No, not MY relationship woes...no relationship, no woes, obviously. But I must say that standing out on the street with my cigarette does give me a rather disquieting window into everybody ELSE'S relationships.
The reason, of course, is that people continue to believe that if they are talking on a cellphone, they have somehow stepped into an invisible soundproof telephone booth. This is odd, because some of these people are too young to have ever even SEEN a telephone booth (unless they're watching old George Reeve Superman reruns).
Tonight's drama was a girl wailing to what I think must have been a girlfriend that "he couldn't understand what I was talking about, and I wrote him back explaining in a really nice tone, you know, and he just can't see it..." (voice fading out down the street). I have also heard, "Bitch, if you talk to him one more time, I'm gonna slap you all over the bar," from a very gay gentleman (well, I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt as to the gentleman part). And "Well, it's over, is all. I just can't take never knowing where she is, for God's sake."
You can see why I fear for relationships.
The best loud cell phone conversation I ever heard was a lady on the crosstown #8 bus one morning who was describing her previous day's visit to the gynecologist. In detail. At the top of her lungs. You better believe the whole bus was riveted to that conversation.
Meanwhile, I had a perfectly lovely birthday party at Sarah's bar on Thursday...lots of old friends, and Sarah actually didn't even snarl at me about my dress...which was cut to approximately my navel. Well, hell...if you can't have your boobs in view on your birthday, when can you? And along with the legs, the frontage is still damned impressive.
Then I went back to the bar on Friday, for the bar's 12th anniversary...also fun...and off to Soho on Saturday to greet my pal Tracy who's in from Italy for a week or so.
Therefore, I am currently in recovery mode. I spent all day yesterday reading the papers and eating things in a leisurely fashion, and never bothered to get dressed in anything in particular. I am slowly evolving some half clothing for this apartment. You see, in the old place, the deli was right around the corner, about 300 yards away, meaning that I could throw my coat on over my pajamas and just run and get the papers and my obligatory Diet Coke. This new place is half a block from the deli and I have to cross 8th Avenue. Please don't ask me why, but I feel that crossing a major street requires actual clothing. Well, I mean, what if I get hit by a car, and they discover that not only am I not wearing clean underwear, I'm not wearing ANY? (Who wears underwear under their flannel pajamas?) Think about the embarrassment of that. "Hey, Doc! Get a load of this! This must be some crazy street lady!" Yeah...no. So I now have three sets of sweats and sweatshirts to which I can add a pair of underpants (why on earth am I fixated on wearing underpants tonight?) and a pair of socks and some shoes, and I'm good to go to the deli...and as the weather gets warm, the socks are going. Note the lack of bra, which is kind of the point. I'm a 34D with necessary underwires, and at that point, things start feeling WAY too much like actual clothes. For half a block I can leave it off, and then if I decide on a late morning nap, it's MUCH more comfy.
But you do see why I call it half clothing. It hardly resembles actually getting dressed.
So today I did the laundry, and tomorrow I'm going to clean the house, do the ironing, and try to get all of Sarah's stuff into "her" room. The quotes are because, as she says, it's actually the guest room, since she has her own place. To which my reaction is, good. Now get this crud out of my guest room and into your "own place". I need to do a bit of organizing because I have people coming over on Monday to rehearse a play, for one thing, and also because I have to call the building people to come and replace a couple of light bulbs...the living room overhead I can actually live without, but I really need the light in the hall when I come in at night, since I don't like leaving lights on when I'm going to be out for a few hours...why give Con Edison free money?
Oh, the rehearsal? Well, some time back I wrote a rather blasphemous play about an angel coming to earth to find a new Mary (you know, as in starting a new Messiah), and we're actually doing it as a reading in Sarah's bar in a couple of weeks, now that I finally got somebody to play the angel. One of these days I'll post the script here for your delectation. It's a short, funny piece, but there's thought in it. It is, however, nothing the Christian Right would EVER see as moral. Thank God.
Meanwhile two of my friends and their 8 month old child are off to London and Italy and I'm wildly jealous...by God, I'm getting to London this fall by hook or by crook...presuming I can find a willing crook to pay my fare, that is. Third week in September is when you want to be in London...the weather is glorious, the new theatre season is open, and everything in the garden is lovely. Oh, drool...