3/20/04

Work Diary, 3/20/04

1. Why am I still calling these things "work diaries?" Work is such
that I'm lucky to make it to the toilet before the next
meeting/crisis/phone call rears its ugly head. I practically race to
the bathroom every two hours or so, my boss right behind me and
muttering, "They're still on the line?got to finish those reports?our
numbers are below industry standards?jesus god I need to pee!"
Fortunately I like my boss and it is sad that I'm faster than her,
given the single multi-sex toilet on our floor.

2. So I'm dating a guy named Alfred who wants to move to Costa Rica.
He's allergic to soy, has a lesbian mother AND sister, and pronounces
xeriscape "zero-scape." I can forgive the latter but clearly - and
you'd know what I mean if you met him - the poor thing needs to escape
the clutches of his Sapphic relatives. He's so serious - he says I have
a "dry sense of humor" even as I spit the punch line all over the hors
d'oeuvres. You know, sometimes it doesn't matter if your favorite
restaurant uses Styrofoam containers. The food's still good.

3. Next Thursday I fly back to Houston to pack up my sister and move
her back to Denver. She's thirty years old, has a degree in Sociology,
and is badly in need of a nose job. This isn't a judgment on my part -
the nose part, I mean - because as a child she decided to play jump
rope with her coat, caught her feet, and landed flat on her face. She
definitely has the Banks nose but it swerves decidedly to the right.
I'm thinking of giving her a nose job for her birthday, if her health
insurance doesn't pick it up first (I've heard deviated septums will
result in a free rhinoplasty, if only because the surgeon doesn't want
his patients to wake up and say, "I can't tell the difference. Are you
sure it was me in the operating room?"). But if my sister gets a nose
job, so do I. My nose has been broken twice - from stupid childhood
fights - and I wouldn't mind waking up in clean, crisp hospital sheets
with a bump-less noggin.

4. I want to be one of those people who can stop parties with a
"woe-is-me" act. I'm a hypocrite in this because "woe-is-me" people
always leave me cold. With all due respect, I've met maybe a handful of
people who've had childhoods worse than mine. But the countless number
of people I've met who collapse under a featherweight of
"problems"?lord, don't get me started. Let's just say that your phone
bill and credit card bill arriving on the same day is not cause for
complete breakdown (true story?and, no, there were no extenuating
circumstances?that was it: BILLS ARRIVED, GO BALLISTIC).

5. I'm fairly certain that if I could remain in an alcoholic stupor for
the rest of my life without ill effect, I would do just that. As it is,
I trudge soberly through the sobering sobriety of life wishing someone
would pinch me and wake me up (see #4). I had a horrible dream last
night that I was stuck in a giant fish tank while my dog escaped onto a
highway full of cars, and even unconscious I thought, "Such is life."
How sad to grow so accustomed to the crappiness of life, particularly
when a dog is involved. I'd say the same thing about cats, too, by the
way.

6. About a week ago, I went to the store and bought a product called
"KY Jelly," hoping to spice up the love affair I'm having with my right
hand. Yes, I'm dating, but duty calls. Currently the KY sits on the
shelf by my bed, opened but forgotten. Quite frankly, it has the
consistency of snot mixed with motor oil. Perhaps I should try the "KY
Warming Jelly." Its claim to fame? "Warms Naturally, Effectively." What
does that mean, exactly? I'm not sure, but I have visions of some
malcontent KY employee pouring chili oil into a bottle, the very same
bottle I'd end up buying. My screams would certainly be natural and
effective then, I suppose.

7. On that cheery note, I often wake up the morning after posting these
diaries and wonder, "Shit! What have I done?" I liken it to a one-night
stand, when you end up at some stranger's house, roll out of bed in the
morning, and realize you really, really need to take a dump (it helps
if you picture this situation in a studio apartment, the bathroom mere
inches from your no-name paramour's head). Anyway?

8. ?this morning I went out to get the paper and found an altogether
different publication on my lawn. It had been thrown from a car in the
middle of the night - as evidenced by the rocks in its clear wrapper -
and consisted of a single page titled, "Crime: It's a Black 'Thang.'"
Black people, apparently, commit some thirty-percent of the crime in
the United States, even though they constitute a mere thirteen-percent
of the US population. Rape, murder, burglary - it's all on the sheet,
in black and white (ahem). Naturally there's no discussion of the
sociological implications of such statistics, because of course there
can't be. It's enough to pull the numbers from the FBI, print them on
goldenrod, and drive silently through the night, flinging transparent
messages of hate into the void. The irony won't be lost on any of my
neighbors, all of whom found this nauseous surprise on their lawns. The
irony won't be lost on the police, who will be summoned to deal with
this "outrageous" and (again, ahem) "fucking stupid" situation. The
irony - most definitely - won't be lost on the "blacks" in my
neighborhood, who can tell much worse stories while gripping tire irons
from cars - despite the statistics - they do happen to own. What's
worrisome is that the authors of this little epistle don't understand
the irony, because despite the cruddy graphics and has-been Hollywood
stars pushing the issue, a little knowledge does go a long way. If you
can't even see that - while driving through a multi-racial neighborhood
at 3:00 a.m. - what hope is there for you? Because, really, you are the
perfect support for genetic engineering. Bet it won't be what you
thought, though.