Mar 18, 2005
I instant message a lot these days.
I also send lengthy emails.
And I make a good part of my living writing.
I feel as if I'm starting to type like a jazz pianist. Sliding my fingers over the keys with some artsy flourishes. Finding the punctuation while slipping out of position. I don't always type perfectly. An extra key here and there. A missing character from time to time. That's what makes it seem like jazz. I am not that big a fan of jazz. And I am even smaller a fan of typographical errors.
The Wearing of the Green that I Did Not Do
I went to La Poubelle last night for Arthur's birthday. Jessie came and met me after dinner. We had a fine time. The Casting Office was far more crowded than it was the last time I was there, which was the night of the first of the 2004 presidential debates. I guess that's understandable. Saint Patrick's Day is a bit more of a draw in that respect.
Boys were very nice last night. And sometimes overly nice. And sometimes downright inappropriate. I can't think of a setting when reaching down a girl's skirt to see what sort of underthings she has on is acceptable. Nor can I think of a setting when one would expect that to happen. So when that happened to me last night, I was surprised.
And when I got stuck with the dinner tab, I was also surprised. That was my least favorite thing about the night.
What I did like, though, was meeting a lot of interesting people and spending time with Jessie and being treated nicely by nearly everyone. And when Jessie and I went to Pink's, Jessie made mention of the fact that I seem to get a special extra-nice brand of treatment there. That they are nicer to me than to other people apparently. And I don't know if it's true, but it's flattering if it is. Even if niceness comes in the form of hot dogs, it's welcome.
Beautiful on the Inside
Here's something. I was at the orthopedic surgeon's office yesterday, and they took some x-rays of my spine. When the doctor and I were looking at them, I noticed something peculiar: I was embarrassed and self-conscious. I was embarrassed to have someone look at my skeleton in front of me. My rather nice-looking young doctor said, "What do you think?" And I said, without making eye contact with him, "I don't know. I think I feel ashamed." He laughed. And so did I. But it was totally that nervous laughter that you hope will distract everyone from how stupid you feel. He assured me that my neck looked perfectly normal (And, yes, I did note that he did not say, "You have the neck of a supermodel.") and that I had nothing to worry about. When I told Martín about it over salads at California Pizza Kitchen (where we received the poorest service in the history of trendy pizza joints), he said -- in the voice I guess he uses to approximate me, "My skeleton is fat." And I said, "Exactly!" That's exactly how I felt. I felt like this doctor would surely look at these x-ray photographs and see something unappealing in them. That he would think I was unattractive or stupid or a jerk or a loser. Or fat. Where in the world would THAT come from*? I am -- at times -- more neurotic than even I like to admit.
*And, obviously, this comes from my mother.
I have to schedule an MRI to determine if the pain I am feeling in my neck and shoulders and arm is anything serious. I am in a bit more pain today than I was yesterday and a bit more than the day before. It especially hurts to turn my head left and right when I'm driving and am in need of visual reassurances. It seems to be progressively hurting more. And that's hardly a source of encouragement.
But I'm only listening to Duran Duran in my rental car, and that has made me feel like a million bucks so far.
Coincidentally, I ran into Alex, one of the other drivers whose car was smashed up by the drunk driver who hit us last weekend, at The Casting Office. The world is startlingly small. And disconcertingly frequented by auto smash-ups. When I told Beulah that I had spoken to an attorney, she started singing Easy Street to me (from the film Annie). And that led to her singing nearly every song in the soundtrack to me at different points in our conversation. I joined in on a few of them. We're perfect for each other, that Beulah and me. Scary and gay and perfect.
I'm all over the place today. I have lost a little bit of my focus since the accident. And I've been having dreams with lots of blood in them. And not sleeping well in general. And it's raining out. And my limbs are cold. And Kiss Me, Stupid is on the television, and I hate Kim Novak. The accent she does in the movie reminds me of just so much community theater. Which reminds me that it's raining.
posted by Mary Forrest at 11:03 AM | Back to Monoblog