03.08.2002 -> 03.11.2002 - The Sweetness Rising

Regardless of any general assiness that may be going on in my life at the time, I always look forward to Thursdays if only because I do so love getting mail from people who read my column. I don't think it's a secret that I'm a total prostitute for any sort of recognition, and as such, I've almost completely stopped feeling guilty for enjoying it. The one or two line "I think you're funny" e-mails that I usually get are good, but the quality of the e-mails I got on Thursday are only exceeded by the quality of the woman who wrote them.

Since regional management slapped the dunce cap on my head and stripped me of about ninety percent of my previous responsibilities, I've had far less to do around the office. As such, I was afforded the chance to respond to e-mails. I'd feel bad about wasting valuable company time, but I figureI'm making up for all the lunch breaks I haven't been able to take and extra hours for which I'll never get paid. I'm glad I did, because I struck up an uncharacteristically quick rapport with a young lady who sent me a novel of an e-mail midway through my afternoon. Usually, I'll get an e-mail, reply back within a day and maybe get a response a week later if at all. I got two more e-mails after the first, one containing an image of a feathered mulletted Jon Bon Jovi.

After I got home from work, we got to talking on AIM. After talking for about an hour, the number of coincidences and common points of interest became too many to ignore, and against my better stalker-avoiding judgement, I didn't put up any sort of fight when she invited herself over. Thank Jeebus for the occasional lapse in good judgement.

She knocked on my door, and I opened it with the anxious wonder of a couple dressed up as Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy on Let's Make A Deal wondering if their big prize would be a brand new car or a wheelbarrow full of Rip Taylor's belly button lint. Let's just say, were this Let's Make A Deal, Raggedy Andy would have epileptic seizures of pleasure and Raggedy Andy could drive him to the hospital in their brand new Lincoln Continental.

The awkwardness was present, but much more minimal than most first meetings. We watched Next Stop Wonderland and discussed the merits of Dave Eggers and Stevie Wonder. She didn't laugh at me for having a lame online diary.

And I was almost worried about having a stalker on my hands. She's the kind of stalker I'd welcome with open arms and a saucer of milk and cookies.

After a particularly arduous Friday wherein I spent my entire day fruitlessly struggling to get a man his due pay, angering him and frustrating me in the process, I came home ready to chill like setting Jell-o pudding. I was pleasantly surprised to get a call from Katie, the girl about whom I've been talking for the entirety of this entry yet whose name I've failed to mention to this point, asking if I wanted to get something to eat. I quickly agreed, but by the time she came by to chauffeur my broke-ass-car havin' booty around, all the restaurants in town were closed. As an alternative, she made waffles for us instead.

Jeffy + Waffles = Happiness

Because I'm thoroughly unexciting, we ended up coming back to my place and watching taped episodes of Saved By The Bell. Though it wasn't exactly an adventurous way to spend a Friday evening, anyone who can appreciate both waffles and Zach Morris gets enough points to win the game.

I spent my Saturday busying myself with chores and reading before hooking up with Mr. Bestfriendinthewholewideworld, his girlfriend and some friends from high school for one of the lamest parties I've ever experienced. I spent the entire evening lamenting the too-bright florescent lights and the fact that I was at a lame Jewish Frat party rather than entertaining any one of the basketball team of ladies whose requests for attention I ignored in favor of visiting with friends from home.

Oh yeah, for some reason this week, I had multiple girls, mostly people who e-mailed me because of my column, asking me to call them to do something on Saturday night. I spend the last three years being girl repellant, and now that my car doesn't work safely enough to drive anyone anywhere, I suddenly have more options than I know what to do with. It just plain don't make no sense. Rob Gordon say, "How does an average guy like me become the number one lover man in his particular postal district?"

Don't worry. I'll surely end up doing everything in my power to sabotage myself. That's how my life works.

On Sunday, i spent my morning redesigning my diary layout. I needed a change, but couldn't think of anything completely original, so I decided to create a variation of the layout I used for most of the Summer. It basically just killed time before I had to walk to pick up my car from a neighboring apartment complex's parking lot and drive to the train station. I had plans on Sunday to see Rufus Wainwright in San Francisco with Julia. She neglected to tell me she'd be going to her parents' house for the weekend until Friday. I could either drive out to meet her or take the train. I was a little miffed at first, but I've wanted to take the train for a while and this was as good an excuse as any. It actually turned out to be pleasant. I got to read the book that Katie let me borrow in silence for an hour. I enjoyed myself.

After Julia picked me up at the train station, we stopped by her parents' house before heading to San Francisco. I incorrectly assumed that traffic would be bad and that we'd have trouble finding parking. As a result, we were left with a ton of free time to kill before the show started. We took a walk to Japantown where we visited a rad stationery store (I have an abnormal fascination with pens) and indulged in some Japanese cuisine. Over dinner, we had conversation which normally would have been pleasant, but when the topic of my job was broached, I got a bit weak. My stomach turns every time I think about my job now both because it makes me feel incompetent and I'm worried every day to lose it. That finally made me realize it's time to start looking for something new.

Thankfully, the pall lifted in time for the concert where we saw the whole damned Wainwright family put on a fine, fine show. I would gladly give up feeling in my feet to have his voice. It's simply amazing. There was not a single bad thing about this show. I've never been a part of an audience that kept applauding mercilessly after the second encore. I regret missing his last trip to town even more now.

Even though I got very little sleep, I awoke early and energized for work and class on Monday. I got slammed with applicants, which is a good thing, because the more work I have to do, the more it seems like my position is valuable. It will be incredibly difficult to find something that meets my schedule and pay needs should this job evaporate, so as much stress as it brings me, I need to hang on.

My column, as usual, consumed the entirety of my Monday night. I wouldn't feel so bad about it if I had written something at least halfway decent, but strapped for ideas, I mined an old diary entry and turned it into possibly the least inspired thing I've written in recent memory. I hoped to end the quarter on a strong note. Instead of a bright trumpet, I ended up with a kazoo blown by an emphysema patient. So it goes.

Here's to making it through another week.

-- Jeffy