the Dalaverse

My spirits were running pretty low yesterday. Nothing serious, just a general low-grade angst likely exacerbated by PMS. I happened to check Amazon and see that the new Temeraire book had been released the day before, so I decided to go into town and get a copy to cheer myself up.

First I checked the Waterstones on campus; it didn't have the book, but that didn't surprise me as it doesn't really have much of anything. Then I hopped on a bus to the city centre, and on impulse hopped off in Portswood to check October Books. No luck, but again, it was just a whim; they're an independent bookstore and I wasn't really expecting them to have something brand new and relatively obscure. So onwards to West Quay, and this is where my heart started to sink lower. They didn't have it yet in either the big Waterstones in the mall or in the one down the street. This irritated me perhaps out of proportion to the situation. I was already depressed, and I really wanted that book, and I did not understand why such a simple desire was getting dashed against the rocks. Fortunately I restrained myself from snapping at the helpful salespeople who went to look for it.

Being in the mall was also not improving my mood, a. because it always reminds me of home and b. because it reminded me that I still haven't found a job and that I had been rejected by several places within this very building. I checked for vacancies and basically all of them were for Christmas. Now I never intended to stay here and work over the Christmas break, because being away from my family on the most family-oriented day of the year (especially for us) AND working retail over the holidays would cause me to jump into the Solent. I'm not working when I get home, either, since it's barely ten days. It'll be the first time I haven't worked Christmas Eve in three years. But - my point is, I desperately need to find a job because my money is going to run out. I didn't take out more than the bare minimum in loans; I had no idea it would be this fucking hard to find a stupid part-time job that a well-trained monkey could do.

But I'm getting sidetracked. I was wandering around the mall, feeling more and more downtrodden. I decided to have some Baskin Robbins in lieu of book. Like an idiot I picked a temporary holiday flavor and it was way too sweet, but the point is that I sat down on a bench to eat it. In front of the Build-a-Bear Workshop.

Let me take a moment here to say that I was not a tomboy as a child. I never ventured down the 'boy' aisles at Toys R US. I had Barbies, I had dolls, I had my Breyer horses, and I had piles upon piles of stuffed animals. Since I have a hard time letting go of such things, I still have most of them (albeit packed away in boxes). And I started to do something else when I was older. First it was when my cat Snake died; I had lunch at the Rainforest Cafe the next day, and I bought a stuffed lion for no other reason than I wanted something to hug and love and transfer all my pain onto. And you know what? It worked. When Hershey died, Carrie Fisher the cow joined Johnny Cash the lion. And three years ago when my dad had his heart attacks at Christmas, I unwrapped a teddy bear with a red velvet ribbon named Gilmore and dragged him around the house for two weeks. I don't know how healthy this is. All I know is that it makes me feel better.

Be that as it may, Build-a-Bear is a little ambitious. I tried to satisfy the urge at the toy store, but their stuffed animals sucked. They either had stuff in them (talked or pooped or something, I don't know, I was appalled), or giant googly eyes like those ugly-ass Bratz dolls. I like my stuffed animals simple, classy and elegant. There was a single white Pound Puppy, but he was way too expensive. So I returned to Build-a-Bear. I've only ever actually done the Build-a-Bear thing once, in freshman year when Vanessa, Karen and I made hurricane bears in ponchos to commemorate Hurricane Isabel. I've always considered it an indulgence. But on that day, it seemed like the only thing in the world that could possibly make me feel better.

After a good ten minutes of deliberation, I chose an animal. Of course I couldn't settle for the cheap ones; their fur wasn't soft enough, and they were slightly too small for proper cuddling. Instead I reached very far back in childhood and picked a green triceratops. When the salesgirl was stuffing her, I claimed she was for my little cousin Alison. I seriously doubt she believed me, but it soothed my pride. Then I spent another ten minutes picking out an outfit. I'm generally against stuffed animals in clothing, but as that's sort of the point of Build-a-Bear, I felt obligated. I almost went for Dorothy Triceratops with a blue gingham dress and ruby slippers, but the shoes really freak me out so I settled instead on a pirate costume. It's a red and black satiny skirt (with tail hole,) a top with satiny white blous, a black velvet laced vest, and a red belt. Plus there's an eyepatch and a hat, but she can't wear the hat on account of her frill and horns. Still, she looks very smart in the ensemble - it's good quality stuff at least.

I declined to make a birth certificate and winced when the saleslady put everything in one of those boxes with airholes. She gave me a large, umarked bag for it as well, but you could totally still see the Build-a-Bear box. I marched my bear dinosaur home, dressed her and named her Olivia de Haviland for no reason other than it popped into my head, and held onto her for the rest of the day.

It helped.

That's all that really matters.