16 July 2004
Sometimes I think I'm not a very nice person. Other times I think I'm a very nice person. And I'm sure that each is true from time to time, but I'm talking about on the average. Does it count as nicer or meaner if you only lose your temper and say something mean very, very rarely, but then when you do it's one line of concentrated venom?
Most of it, I think, is that I think I'm not a very nice person when I consider the things I think sometimes, and I think I'm a very nice person when I realize I don't say them 95% of the time. But nobody appreciates the mean things you don't say. If you say, "I didn't call you a joyless shrew, see, aren't I a good kid?", nobody says, "Oh, yes, definitely! What a sweetheart!" But sometimes one is provoked and still restrains oneself, and one ought to get credit. I guess you can always apply to your spousal unit/other significant other, your parents, or some close friends for credit in being nice to other people.
Anyway, last night I called up to Blaisdell Ave. and got Lydy, who was up for dinner; everyone else there had gone. So we went out for a very nice dinner and told funny stories, and everyone laughed and ate fish and had a good time, and I didn't think about stressful things. Well, I thought about formerly stressful, now funny, things. And I was doing much better by the time I got home.
And I wore Stella's cute ankle bracelet with the skirt it matches perfectly, so there.
The headache from the bump on the noggin appears to be entirely gone. I drank nearly my body weight in water last night but still seem to be slightly dehydrated, so I guess that's a modest goal for the day.
I have other goals for the day, too, but you might as well start small, I guess.
I'm reading Kate Wilhelm's Clear and Convincing Proof, and like most of the other Wilhelms, it's drawn me in and is holding my interest throughout. I love Kate Wilhelm's books so much. The word that's coming to mind for them is "dear," that I feel about them analogously to the way I feel about people I would describe as dear to me. They're not precious or anything like that. I just have warm and fuzzy feelings towards them.
I'm waiting for three phone calls: the plumber to say he's on his way, Stella to make plans for the weekend, and Mom to say she's done with her Board meeting and ready for lunch. That's one positive but unexciting and two outright good. Not a bad average for a Friday afternoon. And there's my book to work on and my house and yard to take care of, and that sounds like a good thing just now, too.
And the main page.
Or the last entry.
Or the next one.
Or even send me email.