Stuff I Dig

Here’s some stuff I like:

Refilling containers at PCC (the hippie co-op where I shop). I reused a jam jar yesterday by filling it with bulk clover honey, and man. It doesn’t take a lot to make me happy. I felt all thinking globally, acting locally and everything. And then when I came home and made dinner from scratch (and it included a raw vegetable, thank you)…you can imagine the fumes of self-righteousness polluting the air. It was great. This joy isn’t restricted to jam jars, by the way. Shampoo bottles! Paper bags! Deli containers! The whole thing. I feel great when I tell the guy or girl behind the counter that “these are my containers,” and they give me a complicit aren’t-we-good-people smile, and then I drive away in my fossil fuel burning car, simultaneously ruining foreign policy prospects and the environment, but let’s just let me have my little happiness, okay?

Not having homework. I had a fair amount of reading both in college and in grad school, and I was only a psych major/social work student. Heaven forbid if I’d been an English major or something. But it was a lot of reading for me, okay? And at least if you’re an English major you’re probably reading, like, literature, which has some prayer of being engaging, but let me assure you that few works in either the psychology or social work fields have anything to do with anything engaging in any way. Psychology Chapter Headings: “Boy Was Freud A Wacky Nutty Freak; Countless Theories of Development Posited By Dead White Men and A Few Dead, or Occasionally Alive, White Women; Milgram Experiment (Peter Gabriel Wrote A Song About It!); Perception And Cognition Except No One Cares Because None Of You Are Scientists Anyway, You’re In Psychology Because Everyone Says That You Should Be A Therapist And Besides, What Would You Do With A Sociology Degree?” Social Work Chapter Headings: “The Bleeding Heart of Jane Addams and Many Other Wealthy Sexually Ambiguous White Women in High Collars; Welfare: It Sucks; Medicare: It Sucks; Child Protective Services: They Suck; Social Work Code of Ethics, To Which You Had Best Refer To In A Lofty Tone In Your Papers In Lieu Of Knowing Anything About Your Subject; Clinical Social Work: For Sellouts Only!”

Spike The Cat Okay, she’s not really my cat, as she technically belongs to my friend and neighbor (and landlord) Deane. But since I can’t be with the cat of my childhood, who lives with his entourage in my mom’s garden, I have her and her brother Ziggy. I like Ziggy fine, and I was worried when he seemed a little slow the other day, and I was very sad when he broke his leg, and I was very sad when his foot puffed up because another cat bit it…but Spike is the cat of my heart. She is small and browny-blacky stripy. Kind of fat and built low to the ground. Really really loud voice, likes to use my jeans as a scratching post. Can’t really purr as such, she more grumbles or growls rhythmically. Looks like her brows are always furrowed, even when she’s sleeping, much like me. Monday I didn’t have to go to work, and she slept over at my house, and in the morning she got all up in my face, so I let her underneath one of the eighteen hundred blankets on the bed, and she tucked right in there with her little pointy face sticking out, and I read a book, and she grunted rhythmically. It was just dandy.

Going Skiing With Friends Over The Long Weekend, and Staying At The B&B They Rented Because It’s Your Friend’s Birthday, and Skiing With Her and Talking On The Ski-Lift Next To A Surly Snowboarder, And Only Falling Down A Couple Of Times, And Showing Your Boyfriend That You Can Almost Do A Tele Turn, And Eating The Yummy Dinner Your Friend’s Husband Made, Including Cake, and Then Getting Into The Hot Tub.

Who’s Your Housekeeper That’s how Carl refers to that ridiculous song by Ludacris that plays on the teeny-bopper-slow-jams station that I love for some reason every five minutes. You know, “Roll out! Roll out!” Oh, great, yes, thanks, it’s in my head now.

Silly Pet Name I can’t tell you what it is, but I can say it originated in that silly Dark Crystal language. About a year and a half ago. Not a day goes by without our both using it as every possible article of speech. “How’s my (Silly Pet Name)?” “Feeling a little (Silly Pet Name).” “Oh, yes? Well, let’s (Silly Pet Name) on over to my house and we’ll watch Happy Gilmore.” SPN is just the greatest, and, while it is very silly, it is very wonderful, and that’s that. Oh, it also means I Love You. It’s a very versatile SPN.

Um, this journal Is it too early to be pimping myself? Or referring to the journal in the journal? I decided that I’ll tell everyone, including some journallers I have admired from afar, about it on the tenth entry. This is the ninth. I’m just going to have to endure the fact that I don’t know HTML yet, and that I don’t have anything super deep to say. But whatever…I dig writing. Even better, I dig thinking about it, and reminding myself to make sure to write about something. I even like feeling frustrated that I haven’t been able to find enough time to write every day. It’s been a really long time since I felt creative about anything so it feels really good. So tonight this is still my little secret, but by the end of the week other people will be reading (I mean, I hope they will be), and I hope I’ll like that too.

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