Meanderings: February 23, 2000

Wednesday,
February 23, 2000

Tina is sitting next to me at the moment, cackling madly about yesterday's entry. Which warms my heart -- it can be a dicey situation to write about family members because you've never quite sure how they're going to react to things. She seemed to take it quite well that I occasionally mention her in my journal (and that I've posted the occasional picture, as well. I've promised her that I will never post the picture of her in the Boots night mask, although if you ask nicely I may put up the picture of her in the latex dress she wore to the Rubber Ball).

Now she says I'm cruel. I'd make such a good Domme. She's going to read back through my journal and make a guest entry if necessary to explain what happened if there's any compromising or embarrassing situations. I don't actually think I ever mentioned anything about her nude oil wrestling with the stockbrokers or the pink tutu encounter at 4:00 am with drunken Swedish sailors, did I?

Of course not. And now she's murmuring that she may just have to start an on-line journal of her own so that she can post her side of Lyndon's and my escapades (bugger it all, I don't think that's proper English but I can't think of the correct way to phrase it). Escapades? I haven't had escapades since the time I wound up rolling on Patrick's bathroom floor, trying to stop myself from throwing up after downing most of a bottle of Bacardi dark. The alcoholic interlude came after spotting someone I loved dearly with his new wife at a party -- I wound up cracking Patrick's toilet seat and ripping his towel rack from the wall in my drunken grief. And aren't you glad I shared that?

Okay, maybe I have had a few escapades since then. The evening in a Croydon pub with Lyndon, Anna, Andy and Patrick, getting sloshed on assorted varieties of alcohol, flashing our cleavage at the local habitués and watching Patrick get funnier and funnier as his blood alcohol level went up would probably count (this is the man who used to do excerpts from "Luciano Pavarotti Sings 'The Wizard of Oz,'" -- including the deathless piece, "If I Could Only See My Penis" -- in an attempt to make me drive off the highway blinded by laughter). And there was the dinner with Janis where we verbally accosted toothsome passerbys afterwards. All right, so I do manage to have escapades.

But enough about me -- she's now decided that she really needs to go back and read my journal, then Rob's (for the pictures of baby Schuyler) and Nigel's (for the kinky bits). Me, I'm going to sit here and try to hack out the rest of the WINE package for Materials Data, and then I'm going to go home and get something whacked into shape for the SFF.Net anthology.

Such vicious metaphors -- I suspect the onset of PMS (PMT for our British chums, as Anton from Eurotrash would say). Run while you still can.

Later: why oh why was I gifted with a manager who insists on reaching over my shoulder to GRAB MY FREAKING MOUSE?!? I do not like having my personal space invaded under normal conditions -- I go ballistic when someone invades my personal space in order to FUCK WITH MY COMPUTER.

Tina said she now understands why I occasionally come home in a homicidal rage. She doesn't know the half of it.

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