Realm: Weekend - Subrealm: Various and assorted

So yeah. Pinter. Bizarre. John especially wanted me to go see it due to the scene that basically recreates the experience of a schizophrenic (despite the fact that he says they didn't really understand schizophrenia at the time it was written.) And that's not even the surreal and depressing part of the play...
Acting was generally good, and if the actress playing Mrs. Ball (sp?) isn't British, she
gets an A for getting Working-class British Housewife down.

Yesterday (once I finally hauled myself out of bed) was mostly spent baking cookies and frantically finishing the Personal Branding module, both in support of my going out to Boardgame Night with the local geek club without feeling guilty. I brought along the secretary from the nonprofit for which my Dad's (working? volunteering? I've lost track); and once we'd verified that we actually had the right address, it was a great deal of fun! Well, aside from the bit where she got into a very loud argument about philosophy and theology and mysticism with the 20-year-old dude in the Coast Guard and the middle-aged black lady (We appear to be a surprisingly diverse group...) while I was trying to learn the rules of Illuminati.
There weren't actually any Board Games played, cometothinkofit.* We played endless Catchword, and this weird rock-stacking game Ruth (the secretary) had brought, and some of us layed half a game of Illuminati; but mostly there was much talking and noshing. Fun, though. We ended the evening at a Local restaurant, it being restaurant week in Portland; I CONSIDERED joinging everyone in the prix fixe, but decided I didn't feel like bleeding money THIS week. Fun evening, tho.

Now I'm off to sit Shiva for Dad's partner's mother, who died last week. Why do I keep winding up saying Kaddish for other people's Jewish grandparents?

* This clearly needs to be rectified. Am tempted to pick a Saturday, invite people to sit on my floor, and offer them a choice of Risk or Catan.

(no subject)

It's been very therapeutic, reading I Capture the Castle, given my situation and this fickle March weather. Smith does everything so well: loneliness and heartache and depression and desperation and guilt, and being in love in joy and in pain, and living on nothing and a ham. I started the novel sympathizing--the Mortmains' troubles were my own--but by the end I was depressed vicariously on Cassandra's behalf. Decent philosophical novel, too.
And the mist creeping over the ground, and her landscape and her characters, and how New England springs and autumns are nothing like those in the old.

Of course, being swallowed by this book joined forces with the computer crash and loosing various cables to delay my progress on anything resembling actual work...