Lots of rain since yesterday morning. Doesn't matter much at work, I guess, except for the driving instead of the walking, but here at home on a Saturday I like to get outside. So, I guess, judging from the traffic, does everybody else. I drove over to an ATM after noon and got some money, had a steak sandwich at a hole in the wall drive-in called Ang's or Ong's or the Cafe de Sole Proprietor or something very similar (prophetically and strategically located next to a photo store) which sells a decent steak sandwich with a really tough chew on it for an hour piece of meat. It was fine. Cholesterol out the gazzing-gus.
I had a thought I might go into work tomorrow to set up a discussion page for the pilot group in the Office 2000 roll out on one of the web servers. If it's raining. I haven't been into the office on a weekend in years (They gave us time off for the Y2K stuff and yeah, I've stuck my head in to change a tape now and then when I've been in the area for other reasons. Nothing particularly productive. I don't think.) and my thought has been to not allow my life to revolve around my work again unless there's just no way out of it. You know, only break the rule for something short term and necessary to keep my job or my head. Stuff like that. Still, if it's raining, it might be nice to get this discussion group ready for Monday. It's one of these "I haven't done it before and it would be nice to figure it out when nobody's looking" things. I know better than that. I do know better than that. I'll calm down after a night's sleep.
Why do you say that? Work on the weekends? You're supposed to do that when you're young and indentured to a dot com, the old communal extended family structure you need when you're young, unmarried and crazy, which you, I think you'll remember, are quite familiar with.
When you're my age you're supposed to come home and spend time with the family and attend baseball games with your kids. It says so on the news broadcasts. Something about finding your inner bliss. Oprah is adamant on the subject.
At fifty-six? Your kids, if you had kids, which you don't, would be long gone by now with kids of their own calling you once a month to see if you're still breathing and having you over for a one time annual get together for Thanksgiving dinner. They'd invite you over for Christmas too, but that's when they invite their mother(s), none of whom have spoken with you in over twenty years.
Ain't no rules about this Prop. You work twenty hours a day and tell people you work twenty hours a day if they happen to ask or you do a nine to five, write a journal and take snapshots on the weekends. Up to you kid, nobody's keeping score.
Now, the urge to go into the office tomorrow and work on a weekend? What's caused you to even think about this?
Lack of alternatives.
You're talking with self, now Prop. Self knows your bullshit.
Maybe it's just the rain. The days have been getting longer and that feels pretty good, but it's been dark and raining for the last few days and maybe that gets under my skin.
And I'm sorta out of pictures.
And it's been hard over these last few days to come up with something to write. I do tend to repeat. My three readers don't seem overly concerned about it, but I've been feeling a bit, um, sluggish. There are other journalers out there who are able to whip really good stuff out by the yard without apparent effort. Or have you noticed?
.... hysterical laughter drifts off into the distance.
(I seem to have lost contact with self. I think there's a chapter about this in the book, right after the chapter on Dementia and Memory Loss. The one that recommends Prozac in the morning and Viagra at night, buying both of them in the big bottles, you understand, as they give you more bang for the buck. The pictures are good.)