Today, as threatened, I cleared a bit of the basement so we could turn on our marvy new furnace. (It would be marvier if the clown of a Mr. Fixit who owned the house before us hadn't had a wild hair to rip the radiator out of the downstairs living room, but I suppose I can get that fixed at some point down the road if I don't die first.) Venturing into the basement is like exploring the New World to me at this point. It's really the Old World in the sense that all the crap down there dates from some earlier version of Me in some past incarnation, but it's New in the sense that I have spent next to no time in the basement since about 1998 and have completely forgotten most of what I stuck down there before traipsing off for a life remake/remodel. For example, while moving and rearranging a bookshelf full of whatsisname's space-and-war-opera paperbacks, I noticed, among the familiar companions on "my" storage bookshelf, several paperbacks that I'd completely forgotten I once bought and read. A couple of them, I even had to pick up and re-read to jog my memory as to what was in them. My Ford, was there really once a me who pored over dreck like Maggie Scarf's "Intimate Partners: Patterns in Love and Marriage"? **shudder** And the answer is sadly Yes (way before I was married) because I had been involved with some people who I loved but didn't like, who didn't treat me the way I wanted to be treated, and I couldn't figure out why or how I got into these situations, nor could I grasp why in some cases I kept thinking about the people. I think I was thinking about them partly wishing it could have been different, but also largely wondering WHY they acted how they did. It's so funny, now I don't need or want to analyze any more. They were what they were, which was, quite simply, Wrong People. Wrong people for me and in some respects I'd say just Wrong, period, in many ways. All it takes is one or two Right people to make you pitch all the analysis books out the window and make you forget you even owned them. Leave that garbage to the wimmen who get their jollies obsessing over "Sex in the City" and the perfect pair of shoes. A friggin' shoe is nothin' but a friggin' shoe (sorry Josh). How bleak my bandwidth must have been, in those dead days when I dwelt on such stuff. Then again, it was before Al Gore invented the Internet and its myriad more exciting ways to waste your time of an evening. God bless the Internet!
P.S. Oh and I did find my copy of "Weetzie Bat", a book which says much more useful things aboot love if you ask me. :-)