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2005-10-21 @ 1:12 a.m.
what I DON'T DO the other 163 hours a week

Wednesday was basically a 14 hour day for me. With lots of driving and not much resting. I had a full day seminar at work. I had a mid-afternoon appointment with “A”. I had my art class. Unfortunately, “A”s appointment, was smack dab in the middle of the day, so basically my day consisted of driving from the Village to work in the morning. And then back to the Village for my appointment with “A”. And then back to town for the rest of the seminar. And then back to the Village for dinner. And then back to town for my art class, and then back to the Village after my art class. Thank God, I have a car!

“A” was in a very lively mood, which was good, since I was a little under the weather health-wise. He doesn’t have as many of those as when I first started seeing him...the ones where he lets his sense of humor out to play. That’s really how we bonded initially, with our senses of humor. I had never had a therapist with a sense of humor before, and it made such a huge difference. In fact the one I had JUST before him was so humorless, that I used to say outrageous stuff just to get a response. Unfortunately he would just sit there like a petri dish of E coli. He was Iranian.

Like yesterday, for instance, I walked in with a name tag on from my seminar. Naturally he had to comment on it and then we did like three minutes of comedy about my need to know who I am, thus facilitating the need for name tags. I like doing this because it helps me to relax, because believe it or not, I’ve been seeing “A” for 10 years this month, and I still get anxious when I wait in his waiting room. Not sure what that’s all about. It was a good and positive session though. I told him about a sex dream I had....the very thing shrinks wait for.

A sex dream, witty? Do tell! Well, no I won’t. It was less about hot and sweaty things than about symbolism. How did we arrive there? Okay here’s the structure. I come in: 3 minute comedy sketch about my name tag. He tells me he’s getting a flu shot and I should too. I tell him I never get close enough to anyone to get germs, and in fact, walk around, in essence, encased in glass, and he says he doesn’t understand why I don’t believe in religious miracles like St. Bernadette, whose body, I guess was perfectly preserved when she died, which I guess is why we know she’s a saint, but then I mentioned I once saw a ghost after our neighbor lady died and she was looking in my window and I felt guilty because the last time I had seen her, I had acted out. And then he asked why there was $150 in cash on the table. And I’m like, “you know”. And he said, “Where’d you get it?” and I was like, “The bank”, and he said something else which I can’t remember and then I said, “And I had this sex dream....”.

So in about two minutes twenty seconds, we covered germs, St. Bernadette, ghosts, guilt, money, and sex. If nothing else, we’re efficient.

After work, I had to run home quick to take a quick shower before my art class because I was co-hosting with Charlemagne the Obnoxious French Guy. Although my days as a co-hostess have, I guess, actually drawn to a close, because we now have an intern, who does everything I formerly did. I did sit next to Charlemagne the Obnoxious French Guy though, because evidently watches aren’t required in France, and I had to keep him informed to as what time it was. I also like to listen to all his goofy asides. Like when he told me he only does one celebrity impression and I was like who? And then he jutted out his chin and pushed his hair back off his forehead. Who was he? Marty Feldman in “Young Frankenstein”.

Ummm, ok.

We had a male nude model last night. He was someone I hadn’t seen before. heh, heh...seen. I made a funny. Of course, I've seen him, he's naked, but I certainly got an eye-ful. He was a small man, and I do mean small, if you know what I mean, wink, wink. And how would I know this? How gentle reader? Because for the 30 minute pose, he was angled directly at me with the ol’ twigs and berries, just like totally aimed at me. Like right there I tell you. Woo. I’m sure Charlemagne was pissed, because he usually likes to flirt with the female models. But there THEY were...The (cough) Holy Trinity. And I’m like, darn, why isn’t my art class interactive? Or multi-media? Or like performance art with possible audience participation. Although its not like the guy was very exciting. He was nice looking, but was totally expressionless and inert. Like stay tuned for scenes from next week’s episode of “CSI: Art Class”. But I guess when they’re (the naughty bits) are facing bananas waiting to be peeled for banana walnut bread....or cucumbers waiting to be drizzled with vinegarette....or corncobs waiting to be just have to take what you can get and remember that the other 163 hours a week, you don’t have viewing priviledges to a penis.

Can you tell I had a sex dream this week?

Of course Charlemagne the Obnoxious French Guy didn’t help. We were sitting there drawing during the hour pose and we had on this CD with unusual versions of Beatles songs including Robin Williams performing one (don’t ask me which one, because, believe it or not, I haven’t got a clue). Anyhoo, so Charlemagne leans over and says, “That’s Robin Williams.” And I was like, “Really?” Because I didn’t really recognize his voice, because after all, what exactly does Robin Williams sound like singing? And then I got a faint hint of his presence in the music and nodded my head towards Charlemagne. I then thought, I would show him my picture of Robin and I from the 1980’s. I just have a small wallet size picture I keep in my purse, probably because I don’t have anyone else’s picture to put there, so I took it out and handed it to him.

He took it, his eyes widened and he turned to me and said, “You are so fucking hot in this picture. Oh my God. HOT. Oh witty. You bitch. You’re so fucking hot.” and then he preceded to pretend to lick the photo. And I’m suddenly like, burying my head into my hands. And then he said, “You know me and *** (his girlfriend) fight sometimes. Ya know? (wiggling his eyebrows at me) You’re so hot. Can I keep this picture?

Jeezus-H-Khrrrrist. I finally managed to get my picture out of his drool stained hands, and I just related how I had met Robin Williams a few times and used to live near him in Sonoma County and how once, during a concert, when I was shooting photos of him with my telephoto lens, he had jumped off the stage, grabbed my camera, stuck it down his pants and then did a 10 minute comedic riff about how the girl at the Photomat would be checking out the photos when she was bored and would suddenly come across the throbbing python of love shots. I figured, by then, Charlemagne was probably thinking about HIS throbbing python of love. Don’t all guys?

After the class ended, he had to collar our young intern (a high schooler) and tell her that I knew Robin Williams. And that I not only knew him, but that we were close personal friends. And that not only were we close personal friends, but that we had dated. I was standing there rolling my eyes, denying everything. Is it any wonder how those Hollywood rumors start? And then I said I had a picture of Robin touching Mr. Happy. And Charlemagne feigned mock horror and told our intern to put her hands over her ears. Considering she’s been drawing naked people for over a year now, I don’t think any Mr. Happy discussions are going to necessarily corrupt her.

He then needed a ride home, since his girlfriend had the car. I had some trepidation because I somehow knew a kiss was imminent. He had already done one of his Frenchman kiss on both cheek thing when I first walked in. I was parked over across the street in a church parking lot and he was concerned that I was parked in a dark location and that it wasn’t safe for me. I thanked him for his concern (and yeah, that’s one way to melt my heart, act like you care about my safety). The drive home was brief. He was chatty as usual. As I pulled into the driveway of the house he just moved in with his girlfriend (this is an important fact --with his girlfriend), he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, and then he jutted his face towards mine and I’m like, ummm, I guess I’m supposed to kiss his cheek now, right? And I felt really foolish kissing some guy in the driveway of his and his girlfriend’s house. Like whoop, whoop, whoop, warning Will Robinson, didn’t you just do something similarly stupid like that in the last five years? But there was that cheek to be dealt with and it was only a cheek and....


As soon as I very lightly kissed him, he started giggling like a little girl, saying, “I didn’t mean for you to kiss me!! I thought you were just going to put your cheek up to mine, but you kissed me!! witty kissed me!” And I’m thinking “oh shit” and the driveway is really well lit and his girlfriend is probably taking down my license plate number so that she can hunt me down and kill me for smooching her boyfriend in their driveway. And who can blame her?

So he finally got out the car, thanking me for the ride, and then I headed home. And even though it was only a 15 minute ride, I did a lot of thinking in those 15 minutes, like what the fuck did you just do? Sure it was just the cheek, but “A” has repeatedly warned me about Charlemagne. Not any vague “we might possibly bomb a NYC subway” type of warning, but a solid “Do not do anything with Charlemagne” and yet here I was, delicately touching my cheek where he had just kissed me. Am I desperate for some affection at this juncture? Yup. Did I enjoy having someone think I was hot? Absolutely. I’m not usually somebody you associate with the word “hot”. I’m all about getting laughs and who could ever think that was sexy? In fact, that’s why I use it. Humor is an incredibly effective man-deterrent, because God forbid somebody should ever look at me like a viable romantic possibility. Yeeks!

And then rather strangely, when I got out to the Village, I somehow managed to miss my street. Can you imagine? Drove right past it. I guess I was just fantasizing about “Putting on the Ritz” with Marty Feldman and his moveable hump.

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Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty