rough week

my sister spoke of mood stabilizers...but taxes, a head cold that makes it so you cain't hear right, chapped lips, menstrual cramps, frustration at chronic lack of moolah, the absence of good, edible cukes at the market, boiling heat pipes in the bathroom that make me sweat when i brush my teef, having to return something to babes in toyland...why, it's enough to make anybody grouchy. and so i've been.

but today was a nice day, no? i mean, it feels like spring should be here soon and that will be a good change. how, though, will i change?

this cold had made me lose my appetite but i'm not getting skinnier. and i'm tired. oh. so. tired.

but a friend and i are fixing to speed date. that should be big fun.

dennis johnson r-i-p

you might not know this about me: i was a celtics fan once upon a lolly. in their heyday, when i was in jr high and high school and they kept winning. danny ainge always seemed like a pretty boy, kevin mchale like frankenstein's cousin, robert parrish, like a gangly meany (more on that later), larry bird—nuff said, and dj, who somehow in my mind did not have pride of place.

in those days, i was also smitten with the likes of freddy lynn, dewey, yaz, jim rice and the gang over at fenway.

see, i grew up in boston-ish.

today i was looking at one of my fav sections of the paper, the obits, and there was dj's obit with a couple of pix. that's dennis johnson to you, punk. it made me so sad. he was young, in his 50s, when he expired. i remember watching those championship games with my pops and high fiving when the celtics scored and my pops wiping his palm off with a hanky cause that's where he tends to perspirate. also, on his forehead.

later, i ran into robert parrish and dj near the mall where i'd go to the movies sometimes and there was a friendly's parlor which had some kind of crazy rich chocolate flavor that i adored; the two celts were getting out of a black mercedes and chief had flipflops on his long feet, and i said, 'hey, you gonna win the championship this year?' or something of that ilk and he gave me a cold, heartless stare that said, essentially, 'get out of my way you silly suburban girl' and that was that.

they did not win that year. shortly thereafter i stopped caring about basketball altogether. but still, i say kaddish for dj.

wasabi?!!??!

went to mardi gras. twas fun. came back. twas not.

mass exodus

delete. delete. delete.

all those 'i'll give you a call this week' and 'yes, so great to hang out the other night' notes in my email. why i kept them even this long, i don't know, maybe as a kind of talisman or good luck charm. is that the same thing? anyway, i'm discouraged today. honestly makes me feel like i'm inherently unlovable, which i know is not true. or at least i hope it's not true.

people are so indirect, that's what annoys me a little. don't say 'i'll call you' and then fail to, and don't even be ambiguous or passive by not saying anything. i know the adage is 'if you can't say something nice, don't say a thing at all' but right now the adage i want is if i say, 'hey it was nice to meet you, let's get a drink next week or sometime else' you say 'no thanks, great meeting you too, but i'll let you work your charms elsewhere' instead of silence or avoidance. it's not that i don't get the drift, i get it fine, but people should have to be direct, they should have to say things that are awkward sometimes and hard to say. why? i don't know but it's what i think today. this afternoon.

more cojones for everyone!

'twas the night before ides

and all through the house were drafts because my landlady's sweet but cheap and i don't got storm windows.

and here's what else on the night before ides:

my lil sis got her eyes made up like a racoon to play a gig in sf with the bass player from bauhaus. i'm her biggest fan. looks like she's got a potential gig scoring music for an adult film.

this is like talking into my own answering machine. nobody really should care except me. so i'll sing at the top of my lung's that killer outcast song, 'happy valentine's every day is valentines happy valentines day.'

thank you and goodnight.

ghost story

in my old apartment i woke up one night to the sound of a low hum, an electronic sound and i had no idea what it was. i got up to investigate and found that the dustbuster, an appliance i inherited from the previous tenant, was on. i had never used it. but it was on. it wasn't moving, it was propped up against the wall and operating. i turned it off. i had no idea what made it turn on or if it had been on all along, slowly receiving an electrical charge until it was finally operational. in conversation with someone (my brother? my therapist?) it was suggested that maybe i had a ghost. if so, it was the only sign i was aware of in the apartment. sometimes the walls creaked, the mirror seemed to settle, but nothing much else.

now, in a new apartment, i sit at a dining room table. i was earlier this evening reading an article and listening to some music. nina simone, finest hour, to be exact. and at the end of one song i began to hear a ringing sound. i haven't listened to that record in some time and thought maybe the ringing was part of the song, a part i had forgotten. but then the song ended. and the ringing continued.

so, i got up to investigate. and it grew louder the closer i got to the stereo. and then beyond the stereo, in my little office which has yet to be unpacked, there is on a book shelf an alarm clock i don't use. it's wound, it tells time, but i never activate the alarm. that alarm was going off—it was turned on. i haven't touched that clock since i unpacked it about 3 months ago now.

what's the explanation? do i have a ghost here? was it moved to react to the sobering and poignant voice of ms nina? how freaked out should i be? i don't feel very, but that combined with the lingering stank of ben gay in the hall and other sundry weirdnesses are conspiring and i'm getting, quite potentially, jittered.

watch 'n gape

got to confess, i'm a little bit of a voyeur. and have become briefly engrossed by craigslist casual encounters. i have not met anyone that way nor do i intend to [though there's one poster who wants to give a deep massage and for several weeks my mid-lower-right-hand side of back has been achey and there is a massage temptation growing in strength, but i think i'll see a pro instead, and not that kind of pro, scuzzies!)

there's the one ad by a girl who was raped and now gets turned on, apparently, by having phone conversations in which she answers detailed questions about the assault. i don't want to judge, really i don't, and i totally stand (at least in-ta-leck-shu-a-lee) by the whatever floats your boat school of thought (that's the one whose offices are near the lago, affiliated with the chicago school) and don't want to label any things as 'deviant' or suchlike but honestly, i want to write to that girl and suggest also maybe counseling. cause isn't there something a wee disturbing about reliving the assault. or maybe it's therapeutic. how should i know? (shout out to whitney, pre-crack edition!)

also, the wannabe porn star element is outta sight.

check it: you're in the heat of the moment with some dude or lady and just when things are getting hot down thar (props to my boy chingy!) you capture it on film (or, more likely, digital, cause i wonder how many bbws (i don't even know what that means) or well hung thugs (i am quoting, believe me) got their pentax-k1000s all cocked?). and to the fellas (props to mike d!): do the ladies down whose throats you thrust know that you're posting their pictures for all of us to see like some samizdat, mimeographed porno rag?

does the playa know what a samizdat, mimeographed porno rag is?

i'm sure mos def does. holla!

and yet i cannot look away (well, not right now, but in the privacy of my home with the curtains drawn, then i cannot, even though they're not really curtains as much as they are wicker blinds that let too much light in). so many shapes, sizes, colors, come-ons. so many requests to cuddle or smoke 420 or do it until you can't walk no more (again, i quote, but with the insertion of euphemism).

most of the ads are samo samo, that's no surprise, but is oddly compelling. then, there's the case of a mid-40s y.o lady who has yet to lose her virginity and wants help with that. or the 19 yo skinny rock boy in a similar sich (i think 19 is not so very old in these matters, but i was not brit brit as a teen nor was i my biology labpartner in 9th grade who wore a pin that read 'i'm not easy but we can discuss it'). or the horny married lady/man whose partner isn't down with golden showers or spanking or threesomes.

are all these needs getting met? the fantasy the ads presents is much more tantalizing than the reality, i got a hunch. cause if you or i were to say, yeah, mr mister, come over, you'd get a guy with maybe bad breath or an unfortunate ear pierce or wearing tube socks in his work shoes (big mistake, yo!) and you or i'd be hardpressed then to get jiggy with it.

ben gay take me away

i came home not too long ago and the smell permeating the hallway in my little, sweet apartment building is ben gay, which in milder affect could be misconstrued as toothpaste, but right now is so overwhelmingly ben gay that i am almost gagging and on the verge of opening the window and it's cold out. how cold? not as cold as it is in sconnie where they cancelled school this week, but cold nonetheless. but wherefore this smell? last night it was the 420 (did you know that is a pot reference? i only just learned it) in the hallway, smoked, i do believe by my landlord's mama and the mama's grandson who lives with her. it's just a guess, but that sweet odor (preferable to ben gay but about 50k leagues) often comes out from their area.

this stank is driving me crazy.

why, it's enough to make me post a casual encounter ad on craigslist. just to see. what. happens.

groundcontrol

have a terrible feeling of anxiety today. and for no good reason. just like a gazillion bits of work to do which i avoid; desk's a mess; feeling tired; had one of those, uh oh, you never did write your enormous thesis dreams and yet graduation's tomorrow and will you get away with avoiding the work?

going on a blind date tonight. another one tomorrow. and amid it all...it's cold; i got a belly ache; i can't seem to unwind. supposed to be interviewing someone right now. i'm not multitasking. she's just late in calling moi. and i got to go soon. it's enough to make me try a mantra.

hottest song of the Oh-Seven!

http://www.myspace.com/themaritalstrifes

by my friend t whose wife a cooks a lot. and there ain't no windows in that uptown kitchen.

later.

tis later. and what a relief...usually valentine's day comes around and er, um, oh i feel not such a gaping hope but a tiny one, like when your shirt gets caught in the drawer because your dresser isn't big enough for all your shirts and so you have to stuff 'em in and then you get a teeny tiny tear in one of them when you pry the drawer open. and nobody notices that little gape but you, its rueful owner. but this yr i have plans. they're not per se romantico, but i am going to see aline crumb get talked to with her husband (and her paramour, a second fella) at the library. and i'm going with a friend. but not a romantic friend. a regular friend.

i did a little experiment this wkend late at night when i got home after a long day out. oh, so much to tell. first off when i went to meet another friend, a platonic friend, at a bar where a friend of his had convened friends of his (are you following this?) and the convening friend (who really is not my friend at all, as you'll soon understand) was someone i once interacted with via an online dating site. now here's the thing: we emailed lots. there was repartee. we talked for a long time. until:

he figured out that i eventally want a tyke or two and he did not. and what galled him (and he's no gaul) is that i seemed to have ignored his statement that he never ever not in a zillion millennia wants tykes of his own and how could i have overlooked such critical informazione? como? yo no capito!!

well, see, i take those ads with grains of salt (sea salt, to be pacific, because i aspire to foody) and it's more about impressionism than literalism, in my estimation, and so i saw that but ignored it. cause also, if you'll bear with me, it's a date for a drink, not for a c-section. and there are several streams to brook before talk of tykes gets underway. anyway, he wasn't having it and was all up in my grill about 'you call yourself a writer!' and 'you review books but you clearly don't pay attention!' and 'you shame the very industry of readers and writers!' and 'for shame, for shame!' and 'the horror, the horror!' and "the horah, the horah!

anyway, he was the guy who convened the drink. so i was all 'i met you, sort of, on the internet, but we never went out' and my actual friend who invited me got a hoot outta that one, that we decided even before laying eyes on each other to avoid each other. really cutting to the chase. so practical. but my hunch of wherein idiocy lies, upon meeting finally, was confirmed.

and then i offered counsel on how one goes about initiating a one-night stand. as if i'm dear fucking abby.

anyway, hours go by, a party is attended, a toast is made, a karaoke tune is sung (gnarls barkley, patsy cline, dylan a la mode de cash), and i goes home. and when i get there i get a bee to put an ad up on craigslist to see how fast people respond. and i posted my ad and then i went to brush my teeth. after such a long day, they needed a scrub.

and when i came out of the wc there were 10 messages and over the next few minutes that number jumped exponentially (though i'm not math gal and i don't really know how much that means) and here's what i learned: some people write 'whet' when i think they mean 'wet' but if they did that on purpose, they'd be clever and i'd want to meet them. but the rest of their notes suggests such wit is not in abundance. also, i learned that digital cameras are being put to all sorts of nefarious and rather unseemly uses. in particular i wonder if well-endowed men buy them more than the less-well-endowed (surely they don't go for the digital elph). one fellow promised to 'pleasure me in my luxury doorman building on the upper east side'—a particularly plum effort at persuasion.

mala educacion!

p.s.

i LOVE the word:

slake

quittin' time

no. not quitting my job. but friday's around this joint are like a ghost town and it ain't even yet one pm.

in other news: i've had insomnia these last few nights. the circles under the eyes seem dark. and i got a pain in my lower right back. and just when i think i can't keep my eyes open, some new thread enters my head and i grind about it. which means i flip it over back and forth upwards and downwards in my head and that makes me awake-er. recent threads: w2 forms; upcoming doc appointment; nerves about interviewing a beloved writer; local crime rates; why has my landlord not yet given me a new set of keys so i can give to a cleaning person and avoid the chores i most abhor?

did i ever mention i'm going to mardi gras? i is. with some friends from college. we're convening there. we're supposed to each make costumes in accordance with the 7 deadly sins. i chose sloth because: a) i won't have time to make a costume; b) i'm not so good at costume making so why put in early time on the project (though there was the year at halloween when i was grunge barbie—back when grunge was all the rage and it was, if you'll permit me, a killer outfit); c) my friend who is in n.o. said the person who got sloth could simply tape a cushion to their ass and carry a to-go cup with a big straw. that seems just about right.

should be big fun. and this wkend a friend from atlanta who looovees karaoke is coming for a visit. she may love it even more than i (though she's more of a sucker for the power ballad whereas i'm all about patsy covers). there may be karaoke in my near future. glory be! want to come? give a jingle and i'll tell where and when.

my great aunt's doctor (himself a fairly elderly gentleman) met me one day when i was at my great-aunt's house helping her. later, when i was not there, he asked her about my 'status' and she said, she's single. so he took my number and gave it to some other doctor (my own age) to call me. and he did call me. and left a msg. and then, before i had a chance to call back, my great-aunt asked me about it. and then she gave me counsel because she loves me and i love her—to speak clearly and slowly on the phone ('because you know, slush, sometimes you talk very fast); to be nice and friendly ('not that you're not, but your sense of humor...'); to avoid wearing jeans when i meet him ('not that your behind isn't the cutest thing in town in those foxy jeans, but trousers or a skirt even would make a better impression').

then i called and left a message. and i tried to speak slowly. and then when i got off the telephone i worried that i spoke so slowly that i sounded: slow; bored; unenthusiastic; encumbered. i guess i could have told a joke on the phone and said, you'll only get the punchline when you call back. would that have been better?

meantime, had a date the other night too with a guy who works for a magazine. we had a very nice time (or, i did). he had amazing eyebrows—at once lush but pristine. we talked a lot. he was smart. likeminded. hopefully we'll see each other again. i took familial advice: i wore trousers. orange ones. lowcut shirt. what really counts.