Garret!

July 30, again

[Heather wrote a special Tropism guest entry today, so if you haven't already read that, do so before reading this...]

Hey, darlings. Um. Brain is impaired from lifting heavy things. Hmm. Style is altered from reading portions of sequel to Bridget Jones. Will attempt to overcome dual afflictions.

Okay. Lessee. I'm typing this in my garret. Aren't I lucky? I'm a poet, and I've got my very own garret! I've always wanted a little writing-room tucked-in under the eaves-- I even love that phrase, "tucked in under the eaves"-- and now I have one! It's a fair-sized room, too, though the ceiling slopes at one end (that'd be the eaves, yup) and makes it impossible for me to stand upright over there, but that's okay. That's where the couch/bed is, so I don't expect to be standing there very often anyway.

Heather did a lovely job bringing us up to date as far as Saturday morning-- ain't she cool? Obviously she wasn't personally, experientially privy to the details of my Friday, but not too much happened... the people at work were very nice to me. They gave me strawberry juice pops and a card. They said nice things to me. I made arrangements to do some freelance work for them-- whee! And I have a job interview on Wednesday. I will not say overmuch about that just yet, but... it's pretty much my dream job. If I get it, I'll actually be excited about going to work. And how remarkable would that be?

So, otherwise on Friday I just packed things. Then I came to Oakland and, yes, drank. Two bottles of white wine, apparently. Cool, delicious white wine, which I drank like water. Foolish me. And I did get rather horrendously sick (sicker than I remember ever being before from drinking, which is kinda disturbing, considering the shenanigans I got up to in college). But I survived, and I am, I suppose, therefore stronger. Or so certain dour philosophers tell me.

(By the by, I don't have a drinking problem, any of you out there who might be concerned. I seldom drink at all, and even more seldom get drunk. Hence my proven inability to recognize my own limits, hmm?)

Saturday morning was pretty unpleasant, I must say, but I managed to be bouncy and happy through the hangover haze. I kept thinking "I live with Heather! That is so goddamn cool!"

Despite some lingering ill-feeling, I had Fun at the birthday party. It's been better described by others, like Mary Anne and Marissa, so I won't go into vast details. I will say that Mary Anne's curry buns are among the best food ever. I love them. Mary Anne is wonderful for many reasons, and her tendency to provide me with curry buns is one of them.

Post-birthday-party me and Holly and Heather watched some Buffy on tape. I have previously seen exactly one episode of Buffy, and that was this past year's season finale. I can now say with some confidence that I like Buffy, and I've finally gotten Heather to admit that, at least in many episodes, the show is horror (it helps when Joss Whedon says things in his post-show interview like "We have an emotional arc for each episode, and we try to hang some kind of a horror-story on those emotions"). For too many people, "horror" is such a negative genre association... so they call good horror stories "dark fantasy." But if the point of a horror story is to evoke feelings of horror (and I think that is the point), then Buffy is at least sometimes unambiguously horror. And that's cool with me. I like horror, yo.

(Speaking of which, I got a rejection for a horror story today from Deathlings. I sent the story to them for their "Love Gone Bad" theme issue. They said very nice things, but they didn't want the story. Their reason? "We admit it-- we're wimps." It is a pretty brutal story, though there are no scenes of graphic violence. It's supposed to be an emotionally brutal story, though, and I think it works. Somebody'll buy it)

Heather and I made fish on Saturday night. Broiled yumminess. It's salmon with wasabi and honey-soy sauce. Mmm. So so good.

My throat started getting sore on Friday, got fairly sore on Saturday, and by Sunday I was a croaking froglet. Sigh. I don't feel sick otherwise, and my throat's not even all that painful, but I can't talk too well. Bleah.

Lessee. Sunday was a manageable hell. We got up and went to pick up our rental truck. Not surprisingly, they didn't have our zippy-little-truck, so they had to give us a bit 17-foot monster. I've driven big vehicles before (I once drove an 18-passenger van from North Carolina to New Orleans, starting at 9 p.m. and driving through the night-- I had some help from D. on that trip, but I drove the second leg, which was rough), so it wasn't too bad-- kinda nerve-wracking, though. Heather read to me over the roaring engine noise, which was very nice, though perhaps not so good for her throat.

We got to Santa Cruz, and Heather went for food while I started loading boxes into the truck. D. came over and helped me get the desk, futon, filing cabinet and couch into the truck. Heather brought me a surprisingly tasty veggie corn dog and some cheese fries from Saturn. Loading the truck didn't take all that long, and we got back on the road again, going back to Oakland.

David came to help with the couch on this end, and after three attempts we got the couch into the house. My forearm muscles are still sore from all the lifting yesterday. I tried to do my hand exercises before I started typing this, and I can't even do some of them on my right arm; it's too sore. I've restricted myself to light lifting, today.

Heather and I made more fish for dinner (we're boring, but we know what we like) and some bread and brie (so so good), and watched more Buffy while sitting on the newly-ensconced couch. Very nice.

Oh, and we also had some of the very best sex we've ever had. Amazing. We could do no wrong.

This (Monday) morning we got up very early and returned the truck. We got back home around 9 a.m. (it was an annoyingly slow process, giving them back their truck), and went back to bed. Sleepy sleepy yawn yawn. Then we had a celebratory I'm-moved-in lunch at Mama's (the breakfast place-- not, like, at my mom's). Very pleasant. I spent the afternoon making my garret livable... or at least work-in-able; it's going to be my office and the place where I keep my stuff. I'm trying to help Heather keep her room as her own space. I'm going to be sleeping in there with her (her bed is much nicer than my futon, and she has her own bathroom), but I don't want her to feel like I get my "own" room while she has to share hers.

So. I live with my lover. I live in Oakland. This is some kind of a good life I'm having, here.