2006-09-27 @ 3:20 p.m.
Okay, so I'm a little paranoid. I was sitting in "A"s reception area yesterday and I noticed one of the fish in his fish tank staring at me. I mean its totally overt. Like this.
I mean, WTF? What are you looking at sushi-head? So I grabbed a magazine and tried to read an article about "Twenty-five ways to a perfect butt" and "How to please men in bed". I ascertained that the two might somehow be related. It was all fluff though. I guess things that turn men on are simple monosyllabic phrases like "Ya wanna?". It didn't say whether you had to be naked when you said it, but I'm guessing thats probably a yes. And having a perfect butt is probably preferable too. And being 20 instead of 48 is, you guessed it, probably preferable too. Right sushi-head? Sushi?!??
I looked around the edge of the magazine and he was still gazing at me rather rhapsodically. And for a moment I thought, oh great, I just had a fish in my shrink's office fall in love with me. But then I got rather panic-stricken when I realized he wasn't moving, or was it that he had somehow gotten lodged in the tank's filtering system and just hadn't floated up to the top yet. Crap. It was just then that "A" opened the door and called me in, and I threw down the magazine and scurried past my fishie buddy still wondering if he was alive, playing dead or checking out my ass as I walked by. Oy! Such drama I tell you!
"A" was in his patently good mood and I even got to sit in the Big Kahuna's seat. I really liked trading chairs, because for the first time since he's gotten his laptop, I was able to see his face. Usually he sits in a taller chair with his laptop open and all I see is the top of his head. Not his face. It really bothers me, and I've mentioned it a couple of times, because I feel like he's only a MAC logo with legs. It made a huge difference. I felt like I was talking to a person.
I was feeling a little under the weather with my sinus infection. I made a joke about kissing one person (Charlemagne) and suddenly I have my first cold in two years. He wasn't particularly amused. But we talked once again about the mysterious Handyman, my future possible kiss bunny.
As mentioned in a briefly posted entry, Charlemagne never had his "dinner party" this weekend, so I never met this mysterious entity that is Handyman. I was both a smidge disappointed, but mostly relieved. I get major anxiety around "arranged" meetings. There is a specific reason, I've made it to the ripe old age of 48 with nary a wedding band. I am very shy. I've dated over the years, mostly in my twenties, but nothing in my thirties or forties. Married Guy never counted as a date. We just subconsciously threw ourselves at each other at various locations and pretended like it was a platonic friendship. It was technically, but there was a lot going on under the surface.
"A" also told me he would never talk to Charlemagne or Handyman about me. I nodded my head. But then magically last night, I got a note from Charlemagne. Surprise! All of Handyman's pertinent info. Phone numbers! Conversations with his girlfriend. Will witty and Handyman make a good pairing? Blah, blah, blah. I'm hosting tonight at our art class. Will you help. Pleeease!!!!!!!." I just kinda wonder if anybody "new" will be there tonight. Sorry "A", I still think you're being a surreptitious Yenta in the background, dude. I also can't just call some random guy because I now have his home and cell phone numbers, via Charlemagne. I have never done that in my entire life. You know that.
Should I get my chin waxed?
As usual, our conversation drifted towards sex (isn't it inevitable?). He even announced it yesterday. He said "Change of subject". I guess it was because I was talking about how angry I've been about clippy boy and "A" suggested self pleasuring as a good release for anger. Can you imagine? If that were the case, I'd never freakin' leave my bedroom, except maybe to meet the tractor trailer out front, delivering the cases and cases and cases of AAA batteries.
Angry Sex....the new Zen.
The rest of the day was pretty sedate. I had my yearly section eight inspection of my apartment. I had been stressing over it for about a month. Gosh, I hope the smoke detectors work. What if they don't. What if one of my stove burners doesn't heat up? What if they flunk me and I don't get assistance with my rent. What if, what if, what it???
9:20 a.m. Knock, knock, knock! I always cringe when anybody knocks at my door these days because I don't know if it'll be clippy standing there like Arnold Swartzenegger in "Terminator" garb with some supersonic hedge clipper, bought on E-Bay, meant to clip me in half with the push of a button.
Or it'll be Harold the Geek, getting out his pad and paper out and writing, "September 26, 1:09 p.m. e.s.t. Dear witty, I am very close to ending it all because you have not answered any of my last 2456 notes on your door. Are we going out on Tuesday or not? I am at my house holding a gun to my head waiting for your response. Harold the Geek, Esq."
Or who it will be.... Fortunately it was the Section Eight Inspector. I opened my door to let him in and he just shook his head and smiled and said, "No, that's okay. I just have a few questions. How is this apartment?" Me: "Well, I have some reallllly crazy neighbors." Him: "No. I don't mean that. Is everything working?" Me: "Yes". Him: "Thanks. Have a nice day."
WTF? That's it? I stressed over nothing. Worse yet, I actually cleaned my entire apartment....FOR NOTHING. Bah! How dare they make me clean my apartment for nothing. How could you? Those bastards! Never again I tell you! No more cleaning for inspector guys. Next time they'll be getting witty raw 2007. Giant piles of clothes in the shape of Devil's Tower. Cat turds from 1979. No more Mr. Nice Guy! No sirree!
Well, I do have to go take a shower...you know in my exquisitely CLEAN tub (damn you Section Eight!!!!). Its just a little over three hours until I meet up with the ever charming Charlemagne for a little art. Gotta smell pretty in case there's somebody new lurking around the premises. Right?
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty