Sassy Is: Wondering What the Hell to Do about Her Facebook Account

“Are you on Facebook?” Nearly every friend I have has asked me this question in the last year. The answer is a very hesitant “Yes…” followed by qualifiers like, “I haven’t completed my profile yet,” or “I haven’t logged in in ages,” or “The whole thing just overwhelms me.” My friends give me advice for how to manage my Facebook life, and I always tell them I’ll follow it. And then I don’t.

The reason why it overwhelms me can be summed up in two words: high school. My parents sent me to a tiny (my class at its height had nineteen students) Christian school where my life was a living hell from fourth grade on until I went to college. The school discouraged honest intellectual thought (I actually was taught creation and creation only in science classes, and history was referred to at times as “His Story”), and from the time we were but little children, teachers taught us that we were essentially sinful creatures and that without a “solid grounding in biblical values,” we would be lost to “The World.” Our bodies were our mortal enemies, and teachers spanked us when we did something out of line. We girls were taught that we were to submit to our future husbands and that the only reason for us to go to college was to either become teachers or suitable “helpmeets” for our husbands. Girls who got pregnant were expelled.

I never fit in at this schoool. My mind was an active one, and skepticism came naturally to me. Although I didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs, engage in fornication, or admit to anyone but me that I wasn’t a Christian until after high school, my inner rebellion must have triggered suspicion from teachers and fellow students (not to mention my parents, who treated me as though I was just chomping at the bit to do all of these things at once, every second of every day).

In such a stifling environment, I went from being a happy, friendly popular kid to a sullen, painfully shy outcast. It did not help matters any that I had a woman’s body and look from the time I was twelve years old, and between that and what one teacher describes as “wisdom beyond her years” (along with the slam, “I hope she isn’t ‘Worldy wise’”), boys stayed away from me. Until my senior year, when some other classmates realized that our school was a bizarre and unhealthy place, I had nary a friend. It truly amazes me after that experience, two of my closest friends are from that school. Even still, we didn’t become close friends until we went away to college.

Those two friends, however, are it. Except for a couple of reunions, I haven’t seen or spoken to most of my high school classmates since 1991. And that’s fine with me. High school was a long time ago, and I have moved on. I wish my fellow high school classmates nothing but the best in their lives. That doesn’t mean, however, that I want to be friends with them on Facebook.

When I joined Facebook, at the behest of one of my high school friends, I listed only my college and graduate school, hoping to avoid the alumni of my high school. I tested the Facebook waters gently. My real name is a very common one, and so I didn’t post a picture, thinking that it would keep most people from finding me. I filled in my religion as “Agnostic,” not meaning that I still held out some possibility of the existence of the Christian god, but instead that I was not willing to rule out the existence of a spiritual world beyond the physical one. My limited profile done, I friended the one high school friend, and a few other close friends, and figured that if that went well that I would then fill in the rest of my profile and join the wonderful world of Facebook in earnest.

My plan didn’t work. I logged back into my Facebook account the next day and found that I had two friend requests from high school classmates. Not wanting to be rude, I accepted their invitations, and that’s when all hell broke loose. I’ve gotten invites from so many alumni that I’m afraid to check the account again.

Here’s what I don’t understand about Facebook: Why do these people want to be my “friend” now? We weren’t friends then, and I highly doubt that we would be friends if we were to meet up again in “real life.” That’s OK. I have no need for these people’s acceptance now, and I’m sure they are doing just fine not knowing my relationship status, what I do for work, or how I pass my time. I’d rather let them fade gently into my past than have to contend with their strange offers of friendship in my present.

All of this is to say that I’m in a bit of a quandary. There are people I’d like to keep in contact with on Facebook, including old college friends, and friends I know now whose updates would amuse me. I know that a presence on Facebook can help me professionally. But I don’t want to rehash high school over and over again. I don’t want invitations to join “All the Christians on Facebook.” I don’t want to read endless updates from people who spend all day doing quizzes and finding Easter Eggs. I already blog, twitter, meet dates, e-mail friends all day, and network for jobs online. Even if I didn’t have this dilemma, I think that adding Facebook to the mix could send me over the edge. So what to do?

I’m not sure, but I’m beginning to feel like I need to make a decision. I suppose if I do want the benefits of Facebook, then the most honest thing to do would be to “un-friend” those high school classmates I no longer wish to know, and restrict the activities of a few others. As one of my real friends said, anyone who knows me well already knows about this weird chapter in my life, and that their presence in my Facebook life doesn’t reflect on me. So maybe I should just bite the bullet and jump in. Or, maybe I should just delete my profile and disappear.

What about you? Do you have people crawling out of the woodwork of your past to request your friendship on Facebook? Are you one of those people who goes looking for everyone you ever knew? How do you handle your Facebook life?

Play Ball! How I Became a Red Sox Fan

WHOOSH!!! As the sound of fighter jets flew over my apartment, my heart leapt with joy (and fear—those things are deafeningly loud). I ran to the window to see those four planes head straight toward Fenway Park to do a fly over, marking Opening Day for the Boston Red Sox. I called my dad to tell him I’d seen and felt the planes, and we talked baseball for a few minutes as the ceremony continued. Ted Kennedy, looking weak but happy, threw the opening pitch to Jim Rice, and for once, the political divide between me and my dad didn’t matter. Even my conservative dad couldn’t begrudge an old liberal the chance to toss a ball. Sadly Dad had to get back to work, and so we said our “Go Sox!”s before I settled in with a cup of coffee and my knitting to watch the game.

People are often surprised by my love of baseball. Even here where almost everyone at least claims to be a Red Sox fan, I don’t fit the baseball “type.” I’m not athletic. I hate sports bars. Jocks bore me. I own nary a piece of Red Sox merchandise. My tastes tend toward “culture.” I could care less about any other sport going, but baseball just makes me stupid happy.

It wasn’t always this way. Although I’d been a fan as a kid, growing up with Yaz and the Boomer, my baseball fandom pretty much ended with the 1986 World Series. My dad had woken up my mom to watch what should have been the final out of the Series. “Oh, Mr. Sundry,” Mom said, rubbing her eyes, “these are the Red Sox. They are going to find a way to blow it.”

Sure enough, the ball went trickling through poor injured Bill Bruckner’s legs, and the dreams of a Sox win went with them. All my mom said was “See” to my stunned father and me. As I watched her pad off in her nightgown back to bed, I thought to myself that maybe my mother was right about just this one thing (I was thirteen at the time, so my mom was pretty much wrong about everything). And that was pretty much it for me and baseball for a long time. The next time the Sox made the Playoffs, I busied myself kissing my boyfriend’s neck, trying to distract him from the game. He didn’t appreciate it.

My indifference toward baseball would have likely continued if it hadn’t been for an autumn evening in 2003. I’d just arrived in Massachusetts to start my recently ended job, and I had been staying with some friends of friends in Salem. These guys were hardcore baseball fans, and apparently the Sox were having a great year. If I ever wanted to sit in the living room, I needed to be able to tolerate baseball. Despite myself, I found myself rather charmed by the sloppy looking Sox. They just looked like they were having a good time. That didn’t mean that I was interested in the game. Or wasn’t, that is until that fateful night.

We were at a party in West Gloucester. We’d had beer. Somehow the party wound up becoming two parties, with women dancing to cheesy pop music in the kitchen, and men drinking beer on the porch, listening to Game Three of the series against Oakland on a hand-cranked radio. However much my sister and I love to cut a rug, the music was a bit much, so we decided to join the guys on the porch.

I don’t know if it was the beer, the October air, the romance of the hand crank radio, or the general collective tension surrounding the game, but it took only a few moments before my sister and I were hooked. No one needed to tell us to shut up, because we were listening intently to the broadcast. The game was close, and error filled. It went into eleven, nail-biting innings. At one point, when the tension became almost unbearable, my sister and I looked at each other. “Oh no,” we said together. “We care!”

“I want them to win!” shrieked my sister.

“Me too!” I cried.

The injured Trot Nixon stepped up to the plate. Magically, or so it seemed to me at the time, he hit a game-winning homerun.

“TROT!!!!!!!!” all the guys yelled. Sister and I joined them, “TROT!!!! YAY!!!!!”

From then on, Red Sox fans we were. Now would we have become fans had the Sox had a mediocre year in 2003, I can’t say. But ever since that night, I’ve loved baseball. I might not have truly felt the heartbreak after Game Seven against the Yankees in 2003, or deserved the happiness I felt in 2004 and 2007, but I don’t care. My dad loves it that his daughters have crossed over to the dark side (my mother feels betrayed). It gives us something to talk about, even when other current topics make us quarrel. Baseball’s a game that brings an arch conservative and an ardent liberal together to rejoice in Opening Day.

So, yes. I love baseball. That the Sox won today makes me stupid happy. Play ball!

Big Brother Is Watching You Pee

Last night Fresh Hell and I descended into the Cellar in Cambridge for some tasty grub and satisfying brew. We had ourselves a delightful repast and then decided to then head over to the Plough and Stars. Before leaving the Cellar, however, I needed to visit the loo. There I learned this:

Big Brother Is Watching You Pee

Great. Not only can Big Brother see into my living room, but now he’s also watching me pee. Looks like Killroy is too. Perverts.

I think this little addition is best sung to the tune of the Who’s Christmas song in How the Grinch Stole Christmas (the original version, not that Jim Carey abomination):

Shut Up Doris

After yucking it up over the grafiti, Fresh and I wandered over to the Plough and Stars, where we enjoyed the sounds of the Cranktones. The best part is that today, I’m no worse for the wear.

The End of the Boston Globe?

UPDATE: Save the Globe or bury it? Check out this post from Universal Hub.

Whoa. Late last night, after an evening consisting of watching Milk and Vicky Christina Barcelona and eating ice cream, I logged into my Twitter account to see if anything interesting had happened. Well, something had (sorry, Manuel, I’m delighted that your broadband is up and running, but I’m talking about something else). Universal Hub had twittered about the impending demise of the Boston Globe. According to the post (and the Globe‘s own Web site), unions have 30 days to agree to $200 million in concessions, or the Globe’s parent company the New York Times will leave us with only the Boston Herald for a local paper. These concessions would come on the heels of the decimation of the Globe’s newsroom staff, a wound that has cost the paper so many subscriptions (including mine) that its viability has been in question for years.

There’s no question that the Globe is a shadow of its former self. I cancelled my subscription years ago after Tom Oliphant left, and my Sunday paper of choice has become the New York Times. I tend to get my local news from WBUR. When on the rare occasion I’ve picked up the Globe in recent months, the poor quality of the paper has left me disappointed. I check Boston.com regularly, but I cannot say that I think it’s a critical news source. So in thinking about the future of the paper, I can’t say that I would support it in its current form. I’m part of the paper’s problem.

And yet. I believe that newspapers provide a crucial role in a free society. We need professional journalists to investigate and report on our communities. Television, radio, and the Internet do not lend themselves to the in-depth reporting that made papers such important sources of news for so long. However much blogs have become a way to learn how we regular folk view the world, we are not accountable for our reporting, or for our opinions. Nor do we have the time, resources, or training to uncover stories the way news room journalists can.

For these reasons, I would truly hate to see the end of the Boston Globe. Those in charge of the paper have precious little time to figure out how to make the paper relevant again. The answer isn’t that stupid g section, or the elitist Boston Globe Magazine. It’s in excellent reporting and insightful opinion. It’s in covering local news in the way that only a newspaper can. Changes are necessary at the Globe, and I can only hope that they make them before it’s too late. Especially since I hate the Herald.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Happy Friday! Quite a week here in Sassyland. The Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things political, personal, and nonsensical, seems like a good way of telling you about it. So, without further ado, here are the week’s Sassy Sundries:

Well, holy shit. The IOWA Supreme Court just ruled in favor of same sex marriage, striking down a law restricting marriage between a man and a woman. Let me repeat this: IOWA will allow gay marriage. Enlightenment comes to the Bible Belt. Of course, this could energize the homophobic base of the Republican Party in 2012, but for today, let’s just celebrate. Plus Five

My nephew is walking all over the place, and he let me hold him for the first time since he was six months old. He also attempted to say my name. I am now Auntie “Assy,” or something like that. Plus Ten

New unemployment figures came out today, and the figure is grim. At 8.5% unemployment is now at a 25 year high, with 633,000 jobs lost in March. That brings this year’s total to 2,000,000. Now I’m really not alone. Minus Eight and a Half

Last Friday I had a great date. Our conversation was by turns witty, silly, and intelligent. There was a spark of something. Alas, however, I haven’t heard from him again. Pity. Other fish, blah blah. I have another date next week. Even

I’m looking at a Homeland Security camera as I write this. Grrr! I am encouraged, however, that the city’s Aldermen are taking the issue seriously. I hope the people of this city fight this until these cameras come down. Minus Ten

President Obama traveled to Europe for the G-20 meeting. People in London took to the streets to protest the financial shenanigans that led us into this mess. I don’t know entirely what to think of Obama’s proposals, but I do know that I’m glad that it’s him and not John McCain representing us. Even

This week I actually made good on my resolution to have a little more structure in my life. I got things done. Yay me! Plus Two

A forty-two-year-old lone gunman in Binghampton, New York, went into a recreation center where people were taking a citizenship class, and shot and killed 15 people and took 40 hostages before taking his own life. We don’t need security cameras. We need better gun laws in this country. Minus Five

Yesterday I met up with an old friend who is living in California. We had a fine time tromping about Boston for a couple of hours before she left for the airport. Unfortunately I also picked yesterday to go sockless the first time this year. My feet are chewed to shreds. I have blisters where I never thought possible. Here’s to a week of flip-flops! Minus One

Total Plus: 17
Total Minus: 24.5

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -7.5

Last Week’s Total: – 5,559,999

It’s More Than a Feeling: Somebody Really Is Watching Me

A funny thing happens when you start thinking about something. As I was waiting for the 90 bus  to take me to the public comment forum on the installation of seven Homeland Security cameras in the City of Somerville, I had security cameras on my mind. I’d just done a blog post about how angry a creepy camera system rigged up to monitor a Mustang up the street on Broadway made me. Freezing my tatas off waiting for bus (it never showed up—I had to take a cab), I happened to look up at the old fire station on the corner of Broadway and Cross Street.

And that’s when I saw the Homeland Security camera, mounted on top of the building. Grr! I can see that chimney from my living room window, and while I had noticed the space-age antenna, I had not noticed the camera before. A camera that can look directly into my apartment, should I be suspected of malfeasance. Or, if Big Brother just wanted to see what I’m doing in my living room (I can think of a couple of times when he could have seen quite a show).

Department of Homeland Security Camera from My Living Room

Here’s Looking at You, Big Brother!

I arrived with boiled blood at the comment forum. There I learned that without public knowledge or input, the City of Somerville applied for and accepted a grant through the Department of Homeland Security’s Urban Bureau of Security Initiative. Included in the grant was funding for the installation of seven cameras in undisclosed public places around the city, ostensibly to monitor traffic routes and the community bike path. One camera had been spied atop the unfortunately named SCAT building in Union Square, and another in Davis Square (and now we know where the one in East Somerville is located).

According to the chair of the city’s department of Public Health and Safety, the aldermen, in approving the grant, were not aware that the cameras were included in the funding. By the time they learned of the situation, things were already underway to install the cameras. Last night’s forum was the attempt by the aldermen to retroactively allow the people of Somerville to comment on the issue. Judging from their questions, most of the aldermen in attendance were very uncomfortable with existence of the cameras and felt that they violated our civil liberties.

Prior to hearing from the public, the Police Chief Anthony Holloway gave some remarks and answered questions from the alderman. He also mistakenly gave them a sheet with the locations of all the cameras. Attempting to reassure the public, Holloway testified that the cameras were not being used to spy on people and that unless a zoom feature is used, the images are grainy (though in color) and do not show things like license plate numbers or faces. The primary purposes of the cameras are to aid in police investigations of crimes and to help the police and fire departments to evacuate Somerville in the event of a terrorist attack or other emergency.

According to Holloway, private residences are shadowed, and the cameras do not film what goes on inside (unless a crime is reported, presumably). Access to the zoom feature is password-protected and limited to nine people in the police department and may only be used if a crime has been reported. If it is used, an alert goes to the Homeland Security officer at the department. Anyone caught abusing the system will be fired immediately. Tapes from the security cameras are kept for fourteen days and then taped over (this was a change from the original thirty-day storage policy). The server keeping the data from the cameras is in Somerville, and permission must be granted for other towns or government entities to access it. With the checks and balances in place, Holloway testified, there is no threat to the civil liberties of the citizens of Somerville.

With all due respect to Chief Holloway, someone I believe to be duped, bullshit. Are we really supposed to believe that the U.S. Department of Homeland Security has no access to the data? Technology is power, and power lends itself to abuse. Maybe not today, but sometime in the future, when the public became used to the cameras, the surveillance capabilities would be enhanced. Stored data is data that can be hacked and abused. It is only a matter of time.

These cameras represent a gross violation of the civil liberties of the people of Somerville (and Boston and other surrounding communities that have installed the cameras. Cambridge has chosen to dismantle them). Not only do they needlessly invade our privacy, but also, if they are used in a manner consistent with Chief Holloway’s testimony, then they are essentially useless. They will not deter crime, and only if a criminal stays on the scene will she or he be caught on film by the time one of the nine people with password access is able to get to a computer and zoom in on the location. Do we really need continuous surveillance if one of the primary uses of the cameras is to aid in an evacuation?

Those who offered public comment, with one half-hearted exception by a woman living on the bike path whose house has been vandalized, were unanimous in their opposition to the cameras and furious that they were installed without the opportunity for the people to weigh in. Although I did not comment at the forum, I will be submitting a written statement for the record. The camera on Broadway and Cross Street will catch me every single day, doing nothing more than going about my business. And I’m pissed.

If you live in Somerville, you have until April 15 to submit written comment on this critical issue. You may direct your comments here: cityclerk@ci.somerville.ma.us.

These cameras need to come down. Now.

Thinking about Security Cameras

UPDATE: Well, this little post seems to have generated a response. It’s been great to see the comments, some of it positive, and quite a bit of it informed dissent. The debate has been great, but a matter has come to my attention that I feel I must address. While it wasn’t clear in the small photo of the cheesy sports car I included in the post, the location of the vehicle was clearly visible in the full version of the photo. Since the small group of regular readers of this blog do not live in the Boston area, I didn’t think to obscure the location. To the owner of the Mustang, I apologize. Your camera pisses me off, but I should have done more to protect your privacy. The photo has been edited.

 

Tonight I’m going to a Somerville town meeting to speak out against the installation of Homeland Security cameras in our fair city. These cameras represent a gross violation of our right to privacy, and giving into their presence without a fight will contribute to a Big Brother culture not only in Somerville, but in the rest of the country.

When I heard about the meeting, though, I got to thinking about other security cameras. Although I can see the point of having cameras at ATMs, I don’t like them. When I’m feeling prickly, I sometimes extend a friendly gesture. Same with cameras in stores. However, there’s one security camera in particular that really pisses me off. It’s this one:

DSCN4973

I first noticed this camera a while back, and it really creeped me out. At first I had no idea why someone would train a camera on East Broadway. To catch people running away screaming from Taco Loco, having stolen some hot sauce? To gather material for some strange art project? To create a view on the world for some lonely shut-in?

Gradually it dawned on me that the ever-present camera was trained on this car:

Mustang

Seriously. It’s a Mustang. Sure, it’s not exactly an economy car, but it’s not like the guy’s protecting a Lamborghini or something. Is it really worth it to constantly film the sidewalk, hoping to catch some whipper-snapper keying it? If the person didn’t think the neighborhood was good enough for the car, the person shouldn’t have moved here.

Anyhow, I’m sure I’m not the only one extending a friendly gesture at the camera. Someday I would love to see a group get together and do a kick line in front of the building. Or maybe a team of videographers filming surveillance of the camera. Something to let that asshole know in no uncertain terms that that security camera is not welcome. We’re watching you, pal.

The Sassy Sundries: My Week in Review

Wow, what a lazy week. Friday’s here already, and so it’s time for the Sassy Sundries, my weekly tally of things personal, political, and nonsensical.

The unemployment figures released this week make me feel like a total joiner. There are 5.56 million of us on unemployment the dole in this country. Minus 5,560,000

Obama gives his second press conference. It’s so nice to have a president who can speak in complete sentences. Interestingly, with only a couple of exceptions, every question was about the economy. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan didn’t come up once. While obviously the economy is on the front burner, I hope that the wars don’t fade into the background. Even

Speaking of war, Obama is expected to announce that he will be sending 4,000 new troops to Afghanistan, with the goal of training Afghan security forces. This brings the total number of new troops in Afghanistan to 21,000. In addition, more aid will be given to Pakistan for counterterrorism measures. The new focus on Afghanistan will set benchmarks for both Afghanistan and Pakistan. While I can see the point of trying to clean things up in a region where we’ve been fighting a half-assed war in for so long, I wonder if recent history doesn’t have some lessons for us here. Minus One

Went on a bit of a bender and made a bit of an ass out of myself. Oh well. It was great to see Andraste (who wasn’t involved in the bender or the ass-making), and today is a new day. Plus One

The Boston Globe announces yet another round of layoffs. Minus Two

During the presidential press conference, Obama indicated that the Republican criticism of his budget needs to be backed up with an actual counter budget proposal. Today House Republicans announced that they had a budget. The only problem? There aren’t any numbers attached to it. Minus Two

Twilight at Boston Latin? Vampire rumors spread through the school, prompting a memo home to parents about bullying. Gimme your lunch money or I’ll bite your neck? Minus One

Sarah Palin threw a snit this week, saying that she couldn’t find anyone to pray with her before the Vice Presidential Debate. You’d think that everyone on McCain’s team would have laid hands on her. Thank heavens the religious right isn’t in charge any more. Plus One

I have a date tonight. Plus Five

Total Plus: 7
Total Minus: 6

TOTAL FOR THE WEEK: -5,559,999

Last Week’s Total: -165,000,00

Day One Not Going So Well . . .

Well, day one of the resolution isn’t going so well, as anyone following my drunken tweets last night knows. While I did indeed wake up early, it was to one godawful hangover.

It all started innocently enough. Just a couple of drinks with Andraste. However, I wasn’t ready for the night to end when we parted company. So I went out some more. Big, big, big mistake. It was one of those crazy nights when I know I talked to a whole bunch of people, don’t really know how I got home, and blathered on and on to my roommate when I got home.

Yeah, I’m proud.

Robyn and Daughter Number One decided to head back a day early, which is probably just as well. We had a nice phone conversation yesterday, just before I started making bad decisions.

Oh well. Tomorrow is another day.

Resolved: I Will Leave the Arena of the Unwell by Resetting My Broken Sleep Clock

Even a Stopped Clock is Right Twice a Day
Even a Stopped Clock Is Right Twice a Day

It’s official—my sleep patterns have drifted into the arena of the unwell, making an enemy of my own future. Somewhere, deep down, I knew it was only a matter of time. When left to my own devices, I’ve slept at truly bizarre hours for my entire life. School vacation weeks, my dad would wake up to go to work, only to find me curled up in the living room reading, having been up all night. Or, my mom would knock on my door in the afternoon to see if I wanted to go shopping, and I’d be conked out, dead to the world.

My broken sleep clock served me well in my clubbing years, as staying up until four or five in the morning came naturally to me. I really could dance all night, without the aid of drugs (though often with the aid of tequila). I also made my clock work for my studies. People knew to look for me in the all-night computer lab, where I would be writing my papers into the wee hours of the morning. After my marathon typing session, I’d sleep for a couple of hours, before going back to revise the paper (sometimes my three-AM strokes of genius didn’t hold up in the light of day). I’d then head off to class to hand in the paper. Once that was done, I’d go back collapse into a heap on my unmade bed.

However well I managed to turn my vampire-like tendencies to my advantage, I spent much of my waking life feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. Getting up in the middle of the afternoon also made me feel as though I’d missed out on the day. Finally, I’d had enough.

In lieu of a weekend in the country, I made some changes the week after I graduated from college, among them resetting my broken sleep clock. No matter how late I’d been out the night before or what I had done to myself, I’d wake up at six in the morning. I’d throw on my clothes, grab a cup of coffee, and go out for a walk. It took me a while to adjust to my new routine, but once I did, I found that I had more time to get things done. Morning light no longer seared my flesh.

I somehow kept up the routine through graduate school, and then continued it in my working life. In fact, until the last couple of weeks, I could honestly tell people that I was one of the morning people.

Lately it seems, however, that my broken sleep clock had not mended itself at all. Instead, it seems as though it had merely bided its time, waiting patiently for me to have an extended break from the everyday to rear its ugly face.

After the events of two weeks ago, I needed to take some time for myself. So after my networking group on Thursday, I cancelled my plans for the weekend. Except for my Monday evening therapy appointment, I didn’t have anything on my schedule until tonight. And that’s when things went awry. I blame in part the stress of Friday, but things didn’t get really strange until Saturday.

Saturday was bright and sunny, yet colder than I’d like it to be, and so I didn’t leave the apartment for my usual Haymarket trip until three in the afternoon. I was out and about for a couple of hours, and then decided to settle in for another evening of Twin Peaks.

I should have known that David Lynch would set the twisty dials of my broken sleep clock spinning in earnest. Instead of staying up all night, I actually fell asleep watching an episode sometime around nine. I woke up at around two-thirty in the morning, and instead of picking myself up off the couch and heading to bed, I started the episode up again and worked on this latest blog incarnation until about four-thirty. I wrestled with the new format, feeling like an evil genius each time I got something to work the way I wanted it to. Then, sleepy again, I went to bed and didn’t wake up until ten-thirty or so.

Sunday went much the same way, except that the day was so crummy, that I didn’t go out at all, except for a short trip to Patsy’s Pastry for a lobster tail (oh yes, I’ve also been earning the black star of nutritional death lately too). Instead, I just blogged and twittered away until my wrists resembled crow’s talons.

Monday was positively freezing, and if I hadn’t had my therapy appointment, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere. After getting home around nine-thirty, I watched TV for a bit, and then fell asleep on the couch. I woke up at three and did some job-hunting until four. I then went to bed. I woke up at seven-thirty, feeling as though a pig had shat in my head. Something was truly wrong, as I’d had nary a drink since Thursday. I went through yesterday in something of a daze.

But last night, last night took the cake. Again, it was cold, and my early venture out didn’t make me want to go back out again. So I ordered takeout for dinner and settled in to watch Obama’s press conference (interesting, by the way. Nearly all the questions were about the economy, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan didn’t come up at all). I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of Keith Olberman’s Countdown, and drifted in and out of sleep until three-thirty. I sat up, wide awake, in the middle of a re-airing of The Rachel Maddow Show and set about to hunt for jobs. I found a possible freelance gig and sent out a perfectly coherent message at four. I hunted around for jobs some more, replied to a couple of e-mails, and did some reading. It finally occurred to me that if I didn’t go back to sleep, today was going to be really weird.

Off to bed I went, but I didn’t really sleep. I got out of bed around eight-thirty, resolved that this will not happen again. So, forthwith, even if it kills me, I will set an alarm and wake up at seven-thirty each morning. I will take a shower no later than an hour after waking. I will go outside before noon.

My resolution will be aided (I hope) by my plans for the rest of the week, two of them blog-related. Tonight I will have drinks with Andraste. She has to get up early, and since I have plans on Thursday, I won’t want to get too terribly inebriated. Tomorrow, I get to meet Robyn, of Just Sayin’ fame, and possibly Rich, of Beantown Caffé. I’ll post pictures.

Friday I have a lunch with an old publishing friend. And, drumroll please . . . this weekend I just might have a date. He’s smart (really, really smart), rather hot, and foreign-born. We’ve exchanged several witty and cultured e-mails, and he’s asked me if my week’s plans could include him. I definitely don’t want to be a scatter-brained mess for that. Stay tuned for more details.

OK, it’s after twelve, and I must be off. I do have a bit of an excuse, as I was a caller on WBUR’s On Point program and had to be on hold for a while. Tomorrow, though, I’ll be resetting my broken sleep clock. That bastard’s going to suffer. I’m going to be a morning person again!