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New webpage update: I can't quite get my ftp software set up correctly, so until my support service (i.e. Q) calls me back, nothing will proceed. I'm not in any rush. I just try to remember that this, as any personal web page endeavour, should not be taken too seriously.
This has been an interesting, but draining weekend. Saturday afternoon I traveled into the City for a lacrosse double date. If I could telephone myself 2 years ago, I'm sure Amoret Jr. wouldn't believe me...but there you go. I'm learning that just about anything is fun with the right people, the right snacks, the right attitude of pleasant detachment and the right amount of beer. From the moment I woke up on Saturday I was in a better mood than I have been of late, and that certainly didn't hurt either. Unfortuantely, today I'm back to the same weary depression that's characterized the last couple of weeks. I kept bursting into tears this afternoon over the tiniest things. Then I would feel guilty for subjecting the Boy to my mood swings, which of course makes the depression worse. Unfortunately for him, the Boy is one of the few people I will cry in front of...and this has been a very stressful year, so he gets a good chuck of the frustrated weeping that I keep inside most of the time. It's worse lately. I'm in a depressive period right now, and I don't know why. It could just be about living an unsatisfying life: I accept guilt from my parents when I don't conform to their standards or I make myself guilty for not being happy/grateful enough for my loved ones. Whatever I do, it just doesn't seem good enough any more. Especially since I'm sitting around, waiting for gainful employment to bring shape and definition to my life. When I have a job, it all seems a bit more manageable somehow. But I don't. I have looming deadlines and a killer sense of self-doubt and inadequacy. If I could get beyond self-loathing, I would be so much easier to be with. I just don't know how to break the cycle. None of this has anything to do with lacrosse, though.
The rest of Saturday was spent socializing with Pixie & Q. It was very nice. I like being both friends and family. There's something secure about it - it satisfies my paranoia about making and then losing close friends because I'm marrying the family and they're stuck with me. Then there's all the friends and music and books and ideas we have in common, so it's dynamic in a way that most blood relationships lack. Unfortunately, it's no longer quite as convenient to socialize with them as it was when the Boy was in residence. (Amusing aside: before leaving the Bachelor Pad, the Boy had considerable difficulty finding clean socks. In the end, he had to go through some boxes to find a ratty, albeit clean pair that hadn't quite made it back into his wardrobe after the move. Cut to Froghopper Nook: we're sitting around and the Boy is telling his sad sock story when Pixie recalls a clean pair of socks he left behind. You can almost hear the Halleluia Chorus as he puts on the new pair. Then he balls up the old socks, trots down the hall, and throws them into his old room before remembering that the room is now a study and he no longer lives there. We laughed.) At some point during the hockey game, the boy fell asleep on the couch and had to take himself home...thus leaving me with Stacy & Pixie to hit the town. Now that was a strange time. We met up with a guy Stacy had met in New York last weekend, and proceeded to get into a long, convoluted argument about where we should go on Queen Street. We were almost diametrically opposed: there was the Garden camp and the Bovine camp, mutually irreconcilable. (As I later quipped, "we're like the Montagues and the Capulets. Two goth houses, both alike in dignity...") But despite the bizarre situation of agreeing on the same club block without sharing one opinion about the individual clubs, it was an interesting night out. I like this Eric person. He looks strangely familiar and treats my inane ramblings with a flattering amount of attention. I like that in a person. Not to mention that I got to try my Paris stories on a new audience. I have no idea why I start talking about the Goat when I want to entertain strangers, but that's what happens. I found out later that night that St. Stephen ate dinner in a Tex-Mex restaurant with Paris while I sat in another Tex-Mex restaurant and told stories about Paris. I have no idea what that means, either. By 1 a.m. we were on our way to Bovine, despite quiet reservations on the parts of the Capulets (i.e. us). Then the made us wait in line to get in. And then they wanted to see my I.D. For me, that was the sticking point. I may not have that much dignity, but I will not be party to some bouncer's delusion that the Bovine is a club and not a stinking dive. So I hightailed it to home-away-from-home. At some point during the night, the happy beer feeling wore off, leading to today's unhappy peaks & valleys. Sigh. "The highs are too high
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