Andare, Partire, Tornare



Once again, it's an ungodly hour, and I'm here tapping away at the computer. I'm in a different state, however - back in Virginia, and rather unexpectedly, I might add. Last-second complications with the car I've been using have forced me to head down here with T, as I needed to show up here by Friday to interview. It's frustrating, because I needed to meet with my thesis advisor, who has been frolicking in Italy, and thus unavailable to help me sort out my problems. So I'll have to reschedule and hope for the best.

The thing I hate about this whole situation is the uncertainty. I don't know where the money is going to come from to get the U-Haul. I don't know if we even have a place to live, although T will be looking at a townhouse next Tuesday that's supposedly been promised to us. And, although I'm technically in an excellent situation, being able to pick and choose between two jobs, the whole situation still has me in knots. The place I'm interviewing at on Friday is possibly staffed with uptight southern women who have been here since the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria floated over, and my mom's next door neighbor, who is a member of the organization, has been giving me "helpful hints" about dealing with what is apparently a very different breed of human - the Wealthy Southern Woman. So, although it seems to be my dream job, there may be Issues to face.

T's work situation is still unstable. One of my mailing lists is now into Gaudy Night, one of my favorites of the Sayers novels, but I'm almost afraid to jump back into it and start dealing with all the issues that crop up between man and woman. It's not that T is scared of my intellegence, or jealous of it, but I sometimes wonder if my good luck job hunting has been difficult for him to face. I always figured that, should I marry T, there was a strong possibility that I would be the breadwinner in the family, but it's entirely different when you're faced with the situation. Neither of us care if I bring in more money, but we might end up caring if he doesn't end up keeping a job, and bringing any money at all into the family.

Looking back on all of this just makes me feel like a big egotist. Spilling my guts to an unknown audience that may not even exist - it's like hollering, "Look at me, my life is special, my problems are shinier and larger than life!" It's one of my problems that I end up gnawing over things like this, turning them around and inside out, and always coming up with the answer that I'm making a very large mountain out of an innocent little molehill. Maybe the result of reading too many Travis McGee novels - damned introspection! Why should I be forced to circle around in my own brain until I've worn a tread pattern? And I don't even get the compensatory gift of genius in writing, so I can turn it all into highly entertaining fiction. Bah.

Enough of all of this. I must buy Poe's album Haunted. I must remember to shave my legs before Friday's interview. I have been enjoying paddling around in my mom's pool with T, my little sister, and the labrador, while the border collie circles us, barking hysterically. I firmly believe Conan O'Brien is a comic mastermind. And I just finished P.D. James' Death of an Expert Witness and enjoyed it immensely. End.

3:20 a.m. - 2001-06-27


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