Work Diary, 2/8/04

Work Diary, 2/8/04
(early-early-oh-god-it's-early-Sunday-morning)

Ugh. I feel like shit. I went out last night, came home with a boy
named Alfred. As a kid, "Alfred's" meant chocolate-chip nipple cookies
at the Jewish deli down the street, a place my mother took me to when
she was bored. Maybe she's finally telling me something after all these
years, though probably not. After everything that happened last night,
all I can focus on is how I can't remember my mother's voice. She
didn't talk a lot, but still.

That's not entirely true, anyway. I am also focusing on: My breath;
whether or not the robe I'm wearing is embarrassing; how my ex - in the
next room, no less - is feeling; my weight; the dirty dancing I did
last night in front of two-hundred people who couldn't care less even
if I wanted them to. Also the drainage gutter is blocked on the north
side of the house; soon I will have to navigate a foot of ice with my
car if I don't do something about it.

Sometimes I think I am the world's biggest idiot. I should be happy
about last night, able to enjoy what everyone else - apparently - is
enjoying. And I do, in a way. I like physical contact even when it
feels like I'm wrapped in cellophane and just receiving the general
gist. New idea: A world of thwarted love as people wear full-body
condoms for everything from going to a movie to shopping for carrots. I
think Leslie Nielsen already did something similar in one of those
police spoof movies, but would it work in a drama? That's the real
test.

Okay, I need to get back to my room. There's a stranger in there with a
buzz cut and strangely endearing furry arms and feet. Yes, I have
bagged myself an elongated hobbit. It won't last - he wants to move to
New York, teaching inner-city kids in the day and hitting the clubs at
night. And it does seem like the place for him; I bet he'll become a
lifer. More power to him.

Me? I'm thinking a forty-something next. I'll be thirty-six this year,
after all. Give me somebody who goes to bed at 9:00 and plans vacations
that involve actual hotel rooms with room service. Maybe somebody with
one of those cool condos that's blessedly free of a yard, a man who
refuses to wear bell bottoms because he remembers how ugly they were
when he was a teenager. That would be nice.

We'll see, we'll see?