october 29, 2000. I've just spent an hour & a half on my feet in the kitchen, preparing dinner. Argh. I started off in hopeful spirit, but the little disasters that attend about half of my efforts soon dragged me down. For instance: I set up our wedding present blender for the first time so that I could make caesar salad dressing, but I didn't quite screw it on right. I discovered this fact when oil & worchester sauce began oozing over the counter (although on reflection, it's probably best that I discovered this before powering it up.) Shortly thereafter, the Boy discovered that the meat sauce had burnt to the bottom of the pot, despite the fact that we followed the recipe directions to the letter. Très argh. In an "I Love Lucy" world, such mistakes would be cause for much shared hilarity. But I'm tired & hungry & frustrated with my continued deficit in cooking skills, so there was no laughter from me. It's been a sad couple of days here at Blossomview. We found out on Friday that the Boy would not be getting any holiday time off, although he was welcome to squeeze in a plane trip if he could cover the route in two days. Our trip home has been reduced to 5 days. One wonders about the point of the exercise, especially since the change fee for our tickets has bumped the total up to more than 700 dollars. Meanwhile, the girl who's sleeping with the boss is going to the Dominican Republic for 2 weeks. Not that I'm bitter. I'm just saying. I'm doing okay with the whole thing now, but when I found out, I had a small crying fit. I had staked so much on this vacation. I wanted to squeeze enough love & familiarity & fun into the 2 weeks as to last me the six months until summer. Instead, there's this ugliness. Oh, I know I could stick around until the 7th if I really wanted to. But even someone as selfish & drama queeny as me knows that you don't let your husband go back home alone to work, while you spend your time gadding about. Not to mention New Year's Eve. It just isn't done. I'd be happier about the whole thing if I enjoyed being here more. Even spending time alone with the Boy isn't a motivation anymore - we spend every day together anyway. Oh well. When it's time to do the right thing, you just have to shut up & soldier. So I will. Following the recent trend of weekend partying, we went out for some fun last night. Oh boy. It was pretty bizarre, even for me. Start out with the faculty of ed. A few weeks ago, they arranged a Hallowe'en house crawl, boasting 2 drinks per house, all for the low low price of 10 dollars. The Boy was intrigued; I had my reservations. (I always do.) Would this be another booze tornado of shallow fun? Well. Kind of. It rained all day yesterday, a cold bitter rain that made our breath steam up on our quick forays to the laundromat. By the time the house crawl was scheduled to start, it was the worst Hallowe'en weather that I've ever seen in my life. We decided to take the van, with the idea that if the Boy wanted to drink to excess, we'd just pick it up the next day. So all tarted up in strange finery, a vampiress & Anne of Green Gables made ready to hit the town. The first half-hour confirmed my worst fears: although I knew a good chunk of the party-goers, it was awkward as hell. The Boy & I stood against the wall, drinking our drinks and making frequent sympathetic eye-contact. Things slowly loosened up, and by the end of our stint, we had made quite a few new friends. Perhaps this was because we offered to let them pile into the back of the van; I prefer to think that it was our native charm shining through. The first person I saw at the second house was the Anti-Stephen, and it appeared that he had dressed as St. Jack (or possibly Tom Waits). Talk about disorienting. Fortunately, we were all well on our way to being trashed. By the third house, I had begun reeling. The world seemed a wonderful, if giddy place; I was at peace with myself and my peers. I began to put makeup on boys from my class. My stomach made it's first indication that perhaps it would be wise to slow the fuck down. But it was time to go to the fourth house, so I found my purse & sailed out the door… …and on my way out, tried to navigate a small grassy downward slope that had been significantly weakened by 24 hours of rain… …wearing, as I was, shoes purchased in 1994 that had very shallow treads at that point and had seen hard usage since… …well, to make a long story short, I lost my already unsteady balance & fell down. Slid down, actually - if not for my amazing drunkard's reflexes, I would've slid under a parked car. I picked myself up, too 'faced to be upset, and went to the car. "I think I have to go home now," I said to the Boy. The van full of passengers, however, disagreed. "The dirt's part of the outfit! Just go change & come back out!" And then they started chanting my name. I am nothing if not vulnerable to peer pressure. It was as I stood in the bathroom, surrounded by a ring of twigs, leaves, dirt & debris that I realized how stupid this was. The Dress - my beautiful goth princess velvet lace-up Siren dress - was covered in mud. My right leg was covered in mud. My underwear (!) was covered in mud. My purse & my shoes…well, you get the idea. The Boy & I spent a great deal of time today rinsing & wiping my Hallowe'en outfit in a futile attempt to get it all clean. I still can't get over how much of the turf I carried off with me… One night I took off my shoes at the Garden and danced for a couple of hours. When I washed my stockings afterwards, I found them to be substantially cleaner than the ones I peeled off last night. That's how much dirt I took away with me. But in the bathroom, sponging off my leg, I still wasn't really upset. Just sorta concerned about the path my life was taking. So I got back in the car, drove along to the next house, and then had the Boy take me home again. Because sometimes wisdom lies in knowing when to pack it in.