Monday, June 27, 2005

the secret word is martini

Blogger can finally handle images on its own. So, apropos of nothing, here are some German ducklings.

My connection's been wonky today, and so for that matter have I, so don't expect too much in the way of coherence.

Today was actually not that bad, but the past couple of weeks have been very emotionally intense. I've been doing some deep thinking into the question of whether I will have my own children or not. I've been spending an awful lot of time alone. And then this Saturday I worked a party that was really fun (as is typical right after I've posted about how much I hate catering, natch) but completely draining; I spent Sunday eating pudding, doing laundry, and playing "Bookworm" on Pogo, which I do not, repeat do not, recommend to anyone who is hoping to Get Something Done. I totally missed the Pride parade and celebration, which was going on a scant four blocks from my apartment. Bailed on a show that I would have been seeing for pleasure, not work. Didn't get the sample chapter finished for my book proposal. I'm pretty sure I brushed my teeth, but that and having clean clothing is about all I accomplished.

It's tricky, being freelance and/or on-call. Because I'm as likely to work a Saturday as a Monday (more so, actually), because I have to be available to model or cater or do interviews whenever other people are free or want to have a party, because I do an increasing amount of my work from home, it's hard to set clear boundaries. They tell you this, when you say you want to work from home, but it's hard to really absorb what that means. I'm starting to understand why people find ways to hide their desks from view. I wake up, and if I've slept on my right side, the gaping black hole that is my computer is the first thing I see.

For a while a couple of years ago, I made a point of having a sabbath. Obviously Friday night through Saturday night didn't work, so I chose Wednesday as my day off and did my best to stick with it. Wouldn't take work on that day, wouldn't write anything for money, etc. I don't know why I stopped doing that, but I'm starting to think it was one of the better ideas to creep from my flea-bitten grey matter.

This weekend's celebrity sighting: a certain star of a Saturday morning television show about an overgrown boy in a bow tie whose career nosedived when he was busted for doing something so minor (note: he was not doing a minor, he was doing something minor) it boggles the imagination. He was a friend of the host, it was a private party in a beautiful new Moorish-styled home in Marin, and I was sort of hoping for at least a moment of the famous squeaky voice. But no such; he was better behaved than all the other guests, many of whom were draped over my bar by the end of the night saying virtually unintelligible things to each other about Eckhart Tolle and how much they loved each other, man.

My hero, who was wearing jeans and blue trainers, got champagne for the people he was talking to and ginger ale for himself and laughed kindly at my feeble attempts to amuse him with my martini shaker. My co-worker Hound told me that as he gets older, he starts to appreciate small breasts more. I believe he used the word "conoissuer". I taught one Spanish-speaking gentleman the names of several different drinks: Cosmopolitan, Madras, Screwdriver. A woman gave me a twenty-dollar tip. A good night.