What the doctor should have meant: dishery.diaryland.com

There�s a certain fine satisfaction to enjoying life. That�s the tagline I put on this journal some time ago, and I do remember the moment I did it, I remember thinking that summarily it was a satisfying thought, a way to look at this whole life of spontaneity and particular seconds in the day that mark you and define you. That out of 16,000 days or so you can draw from the goodness of what you create of yourself and try to forget the bad moments, the mistakes and the tragedy and lonely times. Knowing that there is goodness out there and letting it come to you. It is satisfying, the knowing. The possibility. The chance that a ham and egger day is right around the corner and you might remember to bring your camera with you.

� Outfoxed, here

A few weeks ago I was whining about my commute and Melissa advised me to avoid the highway altogether and just stay on 23rd Street all the way through Montlake. Today I finally remembered to give it a shot, and oh my stars and hallelujah, from Steve�s to the commuter parking lot (where I have to catch a shuttle van to Gastro) took me only 20 minutes! 20 minutes in steady medium-ish traffic, you get held up at a red light but you make the next one, no big deal, and minus the stress-inducing irritation of I-5 and the incomps who drive it. It was the nicest drive to any workplace I have had in ages. And the radio worked the whole time.
When good things happen to good people.
Good friends. More good friends, because you can't have too many. And boyfriends.
The receptionist gave me some chocolates and a Valentine that read, "You�re the best Valentine and that�s no bull." I dig the picture of the bull. Also, that Pam calls it Vinceneal�s Day.
The new HR manager brought me a sugar cookie with a big slab of chocolate stuck to it � I approve � and wondered whether I might be interested in pulling in some overtime building a web site for a different subspecialty group here at the hosp. Oh my goodness yes and thank you for thinking of me, I said. I told her that if they had any questions about my qualifications, I�d be happy to send over a copy of my resume or meet with them and bring work samples, whatever, and she said that wouldn�t be necessary because I already came with such sterling recommendations from such tough customers. (I think maybe she�s not the one who got the temp agency to go after me.) I also got major brownie points for telling her about a simple but glaring bug I�d found in yet another subspecialty web site weeks ago and have had no luck getting the site administrator to correct. Not that I am in the business of ratting people out, you understand, just that it can only do me good to be seen as a competent QA tool and proactive worker bee.
Typo: "worker beer." Ha!
One recent entry on the list I keep of funny Google searches that led to diary hits (maybe I will publish it here sometime, if that doesn't seem too narcissistic) was "datey ladies."
Last night I learned that on the night I first met Steve, he remarked to one of his friends apropos of his tentative interest in me that I seemed like the kind of girl he wouldn�t have to buy a lot of presents for. That this was his idea of a very desirable quality. That he was right.
"Daredevil" is getting solidly shitty reviews. I hate Ben Affleck and his laughable philanthropic-auteur pretensions and want to sock him in his smarmy giant-chinned face, so this pleases me. Kudos to Elvis Mitchell for pointing out in the NYT review that Cuba Gooding Jr. was removed early from consideration for the Daredevil role but that the producers "had no problem casting a black man as the villain."
My orange pea coat is averaging like two compliments a day for the past few weeks. Why thank you! Thank you especially when you say it looks good on me.
Popeye's coming back soon, within days, before wartime. How hearts-and-flowers wonderful for Vanessa, and also how not bad for me, because you could do a hell of a lot worse than to hang out and drink some worker beer with those two on, say, a Saturday night � and then maybe go see a show, now that would be great. Also, Popeye's godlike karaoke skills, which he doesn't know it yet but he is taking to Rock Star Karaoke at the Sunset at his earliest possible convenience. And he will be happy that I have un-associated myself from the Former*, and since he is a dude with mucho integrity in that respect, his opinion matters to me.
A guy I did some work for a few weeks back, a local winemaker, got some excellent press, due at least in part to the stuff I wrote for him. The description from my blurb was quoted in the article. He might be giving me more to do in the next phase of his p.r. blitz.
After dropping my car off at the garage on Beacon Hill, I was going to walk the two miles or so home and put a dent in the huge pile of administrative crapola that menaces me, but since I have Monday off anyway, maybe what I�ll do instead is go to Capitol Hill and walk around. Get coffee and make my pre-trip shopping list for when I rendezvous with Steve tonight, or read a magazine or maybe a book that I�ll pick up at Twice Sold Tales. Look at used cds, whatever. Call my sister on my cell phone and catch her in car as she is leaving work. Maybe I won�t, maybe I will stick with the original plan. I�ll see what I feel like, and that is a very nice feeling.
On my way to see Number Two on Wednesday, I parked somewhere new and discovered a promising little thrift shop that I will have to check out someday soon. The prices I saw on items in the window looked more than reasonable.
And, dudes, I am going away skiing tomorrow and Sunday! How cool is that? I�m going to a place that�s impressively in the middle of nowhere, and I�m such a stud that I am going to have two sets of equipment with me. There�s going to be a road trip involved, obviously, in a car that has a cassette player so I can bring along all my old mix tapes from the college-radio era including the gems that Don K. made for me, and also obviously there�s going to be lots of snow and a stay in a motel, and how cool is it in the first place that I get to go out with someone who likes to go away � with me! � for weekends of cross-country skiing? (*Very* cool.)

I could come up with more but duty calls. See, I am not all gloom and misery. Please note: the tone of this entry should in no way be considered an endorsement of Valentine�s Day. Thank you very much.

* Clarification (later; I am at home after dropping off the car and will get my ski stuff together and then bus to Cap Hill and then catch another bus from downtown to the garage): I meant, Popeye will be happy not because he thought Todd was a loser but because he did not like to see me so weepy and tearing out my hair, etc., over him. Popeye did not think Todd was a loser, and, indeed, he is not one. Sorry if this seems like splitting hairs. To me, it is a constituent element of the good old high road and therefore an obligation. Also, when I was talking to Julie in REI the other night, there is a thing I could have done to seem a lot less gross and grotty in her eyes: when she was asking me about this weekend's trip, where I'd be staying and what it was like, instead of saying that I didn't know the details � thereby making myself look ignorant in addition to everything else � all I would have had to do was reply that my boyfriend, who by the way works at Microsoft, was taking care of all the arrangements. And I know Julie, and that would have shut her up about her sweet little feet in a New York second. But I don't do that sort of thing, I just don't, I'd hate myself if I did. I'll confess, though, that I also wish I could give myself a free pass from time to time as Julie-type circumstances warranted. Would that be so bad? Sometimes the good old high road is a good old pain in the ass.