Welcome Back, Zach!

I'm back. And this time I mean it.
My little hiatus turned into a big hiatus, because, well, that's just the way those things work: You miss the gym once and suddenly you've wasted a year of membership dues without a single workout; you take a summer break from the pottery studio and 4 years go by without throwing any clay; you put down the book when it gets a little dull and months go by without reading a single page of something other than your magazines which you're only barely staying on top of to keep the recycle pile manageable; you tell yourself you'll write a little over the coming weekend and days become weeks until you don't even know where to begin so you just don't.

At any rate, I suppose a lot has happened since last I typed here, yet there doesn't seem to be much to show for it. Perhaps I'll summarize in my first entry of 2008 (and by the way, Holy Shit). Just now, however, I'm going to use the last few minutes of 2007 to bitch and moan and unload, the better to start the New Year fresh and positive and glass half-full-like.

Before I get too whiny, let me first say that I have only just returned from a lovely week in the Denver deepfreeze with the family. It was only maybe the 3rd Christmas I've spent with my fam in 11 years, so it was kind of a big deal. The nephews are getting huge, Santa was generous (I even had a stocking on the mantle!), and it dumped so much snow on Christmas Day (and two days later) that it pretty much made up for all the white Christmases I've missed over the years. I got to exercise my long-forgotten snow-shoveling skills, and even didn't die while snowboarding in temperatures of 13 below zero. So... YAY!

(Remind me, though, to fill you in on my work/boss frustration leading up to my trip home. Because -- yargh.)

Anyway, so here I am, just having walked in the door about a half hour ago. After being escorted through the security lines at DIA by a certain TSA agent I know (thanks, Shawn!), it figures that things couldn't continue to go my way. The plane departed without explanation well over an hour late, and the luggage took about 45 minutes to show up at baggage claim in SFO, which put me on public transit between 9:30 and 11pm... precisely the same time thousands of revelers were headed into the City in their loud, drunken, cardboard hat-wearing hordes. Try crowding onto a bus with a 35lb suitcase, laptop shoulder bag, and 6-ft snowboard bag when the fare is free and the masses are migrating to your neighborhood to continue getting their drink on.

So I finally arrive, looking forward to kicking back in my quiet, empty apartment, knowing that my roommates departed last week for a month of traveling in Vietnam. I had specifically admonished against incinerating the apartment in my absence, given their penchant for candle burning, and requested that they turn the heat down before departing. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, upon staggering in the door? The Christmas lights on the pine boughs over the mantle, still plugged in and unattended for days. And the apartment is uncharacteristically warm... oh look! The thermostat is still set so that the heat has been on for days, keeping things cozy for exactly no one. And hey! Dishes in the sink! Is that...? It is! The garbage was bagged up, but wasn't taken out, so instead it's moldering on the floor of the room beyond the kitchen.

Worst of all, however, my bedroom has been completely violated. In an apartment of shared spaces, my bedroom is the one space that's completely mine. It's the one place where I'm in control; if it's a mess, I'm the only one to blame. I'm possessive of the space and the belongings in it, perhaps unreasonably so. But it's my sanctuary. Now, let me be the first to admit that it wasn't exactly in a pristine state when I left. But I'm one of those people who may appear disorganized yet generally knows exactly where things are. And despite a certain amount of clutter, I have my own quirky hygiene rules that include never putting my clothes on the floor, and keeping my bed sacred space. I spend a lot of time sleeping there -- I may transfer a pile of laundry to the foot of my bed, but nothing touches the sheets and pillows but me and my pajamas. I won't even crawl under the sheets wearing street clothes. It's like throwing your wet towel on the floor and using it again later. Ew.

Now, a friend was crashing at my place while I was away. He was set up comfortably in the guest room, but apparently that space was needed for a little holiday get-together my roommates were having. Which meant my pal slept one or two nights in MY room. Which by itself isn't particularly bothersome. A quick change of the sheets and I'm good. But having spent enough nights with him in the distant past to be familiar with some of his habits, I should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

I walked in to find my bed askew, a foot away from the wall, pillows on the floor and one pillow resting in the dirt of the houseplant on my nightstand. My trash was laying on its side and its contents were spilled across the floor mingled with some of the clean laundry that had once been atop my bed. The clothing I had gotten out while packing was similarly on the floor on the other side of my bed, smooshed between the wall and the dusty storage bins which had once been under my bed. This stuff was no longer under my bed because my friend's stuff had been shoved under there instead, awaiting his next monthly visit. What had once been two distinct sorted stacks of paperwork were merged into one heap, carelessly strewn across the bed and now including some things that weren't even mine. My drawer of yarn and knitting projects in progress was upended, with the contents littering the floor and coated in the dust that had been stirred up from under the bed (obviously I need to vacuum under there more often, I recognize). And, I shit you not, someone's electric toothbrush was in my bed, under the sheets. WTF?!

I'm so annoyed I'm muttering to myself in my empty apartment and barely maintaining my composure. So much for a relaxing evening. I don't even want to deal tonight. Instead, I'm throwing my sleeping bag on the couch and camping out, leaving the mess for tomorrow.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,/And never brought to mind?/Should auld acquaintance be forgot,/And auld lang syne?

Perhaps yes.