21 February 2004
I am not the type to cry at weddings. I used to be, and the reason was quite clear: I was crying in jealousy. For the two years Mark and I lived in different time zones, I would go to weddings and sniffle because we couldn't be together on a daily basis and here were these other people who got to be. It was entirely selfish. (Sorry, guys.) It was also entirely correctable, so yay for that. I may cry at another wedding this summer, and if I did, it would be in relief, because I love both people involved very dearly and am just about ready to fall over in relief that she is marrying him and not some loser like she dated before. Every time I think of it, it makes me very, very happy. So I won't swear that I won't cry for that one. I also won't swear that I will.
Maybe that's why I've been having a stronger emotional reaction than I expected to the gay weddings in San Francisco (New Mexico, maybe Rhode Island and Chicago and Santa Cruz and who knows where else?). I've gotten a little teary-eyed at a few of the pictures of the old people. I've advocated this for a long time, but I just didn't know it was going to hit me hard. I mean, I don't want to marry a girl, and none of my favorite homosexuals have sent me wedding announcements. Still, intellectually I know that this may get squashed down, that it may backfire entirely, that it isn't over, it isn't decided. But I see the little old ladies getting married after fifty years of togetherness, and I think maybe America can get through all this mess. Maybe. It's at least worth a shot.
I had a hard time getting into Christopher Moore's Fluke at first, but now I'm enjoying it, despite or maybe because of its silliness. I think the problem was that there are so many other books on my pile, and I was in the mood to read lots of them, and if this wasn't a library book, I'd have been reading something else. Which is really not the fault of this book at all.
One of my friends described some of my stories he'd read as having a "mirth underlying them." I like that description a lot. On the whole, I believe that the world is a pretty funny place, and that there are some things so serious you just have to laugh at them, and that a goodly proportion of bright people will be wiseasses who get through their struggles making cracks about themselves and the world around them. I think that even (especially?) when you're writing about something serious, funny things will present themselves, and it's better to go with them than to thwart them. It's better not to take yourself too seriously, and that includes the worlds you build.
Hmmm. So I have a question for you guys. Say, for the sake of argument, that you were friends with a writer. Would it freak you out if something about you inspired a story idea? Would it be a big deal in a good way, in a bad way, or not at all? And would you think it was better if the writer told you you were the inspiration for a character or plot or something, or would it be better if you were reading along and saw bits of yourself after the fact?
"Unless she hears this song, unless she hears it on a tape inside her car with her new husband and she turns to him and says, 'I think that's me....'" I have often said that Counting Crows does the soundtrack to much of my life, but I have to say Barenaked Ladies is up there, if not with soundtrack so much, then with tag lines. I often find myself, "I don't buy everything I read -- haven't even read everything I've bought." Another favorite is, "There are luxuries we can't afford, but at our house we never get bored. We can dance to the radio station that plays in our teeth." I mean...well, yeah. Of course.
Stella was trying to get me to do the food dance today with Roo. She instructs me that it must be done often and while eating. I dance a lot, actually -- I groove a lot, and slide around the kitchen floor in my socks, and do ballet leaps in the hall to the living room. None of this is the food dance, however. Very sad.
Mark and I and C.J. had good dim sum with Stella and Mike and Roo, which is part of why this entry is fairly late going up. Mark and I had not had dim sum before. It was good, although I think it would have been better if I liked shrimp, because they had many shrimp options, in which I did not partake. Roo had to sit on everyone's lap a minute before we went home. Also, he has discovered the joy that is poking Unca Mark. I didn't even have to explain it to him. He figured it out all himself. He is so delightful. He's got the underlying mirth thing down pat.
The other part of why this is late is that my computer is slow when I'm printing, though the printing is now speedy in the extreme, and I finally got toner so I could print the rest of Alec's novel. (Woohoo!) Alec's novel is large. Alec's novel currently resides in three binders, one three-inch and two four-inch. I could probably have made do with an inch or two less binder, but still...much novel. Also, Alec's computer or mine made a mess zipping up all the separate chapter files, so very few of the files had the same chapter number as their filename indicated. Before we realized this was a zipping problem, I thought Alec had entirely lost his mind, first to do this crazy naming thing and then not to mention it. Now I'm just amused at the whole mess of mislabeled chapters, which I have wrestled into an orderly whole. In binders. Yah.
Tonight, Rachel and Ben are having a housewarming party. I don't know that we'll stay long, since they have cats, but we'll at least be stopping by. I'm not sure what else the day holds. I'm having a really weird blood sugar thing -- not hungry, since I had plenty of food at Mandarin Kitchen, but I'm feeling the time lapse since I last ate, if you know how to distinguish that from hunger. Hmm. This hypoglycemic thing is no fun. Maybe hunger will come along in a bit and make everything sensible again. In the meantime, books and more books.
And the main page.
Or the last entry.
Or the next one.
Or even send me email.