thejunipertree (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thejunipertree) wrote2005-03-28 02:01 am
thejunipertree) wrote2005-03-28 02:01 am
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I am tired and tired and tired again.
Been mucking around with Dreamweaver for the past few hours, in an attempt to get the MWC website in some kind of condition resembling presentable (unlike what it appears to be now, which is quite assy). A moment ago, I looked up from my labour and saw that it was half past one in the morning. An interesting phenomenon, time loss.
It's beginning to look half-decent and I really don't want to stop what I'm doing, but the hour growth and all that.
Last night, I got spin-headed on various kinds of ice wine and cheap faux-champagne. The ice wine was nice, especially that terribly expensive bottle TAL got for Mr. Ellis for his birthday a few months ago (which we finally opened last night), but it's a bit too sweet for me to get a good drunk with. I started to feel a bit queasy after my fifth glass and thusly, laid off the booze for a bit until I returned to the faux-champagne.
My best behaviour was quite evident, at least until almost everyone left. That's when I started to get shitty and riled up, thanks to a few pointed comments by those left in attendance. I growled, flailed my arms around, and spoke in hyperbole. I am prone to these things, even when not drinking copious amounts of alcohol.
Olives stuffed with anchovies. Who would have thought it? I could only eat a few, couple with chunks of farmer's cheese, before my body started to rebel. I love salt like a woman pining for a lost lover, but that was skating up against the edge of overkill.
Unfortunately, I was unable to wear my party dress for this get-together. I worked a full shift on Saturday and only had a handful of moments to feed and medicate my brood of animals before having to leave for Rowan's house. We were said that I wasn't dressed in finery, but my every-day clothes are fine enough for party presentation.
Despite the fact that my family doesn't really celebrate Easter in a good year, let alone a bad one like this, I almost had a full set of blood relatives in my living room this afternoon. The live-in brother was here, as usual, then the other brother came to the door to pass the pipe and talk about basketball and cars. My father, not their father, was on his way and I was a bit tense at the idea of the other brother being in the same room as him (for reasons that I don't even fully know), but his Tara's-father-is-coming sense must have kicked in, because he left not five minutes before the old man showed up.
My family...eh.
It's not that I don't care we're so scattered and far-flung, coasting around each other like dead and orange leaves. I do. Moreso, it's probably a case of me just learning to stop being so stressed over it. We are what we are. Nothing will change that, ever. My brothers and my father are all the blood-family that really matters to me, anymore. My mother's side of the family are cordially invited to walk a fucking plank since none of them have seen fit to contact me since Mom died, in November. My brothers' family, I don't know them at all and they're not even actually related to me in any true manner, other then by association. My father's side are all so much older then me that we're strangers, except for the only daughter (who I now work with). Strangers to the point that I bumped into a cousin of mine from that half at the vet's office during a Major Tom's tumour visit and almost didn't recognize him. I knew he was family, but was a bit unclear about his name. Luckily, it was embroidered on the shirt he was wearing, enabling me to call across the office to him. He immediately recognized me, however. And knew my name. Then again, I stand out from the lot of them (on both sides).
All of this serves nothing but to remind me that it's high time I fed the ancestors. Vodou-speak, if you'll forgive that. Ask and I'll explain readily, but I'm not up for typing it at this moment. This moment is for going to bed, which is what I'll be doing as soon as I'm finished with smoking my cigarette.
Been mucking around with Dreamweaver for the past few hours, in an attempt to get the MWC website in some kind of condition resembling presentable (unlike what it appears to be now, which is quite assy). A moment ago, I looked up from my labour and saw that it was half past one in the morning. An interesting phenomenon, time loss.
It's beginning to look half-decent and I really don't want to stop what I'm doing, but the hour growth and all that.
Last night, I got spin-headed on various kinds of ice wine and cheap faux-champagne. The ice wine was nice, especially that terribly expensive bottle TAL got for Mr. Ellis for his birthday a few months ago (which we finally opened last night), but it's a bit too sweet for me to get a good drunk with. I started to feel a bit queasy after my fifth glass and thusly, laid off the booze for a bit until I returned to the faux-champagne.
My best behaviour was quite evident, at least until almost everyone left. That's when I started to get shitty and riled up, thanks to a few pointed comments by those left in attendance. I growled, flailed my arms around, and spoke in hyperbole. I am prone to these things, even when not drinking copious amounts of alcohol.
Olives stuffed with anchovies. Who would have thought it? I could only eat a few, couple with chunks of farmer's cheese, before my body started to rebel. I love salt like a woman pining for a lost lover, but that was skating up against the edge of overkill.
Unfortunately, I was unable to wear my party dress for this get-together. I worked a full shift on Saturday and only had a handful of moments to feed and medicate my brood of animals before having to leave for Rowan's house. We were said that I wasn't dressed in finery, but my every-day clothes are fine enough for party presentation.
Despite the fact that my family doesn't really celebrate Easter in a good year, let alone a bad one like this, I almost had a full set of blood relatives in my living room this afternoon. The live-in brother was here, as usual, then the other brother came to the door to pass the pipe and talk about basketball and cars. My father, not their father, was on his way and I was a bit tense at the idea of the other brother being in the same room as him (for reasons that I don't even fully know), but his Tara's-father-is-coming sense must have kicked in, because he left not five minutes before the old man showed up.
My family...eh.
It's not that I don't care we're so scattered and far-flung, coasting around each other like dead and orange leaves. I do. Moreso, it's probably a case of me just learning to stop being so stressed over it. We are what we are. Nothing will change that, ever. My brothers and my father are all the blood-family that really matters to me, anymore. My mother's side of the family are cordially invited to walk a fucking plank since none of them have seen fit to contact me since Mom died, in November. My brothers' family, I don't know them at all and they're not even actually related to me in any true manner, other then by association. My father's side are all so much older then me that we're strangers, except for the only daughter (who I now work with). Strangers to the point that I bumped into a cousin of mine from that half at the vet's office during a Major Tom's tumour visit and almost didn't recognize him. I knew he was family, but was a bit unclear about his name. Luckily, it was embroidered on the shirt he was wearing, enabling me to call across the office to him. He immediately recognized me, however. And knew my name. Then again, I stand out from the lot of them (on both sides).
All of this serves nothing but to remind me that it's high time I fed the ancestors. Vodou-speak, if you'll forgive that. Ask and I'll explain readily, but I'm not up for typing it at this moment. This moment is for going to bed, which is what I'll be doing as soon as I'm finished with smoking my cigarette.
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