June 24, 2000

It is a beautiful night tonight. Warm, but not humid. Blue, gorgeous, cloudless sky. Picture perfect first Friday of summer. I know this, because I have a window. A window that I am looking out of. From the inside. I am inside, at home, on this postcard of an evening. I wasn't supposed to be.

I was supposed to go out to a movie with J. J, whom I have been snapping at lately because she actually tries to give me advice on how to cure my nasty dandruff problem, rather than just saying "oh, gee, that sucks, have a cookie." J., who works down the street from me, and who used to ask me to have lunch with her a lot, but because I am socially inept, I always refused, and so, she doesn't so much ask anymore. J., who is really a lovely and smart and respectable individual, yet I sometimes treat her like she is not, which is really just a reflection of my own insecurities, and not at all anything to with her, which she knows, and so does not hold it against me. J. My friend J. We were gonna see Shaft.

But then, this morning. God, this horrible, ugly morning. This morning that had the nerve to make me wake up after I had been up until 3:00 a.m., being all hopped up on a Springsteen smoothie. Yeah, I saw Springsteen. There's a big ol' story there, but not tonight.

I'd been hitting the snooze alarm every eight minutes since 6:30 a.m. I usually get up at 7:00. Well, I'm supposed to get up at 7:00. Lately, it's been closer to 7:30 because oh my god my head is too heavy to live. This morning, it was 8:00. It would have been later, had my phone not rung. At 8:00 in the morning. What the hell is that about? I figured someone must have died, otherwise who would dare be calling me at that godforsaken hour? Even though I thought there was in all probability a very distraught person on the other end of the line ready to fill me in on the passing of a loved one, I answered the phone in a tone that said, quite simply, "fuck you." Because that's really all I have to say to anyone who calls me at 8:00 in the morning. Even if I'm awake, I'm in the shower. Even if I'm out of the shower, I'm getting ready for work. I'm watching the early early "Twin Betrayal" episode of Maury, which, while it doesn't have quite the pizzazz of Jerry Springer's "My Uncle is my Pimp" (such a classic ep!), is still racy enough for me and my bowl o' Golden Grahams.

So, I answered the phone all angry like, and it turned out to be my friend Paul, from high school. Paul was all sensitive and poetic and wanting to move to the Ozarks and build a log cabin. Despite all this, I had a mad crush on him. But, that was, literally, two lifetimes ago. He has two kids, now, you see. He was calling to tell me that he and his children's mother split up (they were living together) and he was moving to Minnesota tomorrow but he was going to be in New York tonight and did I want to hang out?

Now, remember, I had plans to see a movie with J., but, c'mon -- this guy just dropped a major bomb on me, and he would be moving 1000 miles away in mere hours. I weighed my options and decided that J. would understand, because she is a very kind and understanding soul, and therefore she would not hate me. Keep in mind I would be emailing her as soon as I got to work, and not waiting until 6:00 p.m. to let her know I was blowing her off. Not that that's ever happened to me, or anything. And if it did, I certainly wouldn't hold a grudge.

So, Paul will be in the city tonight, and he is going to meet up with Meghan, another high school friend that I wasn't really friends with because she was far too cool for me. He asks for my number at work. He says he will call me and tell me where they are meeting. He gives me Meghan's number, just in case I need to call them. Everything's going well. I can't wait to hear his whole sordid breakin'-up-with-my-baby-mama story.

Blah blah blah work. Blah blah blah email J. Blah blah blah have lunch with Elijah again and somehow end up paying for him. Blah blah blah. So, I come home after work, which I hate doing, because, invariably, once I climb up all those freakin' stairs, I'm in for the night. I come home because I forgot to take Meghan's number with me, and I'm starting to wonder if they're expecting me to call them, rather than them call me. So, I find the subscription card to BUST that I've scrawled the number on, and I call.

A man answers. It is not Paul, and it is, to my knowledge, certainly not Meghan. I am suddenly reminded how I hate talking to strangers. I have no problem accepting candy from them, nor paying them $10 to rub my back on the street, but actually conversing with them makes me itch. And not in a hey-baby-scratch-my-itch kinda way, either. I ask for Meghan, and he asks who's calling. Sigh…"I'm a friend of Paul's who is a friend of Meghan's and he said he would be there and I should call and is Meghan there?" He mercifully hands over the phone, and Meghan and I have a lovely chat about how Paul has, in fact, decided not to come to New York tonight after all and instead perhaps he will be in on Saturday and maybe we can all see each other then. I say something melodramatically annoyed like "Y'know, that boy ruins my life daily," and Meghan laughs and we hang up. Paul does not, in fact, ruin my life daily, but he never ceases to frustrate the hell out of me.

I sheepishly try to get back into J.'s good graces and perhaps salvage some of my evening. I log on to see if she is online. She is not. I figure she is out for the evening, and I feel like I got what I deserved for canceling on her. But…moving to Minneapolis! Breaking up with the baby mama! How could I have said no? I eventually talk to her, and she is not mad, but neither is she inviting me out to see Shaft with her. She is going with someone else. I feel like such a morality play. Thou shalt not dis your friends.

So, I stayed home. On a heartbreakingly beautiful night. I didn't even watch my All My Children tapes. Didn't even watch my Buffy tapes. I fell asleep on my couch, as I am doing more and more frequently these days, because, apparently, I am turning into an elderly man with his hand resting in the waistband of his underwear. That is me in a nutshell. Unbearably sexy, I know, but please -- try to bear it.

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