I had another interview last week, but I didn't really tell many people or make a big deal out of it because I've had so many at this point. They called me back today and asked if I wanted the job.

I start Monday.

It's a temporary Sr. Secretary position at my alma mater's history and philosophy department. It's guaranteed until spring, and there may be an opening after that, but I don't know yet.

I have a job. It's downtown. I get to go to the city every day again, hang out in a building I love, and help people organize. I am utterly thrilled, and because of that, I'm utterly exhausted. I've been so hyperactively excited since hanging up the phone that I'm kind of dazed. Part of me seriously thought I was never going to find a job.

Because of this alone, today is made of awesome.

I've fallen madly in love.

John Barrowman is the new ELO, folks.

People have told me they'd like to observe my dinner table as a sort of psychological experiment. When we are all present, someone starts out discussing his or her day, then my siblings and I zip back and forth, making random comments and probably integrating otherwise unrelated bits of trivia, movies, and books we've all accessed. Today, the discussion ranged from herbalists and bizarre string jokes to Derek Zoolander and the piano key necktie. However, we don't confine our randomness to the dinner table.

Just now, I was watching Doctor Who when my sister eased open my door. She slithered sideways into my room, eyes wide in an expression of comic fear as she slowly waved a plate-sized rubber octopus in my general direction. Rather than offering an explanation, she backed out while croaking, "It comes from the briney depths."

She apparently discovered a "grow your own octopus" kit at Michaels and found today that it had achieved its full potential. She used the same tactic on my brother, who laughed hysterically after panicking because she was invading his personal space. My dad's entire reaction was, "Oh. I guess that is a big octopus."

I'm pretty sure this kind of thing is the reason people disbelieve me when I claim that I have nothing to write about. Honestly, though, I can't imagine a life in which at any given moment, my brother or sister wouldn't kick open my door and shriek, "I VANT TO KNOW!!" a la Cate Blanchett. We need no context or excuse. I think it may have desensitized us to our own bizarreness to an extent, but it also certainly makes life more amusing.

My sister and I are addicted to T. S. Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. I started the trend: lit major. The first time I read the poem, I was sixteen, and I had no idea why everyone else in my class seemed to be having such a hard time getting the point. It was a really long poem about a guy scared of aging, and he was whining about it. In the words of my friend and study buddy, "J. Alfred Prufrock is the tale of a man's quest to answer life's big question: what the hell do I wear?"

I read the poem again in college and was surprised to find that it had more layers than I'd remembered. For example, the segment referencing Hamlet is much better if you've actually read Hamlet. I didn't become infatuated with Prufrock until my first November in Chicago. I still remember wandering through the Roosevelt library downtown (hadn't quite gotten the hand of Library of Congress classifications yet) and stumbling across Prufrock and other Observations circa 1917. I'd had a brief flirtation with Eliot in high school -- mainly "The Hollow Men," because I was morbid -- and I decided to look it up since I had apparently stumbled across the American poetry section. I remember grabbing the collected poetry of T. S. Eliot and sitting in the windowsill. It was the first real snowfall of the year, huge flakes caught in the windtunnel between a few of the buildings on Michigan Avenue and got stuck in Salvation Army Santas' beards as they called for alms. In that windowsill, drinking lukewarm coffee I'd smuggled into the library, I cut my science class and reread Prufrock. Then I read it again. The third time I reread it, I determined that I was getting chills not from the atmospheric pressure, but because Prufrock was one of the most beautiful poems I'd ever read.

I had to read it for two more classes, and wrote a term paper on the poem for one of them. I probably didn't shut up about the damn poem for two years, and I never really thought about it until recently. My sister got sick of me talking about Prufrock, so she decided to read it and see what all the fuss was about. She decided it was decent, but e.e. cummings is really more her style. So, she made up a program using pieces of a few cummings poems and Prufrock to deliver for her oral interpretation class.

We've been quoting the bloody thing so often that my brother has begun to integrate lines of Prufrock into his daily conversations. I'm so very proud. I think I'll teach him to read poetry to pick up chicks.

I went antiquing with Lore on Saturday, and I scored some pretty excellent silver jewelry. The result? My hands have been polar opposites of one another the last few days. Two clunky etched bands on one hand, a sort of elegant shell set in silver on the other. One is Victorian England, and the other is anarchy in the UK. I feel so cutting edge.

We also got Thai food and were mistaken for a couple. I blame my sweater. Not that there's anything particularly interesting about said sweater (it's blue?). We got to the Thai place and the host led us to a semi-secluded awning, which appeared to be their token romantic nook. I jokingly called her darling as we walked to the car, and all the people smoking outside the movie theater fell silent. It was fairly hilarious. It's the first time I've been assumed to be half of a homosexual couple in the suburbs. Oh, the irony!

And again, my sleep patterns have proven to me that I should not watch anything written by David Lynch. His stuff just screws with my head, even when I don't find it horribly creepy. We watched an episode of Twin Peaks the other night, and as a result, I have been dreaming about llamas. Not creepy midgets, not Kyle MacLachlan and his insatiable coffee fetish, not even the weird theme music that permeates the series. Llamas. They don't even do anything. One just sort of walks through the scene and disappears, serving absolutely no purpose. Then I wake up and can't think anything but, "Why in the hell are my dreams being interrupted by llamas?"

This glimpse into my subconscious brought to you by: movies, Lysol, and the letter K.

I'm pretty sure my house was hit by lightning Thursday night. We had an electrician in yesterday afternoon, and it turned out that two circuits had blown, which was fine. They were easily replaceable. He also replaced the shorted out light in my folks' room. The wires were completely fused together in a blob of rubber, plastic, and metal. Still, the power only circled part of the house. He eventually unscrewed the light in the hall, and it lit up like Christmas. There were a bunch of exposed wires, and a few of them were so brittle they practically dissolved in his hand.

Allegedly, I will have electricity in my room tomorrow afternoon. With this in mind, I decided to start my day off right. I would wake up early, then take off and have adventures of some variety. I'm still trying to figure out where to go. I'd kind of like to get out of here. Perhaps I'll see a movie this afternoon, if there's anything out.

Kind of funny. I get up early, put on makeup, pick out clothing that does not look like it belongs to a fifteen year-old boy, and all I really want to do is get Thai food and watch DVDs. I blame the weather.

Can't sleep. Scary obsessive marketing campaign will get me.

Coffee was the first vocabulary word we learned in seventh grade French: cafe, cafe au lait, cafe creme. I don't know why I remember the beverage unit with such clarity. Maybe just because it was the first French I recall mastering, but maybe also because the words sounded so elegant, and I couldn't help but wonder how such pretty words hid such bitter drinks. When I was twelve, coffee was really, really gross. By sophomore year of high school, my French had expanded to entire meals, situations, and books (le petit Nicolas ont des amis; ils se battre), and I understood the powerful allure of a cafe mocha. Granted, I recognized the allure of the barista selling me mochas before I ever developed a taste for the actual drink, but that's another story for another time.

Senior year of high school, I did espresso shots with the same vigour as a coed with a hot date yielding bottom shelf rum. I slept three to four hours a night: nap sessions sandwiched between Economics homework, John Donne, and assorted unrequited crushes made unrealistically vivid by extreme insomnia. Caribou Coffee kept me alive, and I still thought people who took coffee without sugar had deadened their taste buds. My first few years of college, I dabbled in energy drinks before hollowing out my stomach lining, and the doctor told me to stop drinking coffee. I responded by scaling back and adding milk to my sugared java concoctions.

This year, I discovered cafe au lait, or at least my version of it. I'm lactose intolerant, so I keep enriched soy milk in the fridge. I essentially spent a weekend with a friend last month (we watched a lot of Flight of the Conchords), and she offered me a cup of coffee. I didn't want to bother her for sugar, so I just drank it with milk for the first time and found that I loved it.

Without a set schedule, I am not a morning person. If I have things to do, places to be, schedules to keep, then I wake up with a sense of purpose. If I don't, I wake up hating the world. On those mornings, I've found that the very best way to spend the hour prior to alertness is with a book and cafe au lait.

Lady Chatterly is annoying me at the moment. I've set her aside for a bit. My problem with the book actually has little to do with Lawrence's depiction of sexuality or femininity. He does a decent job explaining the mental state of a repressed housewife in 1920s England, and he has a basic understanding of what he seems to consider the feminine need for independence and value. However, he has set up a situation in which this lady lives with an emotionally manipulative husband, withering from a lack of true intimacy. Instead of seeking out a relationship which offers her that kind of mental connection, he pairs her with a troubled man she doesn't seem to like much, having sex she doesn't seem to care much about, and connecting very little with him even physically. It's all sex, no romance, and the physicality doesn't appear to be very interesting for anyone involved.

I just finished Lizard by Banana Yoshimoto. I read her novella, Kitchen, when I was in school, and I forgot about her writing until I was wandering aimlessly through the library last month. I picked up a copy of Asleep, a series of short stories relating to sleep and reality. The first story is about a woman who constantly sleepwalks, the last features a woman who dreams about a woman she'd considered competition for a former lover, and the second one is the best of the lot. It's about a woman dating a man whose wife is in a coma from which she will probably never awaken. As the story progresses, the narrator finds herself increasingly unable to stay awake, sleeping 14-20 hours a day. Utterly fascinating. Lizard was beautifully crafted as well, and each story took on the idea of coping mechanisms, self-awareness, and individual search for enchantment. I recommend Banana Yoshimoto to anyone searching for beauty in the mundane or normal, because I always walk away from her books feeling as though I've touched something beautiful and enlightened. I close the book and marvel, and it feels as though I have a chance of obtaining whatever serenity I've gleaned from the pages.

Hopefully, that serenity stays with me, because today, I am cracking down. As soon as I post this, I will finally sit down and write my personal statement. I have letters of recommendation, sent my transcript, wrote a $25 check to cover processing fees, and the online application is in. Within a few hours, I hope to journey to the post office, where I will finally submit the remainder of my application to Dominican University's masters program in library and information science. I can see myself spending the next fifty years happily ensconced in an academic library, helping students to uncover knowledge. I plan to get my teaching certification, to take technology courses, and to be up to date on cataloguing mechanisms. These are things I want to learn.

David Auburn wrote a Pulitzer prize-winning play in 2002 called Proof, about the daughter of a crazy mathematician. A month after she moved back in to take care of him, she had begun to sleep till noon most days, depressed at abandoning her education. When her father asked her how many days she had wasted, not thinking or learning, it is a turning point in the play. When I read the line, I wondered: how many days have I wasted? How many days, drinking tea and panicking over the job situation, have I wasted by not simply spending a little time using my mind?

I don't want to answer that. I don't know the answer. In all honesty, though, what good is a mind if it's put to waste? How useful is intelligence if it goes unused?

I didn't post it on here, but I quit my job. Sales and I were just not meant to be, and I was feeling more worthless than useful. At just above minimum wage, 12 hours a week, it's not worth it. I'm back on the prowl.

There's a particular kind of worthlessness that sets in after a few months unemployed. It's this futility which occasionally sinks into my bones, and I feel sometimes like there's nothing I can do to improve my situation. There are no jobs. The ones that exist have six people vying for every slot, five of whom have masters degrees in related fields. I spend a lot of time feeling very frustrated and useless, and there are no easy answers. So, I wrap myself in minutiae, ensconce my senses in the BBC, and pick up more media to shove in my skull. Television - aside from the Whedonverse and Doctor Who -- tends to bore me.

So, I've returned to an old love affair: British literature. There are a number of British authors I've never read, but they're on the list of highbrow lit. Not canonical for my particular area, but they are known as being Good Books. I embarked on my quest toward self improvement through literature the day before yesterday, when I picked up a copy of Wuthering Heights.

I understand that they were important for their time. I realize that their work was instrumental in defining feminine ability to conceive and deliver plots and dialogue. Yes, they are the anti-Austen. But you know what? I like Jane Austen. She was funny. The Brontes wrote about drudgery. It's like reading Byron without the narcissism or rhyme scheme.

I invoked the Rule of 50 on Emily and picked up some Byatt. Her novel, Possession, which won the Booker prize in 1990, is one of the best books I've ever read. The details are fantastic, the prose elegant, and she does great things with her descriptions. She manages to paint the character of her hero without describing him much in the beginning. Instead, she discusses the way others relate to him. It's phenomenal.

A. S. Byatt is the only author who has caused me to miss my stop on the train because I was so engrossed in one of her books. Last year, I read her four book sequence about a British family in the 1950s. The first book, The Virgin in the Garden, bored me a little, but it was interesting without really resolving anything. Some of the pace picked up in Still Life, the second book, as her characters grew into themselves. The third book, Babble Tower, is the one that made me miss my stop. It was about creation, censorship, television, and the need for work and thought. The same elegant writing echoed poignant moments from the first two texts and layered meaning on top of already tense work. The final book in the sequence, A Whistling Woman, simply took my breath away, taking on religion, parenting, literature, literacy, romance, and mental disorders without ever overstepping its bounds. It just interwove characters and themes like an Oriental rug, seamlessly nudging her characters into their final states of growth and alteration.

I have never found another author whose work spoke to me on the same frequency. However, upon rereading Possession, I realize that I understand it better. Even though I now know the twists and turns that caught and held me two years ago, I've since read more of the work she references. I never noticed it, but after having read Edmund Spencer's The Faerie Queene, King Lear, handfuls of Victorian poets, Thomas de Quincey, and Samuel Coleridge, I catch the references hidden in her texts. It's like peeling back a layer of onion to find a different vegetable underneath. I just never knew it could be there to notice.

Yesterday, I started D. H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterly's Lover. This is the book that was banned in England and America for years. There were massive censorship trials. It's still challenged year after year for indecency. V. C. bloody Andrews used it as a signifier for character flaws: the token slutty cousin was always reading Lady Chatterly and behaving inappropriately.

I'm on page 119, and I'm wondering when they're going to get to the racy parts.

I kind of like Connie Chatterly. I'm also very amused at how anti-male the whole book sounds, and I presume that her gynocentric ways will be mended after she finally takes a real lover. The prose itself is elegant, and Lawrence has a good turn of phrase. If the book is good, I may pick up something else he wrote that didn't get him tarred and feathered.

For the second time in a week, I have been pleasantly surprised by a movie. My sister and I wanted an interesting, trippy, or downright ridiculous movie to watch with dinner, so we ended up renting Donnie Darko. We'd both heard mixed reviews: either it was amazing/deserving of cult-like worship, or it was pretentious emo BS we'd mock incessantly.

The instincts were good, since I'd considered renting Blue Velvet. Then I remembered what happened the last time I watched a David Lynch movie with dinner. I am only allowed to even consider his work when it's bright and sunny outside, or I start confusing my dreams with his cinematography. However, the time splicing and hidden clues in Darko caused some mild Lynch-like confusion in my overstressed brain. Infinitely more accessible film than a David Lynch, but still bizarre. I mean, I get it. The movie made sense, and I saw a few pieces of the plot coming before they occurred, but part of my mind is re-analyzing the film and going, wait, what?

I kind of liked it. A lot of the cinematography was cool, and the Gyllenhaals are always a treat. It was also interesting that the title character seemed aware that he was hallucinating, yet this didn't alter his interactions with said hallucination. Also, Patrick Swayze made me laugh.

I made an incorrect attribution, though. It's set in Middlesex, VA, and my first thought was of the Jeffrey Eugenides novel by the same name. I thought, how bizarre. This obscure reference sets the tone that the movie will be slightly off and/or aside from the n rom. However, it was published in 2002, whereas Donnie Darko came out in 2001. Another case of my seeing books where there are no books to be seen.

On an unrelated note: I have this theory that the cast of Battlestar Galactica must be really bored, as a number of former BSG cast members have begun to matriculate to Dollhouse in cameo spots. I have my fingers crossed for President Roslin and Starbuck to drop in next week.

I saw the 1981 BBC miniseries The Day of the Triffids on DVD at the library and knew I had to bring it home. My sister and I pulled up chairs and prepared to laugh, jeer, and ridicule the rubber suits and horrific special effects. Granted, we thought it was a movie, but the only thing we knew about it was that triffids are walking, carnivorous plants, so we were expecting comedy gold.

Ok, the triffids were hilarious. They looked like Georgia O'Keefe flowers put on the offensive by a bad wax job and a serious grudge against pastels. Their walking around was more like lurching, and they croaked. I laughed every time they were on screen, and I blamed every bad thing that happened to our intrepid heroes on the triffids. Someone falls down the stairs? Triffids. Guy gets shot in the face? Clearly, the triffids have grown opposable thumbs and are pulling a Rambo. I kept insisting that the entire movie was a giant triffid plot to destroy human civilization.

The best part, though? It wasn't. It was straightforward sci-fi, and it was really good. We got sucked into the storyline. The main characters were relateable and empathetic, and a lot of stuff happened completely by accident. It hit a lot of the post-apocalyptic areas you'd expect in good science fiction, and the cheese added to it somehow.

Once again, I find myself delighted with the BBC. I love their made-for-TV Jane Austen movies. I love their low-budget sci-fi. If they're running out of ideas, though, I suggest a new sitcom: The Trouble with Triffids. There will be interspecies adoption... and a craving for human flesh. Is a family made of love, if one member only loves the others for their skin?

Now I'm being morbid. But seriously, if you have a few hours, check it out. The series has interesting psychology, and the women have some sense.

In one debit card swipe, I spent most of the money I made this week on a pair of sensible shoes.

I don't understand why they don't make more of those. Half the shoes you find in stores are made of vinyl with cheap soles that might as well be made of cardboard. It's insulting. It's like they're trying to say, "we expect you to buy our pathetic, low-quality merchandise 'cause it's the best you're going to get. They have a fake flower on them, though, so they have to be at least worth thirty bucks. To you, I mean. We paid a Tibetan orphan ten cents to put them together for you. You don't want him to starve, right?"

Granted, my sturdy new Easy Spirits probably cost the company three dollars to make in Taiwan, but it's also not like I can go to a cobbler and go, "Ok, now flay me a cow and stitch these together, please. I want arch support and a decent sole."

I'm actually in a fairly good mood. I just find shoe shopping depressing.

They're for work, though, and I'm going to be standing a lot. That makes the money an investment as much as anything else. I'm selling tea in a retail outlet. I'm never going to make commissions if I'm tired and cranky because my shoes are not situationally appropriate. I'm going out again in a few minutes to see if I can't scare up some bargain priced shirts to match. Apparently, Batman t-shirts don't count as business casual. Who knew?

I'm in training right now, which has so far consisted of essentially memorizing the employee handbook. I know all kinds of interesting facts about tea! I really didn't know there were seven different types. It's actually kind of interesting. I also realized as I was driving home from the painful shoe-purchasing excursion this morning that I feel better. I mean, part time work is fairly discouraging, but having to utilize my brain for something more complicated than a sweater pattern or not screwing up a pot of soup is good for me. I'm thinking more clearly than I have been in a while. Use it or lose it, perhaps?

Either way, I swear I can feel my mind functioning better. That -- and the constant ELO's Greatest Hits CD running through my head -- makes me smile.

Dear J. J. Abrams,

Please stop re-using old Alias plots in your "new" show, Fringe.

We have psychic brain connections, evil doppelgangers, and crystallizing chemical agents, two of which have occurred within three episodes of your second season. Are you running out of material so fast, or are you just so distracted with your new film career (which is awesome, by the way) that you don't even notice your new eco-friendly plot devices?

Seriously, dude. If I hear the word "Rambaldi," I am so out of here.

Sincerely,

--Me

After watching Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-long Blog many more times than is reasonable, I have come to a conclusion: life is richer with musical numbers.

I'm guessing the coreography could be tricky. Regardless, life may require more spontaneous musical interludes.

I don't want to live in a world in which it is unacceptable to burst into Three Dog Knight in the middle of a Japanese restaurant. Though the jazz hands in the mall later on may have been unwise, I'm sure there are far more embarrassing songs to sing at top volume than Hakuna Matata.

We make our own fun around here, folks. Sometimes, you just have to come up with the sunshine all on your own.

Interesting day.

I had an interview today (two in a week! Am I getting popular?). This one: low-paying part-time retail shift selling tea. The manager said I could call her Monday and tell her whether or not I want the job. If I don't get a callback from this week's other interview (librarian over at Harper College), which I really want, I'm going to accept the position and start training whenever stated.

I feel better. I breathe easier, because even if I get passed over again for the library, I will have a job. Plus, working in a tea shop may be a step up from a lot of the other jobs I've had. And, um. Tea. I love tea. And there's an employee discount. Do I see a teapot in my future?

In other, far more trivial news, the season premiere of Dollhouse just aired on Fox. If I weren't already hooked, I would be now. (Spoilers ahead!) ( My whole existence was constructed by a sociopath in a sweater vest. What do you suppose I should do? )

My aunt's car broke down west of Skokie in a rainstorm, so she and my cousins spent some time over here. My brother and I raided our closets in the hopes that we could find clothing to fit any of them. With some effort, we found them dry clothes. However, I was amused because it marked the second time in a weekend I offered my shirt to a lady in need.

One of my best friends got married Saturday to the tune of updos, reception halls, and flash photography. She had a big ceremony and reception, five bridesmaids, and excellent flowers. A bridesmaid's sister was invited to the wedding at the last minute. She'd come home for the weekend with one change of clothes: jeans and a Golden Girls T-shirt. I happened to be at the hotel as she was searching her sister's things and coming up empty, and I also happened to be wearing a nice shirt (it zipped up the back. There was no way I was getting my hair done only to mess it up). J was about my size, so I took off my shirt, passed it over, received compliments on my bra, and put on my jacket until it was time to change into my maid of honor dress.

Because the size of the occasion translated to a lot of standing around waiting for things to happen, I spent a good deal of quality time with the groomsmen. The bridesmaids had been in the same sorority in college and were much more fashion-conscious than I am, so we didn't always have a lot to say. However, I got on very well with the guys, so that worked out just fine.

In between bouts of dodge-the-best-man, a game I perfected during the reception (the neckline of my dress had convinced him we should get to know each other better), I had a chat with the groom. Nice enough guy, wanted to fix me up with some heretofore unknown third party, and he wanted to know what I looked for in a partner. It's funny, because I used to have this really long list of qualifiers. I started to tell him about it only to realize that most of it is pretty moot at this point, and the list in its entirety is as follows: someone sober, nice, and unafraid to date me.

The old list was filled with "none of this" and "none of that," but that's kind of silly. It's the kind of list you make when you've been burned by an ex and are resolving to never end up with someone like him or her again. If you're not interested in the type of people who burned you in the past, then you don't need a list telling you who you can or cannot date. I hardly need a piece of paper to tell me I like brunettes or older women or librarians or whatever, because let's face it: I know who I like and who I don't like. No amount of text is going to alter that.

I also went to a family reunion on Sunday. Quite the busy weekend.

Two or more hours of sleep is worth approximately $60 and a half hour flirting with the third shift guy at Kinkos.

If he'd offered to find me another 50 pieces of cardstock, I'd probably have proposed to him.

And now, I need to learn how to deliver a toast.

I had forgotten about Electric Light Orchestra. Then, I saw one of their CDs at the library this morning.

Mr. Blue Sky can fix anything.

Another Stitches Midwest has come and gone, and I didn't buy any yarn. Go me!

I went with three friends and my mom, who puts up with me like the nice lady she is. We went on Sunday afternoon, about 1-3:30, and it wasn't nearly as crowded or as vendor-heavy as I remembered. I'm going to write it up to coincidence, but I suspect it may be yet another economic indicator: I somehow doubt I was the only crafter on a budget in attendance.

I'm just not as tempted as my friends to buy pricey, hard to care for yarn, I guess. When you factor in animal fiber allergies (so far: wool, alpaca, mohair, angora, cashmere, muskox, and a few others I'm sure I'm forgetting), that means I can pretty much purchase synthetics, bamboo, cotton, hemp, and linen. As I'm currently on an income of "searching for a job until my savings account runs out," costly hemp, linen, and bamboo are out for the forseeable future. Plus, I have so much frakkin yarn.

However, I love to window shop. There was some gorgeous laceweight tencel I loved, and some even finer bamboo. They were fun to pet. The best, though, was a multi-hued hank of dark blue rayon with a bit of gold thread woven in to make it sparkle. I'm not big on sparkles as a general rule, but I could just see a shawl patterned with stars and moons. Wouldn't that be gorgeous? I'm sure there's a legend somewhere about a woman who wears the night sky across her shoulders.

I did buy earrings, though. Mom bought a shawl pin (finally! She's been looking for years), so I looked at jewelry at the same booth. The nice lady had some earrings with spinning wheels, so I needed them, along with the half-knitted sweater earrings. Even when I won't drop money on yarn, funky earrings are an invesment. You can never have too many of those.

I talked to some cool people! Most of the vendors were wearing their own awesome creations (except the lady with the macrame shawl... I'm sorry I was so enthused about a purchased object, but that shawl was brilliant!), including Creative of Creatively Dyed Yarns, who rocked out a recently finished Central Park Hoodie. It looked great! Now I want to make it. Because I just don't have enough cable sweaters to make, of course.

Someday, I need to make my mom a cream, cabled sweater out of bulky weight yarn. Or even out of heavy worsted weight, because she's wanted a big ol' cream cabled sweater forever (and she's always too hot. I'll be freezing my ass off, and she's sitting there with the fan on her face, wondering why I'm wearing gloves and a sweatshirt). Every single cream, bulky weight cabled sweater we saw at Stitches was noted and sighed over. We've been going to Stitches for years, and they always have a few on display. She always notices. The trick is to make her a sweater that fits without her knowing in advance. The best sweaters must be fitted with measurements and constant comparisons. I'd have to sneakily steal one of her shirts or something to do frequent comparisons. You know, ninja a bra out of the laundry without her noticing, make my long-suffering sister stand so that I can do measurement gauges.

The really smart thing would be to inform her that I'm making a sweater, and that she just has to stand still and deal with the measuring tape. But man, wouldn't it be awesome to make her a Christmas present she didn't see coming?

I think I must look into this idea.

Still no word on the job front. In this case, no news means that I get to keep pounding the pavement in the hope that someone will need help filing something. So, I have a lot of time that gets spent being frustrated, and I've started my Christmas presents. I tried to throw in a workout schedule, but being constantly fed up is not an excellent motivator for me. Instead, I'm haunting the library.

Last year, I discovered the beauty of interlibrary loan. I've seriously saved hundreds of dollars (in textbooks and normal books) simply by looking through the WorldCat system and hunting down materials. So, I have quests. What bizarre book/series/DVD has been missing from my life that is available right now in a couple of libraries in the system? I've begun exploring the stacks again at my library in the hope that they will yield something new (they often do). And, since I gave up sleeping at a young age, I pull a John Travolta a la Phenomenon and read until all hours. A small part of me thinks it's good for me to have a schedule not based on turning in papers and freaking out. The other part of me is having trouble functioning.

I have been able to find some distractions, though. I'm watching a lot of media I never had the opportunity to absorb. For example, Lore has gotten me hooked on Doctor Who.

I got Series One from the library yesterday (courtesy of interlibrary loan, of course), and I love it. I love it like candy and yarn and chocolate brownies with sprinkles. I love the cheesy special effects and the sheer insanity of a man traveling through space and time in a bright blue telephone box. And my god, I love Billie Piper, who is flippin gorgeous. Why can't American celebrities have curves? So many look like malnourished toothpicks with anxiety disorders.

It's also nice to have a distraction that isn't causing me to beat my head against the wall in irritation. I can knit my aforementioned Christmas presents while remaining thoroughly amused.