This weekend was frustrating. It wasn't solely for one reason or another--it never is--but more about the accumulation of tiny gnat-like irritants that turned into the beehive swarm of malaise I am currently feeling.
I think it all started with the chocolate festival. For all intents and purposes, the SF Chocolate Salon should have been a blast for me: a wall-to-wall symposium for all things cacao-derived, artisanal and hand-crafted. But it was just way too super-crowded to really get a grasp of choco-heaven, much less to sample enough for the choco-coma I was hoping to self-induce. And they ran out of wine by the time I arrived so...
But I figured it was fine--it just meant I had a few hours to kill so maybe I'd catch up with old friends over a couple drinks before Thespian was to meet me for dinner at swanky, old-school steakhouse, Alfred's. Well, anyway, in spite of old friends' flaking, the dinner was swell and a lot of fun--although we might've gotten a bit wasted on those martinis. And that bottle of wine. Didn't we have an aperitif, too? Yeah...
Anywho, the next day we were quite hung, which meant no SEX for me and you know how bratty I can be about that, and Thespian kept trying to bond with his dog, which I totally understand but um...then we had a dinner party to attend and it was nice, but some friends arrived late and Thespian gave them a hard time but was generally hilarious so it went unnoticed, except for the friend who called me the next day--while I was working on more tedious drivel, and a fuckuvalot of it--and had to complain about the ribbing he got from My Man. Henceforth, the subsequent phone call to my man, who was sympathetic and apologetic and cool, until the fucking raucous barking in the background commenced by the fucking little dogs that belonged to the girl who occasionally cleans and does errands for Thespian, who--uh, yeah--used to sleep with her. Although I do know it was a very long time ago and that there is absolutely nothing going on between them now (this I know, trust me) and that he is a wonderful, brilliant man, he does need help doing mundane domestic things, and he enjoys helping out people he's known for a long time--I just wish it wasn't her.
And so I'm at work and it's tedious and I am grateful to have the job, truly, but then I read this fucking NY Times story about this fabulous group of beautiful young talented screenwriting women who have a "Fempire" and Hollywood in the palm of their hands (along with iPhones and each other's purses), and it's actually very inspiring and great but leaves me a bit wistful and wanting and wondering what the hell I'm gonna do next to, you know, get me there.
And I know I have to call the friend back and try to smooth things out but I also think he's being kind of a hypocrit and it pisses me off but I don't want to be petty (out loud, anyway). And the creditors keep calling until I finally turn off the phone. And so then I went straight home and turned up the gay-disco radio station LOUD and cleaned my bathroom and then I lit some candles, shut the curtains, turned off the radio, grabbed The Diary of Anais Nin (always my comfort-lit pick) and opened to this passage:
"I want to live only for ecstasy. Small doses, moderate loves, all half-shades, leave me cold. I like extravagance. Letters which give the postman a stiff back to carry, books which overflow from their covers, sexuality which bursts the thermometers..."
and this:
"Whether because I am a Latin, or because I am a neurotic, I have a need of gestures. I am myself expressive, demonstrative; every feeling I have takes on expression: words, gestures, signs, letters, articulateness or action. I need this in others.
But Allendy says the need of gestures, of proofs of friendship, love, devotion, comes from lack of confidence. I should not need them. I should be able to dispense with them.
Proofs of love and friendship are what I give to others all the time. And everyone seems to need them."
**
Sigh. I really want to be evolved, enlightened and compassionate... but sometimes it's just so exhausting.
And the darkness, so delicious...
