After some Christmas shopping, I swung by a comedy club and met up with some friends, including the apologetic buddy from a previous blog entry who explained how his joke misfired into an apparent indictment of my writing. No worries, cancer boy, if you ever see this bloggity bullshit.

So, I had some beers, saw another comedy friend’s band and watched people dancing to music from the 80s I didn’t particularly care for when it was new.

The good part is I came home to a hot shower (:!:) and an email from the guy who watches out for this kind of thing for me. He sent me this link, written by this woman.

Yeah, sister is fighting the good fight and becoming a hero of mine. Rock on.

I hope as individuals and collectively we keep fighting on. And, I suppose it’s just a weird coincidence of cyberspace that the ACLU spoke for more than a little bit to someone I know about workers’ privacy rights versus a code of law that favors businesses and employers by a giant margin. Once you read some of the law, it’s pretty fucking amazing how many more things big brother has going for him than you do.

I guess my big regret is spending 15+ years tangled up in the peculiar blues of the not for profit world.

I know it ain’t Christmas.

And, I know that there might be wonderful people and things in my life for whom I should give thanks. You know, great friends, a rocking, swell guy, a supportive (mostly) family, food, clothing and a full belly.

BUT, NOTHING, NOT ONE FUCKING THING, compares to the joy I am about to experience. Not even orgasm combined with Coffee Heath Bar Ben & Jerry’s.

I AM ABOUT TO TAKE A SHOWER! WOO HOO! In my own goddamn freshly tiled tub.

The tile guys of prophesy are just about done (at least a day and a half sooner than promised in the scripture of the contracting company that didn’t want to be too pinned down on a timeframe). All that’s left for tiling is a threshold between the shiney new tile and the hallway floor and a soap holder in the shower.

Seeing something other than beams and insulation fills me with something akin to hope.

Behold a pic of the promised land of bathroom miracles:

(By way of comparison and a reminder here’s what I used to have:

Speaking of progress, I finally deleted the contact info from my Palm and computer address book of the folks from the workplace I cannot name. The reason for the review was looking for a Christmas card list. Goodriddance to bad rubbish and on with a new year!

I knows that out there a few folks have been already pointing this out to me — I gots them bitch-like tendencies.

Yesterday’s post provides the empirical proof. Bagged full on bitching in public and living the aftermath.

The thing is among the joys of getting a bit older is I give less and less of a shit. Along with my weight gain from working out, where my goal is 200 pounds by Christmas, I’m planning on dying at a ripe old age and not being at all afraid of speaking my mind. I’m learning that last bit, and as I work through the kinks I suspect I will pendulum swing into offensive as I did yesterday.

One day, I predict, I may have some semblance of my shit together, though.

Fucking YAY! The tile guys are here. Every step of the bathroom remodeling has seemed to lead to the mythical phrase “And then the tile guys will come and you’ll be all set.” Something like that anyway.

So, tile guys equal an end in sight.

Chatting with Jack, the older brother tile guy, while Billy, the younger brother tile guy, was sent to get coffee, made me realize a bit of why I got into a vicious time-sucking vortex yesterday with the Craig’s List guy. I generally like hearing people’s stories (to a point).

I enjoy chatting with folks getting different perspectives and all, and I’m a relaxed and casual seeming person. But, shit falls apart when casual becomes overly familiar and conversations go further than I want to go.

I think part of it is what a close friend and I were talking about last night — the end of formal civility. The etiquette where you don’t call people by their first names or nicknames on first meeting unless they tell you to and you hold your tongue rather than comment on the physical appearance of a distant acquaintance and you don’t ask invasive personal questions and you wait to be invited before entering or taking something or whatever, you just fucking wait, is effectively dead.

In fact, I think everything falls apart from the word “invited.” It’s like no one listens for the clues anymore that imply invitation and reception to go to the next level, preferring to just jump forward, cordiality be damned.

Like when the little boy down the street saw that I had a Happy Meal toy in my car and asked me if he could have it. That would have been a guaranteed smackdown in my kidhood.

Like when people throw out inappropriate, backhanded compliments for lost weight, a new outfit or whatever. “You look really good now, did you lose weight?”

Like when a total stranger walks through every room in your house and says “Don’t worry about it,” when you try to explain your discomfort.

Like when a Craig’s List caller asks “Why can’t you meet him at 6 a.m.?” Remember when a simple “No, that doesn’t work for me,” was all that was required and no one ever asked for an explanation.

The same thing goes for any conversation where you don’t want to eat cake or drink alcohol or have any kind of dietary restriction in your head — “Why don’t you want a drink?” “What are you on a diet or something?” “What? You’re Jewish, since when?” “Are you sure? Just one won’t kill you.” The deal used to be an unadulterated “No, thank you,” and you were free and clear from further comment.

Interestingly, and maybe surprisingly to my somewhat elitist mindset, the guys fixing my bathroom (i.e. guys who work for a living) seem to be way more polite in that way my mother would insist.

They apologize for not knocking when they don’t know that I am home. They offer to get me coffee if someone is going out for it. They use magic words like “please,” “excuse me,” “sorry,” “thank you” and ask before using my broom or getting water from the sink. Maybe it’s a customer service thang, but it doesn’t seem stilted or fake.

And, unlike the Craig Listers, who mostly have a more educated demographic (as if that’s a meaningful assessment of anything about a person), none of them have commented on the appearance of my place or my person or gotten into anything personal without my offering of information.

A couple of times I’ve talked about real estate value or the work going on outside of my house or the fact that I had to join a gym to shower, and none of the guys so far (the carpenters, plumbers, tile guys) has pried or made assumptions. There has been the formal give and take of conversations among cordial strangers even as they are right smack in the middle of my world for days at a stretch.

Maybe M. is right and part of the problem is the New England educated elitist feelings of superiority. The people who just assume their behavior is correct, because they are comfortable.

Maybe it’s just fucking Craig’s List or any buying-selling equation, but I’m miffed at myself for allowing myself to be pushed around a bit.

Today’s episode involves my saying that I was selling a monitor, but I wouldn’t be providing a testing environment. It ain’t hooked up to anything and it’s in a room where it ain’t gonna be hooked up to anything.

I thought I had been clear. Take it or leave it or bring a laptop and hook it up yourself, if you need to see the screen.

The thing is when I described the not hooked up situation, I took into account the situation of my apartment (trashed beyond comprehension as I go through EVERYTHING and sort what’s leaving). More importantly, I took into account the work going on here — I don’t want to get in the way AT ALL of the guys fixing up my bathroom; I want my bathroom; I need my bathroom.

Dumb shit that I am, though, I caved to the requests of the nice man, and I let him move shit around, including my PC that broadcasts this network in which I can type onto the Internet. I allowed him all around the various rooms of my apartment, which I in truth had no intention of happening, if for no other reason than it makes me nutty to have someone surveying my currently fucked up state.

I hate myself when I go along with stuff that makes me uncomfortable. Especially, when it’s the result of a guy saying “Don’t worry” or it’s sister phrase, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”

What the fuck is it with men saying shit like “I’ll take care of everything?” Is that part of the conditioning to make it more likely that you can broadcast a bit more splooge and propigate the species?

I wasn’t actually concerned about the computer getting plugged in correctly again, after it was disassembled, if that was the “everything.” Who the fuck do you think put it (and the network and all other electronic equipment around the place) together in the first place? Yup, little, old, female me. Can you believe a chick could do such a thing?

Or maybe the “everything” was that you were comfortable with my clutter. But, you see, that’s all well and good, but I’m not comfortable. Me. Myself. Strangely, I like to be comfortable in my own house, and that sometimes means limiting people (especially total strangers) complete access to my abode.

On chatting I told the nice man this domain name, and maybe he will find this and determine I am an absolute bitch. I wouldn’t say absolute, though. It’s just that sometimes it’s hard to push back when someone keeps asking all friendly like to cross the internal boundaries we all maintain.

The good girl dilemma, say “no” and risk rudeness upfront or go along and sulk about it later. For fuck’s sake, why does it bug me and why do I worry that someone like the nice man may not think me nice?

I suspect it’s kind of a chick thing, but I wish I could be more affirmative in my use of the word “no.”

There’s a guy who wants to buy an airbrush from me, which I advertised on Craig’s List. He really wanted to come over some time yesterday between 6 a.m. and 11 a.m.

Three times he’s asked me if I’m sure I can’t make those times. So I heard myself explaining that I have no shower and no job and even if I were to get up early I would be unclean and unreceptive to visiting strangers. He assured me he didn’t mind if I hadn’t taken a shower, he could come by first thing in the morning.

The thing is, I mind. I fucking mind A LOT. NO, dickhead, I’m not getting up at dawn so you can get a bargain.

After days of my insisting that late afternoon was much better for me, and offering explanations I am not actually required to give, he called just now.

Could I meet him in an hour? NO (but I could do 2:30 or so)
OH, OK how about 1:30? NO
You know, it’s much easier for him to get to Alewife, so couldn’t I meet him there? NO

In exasperation, I told him that I wasn’t desparate for the money and if it was too much of a hassle for me, I would find another way to get rid of it.

We settled on 2 p.m. at the Starbucks in Central, but it’s looking like I might be a tad late.

Another guy answered a Craig’s list ad by telling (not asking) me to call him, because he had questions. He went on to tell me that he’s busy and may be in and out at the number he gave, so I should keep trying at half hour intervals.

Um, why would I fucking want to do that over a couple of bucks? And, just for politeness’ sake, why don’t you end a couple of sentences with the asking question mark, OK, Sport?

I’m trying to be upbeat about the old home improvements, but deep inside there is a voice having a total fucking meltdown panic attack.

On the outside of the house, the tearing off of the old siding for the front of the house commenced at 7 a.m. My bedroom is in the front of the house. When they tore down the side of the house, where I have one bedroom window it was jarring. This morning’s early start on the front where I have three bedroom windows was frightening.

They may has well have been in my room with me, smacking me with hammers. Not to mention the unease of seeing in a groggy, half asleep haze men’s heads appearing and disappearing at various heights above the pane, make that three different panes.

I also believe, but I can’t be sure, that the inside guys came in at about 8 a.m., discussed drywall briefly and left again. I hope it’s true, because that would be such a lackluster hallucination.

Progress on the bathroom has become glacial, thanks partially to city inspectors and, I sense, some communication among the teams. Not sure whether adding to holiday anxiety by having a contest on whether I get to hang some lights and holly on a new selection of porcelain fixtures was a swell idea.

Although, worst case scenario is I welcome M. home to a hotel, where he would likely enjoy playing with the TV and air conditioning. The obstacle is getting reservations on short notice or finding out sooner if my dream bathroom will miss the holidays.

Worry, worry, worry.

I think the other reason for the negativity expressed here of late — lack of sync with the West Coast.

When I go out a lot at night, it’s harder to have time to talk with M. I guess I must be used to our talking, because I kind of feel off when it doesn’t happen.

(I won’t mention my neurotic paranoia that when we don’t talk it’s because he’s secretly decided not to speak with me again, but he hasn’t found a way to communicate that (what with no speaking and all).)

I think among the reasons that my last post seemed a tad bitchy is that I have spent too many consecutive days among comedians.

I like my comedian friends, and I like many, if not most, of the people I have met through comedy. But, sometimes it’s just too fucking much. It’s like being locked in a room with kindergarteners vying for attention. Sometimes it’s fun and funny, sometimes there are quiet moments with normal conversations and sometimes it’s so loud and chaotic, an AK would be handy to thin the herd.

Still and all what I wrote before was true. I will never understand the dynamic at that one club.

My mood had also been blackened by yet another fucktarded conversation with a comic who believes himself more astute (and funny) than empiric evidence would demonstrate. It was a great wall of ignorance disguised as “opinion.”

The premise was all ‘blogs are like “A.” “A” is stupid. Therefore, all ‘blogs are stupid, which is why, he proudly declared, he has never read one and never will.

There is actually no reason for me to defend this pile of shite that I’m currently typing into, since it does not aspire to greatness. It serves essentially one purpose for me, forcing me to write in a public forum. Writing publically instead of in a notebook helps me to consider an actual audience, whose eyeballs may bleed and brains go numb at my boring prose.

I started and continue in a broader voice than my own, trying to develop the person I want to be on stage when I perform. And, writing is a craft. You have to keep doing it, just the mere act, to get better or good, just like any other craft.

So, I found myself cornered into this conversation, and all I was thinking during it is, “Jesus, I didn’t know you were such a colossal shithead.” Apart from further announcing his hatred of all writing on the Internet, the comic genuis also went on to say that he had never read mine, which he assumed was gone now. He also assumed that I, too, would hate all weblogs because of what happened with my work and that is why he was so sure that I had stopped mine.

I think the summation was something like, “Yeah, I mean, they all like suck, and like with you, you lost a job and stuff and now have nothing because ‘blogs are so stupid.”

I did explain that at least practicing writing and getting feedback from out in the world had value and that, in fact, I kept writing. Also that when you think about losing an office job, which had long before stopped being satisfying or enjoyable, because you were caught doing what you aspire to be, the assumption you now had nothing was quite a bit of a stretch.

Let me see, I could still be in the office, toiling away, or I could be writing. Hmmm, which of these things is completely, undeniably replaceable and expendable? Might it be the office fucking job?

Faced with reason and conviction, the very, very clever comedian’s comeback? “I hate Jews, too.”

Lame, fucking lame. I, of course, am lamer for having been a part of the conversation while knowing it was just an annoying path to nothing.