My other job isn't one either.

I don't know if it's the fall (I now have a purple mark about the size of my fist next to the star on my butt) or the flu (could be?), but I feel all achy and sensitive. Last night, I had insomnia for a while and then nightmares. (Interestingly, both Alison and this woman in my class, Patsy, said they had sleep problems last night too. Is it the weather?) So, I bailed on my morning class, and I think I'll bail again on my evening plans as well (which was yoga). Instead, I am going to stay home, watch TV or read Harry Potter (I started 6 a couple days ago), and eat soup.

What I did end up doing today was my printmaking class, which did me a world of good. (Funny thing about depression, of whatever is wrong with me, you don’t want to do anything, but when you do it helps so much. Same with eating.) My new plate is pretty ugly, but I kept working on it anyway. We'll see if it improves. Basically, I really love printmaking.

As testament to the fact that I never ride the bus is the huge pile of Muni tokens I have had since like 1997 when I worked at RIDES (transit benefit) and we were all in SF. But I took the bus across town to class today bc of my achy condition. The 49/47/14 were packed in both directions and times of day (midday and PM rush hour). On the way home, I couldn't see where we were nor hear the announcer. So, I asked my fellow passengers where we were. Well, you can imagine my surprise when it turned out that none of them spoke English.

Speaking of public transit, I walked up the stairs at BART the other day, and there was a tiny brown mouse eating what looked like chewing gum off a stair (1). He looked at me and I at him neither of us changed our behavior in the slightest.

Volunteering for the KQED pledge drive last week, it turned out the woman next to me also named her daughter "Lilia" (spelled and pronounced the same way). (I know you are going to ask: they lived in LA when she was born, but shortly after moved to Berkeley where the mom still lives. Lilia is 24 and an NPO fundraising powerhouse.) She sang me a song she made up to help her daughter remember how to spell "Lilia" (which she has since left on my vm, per my request). Her daughter's last name is also one syllable, and she told me that every time she hears Beethoven's 9th (dundundun DUUUN), she says, "it's my song, they're singing my name!" I thought that was pretty cute.

I'm having some interesting email correspondences I want to string into blog posts, but for now I'll sign off.

Endnotes
(1) Random song lyrics from my childhood:
When I get to heaven and you get there,
I’ll write your name on a golden stair.
I’ll write it big so the angels can see
Just how much you mean to me.