kiwifruit's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- You don�t ever slow down�to find what you�ve lost; lose what you�ve found I�m tired, tired, tired. Spent the last four nights at the restaurant in my glamorous new position as hostess with the mostest. It is a lesson in humility. It is a lesson in grinning and bearing it. Last night I found myself in a tugging match between two old Greek men with too much wine (and pot bellies) under their belts. One was wearing possibly the worst toupee I�ve ever seen, not that I�m a seasoned expert on fake hair for men (or women for that matter), but this one was horrible. You�d think his wife, girlfriend, daughter or even his friends would tell him to let it go and embrace his baldness. But alas, no�Any-hoo, they were taking turns tugging me as close to them as possible and breathing boozy breath into my face as they asked me, paws everywhere, if I was Greek and if not, then I certainly looked it, and what was my name and blah, blah, blah. I was in this situation for at least five minutes�back and forth, back and forth like two kids fighting over their favorite stuffed animal. Ugh. And they didn�t even slip me a twenty spot for the joy of being their pull toy and maintaining my charm and grace. And the owner�s wife, the owner�s wife�the poor creature. She�s either piteously stupid or just a horrible human being. She talks to us as if we�re five years old in this nauseatingly fake tone that is so grating I want to smack her. She is obviously one of those women who married young and married rich. She teeters about in her Prada pumps and schmoozes with all the wealthy patrons when really she should be wearing Converse All Stars and dancing her ass off at some club on Ave. B. She constantly looks like a deer caught in headlights. It�s really painful to watch. If you could pick her up and wring her out like a sponge, the insincerity would drip from her bones until all that was left was a dishrag with a $300 haircut. And yes, there�s more in kiwi-land�the fun just never stops. On Wednesday night I met Patrick after work for a drink. Yeah, yeah, yeah�Dumb idea number 5,346, but who�s counting? That aside, it was fine we caught up on mutual old friends and discussed our relationship in the way that only people many years removed from it can. I walked into the bar to meet him and I was thinking to myself�I�m really over him. Completely. When I saw him he had on another stupid �I�m an artist� type outfit, he was stoned out of his mind�the usual. But I did feel a glint of recognition somewhere deep in my bowels (or maybe those were hunger pains?) I thought to myself, oh yeah, I can see why I was so ridiculously gone for this guy�sort of. But anyway, at the end of the night as I�m hailing a cab he hits me with the, �Come home with me� line. Honestly I was very surprised. Really. I was. No one believes me when I say that. So I look at him and ask him if he�s gone completely insane. He tells me that he has not. We get into a cab; I tell the driver �two stops� he tells the driver �one�. I tell him absolutely not. He begs me. Begs me for another chance and I look at him and ask how many chances he could possible want considering I�ve already given him two or three or so. It�s that thing again. The two sides to every story. The way he sees our breakup(s) and the way I see them are so completely different. Anyway, I slipped from the cab unscathed in heart and soul. He called me twice yesterday. Once to apologize for the overture and again to reminisce about the snowfall in New York. Many moons ago New York was hit by another huge snowstorm and Patrick and I gallivanted about the Lower East Side in mukluks enjoying the odd quiet, making snow angels in the middle of Broadway and taking pictures. Yes, I remember it. But I also remember other things. And now here I am again, broken hearted by someone so different from Patrick I can�t even begin to list the ways. Our capacity to go back again and again is astounding. Sooner or later we�ll get tired of it all right? And in other news�the serial dater stalks New York. The boss-man is in London emailing me to make dinner plans next week, I got a surprisingly amorous email from the male model and I went on a date with a fecking strawberry blonde last night after work. I don�t even like blondes. And the beautiful twenty-five year old hasn�t called me since I left for Vermont. I am slightly bothered by this, but really�maybe he�s smarter than I give him credit for. Dating me right now is the equivalent of getting on a plane that you know is going to crash. This morning, half asleep I feel a warm lump against my back and I roll over to throw an arm and a leg around C., but alas it�s just a pillow and my heart drops down to my toes. Oof. Tonight it�s the weekly wine n� bitch session with the girls at �our� wine bar. Of course with one girlfriend currently sleeping with the owner, and with me having slept with and then (apparently) having been ditched by his luscious 25-year-old friend, we may have to change our venue at some point in the very near future. Sigh. When, oh when, will we learn? La di da. La di da. 1:06 p.m. - 2002-12-06 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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