Snoring in the other room is the man in my life. He’s back from his work thang, replete with office-y, technology-esque, imprinted giveaways, like a courier bag and a desk clock, and a very respectable looking, blunt instrument feeling crystal trophy celebrating his sales-raking prowess. Good to have him back, even if it meant losing remote control.

The downside of the deep cleaning at the dentist, besides the “scaling” itself, was the burden of guilt. I take a painful, pointed sense of personal responsibility about the shit state of my teeth. Not enough to actually floss regularly or show up to the dentist since moving to Cali three years ago, but guilty nonetheless. As the cheerful, inquisitive and chatty hygienist dug away, I felt like the kind of imperious princess who shits on the floor knowing full well that the maid will clean it up.

I’ll probably try to floss well for weeks on the guilt fumes.

The high side of the broken teeth and gums that need help is I was so thorough in cleaning up work stuff at the end of the year and then again before vacation, I got shitloads of time. I’m coasting on my prior organization while waiting for the boss to get back to 120 percent after being on leave. As long as the daily stuff keeps moving it’s all peaceful like.

Tis got me thinking right after someone I know from Boston comedy had instant messaged some complaints about his customer service job with a major shipping company. Basically, the customer service treadmill had gotten him feeling pretty unloved.

It got me thinking about the flip in the customer service aspects of my job. I’m the public face that gets most of the cold calls from folks looking to raise some capital for our group. In other words, instead of wanting something from me that I’m supposed to give, or might have failed to give, or didn’t work out right, I’m answering the phone for people with a huge incentive, like six or seven zeroes worth of placeholders on a check, to be nice to me. So they are. Very.

Where a lot of public interaction gigs chip away at your self-esteem, like my friend from Boston who IM’d, mine kind of boosts my pathetic need for stroking support. They laugh at my jokes, they compliment my comprehension of our industry, they know the path through me could mean at minimum a meeting with people with authority to dole out the dough. We’re instant friends when I merely give a listening ear and promise nothing more.

Kind of brightens the workload a bit. It also makes it harder and harder to remember the way it was at my last bit of paid toil when a ringing phone meant current and future pain. The days can go by more slowly, though.

Finally, and maybe it’s related to my self-esteem, the best part of M.’s being back is, in addition to the nice things I could say about him, is he keeps one neurotic thought at bay. I was pretty much one night away from lying in bed waiting for the home invasion or other onslaught of ne’er-do-wells in my little existence.

The downside of living alone was always the free-floating anxiety associated with what if I am brought in harm’s way and no one hears me scream? Or what if I die right now and no one notices for days and days. At least with my current domestic arrangement, M. would probably notice if I disappeared.

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