I did something whlie at work and now my left ankle is killing me. This is a problem because I have two very trying eight-hour shifts ahead of me, and we're perpetually understaffed and overworked at weekends, and I'm tired.
This is pre-emptive karma, you realize. I'd been planning on calling in sick on Monday, because I want to go to the Best of Buffalo party that night (you all should be there! Free food, performances, and neat video-stuff by (e:zobar)'s cool coworkers.) I would have asked for the day off, but by the time I realized what day it was, it was too late to request the day. And if we request a day and don't get it, then we're subject to stiff penalties if we call in that day. Which just serves to make matters stupider and less-sensible between management and workers, because of course if management fails to get us off a day we requested off they get no penalties at all... etcetera, etcetera.

So now my ankle is killing me but I can't call off three days in a row. My best hope is to gimp around as best I can for two days so that on the third day they'll not be surprised or mad if I just call in already.

But I didn't come here to post just so I could whine about my leg. I also came here to whine about the weather.
I'm psyched that it's finally raining. I planted all kinds of stuff and it needs rain and it just ain't right that there's been so little rain this year. But now?
There's supposed to be a frost tonight!
Grrr. My tomatoes will die if I don't cover them up. And of course, tonight is the one night in months that I have plans to go out until late, so I won't be home and in any state to think of coming up with ways to protect plants from frost. Great.

In the past I've just chucked blankets over the garden beds. I guess I'll do that, except the tomatoes are fragile and I should probably surround them with plant stakes to keep the blankets' weight from breaking them. Hm... yes, I should plan this out now so when I come home (with any luck) drunk and cheerful tonight, I can just do it and go right to bed.

Guh! I was feeling clever for having updated my journal music, but I just managed to accidentally post a blank blog, so, eh, I guess I'm not all that smart.

Music is called "Love Farewell"; it's a track off an out-of-print LP entitled "Songs and Music of the Redcoats" (Argo records, 1971) that my dad often listened to when I was a child. My parents are history fiends, and met via the flurry of historical re-enactments around the Bicentennial of the American Revolution, so... This song I haven't been able to date precisely, but most of the tracks on that album are from either the late 18th or late 19th centuries (a lot of them are Napoleonic era). It's short, so even if you don't like it...

Anyhow. On to the purpose of the journal.

Waiting for the promised thunderstorm. We're supposed to finally get rain today, so I have been busy all morning.
I got up at 8 and finished preparing the soil, did one last-minute garden bed expansion, and planted the tomatoes, beans, some more peas, and one of the pepper plants before I decided to wait on planting the rest of them. I'd scheduled them for two weeks from now anyway! But an early start can't hurt, if there's no frost... The tomatoes are a bit of a gamble.

I'm excited about the garden, officially now.

I'm so far behind on the flowerbeds, though. There's so much work to do on them, and I just can't... summon... the energy...
I'm proud of myself for managing what I did, given how much my back hurt yesterday at work. I filled out an accident report, which seems to have done the usual voodoo trick: If I say it's nothing and don't fill out the form, then there are always complications and I'm in pain later. (Witness: my hand, which I bruised in January and which now hurts me every time it rains or I type too much.) If I do fill out the form, then it's always better the next day. (Witness: the three times I've slipped and fallen and bruised my knees, which never hurt later.) My back hurts now, but I rather think that's because of the heavy digging...

On that note, I am fiercely hungry. Later!

This is beautiful: a photographer fills a black pool with pretty naked ladies and takes a series of underwater photographs. Tasteful nudes but maybe not work-safe.

Yes, as (e:zobar) wrote, the lady next door really did call the health inspector on us because we didn't move our compost heap after she 1) lied and said it was illegal, 2) verbally abused me, 3) attempted to verbally abuse Z except he wasn't paying attention.

Now, I was going to put the thing into a nice plastic enclosure, the kind you can buy at Target, and probably move it to a different part of the yard-- it was just behind our garage because the rest of the yard is under constructoin. But after the woman's reprehensible behavior, I believe I will be leaving it where it is. Except now, see, to conform to health code, it has to be elevated twelve inches off the ground-- Rats don't like to climb, so they won't burrow in elevated compost heaps.

So I'll leave it where it is, behind my garage and against her fence, and will, in order to comply with the health inspector she called on me, have to make it larger and uglier.

Sweet, sweet irony.


In other news, I am going to take a big risk and plant most of my tomatoes today. Perhaps the peppers too. The guaranteed frost-free date isn't until May 17th, but the long-term forecasts show no temperatures below 40, and I am impatient, and also the tomato plants are growing rather too large. If anyone wants one, I still have one or two more than I strictly have room for.

(e:kara), I remember you saying something about trading some plants, and I meant to reply and now can't remember where you said that, but my zinneas didn't actually do all that well and I'll be starting most of them from seed outdoors I think, so...

Oh shoot, I have to cut a bunch more sod today to make room for the foxgloves, I forgot.

Happy May Day (yesterday), by the way-- I am going to put up pictures of my garden, I swear, one of these, um, years.

Duh. The whole purpose of coming here was that I was going to blog that I'd met (e:jenks) at the airport bar! I was at the Landmark on Sunday, by coincidence-- I was scheduled for All-Stars and someone called in-- and was running around like an idiot because of all these damn Chicago delays-- what is up with Chicago lately? Uh-- and Chicago delays are the worst because the United gate that's mostly flights there is DIRECTLY across from the bar so the very moment a delay is announced the entire contents of the plane just turn around and come straight into the bar, en masse, with no possibility of thinking of heading to another bar or maybe stopping for a coffee or magazine on the way.
But I digress.
So the place was a war zone when I got there because Whipple can't do a dish and also everyone and their mother wants margaritas because some clever idiot put up a poster of one, and as all bartenders know the humble margarita is just about the #1 Ass-Pain Drink (salt, two liquors, a cordial, a mixer, ice, blended maybe, ugh, gag me).
So the place is covered in lime and sour mix and we have no fresh limes left and there's no salt and there's no glasses and Whipple's running into me and life is pain and I'm having awful cramps and mostly, I wish I were dead.

Several hours of this pass and I'm starting to catch up and feel human, and there's this girl sitting at the corner of the bar-- the corner around which I have to fling myself every time I go from my drink-making-station to the floor where all my tables are. Finally I pause, and notice her looking at me.

"Do you... have a journal online?" she asks.

One of those questions that can fill you with dread. I've had that Livejournal for three years now and while I never quite regret writing things I do, I occasionally wish I had said them differently. (*cough*Jackdaw*cough*) So there's a long pause as I think: "Fuck. Fuck. Did I post any nude pictures of myself?"
Finally I answer: "...Yes?"
"Are you Dragonlady?"
"Yes." A pause. "Elmwoodstrip?" I'm trying to decide if the girl is familiar.
"Elmwoodstrip. I'm (e:jenks)."
"Ahh!" It clicks. Yes, she resembles her picture. Although, she's much less, well, people are usually more three-dimensional than their photos, so, well, sometimes... I'm astonished she recognized me. Her photo is a way better photo of her than mine is of me, and yet, I had no inkling. But then, I'm bad wth faces.
I admit I don't know enough people on here yet that I can totally keep up with everyone's blogs, but for some reason I read hers a lot, so I really do know who she is.
She's delayed enroute to Chicago, and I can only add to the misery, I'm afraid-- most of my customers are trying to get to Chicago and they're all telling me dire, dire things about the planes. But at least, you know, um, we all have the shared consolation of overpriced beer?

Ah Buffalo.

Another funny chance sighting, unrelated to (e:peeps), of course, but funny:
Last night I was at Landmark again, the late server, and I was cleaning up and getting ready to leave the bartender to deal with the place on her own-- it being late. A blond Canadian girl was sitting at the bar waiting for her ride to arrive from Toronto. She was funny, and charming, the kind of girl who can talk about anything to anyone, and the bartender was complimenting her on her great coat, a striking black knee-length thing with white piping. I stayed and talked a few moments-- this girl could have charmed a wooden post, and was all smiles.
I couldn't remember but I was pretty sure I'd had her for a customer before-- but then, I do see a lot of people. And an amazing number of them are at their most outgoing-- they're among strangers, and drinking, and will most likely never be in this place with these people again. Some of them will say anything.

I got home, tired, and (e:zobar) had no plans for dinner, and I couldn't think of anything. "Let's go out." So we went to someplace that would be open at 9:30 on a Monday night: Kosta's.
While sitting eating our gyros and drinking our red wine (ok, so, yes, I have odd food combo craving choices), a girl came into the diner. "Can I use your bathroom?"
She was wearing a striking black knee-length coat with white piping.
I had just finished telling Z about the girl at the bar who could talk to anybody, like, that moment.
She came back out of the bathroom and strode purposefully past us, out the door. Blond curly hair, black leather purse with silver fittings: the very same girl. But no smiles, no charm, no talking-to-a-post-- all purpose, all tiredness, all accumulated stress.
There was a car waiting outside for her. She got in and they drove off to Toronto. Obviously her ride had showed up eventually. I have to remember to tell the bartender.

I have been suffering from obsessions lately, the kind of thing where I start reading and can't stop until it's done. This was always a problem of mine in print-- I was dead to the world until every book in the stack from the library was done, all in one long binge-- but the Internet has made this possibly fatal. I just clicked through every single photo put up on The Daily Oliver -- Oliver being a gorgeous, sleek Wiemariner living in the South of France with his brother Hugo and some dude with a camera. Oh my GOD this dog is cool.

It made me sort of want a dog. That and the fact that my older sister, the mommy of Scout ,just adopted a second Springer-- I think it is Scout's full-blood sister, previously owned by Katy's sister-in-law. Lizzie and Scout are nearly identical, although their markings are different, and OH GOD THE CUTE.

But I digress. I keep getting obsessed by things and sucked into them, and then I forget what I was doing, and I keep doing things like teraing myself away from the computer to make breakfast, and then coming back twenty minutes later to see that I sliced one bagel, set it in the toaster, and then abandoned the other bagel on the cutting board, and never turned the toaster on. Right! Right.

Work is a problem: they are changing all our schedules around. I've been part-time for the last five months because I wanted to take a break and finish a novel, and yet they've been shortstaffed so I've been working full-time, and now I am confronted with a choice: keep up this sham of part-time, or just give up and go back to full? Or quit entirely? I will never finish this novel.

Especially because I cannot keep a thought in my head. See, I opened this window to assure (e:zobar) that the coolest car ever, contrary to what he says in his post which I don't know how to link to except by just going ,would be a VW campervan converted to run on vegetable oil. He likes tiny cars. I like cars you can live in. We already have a foreign subcompact, thanks, and we also have a ridiculously tiny two-wheeled vehicle. If I am going to get a vehicle, it's going to be one I can get laid in.


And oh yes, will be at Century ca. 7 pm for barbecue wings and also AIDS fighting, and if only Doppelcracker is bartending (I hope he will be), I will be drinking something ridiculous, probably Sidecars or Mai Tais. Provided it's not busy. In busy bars I just have a beer.

Oh I should figure out how to post a photo of Scout and Lizzie.