I posted--though I suppose it really isn't that long at all--and I keep thinking, boy, I really need to sit down and just say hello, and then I don't, not really because I don't have anything to say, but because. I don't know, really. Things keep distracting me. Nothing rivetingly important, but somehow in all the to-do I never manage to open my update client.

Here are a few of my late distractions:

My friend L's departure to foreign parts. Because I am reasonably reserved in company, L probably has no idea of the huge pity-party which I held in her honor, but LET ME TELL YOU I AM SO VERY SORRY TO SEE HER GO. Who am I going to call when I want someone to tell me that my idea of the Quentin Tarantino theme motel is brilliant? Well, probably I will call her still. BUT DAMN IT. It is not the same, I tell you. I miss her very much already. But I do wish her the best of luck on her first day of work.

Season One of Angel, which I'm surprised to find out I've seen a good bit of it. I tend to think that I haven't seen many episodes of the series at all, but unless just by accident the random episodes I have seen have all been Season One eps (and they can't have been), then I've seen much more than I think I have. God. Does that sentence make any sense at all? I don't know that it does.

A little stomach bug, which I am unfairly blaming on the Indian restaurant we went to on Sunday. More likely it was just overeating catching up--two big restaurant meals in one day!--but man, I felt dry-toast-and-Sprite-ish for a couple of days there, and am only just getting to the point where lying down to sleep seems like a good idea again.

The Voice of God--suddenly, I am imagining Alanis Morissette--which spoke to me last night on my way home from work. See, there are about three or four houses here in Macon that I drive by every now and then where I think, oh, God, if only that house were ever put on the market at a time when I was looking for a house, I would consider it to be a Sign. And last night I realized that one of them, a Craftsman cottage in my neighborhood, was up for sale. It is pretty, this little Craftsman cottage, but no prettier than any one of a dozen houses I know, and I haven't even seen the inside and I don't really have any reason for loving this house unreasonably over almost all others. But I do. I really, really do. So much that when I got to work this morning the first thing I did was call my real estate agent, which, if you know procrastinating, excuse-making me, is a big deal. I will be meeting this house for a blind date on Friday morning, along with one or two others. Wish me luck.

This review meeting at work we're having because I fucked up. I am assured that it happens to everyone, sooner or later, that a programming error gets past an analyst and causes a problem in an office somewhere. And that these meetings are more brainstorming sessions than criminal investigations, but even knowing this, of course I am still obsessing over it. HOW COULD I HAVE SCREWED THIS UP MY FATHER IS RIGHT I AM NOT TO BE TRUSTED WITH ANY SORT OF RESPONSIBILITY. You know, that sort of thing. My little porcupiny stress-ball is getting quite a workout this week.

My hair, which has not been cut in four months and which still looks okay--thanks to the decent haircut I got to fix the horrible one I got right before it--but which I have begun examining very closely every morning in the mirror in manner of aging starlet looking for wrinkles. I have to say that I am not really sure I trust a haircut that can go for four months without incident, and so I am expecting things to go horribly wrong any day now. And why, you may be asking yourself, does she not just schedule an appointment for a haircut? To you I reply, That is just the way I am.

New journal layout, which originally was created around one of my all-time favorite fonts, Tom's New Roman, but I have since discovered that this font looks perfectly crappy on machines that can't smooth fonts the way Windows XP can, and so I am regretfully abandoning my plan and using safer fonts instead.

Flight Plan: are you kidding me? Who thought this one up, a bunch of nine-year-olds? I can just imagine them sitting at the table saying, and wouldn't it be cool if...? Without thought to logic or believability. Do you know what, though? To my shame, I thought it was fun. Jodie Foster, Peter Sarsgaard of the dead, dead eyes, Sean Bean, Greta Scacchi, yum!