Flogged Round The Fleet

"Must they not be flogged round the fleet?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. They say they are senior to us, which is quite true."

Either a porn novel or yet another Aubrey and Maturin blockbluster by Patrick O'Brian, and since Darin doesn't read porn novels I figured I had an easy choice.

Yes, I am home. Hurrah. The place is a mess and Darin hasn't done laundry since I left on the third of January, but I don't care. We saw one another five days ago; it seems like forever. Hang it all -- I love Dr. Zhivago, and will follow him anywhere, even into the wilds of Siberia.

Whoa. Diane, calm down there.

Okay. So...where was I? Oh yes. I've been busy. Really, really busy.

All together now: How busy were you?

I was soooo busy...

Yesterday I woke up, dashed over to see the mortgage broker guy, filled out forms, and told him more about me and Darin than my parents know, which is a neat trick considering my dad is also our CPA.

Then I ran a couple of errands that I've been meaning to get around to lately but haven't because I haven't even made it to the grocery store in over a week. Like buying hair gel. True, this is not on a par with, say, feeding one's self, but if you had hair like mine hair gel is right up there. I have feisty hair. For the past couple of days I've been smearing a thin coating of an extra-heavy conditioner on my hair, just to keep it weighed down enough. Wanna know what was happening? I was getting sticky and heavy immovable curly hair, rather than just clean immovable curly hair. I needed hair gel.

Then to USC and Script Analysis class, there to watch Acts II and III of My Life As A Dog. The prof's deconstruction of the movie made so much stuff that had seemed pointless or repetitive on first viewing a lot more valuable and integrated. Hey, I guess this is why we take this class: got my money's worth here.

After class I headed to the west side. Everyone who lives on the west side (for the non-Angeleno speaking out there, west side means the tonier sides of Los Angeles, which are, natch, on the west side: Westwood, Beverly Hills, Bel Air, Santa Monica, Brentwood, and even West LA, which is right next to Westwood but not as cool) told me to avoid the 10 Freeway at all costs and take surface streets.

They were wrong: the 10 Freeway was a much better idea. However, I didn't give into this observation until I was almost at the west side (say, Culver City). Unless you hear specifically otherwise, always take the freeways.

I met Tiffany at Lulu's Alibi, a little restaurant-cafe over on Santa Monica Boulevard. I got there early and spent most of the time before she arrived begging the waiters to turn up the overheard lights just a tad, so I could make out the scribbles called "text" on the page of the newspaper I was reading. They refused -- it's Lululian policy to keep the lights dim to create that "special" atmosphere...of not being able to see your hand in front of your face, let alone your food or text on a page. I kept begging until I got one inch candle more of light out of them; I have no shame.

Tiffany arrived and we headed over to see Hamlet, Kenneth Branagh's 4 hour paean to Shakespeare, costume design, checkerboard floors, mirrored walls, and most of all, himself. It's definitely a wonderful movie. Branagh is great, most of the cast is great, it's gorgeous to look at, and I'm happy a faithful adaptation of the Bard has made it to the screen in such splendor (even though I quite enjoyed the Zefferelli/Gibson one as well).

But.

Hmmm, how shall I say this? Everyone who believes that the Bard is inviolate, please stop reading here. Heresy approaches.

There's a reason Shakespearean plays usually get edited down to a manageable length.

Half the time I thought, "Why are they telling us what we're about to see (or, have just seen)?" and the other half the time I thought, "Could he have said that in eighty or so less words?" It's great dramatic stuff, sure, but what a windbag.

The movie was over at midnight and we staggered out of there, feeling a deep need to duel or orate or something. I got home at twelve-thirty. I went to bed and said, You can sleep as long as you need to, Babylonian be damned.

Today: Wide awake (but still tired) at 8:30. Damn.

Got up, packed. Spent half an hour running around looking for my keys, which turned out to be under the suitcase I had just packed. Realized I was still asleep, but at least I had gel on my hair. Picked my bags up, wondered why I always have bags filled with concrete when I go home to visit Darin, and he always travels without so much as a bookbag to carry his Aubrey/Maturin sagas. Went to Babylonian, where I immediately started solving computer problems again.

Doing the computer stuff doesn't bother me (although it will, if it so takes up my time that I don't learn anything about television production, which is why I'm there and I must keep reminding myself and other people of that!!!). No, it's the attitude problem that bothers. Ignorance of how computers work doesn't bother me.

Belligerant ignorance does.

People who are proud of not knowing something make me want to smack them upside the head. I want to know everything. I like learning stuff, I like knowing stuff, I like putting the pieces together. I'm often embarrassed when I don't know something. I admit that I have not as yet adopted the kind of enthusiasm Darin has when he learns the error of his ways, but I'm trying.

People who don't know what they are talking about and persist that they do to someone who does know what she is talking about really piss me off.

The other day, I had to use the computer of the chick who assists the guy who runs the fan club. Here's what I did: I logged on to AOL, downloaded some stuff, then logged off of AOL. In toto. When I logged onto AOL, she was still in the room. I noticed that the fonts were all jagged and bitmapped, so I said, "What did you do to your fonts?" I even checked her preferences, but instead of being some weird configuration, it said Geneva 12. Huh. Well, not my problem. I then proceeded to the rest of my mission.

Today, when I was playing with Jim's machine, I mentioned that we would have to use Elizabeth's machine to download the AOL installer so that we could install AOL 3.0 on Jim's machine. No way, said Elizabeth -- last time I used her machine, I screwed up her fonts.

Um...no, I didn't.

Well, she didn't know how else it could have happened, so there.

Jim reminded me that I had made the font comment before Elizabeth had even left the room on Wednesday, so clearly the fonts were screwed up beforehand. I wasn't particularly worried about whether I had done it or not; I knew I hadn't. (I know a little about how to use fonts on a Mac; after all, I literally wrote the fucking book on it! Ahem.)

Later, when I was in Jim's office and Jim wasn't, Elizabeth got up to leave the room. "Please don't use my machine," she said, in a patronizing if-I-have-to-tell-you-one-more-time voice of parental authority. In looking at those words, her request sounds perfectly reasonable...but trust me, it wasn't. That sentence annoyed the hell out of me, and it ruined my disposition for the rest of the time I was there. I told Jim; I don't need this. Hey, John Copeland wants me to help out doing the computer stuff, not you, babe.

By the way, the rest of the day that I was there, here's what Elizabeth did: wrote a long letter via AOL to a friend of hers about how unhappy she is at work; got coffee; disappeared for long periods; read the LA Times.

I was not reading the LA Times. I set an absolute limit on leaving there at 2:00, so I got out by 2:15. (Note: when you have absolute deadlines on when you must be somewhere, leave early.) I got into the worst traffic I've ever seen -- welcome to the LA holiday weekend traffic crawl, I guess -- and made it over to our new house to meet the realtor and the house inspector ten minutes late. As I drove up, I realized I had forgotten my checkbook, which I needed to write the inspector a check.

My agitation and stress showed. Our realtor said she'd write the check and I could pay her back next week when I dropped off all the escrow forms Darin and I are signing this weekend.

I walked around the house some more, taking measurements, trying to imagine living there. So far, I haven't quite assimilated it. Me, here -- kiddest thou? I can't wait, and I'm terrified. It's a beautiful house though.

The inspector came back and said that except for a few things here and there, the house is in terrific shape and we should be very happy. Whee.

Got back into the weekend traffic, two hours closer to the weekend and that many more cars later, and drove over to Burbank airport. Parked. Watched a skywriter draw a heart over the LA skies. Got to the gate, checked in. About half of the guys in the departure lounge were traveling with bouquets of roses (I could just imagine the condition those flowers would be when we arrived).

We finally boarded. It was packed. If Southwest could stack passengers on top of one another (and really, isn't that what they're doing already?), they'd have done it on this flight. As for me, I slept.

Darin picked me up at the airport. He didn't have flowers, and it didn't bother me. I always hated Valentine's Day when I was single, and now that I'm double I don't need one day of the year to show my love. Besides which, tomorrow's the important day of February, not today. The trick will be to see if I remember to post why.