I'm in love with Taffy Appel.
My family raised two Woody Allen daughters. I guess they couldn't really help it, but there it is. Most assuredly I am a concoction, but most closely aligned with Holly from Hannah and Her Sisters. And I'm not just saying that because she ends up being a great writer and shacking up with a little nebby Jew, although that might subconsciously have something to do with it. Because the tension at work has lifted, since we've both been hired for equal time and equal pay, we're able to more freely psychoanalyze each other. We confessed our bungled adolescence the other day, how we became too sexual too soon, and how it may or may not have put ourselves at odds with our mothers. We had a really great time last weekend. It was one of those legendary nights that happen with alarming infrequency as I get older. ( Probably a good thing. ) After Friday's plummeting loneliness of all of my acquaintances and their companions and talking perhaps overlong about the fellow I'm interested in, my discourse having been fueled by a few too many sidecars, I trudged back to my vehicle in abject despair and drove home agitated and uncarefully. So Saturday was a boon, even though as late as 8 PM I was grumbling about how I hated my life, that fatal phrase-and my first use of it since the Real Dark Days of ATX. I drove out to have homemade gumbo with my coworker, her gays, and her cajun boyfriend. We took shots and it was decided that I was staying there for the night. We went out to see a country show and I learned a how to two-step a little bit. My immediate supervisor was there and alerted me to the Old Fellow's sudden an unexpected appearance. My heart froze. I had napkins stuffed in my ears, probably reeked of whiskey and was a little more unkempt than I would have liked, but I crossed deliberately in his line of vision to order a drink, and before I had completed the transaction he was behind me, asking me out.
A night of triumph. We parted ways, mostly because we were each awkwardly with a separate group of friends. Also it was so crowded it would have been impossible to talk. I saw him sneak a couple of cigarettes; this comforted me. After the show he tried to bid me farewell but I was snuggled up closely dancing with my coworker's cajun treat, so it seemed that I was otherwise popular and well occupied with men. I felt bad about deflecting him, but it might have done me a good turn-he mentioned how "popular" I was later in the week, on the telephone.
We closed the night by dancing in cages at The Gay Bar, which was really just a horrible half-decorated warehouse space with separate rooms. There was a decent drag show and I gave some money to Whitney Houston. There was nearly a fight in the womens' restroom, but I was secured safely in a stall and I have no idea. I fell asleep in the car on the way back and had a spare bedroom all to myself. Old Fellow telephoned as early as Tuesday and we had a really wonderful conversation that lasted for over an hour, at the end of which he politely declared his utter emotionally unavailability which lead to a breathless awkward pause for me, soon recovered, and some little disappointment. We set a date for Saturday. He was going out of town to DC, his favorite place on earth. That might be a bad sign.
Now he's stuck in DC until tomorrow, at least. I have a ton of work to do, I'm trapped at home in this ice storm, luckily still with power. I don't have all of the materials I need to meet all of my deadlines this upcoming week but in all likelihood they'll be pushed back a day. He telephoned me from the airport with just an out-and-out raincheck, postponed indefinitely, due to our respective work-catching-up and other inconveniences of snow days. Thursday I made my debut as a judge for the statewide battle of the bands contest. I sat on a panel, ate and drank for free. My handwriting, I fear, became more whiskey-slurred and serial-killerish by the end of the night: none of my wittier comments were farmed for the results blog post, probably due to sheer illegibility. Guess I should be more conscious of that in the future. Anyway, it's a blast, and good exposure. I gave my phone number out to one of the fellows who writes for the weekly, a college pal of Old Fellow's, but someone I might like to carry on with in the future, providing Old Fellow turns out to be as much of a pussy as a girlfriend predicts. I stayed out way too late, sat at a table of men and held forth adorably. It was good. I woke too early the next morning feeling wretched, only to be assured I didn't need to go into work. I would like to think that maybe, just maybe my fuckall, hapless Tom-Reagan-luck has returned. Maybe my penance is up, but I shouldn't bet too soon.
A night of triumph. We parted ways, mostly because we were each awkwardly with a separate group of friends. Also it was so crowded it would have been impossible to talk. I saw him sneak a couple of cigarettes; this comforted me. After the show he tried to bid me farewell but I was snuggled up closely dancing with my coworker's cajun treat, so it seemed that I was otherwise popular and well occupied with men. I felt bad about deflecting him, but it might have done me a good turn-he mentioned how "popular" I was later in the week, on the telephone.
We closed the night by dancing in cages at The Gay Bar, which was really just a horrible half-decorated warehouse space with separate rooms. There was a decent drag show and I gave some money to Whitney Houston. There was nearly a fight in the womens' restroom, but I was secured safely in a stall and I have no idea. I fell asleep in the car on the way back and had a spare bedroom all to myself. Old Fellow telephoned as early as Tuesday and we had a really wonderful conversation that lasted for over an hour, at the end of which he politely declared his utter emotionally unavailability which lead to a breathless awkward pause for me, soon recovered, and some little disappointment. We set a date for Saturday. He was going out of town to DC, his favorite place on earth. That might be a bad sign.
Now he's stuck in DC until tomorrow, at least. I have a ton of work to do, I'm trapped at home in this ice storm, luckily still with power. I don't have all of the materials I need to meet all of my deadlines this upcoming week but in all likelihood they'll be pushed back a day. He telephoned me from the airport with just an out-and-out raincheck, postponed indefinitely, due to our respective work-catching-up and other inconveniences of snow days. Thursday I made my debut as a judge for the statewide battle of the bands contest. I sat on a panel, ate and drank for free. My handwriting, I fear, became more whiskey-slurred and serial-killerish by the end of the night: none of my wittier comments were farmed for the results blog post, probably due to sheer illegibility. Guess I should be more conscious of that in the future. Anyway, it's a blast, and good exposure. I gave my phone number out to one of the fellows who writes for the weekly, a college pal of Old Fellow's, but someone I might like to carry on with in the future, providing Old Fellow turns out to be as much of a pussy as a girlfriend predicts. I stayed out way too late, sat at a table of men and held forth adorably. It was good. I woke too early the next morning feeling wretched, only to be assured I didn't need to go into work. I would like to think that maybe, just maybe my fuckall, hapless Tom-Reagan-luck has returned. Maybe my penance is up, but I shouldn't bet too soon.