**Back posted from Myspace, which is no-more.
I have not been able to stop singing all day.
I've been fairly gloomy all week, ranging in intensity from mildly sad to crying on my way home from work last night (yeah, you feel sorry for me, I know). There are a few different reasons - none of them really the point of this little post.
For the past week I've been listening to nothing but the soundtrack to Across the Universe (seriously, if you haven't already, go see this movie. Take me with you - I'll go again). It's so very very good - I finally understand why people like the Beatles so much. All it took was a female voice or two to sing their songs.
Anyway, there's no music playing here at work. I answer phones, so we can't have any. That doesn't stop me from sining. I've sung Beatles songs, commercials, Kelly Clarkson songs... you name it. It's gotten so bad today that every time I start to sing (or even whistle) my coworker starts singing Blame It On The Rain to combat me.
But I'm more cheerful today than I've been all week. So I think it worked, not that it was my intent. I think I used singing to self-medicate and make myself cheeful. I'm very excited to get to my car, where I can sing as loudly as I want. Ten more minutes!
Oh yeah, I'll tell you something,
I think you'll understand.
When I'll say that something
I want to hold your hand,
I want to hold your hand,
I want to hold your hand.
21.8.07
A big, gay blog post.
**Back posted from Myspace, which is no-more.
I've spent a lot of time lately reading the Stranger's Homo History feature, from this past year's pride issue, because it's been slow at work and is something I've been meaning to read. (Being in that kind of mood, apparently, I would prefer to read the lesbian history book that's in my car, but can't really do that while I'm supposed to be working, so I'm settling.)
Anyway, I got as far as 1989 before something made me pause. That something was the following quote from someone who was married on the first day that gay marriage was legal in Denmark:
"Be open. Come out. Keep fighting. This is the only way to move anything. If everyone comes out of the closet then this will happen everywhere."
I may not be the best activist ever. In fact, I'm not much of an activist at all since I'm always at rehearsal and never have time to actually do any activisting (no matter how much I may want to). But this is something I can do:
I like girls - a whole bunch. I'm told I'll get the hang of the gay thing soon, but for now I'm happy just saying it somewhere marginally public.
So there! I may be a lazy activist, but I'm a big, gay, lazy activist, dangit!
I've spent a lot of time lately reading the Stranger's Homo History feature, from this past year's pride issue, because it's been slow at work and is something I've been meaning to read. (Being in that kind of mood, apparently, I would prefer to read the lesbian history book that's in my car, but can't really do that while I'm supposed to be working, so I'm settling.)
Anyway, I got as far as 1989 before something made me pause. That something was the following quote from someone who was married on the first day that gay marriage was legal in Denmark:
"Be open. Come out. Keep fighting. This is the only way to move anything. If everyone comes out of the closet then this will happen everywhere."
I may not be the best activist ever. In fact, I'm not much of an activist at all since I'm always at rehearsal and never have time to actually do any activisting (no matter how much I may want to). But this is something I can do:
I like girls - a whole bunch. I'm told I'll get the hang of the gay thing soon, but for now I'm happy just saying it somewhere marginally public.
So there! I may be a lazy activist, but I'm a big, gay, lazy activist, dangit!
17.5.07
The first astounding act of stupidity in my 30s
**Back posted from Myspace, which is no-more.
Monday was my 30th birthday. It was the worst birthday I've had in the past few years. This was NOT because I turned 30. It was my first birthday without my grandmothers, I have family issues that make holidays hard, I'm very stressed about finding an apartment in the next two weeks - AND my car died. I cried. It sucked.
This is how my birthday week has gone: Car refuses to start on my birthday. Collin comes to the rescue. We jump start my car. Collin and Cassie give my flowers and drawing and cheesecake with candles in it. I love them. I drive home. Car doesn't start the next morning, I take the bus and am 1/2 an hour late to work. I drive the car to Sears after work, get a new battery and am on my merry way... until Wednesday morning, when the car again doesn't start. I ask my neighbor to help me jump it, I drive to work, then to the mechanic after work. They rent me a crappy Ford for $13.50 - I love them, they are going to fix my car and restore the happiness that I once had in life, you know, in my 20s.
Just for some background, to establish a possible pattern, I'd like to cut to a couple of years ago. I had driven our boss's mammoth Suburban to the mall, don't remember why. My car at the time was a manual, had almost always been a manual - the Mammoth Suburban was not. When I arrived at the mall and tried to get out of the car I found that I couldn't get the keys out of the ignition. I looked everywhere for a little release button, I started the car and turned it off again. I did a little dance outside the car, hoping that the Key gods would smile down on me. I almost cried. I broke down, called the boyfriend and made him come rescue me from my Mammoth Suburban Mall Hell...Apparently a automatic car must be ALL THE WAY in park before you can take the key out. Who knew?
Now back to today. I'm speaking with the nice, grandfatherly man at the mechanic. He's really nice, we chat a bit, he tells me there's nothing wrong with my car, I laugh, obviously he's kidding. Obviously after I've cried and stressed, paid $88 for a new battery and worried that I would end up LIVING in this broken car in two weeks when my lease is up - OBVIOUSLY there is something very wrong with my car.
It CAN'T just be that the carpet is bunched up underneath the clutch, so I think I'm pushing it all the way down but I'm not. And that's why it won't start and why it hiccups when I'm shifting. It can't be - I won't let it...
I want to apologize to my people. Women of the world, I didn't mean to do it. I promise I'm not this dumb. I promise I know what an alternator does and how to change my own tire. I promise that I can't possibly be this stupid at 30. Really.
Monday was my 30th birthday. It was the worst birthday I've had in the past few years. This was NOT because I turned 30. It was my first birthday without my grandmothers, I have family issues that make holidays hard, I'm very stressed about finding an apartment in the next two weeks - AND my car died. I cried. It sucked.
This is how my birthday week has gone: Car refuses to start on my birthday. Collin comes to the rescue. We jump start my car. Collin and Cassie give my flowers and drawing and cheesecake with candles in it. I love them. I drive home. Car doesn't start the next morning, I take the bus and am 1/2 an hour late to work. I drive the car to Sears after work, get a new battery and am on my merry way... until Wednesday morning, when the car again doesn't start. I ask my neighbor to help me jump it, I drive to work, then to the mechanic after work. They rent me a crappy Ford for $13.50 - I love them, they are going to fix my car and restore the happiness that I once had in life, you know, in my 20s.
Just for some background, to establish a possible pattern, I'd like to cut to a couple of years ago. I had driven our boss's mammoth Suburban to the mall, don't remember why. My car at the time was a manual, had almost always been a manual - the Mammoth Suburban was not. When I arrived at the mall and tried to get out of the car I found that I couldn't get the keys out of the ignition. I looked everywhere for a little release button, I started the car and turned it off again. I did a little dance outside the car, hoping that the Key gods would smile down on me. I almost cried. I broke down, called the boyfriend and made him come rescue me from my Mammoth Suburban Mall Hell...Apparently a automatic car must be ALL THE WAY in park before you can take the key out. Who knew?
Now back to today. I'm speaking with the nice, grandfatherly man at the mechanic. He's really nice, we chat a bit, he tells me there's nothing wrong with my car, I laugh, obviously he's kidding. Obviously after I've cried and stressed, paid $88 for a new battery and worried that I would end up LIVING in this broken car in two weeks when my lease is up - OBVIOUSLY there is something very wrong with my car.
It CAN'T just be that the carpet is bunched up underneath the clutch, so I think I'm pushing it all the way down but I'm not. And that's why it won't start and why it hiccups when I'm shifting. It can't be - I won't let it...
I want to apologize to my people. Women of the world, I didn't mean to do it. I promise I'm not this dumb. I promise I know what an alternator does and how to change my own tire. I promise that I can't possibly be this stupid at 30. Really.
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