I am emotionally exhausted. Really. No sleep can seem to catch me up to the normalcy of what was once my optimistic and romantic self. I've had this sort of insomnia for years. Once in awhile I review my recent cynical musings with a sense of self-reproach. Where on earth did I go? I. Miss. Me.
It's not work. I like work. I like the people at work, I like what I do at work, and I love the fact that I have work, period. I'm lucky.
I think last night it hit me when I was having my second date with the bar passee, and he wanted to be earnest. I know the importance of being earnest (har har), but it's a quality I am largely lacking right now. Or rather, if I am earnest, it's about not wanting to be earnest at all. Or maybe not ever. Of all the things that have ever gotten me in trouble, being earnest is probably at the top of the list.
It's such a shame. I really liked this guy. I liked his wit, his choice in wine, his sense of humor, his love for his eccentrically named animals. I liked the way he was also amused by being caught kissing by my mother. I liked the fact I can tell him ridiculous things about myself, and he knew not to take me too seriously.
But my fatal flaw was never taking him too seriously, when seriously he wanted to be taken. My problem is that I can't take anything seriously right now. The world has grown from a state of somewhat disheveled to downright chaotic, and my only reaction to it is to laugh and laugh hard. I can't stop laughing. I laugh at funerals a lot. I run out like I am sobbing, shut myself in a toilet stall and laugh hysterically into a roll of toilet paper. I try hard to justify this behavior by telling myself that whoever is dead would've wanted me to be on that linoleum floor laughing. But then I think, "well, they can't want anything now because they're dead." And so I laugh some more.
It's tragic. He wanted to talk seriously. I stalled by being a smartass. I didn't understand how we went from fun quips to philosophy, social commentary, and his occassional contempt for people who go to mass because they miss the whole point of worshipping things outside a church's walls. I was okay with the philosophy and social commentary because neither of these are exactly shining areas for me anyway. But, sometimes I go to mass because even though I've stopped believing in God, I do believe in sharing a feeling of hope with other people. And I like incense.
However, I don't like when people start telling other people how to believe. You know, it's an ugly beauty, but in this country you have the right to be racist, sexist, a bigot, or follow any religion you choose, indoor or out. You don't have to be respected because of your positions, but if you're not breaking the law because of them, who the hell cares? I'm so tired of people preaching to me about politics and how stupid the little man is. What people don't realize is that this type of preaching is never going to change people's minds. And that trying to force people to think your way sounds a hell of a lot like mind control.
And so I ranted. I don't know where it came from. It had been a long day and the bleu cheese in our tray was somewhat disappointing.
Perhaps I was kind of an asshole. Perhaps he was oversensitive. But I hurt him because I misunderstood him. And then I got angry at him for being hurt by that, and angry that I was in the position of a petulant child who was saying she was sorry when she wasn’t. Because I wasn’t even sure of what I had done. At that point I said I was tired and left. I didn’t wait for him. It was cold outside, and my car was parked far away.
I went home and cried in my bathtub at the way any relationship’s doom is so inevitable.
This morning he sent me a long passage from a French philosopher summing up what it was he wanted to say. And I saw that we had actually agreed.
I hit reply and wrote “Thanks for that.”
I’m still not sure if those words were gratitude or sarcasm.
Maybe now I never will.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Class
Those of you who have the pleasure of knowing me live and in person are perfectly aware that a more elegant dame has never strutted across this earthly stage. But lately even I have amazed myself at how I have managed to exceed even my own apex of savoir-faire.
Let me elaborate.
The day that I got my bar results, I partook of a few beverages with some friends in a little bar off of Bourbon Street. I was perfectly fine until the few mysteriously climbed into the double digits. At that point, while my friend propped herself against my shoulder to keep me on the barstool that seemed intent on avoiding my ass, I pulled the life story out of a plaintiff’s attorney wearing a muscle shirt whilst smoking all of his cigarettes. I was flying very very high. In fact, so high I took the leap of going over and whispering something very sexy in a fellow bar-passee’s ear. At least I hope it was sexy. It probably was just a drunken mumble along the lines of “want to buy me a suspicious-looking hot-dog?” But he was all for whatever it was I said. We walked outside, gazing at the sky and holding hands, swept away by the romance of the moment.
I then toppled into a lamp post.
I stayed drunk for two days. The following morning--or rather afternoon--I decided my dogs might have to go to the bathroom since I had been passed out for awhile. Without thinking, I let them out into the yard. While I banged around my kitchen looking for something to ingest that might sober me up, it occurred to me that it had become mysteriously quiet. Knowing what had probably happened, my suspicions were confirmed when I looked outside to see that once again the water man had left the fucking gate open and Magda was on the loose. At that point, I began walking around the vicinity of my house in my pajamas, swearing and calling for my dog at the top of my lungs. After ten minutes of this, I began to despair of seeing my dog ever again. In fact, I despaired so much I decided to go back to bed.
Of course, that was the minute the phone rang. Someone had found Magda wondering around on Magazine St. Probably looking for a mother that did not have to crawl up the stairs to her apartment. I ran into the bathroom and threw on whatever happened to be lying next to my tub. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that I did indeed have mascara circles, but it all paled in comparison to the plight of my dog, homeless, lost amongst strangers. I hurried down the street.
On the way, I passed the large Korean family who lives around the corner as they were washing their car. As I made it to the corner and prepared to cross, they all began yelling at me and slapping their bottoms. My perplexed look made them yell even more loudly. I reached behind to pat my bottom in case this were some sort of greeting and realized my back pocket was unbuttoned. Why this seemed to be cause for so much concern escaped me, but to humor them I buttoned it, and waved and smiled my gratitude. But they kept doing it. I knew that the other side was probably unbuttoned as well, but I didn’t give a damn about placating people who were so obviously uptight about other people’s wardrobe malfunctions. I made a mental note to never take my dry-cleaning to them again and crossed the street.
A blonde middle-aged couple held Magda lovingly on the opposite corner. As I gushed my thanks exuberantly, they smiled and told me what a good dog she is. And then, in tandem, the both looked at my ass. And kept looking.
“Jesus Christ,” I thought. “These people just hung on to my dog for a few minutes, and now they want to be rewarded with a view of my derriere. Geesh.” I cut the conversation off with enough politeness to make it clear that I would never be interested in a future threesome and began to make my way back home.
And then I felt it. A slight tickle perched on the lowest bit of my left hip. I slung my hand around and grasped something. I took a close look at it.
It was my sexiest, laciest, make-a-man-swoon-just-by-talking-about-them red satin thong panties.
I was a little disturbed. My face was wrinkled in consternation, still staring at this strange little lamprey as I walked down the street. And it was at that point I walked past the three cops lounging against window that had been boarded up since Katrina.
“So, glad you found your dog,” one of them said. And then they all turned their buzzcuts to the tantalizing object in my hand. I nodded, scuttling away like a newly-shaved dog. And fell over a crack in the sidewalk, skinning my knee. Of course, they came to help me up. Of course, they had to find a way to do this without touching my left hand or the scourge in it. It took a little while.
I made it home, locked the door, popped an Ambien and went to bed.
Flash forward to yesterday morning. Despite my problems with equilibrium, the bar-passee and I had a nice breakfast in the quarter before I went to spend some time with my Mom, who is here once again supporting Harrah’s. It turns out he was getting his hair cut at a place right next to her hotel, so I gave him a ride over on my way to her room.
As we were breaking away from a very cute little “I’ll miss you, but not that much because we’re not really in a relationship or anything since this girl is a weirdo” kiss, a strange look came over his face.
“That’s weird,” he said. “There was this woman who just came running toward you, and then turned around and ran away.”
“Where?”
“Over there.”
I turn and look, and there, trying desperately to hide herself behind a column in a navy jogging suit, white socks and Birkenstocks, puffing madly away on a Virginia Slim, is my mom.
Class is obviously genetic.
Let me elaborate.
The day that I got my bar results, I partook of a few beverages with some friends in a little bar off of Bourbon Street. I was perfectly fine until the few mysteriously climbed into the double digits. At that point, while my friend propped herself against my shoulder to keep me on the barstool that seemed intent on avoiding my ass, I pulled the life story out of a plaintiff’s attorney wearing a muscle shirt whilst smoking all of his cigarettes. I was flying very very high. In fact, so high I took the leap of going over and whispering something very sexy in a fellow bar-passee’s ear. At least I hope it was sexy. It probably was just a drunken mumble along the lines of “want to buy me a suspicious-looking hot-dog?” But he was all for whatever it was I said. We walked outside, gazing at the sky and holding hands, swept away by the romance of the moment.
I then toppled into a lamp post.
I stayed drunk for two days. The following morning--or rather afternoon--I decided my dogs might have to go to the bathroom since I had been passed out for awhile. Without thinking, I let them out into the yard. While I banged around my kitchen looking for something to ingest that might sober me up, it occurred to me that it had become mysteriously quiet. Knowing what had probably happened, my suspicions were confirmed when I looked outside to see that once again the water man had left the fucking gate open and Magda was on the loose. At that point, I began walking around the vicinity of my house in my pajamas, swearing and calling for my dog at the top of my lungs. After ten minutes of this, I began to despair of seeing my dog ever again. In fact, I despaired so much I decided to go back to bed.
Of course, that was the minute the phone rang. Someone had found Magda wondering around on Magazine St. Probably looking for a mother that did not have to crawl up the stairs to her apartment. I ran into the bathroom and threw on whatever happened to be lying next to my tub. A quick glance in the mirror confirmed that I did indeed have mascara circles, but it all paled in comparison to the plight of my dog, homeless, lost amongst strangers. I hurried down the street.
On the way, I passed the large Korean family who lives around the corner as they were washing their car. As I made it to the corner and prepared to cross, they all began yelling at me and slapping their bottoms. My perplexed look made them yell even more loudly. I reached behind to pat my bottom in case this were some sort of greeting and realized my back pocket was unbuttoned. Why this seemed to be cause for so much concern escaped me, but to humor them I buttoned it, and waved and smiled my gratitude. But they kept doing it. I knew that the other side was probably unbuttoned as well, but I didn’t give a damn about placating people who were so obviously uptight about other people’s wardrobe malfunctions. I made a mental note to never take my dry-cleaning to them again and crossed the street.
A blonde middle-aged couple held Magda lovingly on the opposite corner. As I gushed my thanks exuberantly, they smiled and told me what a good dog she is. And then, in tandem, the both looked at my ass. And kept looking.
“Jesus Christ,” I thought. “These people just hung on to my dog for a few minutes, and now they want to be rewarded with a view of my derriere. Geesh.” I cut the conversation off with enough politeness to make it clear that I would never be interested in a future threesome and began to make my way back home.
And then I felt it. A slight tickle perched on the lowest bit of my left hip. I slung my hand around and grasped something. I took a close look at it.
It was my sexiest, laciest, make-a-man-swoon-just-by-talking-about-them red satin thong panties.
I was a little disturbed. My face was wrinkled in consternation, still staring at this strange little lamprey as I walked down the street. And it was at that point I walked past the three cops lounging against window that had been boarded up since Katrina.
“So, glad you found your dog,” one of them said. And then they all turned their buzzcuts to the tantalizing object in my hand. I nodded, scuttling away like a newly-shaved dog. And fell over a crack in the sidewalk, skinning my knee. Of course, they came to help me up. Of course, they had to find a way to do this without touching my left hand or the scourge in it. It took a little while.
I made it home, locked the door, popped an Ambien and went to bed.
Flash forward to yesterday morning. Despite my problems with equilibrium, the bar-passee and I had a nice breakfast in the quarter before I went to spend some time with my Mom, who is here once again supporting Harrah’s. It turns out he was getting his hair cut at a place right next to her hotel, so I gave him a ride over on my way to her room.
As we were breaking away from a very cute little “I’ll miss you, but not that much because we’re not really in a relationship or anything since this girl is a weirdo” kiss, a strange look came over his face.
“That’s weird,” he said. “There was this woman who just came running toward you, and then turned around and ran away.”
“Where?”
“Over there.”
I turn and look, and there, trying desperately to hide herself behind a column in a navy jogging suit, white socks and Birkenstocks, puffing madly away on a Virginia Slim, is my mom.
Class is obviously genetic.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Vigilante
I did my part to preserve the goodwill and ethics of the Louisiana State Bar Association today when I told off a guy who tried to sneak in front of me and another girl after taking a look at the ridiculously long registration line. I managed to do it without yelling or coming up with better things to say afterwards. Victory for me.
I just said "So, you're just going to walk right in front of us?" And he slunk away like a five-year-old. That's right babycakes.
Of all my people pet peeves (suck-ups, backstabbers, people who stop dead right in front of you for no apparant reason and then act like you're the asshole when you run into them, and overzealous rich kids from the northeast who always try to make you feel like shit just because your new age mommy and daddy didn't foot the bill for your law school education and so you can't work at pro bono associations founded by the older versions of the same people who try to make you feel like shit),* the one I simply cannot tolerate is line-cutting. This was really an issue for me in France, and could often result in me coming home in fits of rage that only a nutella and bleu cheese sandwich could quell.
It's the whole "I'm just going to put aside any semblence of courtesy because I have no concept of anyone's needs besides my own" idea and I can't help but notice that people who do this tend to be jerks in the larger scheme as well. And we have enough jerks who are lawyers. I wish more people were brave enough to nip that shit in the bud instead of just nod approvingly wjen I do. Maybe then 400-pound people wouldn't try to run me over with wheelchairs.
Today was a crappy day all around anyway. Nothing I could put my finger on, but... Insomnia's hit again, even though I was told Ambien CR would be "better." Um, no - and it's actually $110 more expensive and I'm on a high deductible plan so...I get to the pharmacy and they tell me I have to wait until my doctor authorizes it with the insurance because they need to know why he prescribed it. Perhaps they have been reading this blog a little too closely. To sleep, you idiots!
But just little things, and not even tinged with hilarity like the other night when one of those enormous wine pyramid displays spontaneously toppled over as we all goggled at it, and then had the pleasure of hearing the guy on the intercom say "Can someone bring a mop? Or, like, a lot of mops?".
They're things that I normally would see the humor in. Like how Louisiana drivers have a love-hate relationship with turn signals, and how the secretaries I get stuck with in the elevator on my way to the ivory tower are so good at catty gossip. Or they way my umbrella won't fit in the narrow alleyway between my house and the next, and my shirt never seems to stay tucked in, or how it rains when I need to look polished and together and how annoyed I get at how brusque a co-worker can be and then how she realizes it and tries to be nice which makes me feel bad for being annoyed at her brusqueness. And how "Sophie's Choice" is not a good idea for a film to watch when you've read the book and already know how it's going to end but make yourself do it out of sense of feeling the need to see Meryl Streep speak Polish (and German).
But I'm tired, and just don't much feel like it. Maybe tomorrow morning.
*That was a long list. But I ran into about a gazillion examples of each today, so the material's fresh.
I just said "So, you're just going to walk right in front of us?" And he slunk away like a five-year-old. That's right babycakes.
Of all my people pet peeves (suck-ups, backstabbers, people who stop dead right in front of you for no apparant reason and then act like you're the asshole when you run into them, and overzealous rich kids from the northeast who always try to make you feel like shit just because your new age mommy and daddy didn't foot the bill for your law school education and so you can't work at pro bono associations founded by the older versions of the same people who try to make you feel like shit),* the one I simply cannot tolerate is line-cutting. This was really an issue for me in France, and could often result in me coming home in fits of rage that only a nutella and bleu cheese sandwich could quell.
It's the whole "I'm just going to put aside any semblence of courtesy because I have no concept of anyone's needs besides my own" idea and I can't help but notice that people who do this tend to be jerks in the larger scheme as well. And we have enough jerks who are lawyers. I wish more people were brave enough to nip that shit in the bud instead of just nod approvingly wjen I do. Maybe then 400-pound people wouldn't try to run me over with wheelchairs.
Today was a crappy day all around anyway. Nothing I could put my finger on, but... Insomnia's hit again, even though I was told Ambien CR would be "better." Um, no - and it's actually $110 more expensive and I'm on a high deductible plan so...I get to the pharmacy and they tell me I have to wait until my doctor authorizes it with the insurance because they need to know why he prescribed it. Perhaps they have been reading this blog a little too closely. To sleep, you idiots!
But just little things, and not even tinged with hilarity like the other night when one of those enormous wine pyramid displays spontaneously toppled over as we all goggled at it, and then had the pleasure of hearing the guy on the intercom say "Can someone bring a mop? Or, like, a lot of mops?".
They're things that I normally would see the humor in. Like how Louisiana drivers have a love-hate relationship with turn signals, and how the secretaries I get stuck with in the elevator on my way to the ivory tower are so good at catty gossip. Or they way my umbrella won't fit in the narrow alleyway between my house and the next, and my shirt never seems to stay tucked in, or how it rains when I need to look polished and together and how annoyed I get at how brusque a co-worker can be and then how she realizes it and tries to be nice which makes me feel bad for being annoyed at her brusqueness. And how "Sophie's Choice" is not a good idea for a film to watch when you've read the book and already know how it's going to end but make yourself do it out of sense of feeling the need to see Meryl Streep speak Polish (and German).
But I'm tired, and just don't much feel like it. Maybe tomorrow morning.
*That was a long list. But I ran into about a gazillion examples of each today, so the material's fresh.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Birthday
It's my darling Magdalena's fourth birthday today, which unfortunately I won't have time to celebrate until this weekend. But rest assured, the ridiculously overpriced doggy baked goods will be popping out.
And at least my vet remembered.
In the meantime, regardless of the economic crisis, I have realized that I can finally afford to buy cheese that I really want. Can anyone get enough St. Agur? I think not.
And at least my vet remembered.
In the meantime, regardless of the economic crisis, I have realized that I can finally afford to buy cheese that I really want. Can anyone get enough St. Agur? I think not.
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