Month: September 2000

Pet Peeves

Becky is annoyed with the self-service scanners in her neighborhood grocery store. I can’t speak on that subject; they haven’t yet arrived in tech-savvy Northern California. But I have a pet supermarket peeve too: people who (a) pay by check and (b) wait until the last minute to even begin LOOKING for their checkbooks.

I used to write checks at the grocery store too. And I always had mine completely filled out, ready to write the amount as soon as it displayed. How hard is this? Chances are you know you’re going to be writing a check. Why not save the people in line behind you a little time? Are you so fucking self-obsessed that you don’t even notice them? Or just so fucking rude that you don’t care?

It baffles me how so many people seem to get through their entire lives completely oblivious to other people. Is it the same people over and over again who drive 45 in the fast lane on the freeway, let their devil-spawn scream through movies, and spend 20 minutes picking out just the right Happy Meal toy at the fast food place? Or is this becoming a really common national malady?

I’m not perfect and I’m also not the most patient person in the world, but at least I try to behave publicly in a way which will not seriously impede the motion of (or waste the time of) other people. I get off the bus by the rear door so people getting on don’t have to wait and hold up everything. I actually wait and turn at the next intersection rather than coming to a complete stop and blocking traffic when I realize I’m in the wrong lane. I always try to park in a way that lets another car fit on the curb too.

Why do so many otherwise intelligent and considerate people think it’s OK to fill out their deposit envelopes AT the ATM while there are five people waiting to use it? And why do people wear enormous backpacks in crowded bars at midnight? Or walk slowly down narrow sidewalks hand in hand so that no one can get around them in either direction? Or come barrelling out of stores without bothering to look and see who they’re about to run into?

I guess most of these things aren’t officially rudeness, but more a type of cluelessness, or maybe carelessness. But how is it possible to spend significant parts of your life without knowing or caring that there are other people spending theirs in the same universe as you?

Or Not…

OK, maybe it wasn’t completely ponderous or completely bullshit. And maybe that’s how you spell “ponderous”. Besides, I can’t think of anything better to write tonight. And I’m supposed to be on vacation anyway…

Alone at 2AM

It’s 2AM. I’m in a very odd (and not altogether pleasant) mood. And I’m going to have to wake up from it without benefit of my Sunday morning In the Heat of the Night marathon on TNT, a staple for very many years. I am not happy.

Saturday night at the queer bar. I’m now at home alone. Which would usually be a good thing. And it’s probably a good thing tonight too. But (you knew there was one coming, right) I ran into two ex-tricks who could have been ex-affairs or even ex-boyfriends tonight. One of them was very recent, while one dated back five years or so.

I probably would not have been tremendously happy with either one as a long-term mate. All the same, sometimes I get really pissed at myself for not pushing these things a little harder. Is it an absolute necessity that I go through the rest of my life in relative solitude (even though I adore relative solitude above most other things) just because there’s something just a little bit lacking in everyone I meet?

Ex-trick number one was a long-distance affair from way back. We had lots of fun when he was visiting SF, but lost touch when he moved here. He was way too far down the chemical path for my tastes, even though I liked both him and the sex very much. Tonight, we didn’t even acknowledge each other’s presence. I didn’t much care, but it did get me thinking about 1995.

Ex-trick number two only goes back a couple of months. I liked him a lot, but my inner voice said “don’t pursue too closely”. My inner voice says that a lot. We talked a lot tonight, but we were already past that moment. I had a nagging desire to bring him home, curl up next to him all night long, and make him grits for breakfast. But even if he’d been interested, not otherwise encumbered, etc., I probably still would have flaked on most contact following his Sunday morning departure, just like I did last time.

And I’m not sure why. I like the guy. I don’t really want to spend the rest of my life with him, but I like him all the same. I should have tried a little harder. Sometimes it might be nice to watch Sunday morning television WITH someone, even if it’s not necessarily with your lifetime soulmate.

But then I remember how I love spending Sunday mornings (and most of my other waking hours) alone and I wonder if that will ever really change. I guess I’d better make a little room before I think about letting anyone else in…

Productive Week

Thursday’s pondering was just a little exercise in literary masturbation, I guess. It’s really a true story, but I never seriously considered contacting the guy. I think that, all in all, I was more into him than he was into me, and I’m pretty comfortable with that.

It’s good to know, though, that there are so many Planet SOMA readers who are eager and anxious to step into the no doubt tasteful shoes of Miss Manners.

Another productive week, as it happens. Knocked out several web pages for hire, I finally got an appointment for PG&E to come fix my oven, and my porn stories for Boardboys were approved for later publication, which means both that I can to add “published author of literary erotica” to my list of credentials, and that I’ll be able to pay the rent for another month.

And no, writing porn is not quite as, ummm, stimulating as it sounds. It’s not horrible work either, but I wasn’t exactly moved to the point of having to stop and masturbate every five minutes.

I also reinstalled my computer at the evil part-time job, which was no small task and resulted in much profanity since it’s a Winblows machine rather than a much superior Mac or Unix box. I bought a few books. And I started the massive cleanup which signals a pending Mom visit.

I’m not a really bad housekeeper, believe it or not. But there are certain things I only do every two or three (or seven or eight) years, like dusting the chair rail and the dish shelf, and tackling the astonishing amount of grime which collects in my medicine cabinet. I don’t understand; the door is closed 23 hours and 58 minutes a day. How does it get so damned disgusting? Am I using the wrong toothpaste or shaving cream?

Yes, I know. The house will never be quite clean to the standards of the average mom, even though mine is definitely not a neat freak. But we have to try, after all.

And if any of you happen to be roaming about South of the Slot tonight, I’m even thinking of hitting the corner bars for a semi-miraculous second Saturday night out in a row. Come on down…