ideas run fingers through my hair.

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12 march 1997

11:52 p.m.

Dear diary, I think Derek is starting to miss his mother. He got completely moved into his new place on Sunday. He's got one pot, one skillet, four dishes and four of every major utensil. After some nagging, he's now got most of the items neccessary to have a functioning lavatory. He's also slowly discovering both the joys and tribulations of futon-based habitation. More than anything, though, I think it freaks him out to not have someone snoring on the couch while he reads, or to hear his mother playing the piano when he's trying to sleep. I can definitely identify with what he's going through. I remember the way I felt that first day in My Own Place, after a day of lugging boxes from one corner to the other, trying to find my toothbrush by the light of a lamp in the next room, sitting crosslegged in the middle of the apartment, humming to hear my voice bouncing off the walls, wondering exactly what it was that normal people did with themselves when they got home after work. (Laundry, I was to soon learn -- after three consecutive days of obnoxious turquoise socks.) I, at least, had a "transition" of sorts via a brief stint in the dorms before moving on to independent living. He's gone straight from living off his parents' daily leftovers to boiling up his own Macaroni and Cheese. (Actually, the inaugural meal was pepper steak and vegetable stir fry... that show off.) Thankfully, his first week in the place coincides with some enormous tax-related deadline rush at his office, so he doesn't get home to stare at the walls 'til 9 p.m. anyway. Even so, I've spent a lot more time than usual talking on the phone with him. Well, last night I feel asleep on the phone with him. And contrary to popular opinion, I do not snore. Though we haven't gone furniture shopping yet, he inherited a bunch of dusty stuff -- including a hideous but matching green sofa and recliner set apparently forgotten about in the cavernous reaches of his parents' basement. According to Derek, the couch smells faintly of his late dog. But as president and currently the sole-member of the Housewarming Riot Planning Committee, I've decreed that he's got to at least get some basic chairs and drapes before allowing any assembly there. The way it is now, most everyone would be sitting on the floor, within full view of the rather unfriendly looking gents populating the same floor of the next building. It looks like the gathering -- which will be composed of a frighteningly large proportion of state workers -- will coincide with one of the two holidays we're being graced with during Spring Break. (How uncool is that? Two real holidays in March, and both of them are during the week students are out of classes anyway.) On Saturday, we're going to the beach with S&M (a nickname, used solely by me, to refer to the joined-at-the-hip state-worker couple Sean and Mary). We saw "Empire Strikes Back" with them a while back. Although I'd managed to forget their invitation to a club picnic last month, they still seem intent on being our friends. Not that I'm complaining. The way things are going at work these days, were it not for people dragging me outside for my own good, I'd be crouched in a corner behind my bed every night pounding my head against the wall. Oh boy. Work. I don't even have the energy to talk about work. Let's just say that the nauseous cloud of office politics is getting so thick, it's getting hard to breath in any of the psych wards. The mantra of the month is, "Trust no one." Sigh. I wonder if they need any extra hands in the emergency room. At least I think my NA program credit's still valid.