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Today is one of those days where I could give a flying fuck. Bottom Out. And it's just me. Everybody else here in the ragfactory is bustling about. Being productive... relatively speaking. On magazines that no one in the rest of the world cares a damn about. I mean, a 240 page x-ray periodical? Door hardware? Mortgage banking? It. Really. Doesn't. Matter. They try to involve me, and they may as well be speaking in Urdu for all the reaction I give. In one ear, and out the other... without a delay in between. The job gets done. Only just don't expect any passion. That word doesn't get used much, lately. Drove to work, then back home again (sandwiching 12 hours of work in between). Burnt out. Instead of burrowing in the sleeping bag at a co-worker's spare room, hiding from the daylight 'til the alarm goes off (as I've done for years x years x years), back home, to our bed. That sides her's, this side's mine. No forays into No Man's Land for Many Moons. Pressure gonna drop on you-you-you. So, I've sent the airline tickets back to where they came from this morning. Back in December, a friend asked if I wanted fly to Dallas in June, since he was going for a military vehicle restorers convention (which, after I turned fifteen, I have lost all interest in), I'd be looking for a change of scenery in Fair Park, burning some film on the deco architecture. Seeking out some spicy Tex-Mex. Looking into some Texas swing music, maybe some zydeco. SOMEthing different. As it began, Dianne was going to spend the weekend with her daughter (Eva) and family. Again. Though we'd just been on a week's vacation with 'em. Cool, then. Long about February, Eva ditches her husband of one year for someone she met at work, dumps one kid off at the step parents (from the first marriage), and drags the baby with her for an extended shack-up period with someone she works night shift with, generally flames everybody who shows concern over the consequences (before the fire in her crotch burns out, and she goes back to her husband). Kinda short circuited those plans. God, this life is so fucked. Dianne figures, "oh, my aunt lives close to Dallas" and tells me she wants to go down, too, and spend the weekend with her. Cool, get the ticket for the same flight. A month later, it's "oh, I won't be staying with her, I'll be staying at the hotel where you are. We could get another room, and rent a car, 'cause she's 30 miles away." Brief escape becomes $1000+ weekend. Which I have not bargained for. And say so. Shit hits the proverbial fan, and I say, "then fuck it! Weekend over!" And the airline doesn't care about domestic disputes, so I figure, there's six C notes in the fire. But, no. the call comes in, last Wed. The airline has cancelled the flight, and there's a possibility of getting refunds. Miracles never cease. 'O course, there's hurdles to jump over and through. Plus driving home last night so that I can gather everything in the AM, write a letter to the airline, with stray papers I've accumulated since then, and box it all up Priority. Then drive back up to this. Toxic level. And our anniversary is tomorrow. Where's Dianne? At Eva's. For the next couple of days. Kee-rist. So, I've read back over all of this. And poised to select all and delete. And they ask me why I bitch. Just heard Wayne Hancock sing... "got no change in my jeans... runnin' low on all my hopes and dreams...." Amen, brother. Maybe, just maybe... the next entry will be short, positive, and incisive. And the pendulum will swing the other way. I can hope. |
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