Jammin'

Saturday night I went out for a very pleasant dinner with my friend, Linda. She lives downtown, near a bunch of restaurants and, since I hadn't eaten anything but cheese and crackers for a day and a half, I thought a nice fancy salad might be in order. So we went out, had a bottle of wine, some tasty appetizers and a wonderful dinner.

Afterward, we decided to go have a drink and a cookie at the coffeehouse/restaurant across the street from her place. They have the best cookies around. The recipe was allegedly found on the side of a cream of tartar container from Gordon Foods, in case you're wondering. I don't buy cream of tartar in that large of a quantity, so I'll continue to go there for my cookie fix.

We went in and sat near the bar. It was pretty quiet, although a small trio was getting ready to play a few sets. The chef was at the bar, along with a waitress and her gay best friend. All very "big town Saturday night," you know.

I didn't notice him until he walked out toward the door with a cigar of some kind in his hand, trailing smoke through the joint. The waitress was telling him no smoking was allowed.

"He's got to go put out his cheroot," I muttered, noticing that the color of the thing wasn't anything I ever wanted to put in my mouth.

In the meantime, the bartender starts making a drink. A Long Island Iced Tea. Well, this can't be good.

He shuffles back in without his fire hazard and stands at the counter, talking to the poor waitress. I've seen her a couple of times and have found her fairly humorless, so I didn't feel particularly bad about her getting cornered by him. In fact, I thought it was kinda funny.

The guy looked like...oh, maybe Fred Mertz. With glasses. Big glasses. He was kinda toad-like. In a t-shirt. Not a spiffy dresser. Actually, he looked like he lives in the homeless hotel down the street and was having his monthly night out on the town. But the SSI payments usually come in at the beginning of the month, so I don't know where this dude got his cash.

Nachos. He orders nachos. And, damn, does he go down on them. There are strings of cheese hanging out of his mouth. Hanging. Out. Of his mouth. For minutes at at time. Until he takes a gulp of the Long Island. Then he goes back to the nachos.

By this point, he's sitting at the table right in front of the band. You couldn't get closer to them if you were measuring their inseams. They're doing that musician thing. "I don't see it. I don't see it. If I don't react, they won't know I see it."

He's got a chip stuck on his face by this point.

She's singing. He's eating. We're all laughing--all of the people in the place are laughing. And the band knows it. We know it. He's the only one who doesn't know it. Because he's so damn happy with his nachos.

Dude, I know that feeling.

I walked by him to go to the bathroom and the floor? Is littered with detritus. Tomato cubes. Green onions. Chip remains. Cheese bits. It looks like a 5-year-old went native with the nachos. He's every guy I didn't want to clean up after when I waited tables. The waitress, the one I didn't like? Is now rolling her eyes at the guy. So now? I kinda like her.

He starts singing, at one point. I can't remember the song. Some 70's rock tune, if I remember correctly. Something everyone knows the words to. Some song that is the backdrop to long summer drives out in the country as a kid. Something that has now been tarnished by cheddar strings and salsa forever.

During a break, he goes up and offers the singer a nacho. From his own hand. She politely declined.

I had to leave when he bought his second Long Island.

Ouch

I went to a concert last night. Currently popular band. Lots of pop-emo stuff in the repetoire. Good opening band. A few beers beforehand.

We get in there as the opening band is about to start. A half-hour late. Everyone is getting into their seats. We're pretty close to the stage and it is kinda dark--we're trying to figure out what row we're in and eventually realize that we're in the middle of a row that is completely filled in.

So I, thinking I'm about 10 years younger than I actually am, take off my shoes and start climbing over the seats. Of course, I'm not going to put my feet on the bare floor, so I try to put my shoe on as I'm crawling over the back of the seat in front of my seat. I end up collapsing in my seat. The girl next to me turns and asks how many beers I've had already. Bitch.

I somehow managed to get one of the bigger bruises in my life from this escapade. So much so that I tried to sleep with ice on my ass last night. I'm afraid to look at my hip, frankly.

That'll teach me to wear whore shoes.

Change of Tune

I have been continuously stressed for the last three weeks over work stuff. Just insanely stressed. Yesterday I was sincerely considering the value of ridding my stomach contents after eating lunch, just because I felt so incredibly ill.

Today? Done. I've cleared my calendar for the foreseeable future. I'm able to look at everything on my desk and feel proactive about it. I'm taking steps to stay on top of everything going on so I don't get behind the 8-ball again. I feel good.

Thank God. Because I've been wanting to jump off a cliff for the past month.

Next week, I get to interview Chippendale dancers. Perhaps that's the reason for my new outlook on life...

In any case, this should free up my current writer's block issue.

Single. Really single.

While bemoaning my pathetic life to one of my friends today, I suddenly realized it is worse that I thought.

I am, bar none, the only woman I know and see on a regular basis that isn't married or dating someone.

Well, except for my mother.

And, even still, I didn't respond to that text message at 2 a.m. the other night asking me if I wanted to meet for a drink.

I don't know if pride alone is going to be enough to get me through this particular rough patch.

Sines

I am a firm believer that life comes at you in waves. When one aspect of your life is fabulous, another is in the crapper. When you could use help in one area, another area is keepin' on. And I also think that life can be pretty much boiled down to three things: vocation, economics and relationships.

I remember getting an astrological chart done once. A guy I worked with did it for me. If I remember correctly, he purchased softward to put the things together. It was beautifully done, all spiral bound on colored paper. Very sharp. Batshit crazy, but sharp.

The readings, of course, included information on those three portions of life: job, money and love. Pretty much all horoscopes and astrological readings center on those three areas. Mostly because those are the things that people obssess about in their daily lives.

Somehow, the wavetastic nature of life has coordinated into a valley the size of the Marianis Trench. All three aspects of life have bottomed out, all seemingly at the same time. How does that happen? How does karma just see fit to boot me in the ass like this?

I suppose I'm not at rock bottom with everything. However, when everything is going bad? It just makes everything seem worse. That, partnered with PMS? Is bad.

* * *

I'll give you just a taste of what's going on:

My car's power steering has gone out. It has had problems before. They've gone away. Not this time. And now? I need a new pump and fan for the thing. Which is going to take a week to get parts for. And will cost a bunch. Bunches. Plus, I have to rent a car. This? Sucks.

But, while I was at the shop, waiting to get the horrible news about the cost of the repairs (the man actually said to me, when he walked into the waiting room, "You shouldn't be smiling at me. You're not going to want to talk to me."), another woman was there getting something done to her car.

She proceeded to empty her ENTIRE purse all over the coffee table and the chair next to her. She had about 37 pens, nail polish, a brush, a spoon, a wallet, highlighters, parking lot tokens, business cards, change, tampons, photos, receipts, eyeshadow, lipstick, an eyelash curler, a small mirror, a blush brush, glasses and a case, sunglasses, a cell phone and a small notebook. I couldn't tell if she wanted me to think she was running away, like Aly Sheedy in The Breakfast Club or if she was really that desperate for attention.

Then she complimented me on my nail polish and I felt bad for thinking she was weird.

Fleet Week

Back in 1996, I was in New York this very week. We didn't actually plan to be there for Fleet Week, specfically. Or, at least, I didn't. I don't think I'd ever heard of Fleet Week before. This, of course, was in the dark days before Sex & The City and other New York centered shows were on in force. Other than Law & Order. That's been on forever. Have they had a Fleet Week episode? They have to have. You can only find so many bodies in Central Park.

Anyway, we were living way up in the middle of nowhere in New England at the time and had been there for about two years. This was in the years of grunge and we looked it: lots of flannel, lots of jeans, hiking boots, thick wooly socks. If we were trying to look really cute, we might order something from J. Crew. But that would be for a really special occasion.

So we go to the city and get ready to go out. My friend, Vicky, lived on Long Island and we stayed with her, her mother and her pet rabbit. Don't ask. Her friends were back from the West Coast for the summer, having spent the last year or so working as extras on Baywatch and 90210. I specifically remember them in the scene when Donna was in the running for Rose Queen and they met at some house for interviews. That's when she saw her mother's picture on the Rose Court from back when she was in college. Donna's mom was always a bitch.

Anyway, so these girls show up in little bare midriff shirts with maribou on the neckline, miniskirts, high heels. We're in our boots and flannel. It wasn't pretty. We were, quite literally, the country mice.

Luckily, they drew in all the sailors, who were then stuck with buying drinks for us, too, if they wanted our company. I don't know that we spent a dime all weekend, other than for our cab ride, where Vicky sat in the front seat and proceeded to ask the cabbie who the wierdest fare was that he'd ever driven around.

How we didn't qualify, I'll never know...