While my own life remains pretty much on the even keel I strive for, drama has been swirling all around me recently. Multiple people I love dearly are having really big, important issues to deal with this last couple of weeks. And those issues aren’t really mine to write about here, I guess, but I’d feel like a liar for glossing over what’s going on with me if I didn’t at least mention my reaction to all of this. And my reaction is that even though the dramas aren’t mine, they are making me tired and sad because people I love are tired and sad.

I don’t know where I got this notion that everything in the world is supposed to be within my power to fix. Perhaps it’s to do with my overachiever childhood followed by my underachiever teenagerdom? Anyway, whatever the reason, I am often utterly convinced that everything bad that happens to anyone in the world is somehow my fault. I should probably get over that someday, because I don’t seem to be showing signs of turning into a supreme deity anytime soon. Oh, well.

I’ll get through it, it’s just a vague undercurrent of “I suck, why can’t I do more to help?” running through the back of my mind as I go about my days. But both of the big drama situations took big steps toward being resolved yesterday, so I have some hope that soon everything will calm down and I can return to my placid drama-free existence. Which sounds dull, but is really delightful. After the melodrama of my middle two years of college, I thrive on the peace and quiet of being a relatively well-adjusted human being without too many drama queens in my life.

Other than trying to support people through various issues, things are pretty good. The weather’s gotten cool and crisp and the sky is bright blue and sunny — just the way I like it. This is my favorite time of year, and as long as I’m outdoors when the weather is like this, I’m happy no matter what else is going on in my life. My favorite of the coffee shops I pass on the walk to work has just started selling hot cider, which they only do in the fall, so every morning I stop in and buy one, and then sip it slowly the rest of the way, blissing out on that yummy cider smell. I can’t really afford it every day, but it makes me so very happy. Probably I should just start buying my own damn cider and bringing it in a thermos, but that would require powers of planning-ahead that I do not currently possess. Also powers of thermos-buying that I do not possess, because all my spare money this month is earmarked for veterinarian bills. And a copy of The Lion King on DVD, because my inner child made me pre-order it. (Or perhaps my inner teenager, since I’m pretty sure that movie came out early in my freshman year of high school.)

That’s about it, really. I am sad about stuff going on with people I love, and happy about the time of year, and neutral about everything else because I am not getting much sleep and thus do not have energy to spend caring about things that are not my family, Len, hot cider, cats, Dean’s presidential campaign, or trying to figure out whether to keep watching The Lyon’s Den because Rob Lowe is pretty, even though it is clearly going to be a very silly Grisham-esque lawyer thriller show which will bore me silly when Rob Lowe is not onscreen being pretty.

Sometimes I suspect that my childhood memories are not entirely valid, because no matter how sure I am that I remember something in great detail, my parents often inform me that I am wrong and that thing did not happen, or not that way. I’m sure sometimes I’m right, but presumably they’re right occasionally too, unless they’re engaged in a years-long conspiracy to brainwash me into mis-remembering my entire childhood. And since I’m fairly sure I wasn’t raised in a cult or anything, I’m assuming that’s not the case. So I am a bit suspicious of my childhood memories these days.

However, due to a conversation about godawful songs burned into your brain as a child, I have come to one firm conclusion. My memories about being a Brownie are completely correct — Browniedom is just a fucked-up thing to go through. This conclusion is entirely based on this song. (Warning: Geocities link. But I couldn’t find a version with all the lyrics anywhere else.) We had to sing this song in some kind of public performance, complete with a stupid wiggly dance that was vaguely reminiscent of a drunken hula.

I remembered that it was stupid, and the main contributing factor to my being a Brownie drop-out, but now that I’m looking at the lyrics I’m realizing it was beyond inane and straight into batshit-insane territory. What the hell does this song mean? “All the little fishies swimming up and down the bay with their hands in their pockets and their pockets on their pants”? Why do the fish have hands? Why do the fish have pants? And pockets? What do fish need to carry in pockets, kelp? And what about the part where the fish have umbrellas because it’s raining? And all of this isn’t even getting into the issue of what exactly the hootchie-kootchie dance is when performed by fish.

I am beginning to think that it’s a good thing I left the Brownies when I did, because I think maybe they were a child-cult and if I’d stayed much longer, someone would have started passing out the Kool-Aid. I’m probably lucky I got out with only a slightly scarred memory and a handful of really ugly Christmas tree ornaments made of pinecones, clothespins, glitter, and googly eyes. Also a few very cute pictures of me at a Brownie ceremony in my little brown uniform (with practically no badges because I was a very bad Brownie), merrily being indoctrinated into the ways of the cult. But those are in one of the photo albums still in New Jersey, so fortunately or unfortunately, the journal will be spared those photos.

One other quick thing. A few days ago, after Jeb Bush declared Dean supports “hot, angry people that aren’t rational,” I begged someone to make me a “Hot, Angry Girls for Dean” shirt. And Melissa did! I am totally overjoyed and waiting anxiously for my shirt to arrive. If anyone else wants one, they’re here.

Even though I’m not seeing much of my brother, I’m still very excited that he’s here in Pittsburgh now. I see him every Friday on my way home from work because I pass by where the juggling club meets, and much to my surprise, he’s an excellent juggler. (I don’t really know why this surprises me except that I am not a very imaginative person, so when I was trying to imagine how the brother I hadn’t seen in over a decade grew up, it never occurred to me to wonder whether he knew how to juggle.) It makes me happy every week to see him out there, and I wave, and he usually doesn’t wave back because even if he does see me he’s rather busy trying to keep multiple things up in the air, but I’m just glad to know he’s here.

What I do not like so much, I discovered yesterday, is that my father apparently thinks nothing of appearing in Pittsburgh with no notice whatsoever now that David is here, and then wanting me to do family things with them. Because even though the man couldn’t be bothered to spend any time with me for my entire life, I am now supposed to drop everything and go play happy family at a moment’s notice now that he’s finally decided I’m worth noticing if he’s going to be in town anyway. What a jerk.

And I too am a jerk, because even though I should know by now that I’m never going to have that imaginary father-daughter relationship that lives in my head, I went anyway. It was a nice enough brunch, I suppose. The pancakes were great, the conversation was awkward, and I found out my brother’s playing piano for the university’s jazz ensemble so I’m pretty excited about checking out some of their performances. But it was still just brunch, and my father’s still just some slightly dull guy I have nothing in common with other than some DNA, and I felt let down even though I don’t know what I could possibly have expected to happen differently. Someday I really need to get my head straightened out where he’s concerned.

Fortunately, when my head is not on straight and I need to mope, Dimitri is very good company. I spent the rest of the day moping around and watching the first few DVDs of the first season of Alias, and Dimitri curled up next to me and purred madly at me for hours while I moped. He’s an excellent cure for melancholy.

I’m feeling a bit less melancholy about the whole thing today, at least. But the melancholy has been replaced by general Monday-morning grumpiness, so I’m not sure that’s an improvement. I guess at least I’m out of my house. If only because I ran out of Alias DVDs and must wait for Netflix to send more.

Just a few unconnected snippets today.

1) Apparently at least one of you journal-reading types keeps up with my reading log as well (Hi, Robyn!), so I’m going to institute a second notify list for there. Hopefully I’ll get that done right after I post this entry, but I don’t know how much time I have before Len turns up to bogart my TiVo, so it might not happen until tomorrow. At any rate, sometime in the next couple of days there will be a separate notify list for the reading log, and if you want to join it you can head over here and sign up. I can’t promise it’ll be frequently updated or interesting, but now I know someone’s paying attention I feel shamed into at least attempting to write more in-depth about what I’m reading. We’ll see how it goes.

2) My grandmother died last night. I’m not sad, exactly, because we were never close and she was a complete nutcase even before she retreated into an Alzheimer’s fog several years ago. But I am feeling a little weirded out at the idea of her being gone. And sad for my mom’s sake. For my part, I hadn’t seen Grammy since my high school graduation and I think maybe it’s better that way. She was pretty nutty even then, but she was more or less functional and still knew who I was, and I guess I’m glad that’s how she’ll stay in my memory. I’m glad I was already scheduled to visit my parents this weekend. Maybe I can be of some help to Mom while she deals with the emotional fallout (and the paperwork.)

3) As a direct result of #2, I have a somewhat startlingly large sum of money coming to me in the not-too-distant future. Not startlingly large in the sense that I’ll be able to quit my job and spend the rest of my life travelling around Europe or anything, but startling for someone who struggles to keep more than $1000 in her emergency fund at any given time. I need to learn about investments and stuff, which is a little overwhelming. I also need to think of one or two great treats for myself before I invest the rest. Travel, new electronics, real furniture? A shiny red Kitchen-aid? I do not know.

4) While I was typing this, I went to look up something at the Merriam-Webster site, and discovered an announcement of the eleventh edition prefaced with “We go to ELEVEN!” It frightens me when dictionaries make Spinal Tap references.

5) Len is here. I am getting a backrub. This means I will not be going to mess with the notify list right now. Tomorrow. Really. Meanwhile, pizza. And TiVo.

(Edited a little while later to add: Okay, I snuck away from the pizza long enough to put up the book log notify list. It’s there now.)

I had been nursing a vague notion that I might update over the weekend while in New Jersey, but that didn’t really happen. I wound up feeling pretty rushed most of the weekend even when I wasn’t. Perhaps it was sympathy stress on my poor overloaded sister’s behalf. At any rate, I managed to check my email a couple of times, but no journal-writing. Which now leaves me struggling to remember what I did all weekend, even though most of what I did was just sit around chatting with my mom and sister. Let’s see if I can dredge up more details…

Saturday morning we got up bright and early and hauled me to the airport. I do not at all enjoy getting up when it’s still dark out. But the dark was less a problem than the extremely thick can’t-see-the-buildings-or-other-cars fog. Exactly the kind of fogs in which airplanes should not be taking off. So I wasn’t terribly surprised when the flight was delayed by twenty minutes, and then another twenty. I was a bit more surprised when they up and cancelled the damn thing, and booked me on one three hours later. Three very long hours. If you must be stuck in an airport for several hours, Pittsburgh is a pretty good one to be stuck in, but I would have preferred those extra few hours of sleep instead. I almost convinced myself that I could go home and nap and then return, but eventually decided I’d be cutting it too close. So I stocked up on reading material and snacks and parked at the gate all morning, and eventually made my way to New Jersey several hours later than planned, having consumed far more jellybeans and trashy magazines than anyone should.

My parents picked me up because my sister was off at a football game, an unfortunate side effect of having joined the marching band, and something about which I will probably keep teasing her for months. We headed home and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening just hanging out, chatting, eating excellent carbonara, and of course my regular tradition of reprogramming my little sister’s TiVo to record everything I think she should be watching. Because I am pushy, and also much more likely to know what’s worth watching.

Sunday was all about the trip to New York. I headed in early by train and met up with a multitude of people including Harmony and her husband Toph, Julie, Sarah, and Jayran and Jennie who I don’t think have web sites, unless I am spacing out. Julie was the only person I had met before and I was a wee bit nervous that I would completely spaz out as I am so prone to do when meeting new people. I think I sort of did, but everyone was nice enough to ignore my dorkitude, and we had a lovely brunch despite the manager’s hating us because there were so many of us and we were so very loud and giggly.

Afterwards we had some time to kill before our show, so we disrupted the Times Square visitor center for a while by having an animated discussion of Scientology, and then headed over to the theater to meet my parents to see Wicked. The show still has some rough edges, and as usual I found Stephen Schwartz’s music a bit hit or miss, but I’m so very fond of the book that serves as source material, and I quite liked both the lead actresses, so I had a great time. (My sister, the budding set designer, was desperately in love with the giant moving dragon looming over the set, but sadly we could not figure out how to get it out of the theater without anyone noticing.)

Yesterday I slept in and then the afternoon was pretty much taken up with airport travel once again, but at least this time my flight was more or less on time and I didn’t have to wait long for the bus back to my apartment. And I came home to find my cats very happy to see me, which is always nice. Then I spent all night in a frenzy of reading the new Robin McKinley book, and stayed up far too late so that I could finish it, so today I am a total zombie. But it was worthwhile. It’s so rarely I find a book worth staying up late for. I’ll be writing a bit about it later, or possibly tomorrow if I have dinner with Len tonight. For now, I should just get this posted and go find some lunch, because I am hungry enough to eat one of my cats right now. Must learn to eat breakfast like normal human beings…

It’s 8 p.m. and we’ve exhausted the store of nature documentaries on my TiVo, so I delve into my stash of unread comic books while Len’s wandering around the Internet. I’m reading a collection of comic book adaptations of Ray Bradbury short stories, and getting annoyed when they change the wording because I am a Bradbury fiend and know these stories way too well. Each story has a little introduction, and I pause on the introduction of a story that involves dinosaurs. (”A Sound of Thunder.”)

I ponder the word “pterodactyl” for a few moments before looking up from my comfy nest of cats, blankets, and comic books.

“You know, there need to be a lot more words that start with ‘pt.’ It’s such a cool word beginning and you almost never see it.”

“What are you reading?”

“Something with a pterodactyl. And there’s ptomaine poisoning. But I can’t think of any others.”

Len stops typing, swivels around in his chair, and reaches for the dictionary. Which is, of course, in easy reach of the computer for exactly these occasions. A few moments of page-shuffling. “Here’s a good one. Pterin.”

“What’s that?”

“A compound that contains the bicyclic ring system characteristic of pteridine.”

“Pteridine?”

“Don’t ask. Oh, and there are pteropods. And pterosaur is the earlier name for pterodactyl.”

“I like pterodactyl better. ‘Dactyl’ is a good ending for words.”

“How about pteryla? ‘One of the definite areas of the skin of a bird on which feathers grow.’”

“As opposed to an indefinite area of skin?”

He shrugs, goes back to the dictionary. “Ptyalin. ‘An amylase found in the saliva of many animals that converts starch into sugar.’”

“Dude. Do I have that? Do the cats have that? Hey, Pixel, do you have that?”  Pixel opens one eye, glares at me as only a cat can, flicks the tip of her tail contemptuously, and pretends I don’t exist. I don’t notice, because suddenly I am bouncing around, spilling my comic books onto the floor. “Oh my god. Guess what? Len, guess what?”

He stops reading the pt- section of the dictionary and waits for me to have my brilliant idea.

“I figured out one of the things I can get for my treat. When I have my inheritance. Oh my god. Guess!”

“A new dictionary?”

“Yes! A big unabridged one like my parents have! With leather binding! Oh my god. You have to take me to buy one as soon as the money comes.”

Len agrees and re-shelves the tattered old dictionary, which has run out of pt- words. He goes back to his email, Pixel goes back to her nap, and I go back to my comic books. But in my head I’m busy composing an email to my mother telling her all about how I’m going to buy a new dictionary.

Some days it occurs to me that it might not be possible for me to be any dorkier, even if I tried.