communication breakdown, baby

In moving all entries from Myspace over to Blogspot, the latter grew suspicious of me and now I must type out a security word verification for each entry. What, don't many people post fifty entries in two days?

Reading back over the past few months, I noticed that I tend to write about three things: nature, having a boggled mind, and transcripts of goings-on. I'm fairly happy with that. It just about spans my daily experience.

Yesterday Erik and I had an odd lapse in communication. He left the house earlier than he told me, so I couldn't have him take my change of clothes. I was already late, so I drove to OMSI to meet for a run, instead of running there and getting some mileage in. On the way I called him to make sure that he would still pick up something for me to eat during the movie. It was during the call that I learned that we were meeting at a mall twelve miles away, instead of OMSI, to see Spiderman 3 on an IMAX screen.

I went for a short run, took off towards the theater, and called Erik back. He was bewildered, wondering where I was. Somehow he didn't realize that I went for a run, but he had a movie ticket and dinner waiting for me. When I arrived at the movie theater he was a bit mad at me for being late, but we scooted into the theater with only a few minutes missed. The dinner, unfortunately, didn't turn out as well as the movie. I opened the warm, greasy box in the dark and between frame flickers saw my nemesis: cheese.

Argh, cheese! Great blanketer of flavor and disguiser of other tastes. Erik had insisted on no cheese, but this often goes awry when ordering takeout. I sat through the movie, hungry. Afterwards we returned the food and got a new order, but it was 10pm and too late for dinner.

Today I had a mini panic attack (and the phrase "mini-pani" popped into my head, an odd-humored joke on the annoying, cutesy term "mani-pedi") thinking of what Kids These Days will do when they're old enough to want to buy their first house. I make decent money and often worry about making house payments on my 1924 crapbox. How will my nephews and friends' kids make it? I don't even have children, and I'm worried about them. Yet another sign of true worrywartdom.

to sleep, perchance to dream

Airport, leaving, the part I hate. I'm disoriented a bit from the wine, and with my glasses I can't see well. I have impressions of people rather than the details of their appearance. Across from me is an older tweaker couple-- she with fried hair out horizontal in a shapeless oversize hot pink top and a new foot tattoo, he balding with huge high hightop sneakers, a fanny pack and a really deep laugh. The sounds of one-sided cellphone conversations, planes moving outside, and luggage crashing through metal detectors all sound sinister. Erik's falling asleep in drifts, listening to music through headphones. The alcohol and time have already made me sleepy, but I know how my mind will resist it. When do I take the Diphendydramine? Should I take this blue pill? Will I be out of it when we arrive in New York?

I am such a worrywart. As Cory says, I'm fretting.