Tuesday, October 19, 2004

 

Defining Love (And Other Occupations of My Weekend)

Howdy, all. Well, as you might imagine, Friday ended up being so crazy-busy that I managed not only not to have a weekend insight but that I never did a real post after my list-y post. I did, however, manage (somehow) to get that panel proposal sent off as well as to get the man-kitty to his vet appointment. At any rate, the activities of my weekend were the following:

Friday: Zombie-like, I stared at television, talked to Stella on the phone, was so over-tired that I could not go to sleep until like 11:30.

Saturday: I ran errands, including going to the drug store, at which I bought two new lipsticks and hair dye (semi-permanent, because I'm a chicken). I then had a moment of clarity in which I realized that I was buying supplies for a break-up make-over, even though I've not broken up with anybody in over a year. It also occurred to me that perhaps the funk that I've been in has to do with the fact that fall has always been my time for falling in love (because, of course, the rhythms of my heart coincide with the rhythms of the academic calendar) and that maybe what I'm attempting to do with the breakup makeover is to get over the fact that I'm not in love and haven't been in love for a really long time and haven't even had a prospect that I thought I could potentially love in even longer. Like I said, I've been in a funk. So, I went home, dyed my hair, put on a full face of makeup (god knows why), drank a bunch of wine while on the phone with Stella (who was also drinking wine - vast quantities from her report, as she got off the phone with me to pass out at like 10) at which point I had a brilliant insight that Stupid Freud sucks and that he hadn't called me in forever and so I should call him, but in my wine-addled state I decided that he could potentially come over if I called him and so I straightened up my entire house (drinking wine all the time) and then called him. I was sure to transcribe the message that I left in my journal so that I could review it in the sober light of day, and according to my records, I said the following:
" Hello Stupid Freud, this is Dr. Crazy. I thought I'd give you a call,
even though you're lame and you don't call a girl back when you say you
will. So, yeah. It's Saturday night and it's... Oh god, it's like 11
o'clock. Give me a call!"

Not as bad as it might have been, to my mind. Oh, and I was watching Red Sox Baseball while this was going on (I really can't discuss that game... horrifying) and so decided after leaving above message to try to watch the end of the game, only to awaken 3 hours later confused and on my couch, with a man-kitty lying on my chest. Needless to say, Freud did not call me back.

Sunday: I cooked a lot. Yeah, that was pretty much the day. And then there was Red Sox Baseball (yay!) and I was drinking some wine, and chatting with Stella, when at approximately 10:15 PM the other line rings and it is Freud. No lie. So I get off the other line with Stella to chat with Freud, and it turns out that he had been at a wedding this weekend. (Neither one of us spoke of my call to him the night before, and I feel it was wise that I pretended it had never happened, because since he was out of town I think I seemed lame for calling him lame. Whatever.) So anyway, Freud, it seems, was having some sort of existential crisis brought on by the marrying friend, and busts out asking me to define love for him. Perhaps this is a normal thing for a person whom one has fucked to ask, but in my experience it is not. Odd things about the conversation:

1) We were talking while he was waiting for his friend Jackass (whom I made out with, if you all recall) to come over... a fact which he only revealed after we'd been talking for like a half-hour. He revealed this in the following manner:
"So, I'm waiting for my friend Jackass to come over and we're going for a drink. You remember Jackass," he says with a sneer.
"Oh, well, that sounds like a good time," Dr. C diplomatically replies, which reply was followed by a long, long pause where I think he was waiting for me to fumble around and be uncomfortable because he uttered the name of the friend with whom I made out.

2) He made a point of telling me that he'd asked some non-legal-drinking-age chippy out during the past couple of weeks and that basically she rejected him - one would think this was to re-establish our "just friends" business, but does he really think that he needs to do this with me? I mean, my god. The funny thing about this was that he had just been going on about wanting to find his soul mate or some such, and I responded, "well, you do realize that chasing after people who are barely out of high school may not be a solid plan for finding the girl that you're going to marry, don't you?"

3) Just why was he asking me about love stuff? Too much intimacy, to my mind, for the nature of our relationship. Bizarre.

The Red Sox Won!

Monday: Did nothing but watch Red Sox Baseball. Cannot discuss my feelings about what is happening, for I am superstitious and I am afraid that something I say will cause the worst to happen. Of course, the worst could happen anyway, but.... Ok, I will not speak of this further.

Today: Getting midterm grading done, waiting for Red Sox Baseball, and thinking about bailing on dinner plans with colleagues. Just don't want to deal with socializing in the weird state I'm in. Perhaps I should pretend that I went out of town or something? Hmmm..... Though, of course, I am thinking of asking Freud if he wants to come over and watch Red Sox Baseball, even though he hates baseball. (What I didn't reveal to him during our "defining love" conversation was that I cannot love a pers0n who does not enjoy - at least a tiny bit - the national passtime. God, it's sad that baseball is this important to me. But, apparently, it is. And I've never loved a man who did not love the baseball. I guess it could happen, but I don't know. I think it might be a deal-breaker.)

So, that should catch us up to the present time. Must stop procrastinating (for that's what this is) and get some fucking work done.

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