The Hub of the Worlds has been too quiet the last couple of days, and I decided to revisit the mansion. I by-passed all the doors on the first floor and went upstairs. None of those doors looked appealing either. The third floor was the same way. But the attic door seem to whisper my name. I could see a bit of sunlight streaming under. So I tried the handle and it opened smoothly, unlike most attic doors. There seem to be lingering dust particles in the room, but one small window let the light in.
I was standing in the old library for the Hub. The sweet pungent musk of the older books drew me to the shelves lining the wall. Most of the books had been read so much that the bindings were cracked and faded. I love looking at books standing in shelves. Some are straight, some at an angle. Others are too large to stand, so consequently they lie flat.
Walking around the room, I let my fingertips trail softly over the bindings and stir up more dust and dislodge plenty of spider webs.
Then I saw it. One lone new book. I stared at it. Bright red leather cover. Looking around, I expect to see a librarian putting new books among the old. Yet I am the only one in the room, and this is the only new book on the shelves. I reach up and lightly pull it out with my fingertip until there is enough exposed so I can pull it off the shelf. I open it and do what I always do - check the copyright date. Nothing on the page. Book in hand, I go to the lone overstuffed chair and ottoman sitting with faded floral upholstery, directly in the path of the window's spotlight.
I take possession of the chair and wiggle around to get comfortable. Then I begin to the read the book I selected. It is titled The New Human Family - An Experiment in Alternative Family Life. Sounds boring but I am going to give it a few pages of attention, at least. Little did I know that the characters would come to life for me. Their own words and feelings seem to radiate from the pages making actual reading unnecessary.
April 10th, 2003, 10:12 AM
Sitting in a head doctor's waiting room is just about the most boring activity known to mankind. The magazines are 2 years out of date and the receptionist is a dried up old biddy who hasn't smiled since Kennedy was assassinated.
Of course, it isn't all bad. Woman sitting with me in the room looks pleasant enough. Has her head buried in an ancient Time magazine though. Nice little self defense manuever, there.
49 years and still no decent ice-breakers. A man ought to learn some social skills in 49 years, shouldn't he? Unless, of course, the man is Thomas August. Then, that man, will have spent 49 years being as disagreeable as it is possible to be. Which argues strongly against learning how to introduce one's self to a woman.
Which is the state I find myself in.
Which is a ceaseless interior argument that I have never resolved.
You'd think Wharton would have insisted on a class in social amenities. Finest business school in the world but it turns out social mistfits like myself.
Next year, I'm going to start reading a couple of self-help books, try to teach myself a few social graces. Then, when I am sitting waiting for a man whose time is obviously more precious than his client's, I'll be able to interrupt a woman's reading with skill and aplomb.
Put that down for next year's calendar.
April 10th, 2003, 10:35 AM
I wish that man would stop looking at me. I'm already nervous enough with out him looking at me. What am I saying? He's kinda cute. Kinda? If only I had met him 19 years ago, I wouldn't be here, that's for damned sure.
But noooooooooooooooo....I, Diane Evrett, had to do it My Way - which ain't as easy as the song would imply! And I think back to what started this fine mess to begin with. The reason I am sitting in a psychologist's office at 49 years of age? Oh yeah, I remember - the 30th birthday mood.
"Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me" Today, I hit the big 3 - 0! Feeling sorry for myself. Why? Oh yeah. I was 30, still single, have a great job though! Making more money than I ever dreamed of making - more than any of my brothers. My parents would be proud if they were still living. I have more letters after my name than any of my friends. Ain't I special!
But I am not satisfied. Nope, not me. I want what all my girlfriends have! Well, not their husbands, for damned sure. Losers all of them. No, I want the loving husband, 3 kids, 2 dogs, a dirty house and laundry to bitch about. That's my dream. Hearing the kids argue and the hubbie's door slamming, announcing he is home and ready for dinner. I can even envision the house and furnishings.
Why doesn't anyone ever ask me out? I'm healthy, not beautiful but I am cute! Nice figure and I work out and stay fit. I'm well educated and everyone laughs at my jokes at work. But no one ever asks me out. Where is he, the one who was made for me? One thing I know for sure - he isn't here with me.
To celebrate my birthday, I am going to put away the wine and eat a half gallon of Breyers Coffee Ice Cream. Yeah, that should make me feel better. Chocolate syrup drizzled across the top would make me feel even better!
April 10th, 2003, 11:15 AM
Couting to ten doesn't help. Time still drags.
She's still hiding behind Time. Makes a nice description, doesn't it? Behind the Times.
And the doctor is still in, in hiding.
Okay, you were 30 years old, independently wealthy and beginning to see that the August family line was an endangered species. Could have a hired a woman to do the necessities but, even as a business proposition, couldn't work something that felt ethical to me.
So, see the ad and off you go. Little old sperm donor, me. With a difference, though. If all the parties agree, then after age 18, I can get to know the offspring.
Well, it's after age 18, and I'm ready to get to know the offspring but there is this technical little glitch. All parties have to be certified as competent to handle the meeting. So, here I sit, awaiting certification. I will be a fully certified nut, papers and all to prove it.
Counting still doesn't help.
What a memory. Day of the deed. Nurse issues all the necessary equipment: cup with lid; magazines; tissues available in the stall.
In the stall for god's sakes. Medical efficiency is a wonderful thing and these people have no sense of romance whatsoever. She escorts me to the men's room door, pats me on the shoulder, says: "there's nothing to it." Oh, yeah, every person in the office watches me marched to the door, get my shoulder patted, and there's nothing to it.
Ever tried to perform sitting in a stall? I mean I grew up normal. There's no mystery as to how to do this. It's just that certain parts of the equipment are not getting into the spirit of this thing. It just lays there ignoring every attention I pay. Worse than some women I've met.
Look at the magazines and nothing interests me. Magazines usually get my attention even when I know there is more air brush than reality. This day, nothing. Zilch. Nothing.
Now, I can either go back out there and admit that I failed to perform my duty or I can sit here for another couple of hours while they all wonder what the hell I'm doing.
Oh, please. Oh, please perform.
It didn't happen. Not that day. But they let me take the cup with the lid home with strict instructions to rush it back. Take too long and the sperm die. Get the wrong temperature and the sperm die. If the damned things are so vulnerable; how do women ever get pregnant to start with?
Next morning I accomplished the mission. Got the seed delivered; they confirmed viability; and I became a proud poppa of someone I may to get to meet pretty soon.
April 10th, 2003, 11:51 AM
I wonder why he is fidgeting so much? I can see the sweaty mist on his face from here. Loosened his tie 3 times already. His feet can't stay still. I wonder if he knows that tie doesn't go well with that shirt? If he was my husband, I wouldn't let him leave the house wearing that.
Nice eyes though. Lips are sensual. Wonder how he kisses? Why don't I march over there, sweep him into my arms and say "Hello Fidgeter! I'm Ms. Do It My Way" and then kiss him. Oh yeah, smooth move. Just as well have "LOSER" tattooed on my forehead.
Where are the damned doctors in this building? OH DAMN! He just got up and started pacing and what an ass. WHEW! Nice butt, mister.
April 10th, 2003, 12:53 PM
Okay, so sitting and fidgeting is uncool. You know that. You know you should have better control of yourself. Interviews one-oh-one, rule 1: don't fidget.
So, I'll just get up and walk around this waiting room; look at the certificates hanging around; get a look down her front, little things, unnoticable things.
Still got Time strategically placed so there is not seeing the eyes. What are the odds? Green? Could they be green? Always liked green eyes.
Far side of the room, the legs are just fine. Don't like the shoes, no style, just efficient.
Hair is rather sever. You don't suppose she's one of
those , do you?
No rings; that's a sign.
Still walking back and forth; get to the doo; turn her direction.
Oh my! Oh, my. That is an impressive display!
Keep walking. Turn and add it up.
Adds up to pleasant.
April 10th, 2003, 01:15 PM
I think he's a nut. Well dressed nut though. Nice Italian loafers, sharp crease down each pants's leg, starched and ironed Oxford business shirt with a terrible tie. He must be colored blind if he doesn't noticed the tie clashes with the shirt! But he has his monogram on the cuff of the long sleeve dress shirt. Looks like "TO" no wait "TA". Nice bulge in the crotch. I could live with that.
Oh god, he's looking at me again. He must think I'm the nut if I'm sitting in this waiting room. Get a grip! Millions of people see phsycologists. Nothing shameful in that. Very nice bulge in the slacks though. More like very nice bulge. Do all women stare at strange men's crotches? Or is just me? Gotta remember to ask my coworkers when I get back to Atlanta. This should be the last time I ever come to Phoenix, Arizona, where it all began. Just two weeks of daily sessions, and I'm out of here. It will be up to my daughter and her biological father. I will be out of the loop. Finally.
Why am I saddened by that thought?
I wonder if the doctor will introduce everyone or will I have to do it? I can see it now - clear as day: "Daughter, this is your biological father. Biological Father, this is your Daughter."
April 10th, 2003, 01:28 PM
Okay, she checked me out. That's a sign, isn't it? 30 minutes waiting. I do not need to be kept waiting 30 minutes; no doctor is that good.
Over to receptionist: "Ma'am, you tell the good doctor that when he has some time on his schedule and we have some time on ours; we'll get back to him.
"Now, ma'am, you're ging to hurt yourself if you keep scrinching your eyes like that and I, personally, am immune to wickd witch of the east curses. So, tell him I said to have his people get in touch with our people and they can work something out."
She's listened, aghast at what I'm doing. The disbelief permeates her body. Only one way to do this.
"Would you care for some lunch?"
April 10th, 2003, 01:44 PM
OHMYGAWD OHMYGAWD OHMYGAWD. I can't believe I'm laughing out loud at him calling the nurse the wicked witch. That's exactly what I thought of when I signed in.
OHMYGAWD OHMYGAWD OHMYGAWD. I can't believe he just asked me for lunch. Too weird. "Yes, thanks." I can't believe I am just going to walk out of a doctor's office and go off with a nut! Look at that, he opened the door for me. Jeeze! Nice manners and a very nice crotch bulge in the same man. This is heaven. Now if he just pays for lunch, I think I'll be in love. Already in lust but hey, first things first.
But if he asks me what I am doing there, I'm not telling him about my daughter. Most men find out I have an 18 year old daughter and they are gone in less than a heart beat. Nope, I'll just tell him some work angst. Yeah, that's believable.
April 10th, 2003, 02:12 PM
Get out of the building, my car is in front, so I walk around to open the passenger door. She stands there looking at me as if I'm insane.
Quick review of ettiquette 101. Rule 333, Man opens doors for women. Thought I knew that one.
"Where are we going she asks?"
"Durant's" I respond immediately.
"Where's it at?"
Someone in Phoenix who does not know where Durant's is? Something not right here.
"Central and Virginia."
She says okay as if she knows where that is but I have this feeling she is heading for a map. Slam car door and walk around to driver's side.
"Would you care to follow me? Where's your car?"
"In the parking lot," she says, "and, yes, I'd like to follow you."
So, I get in. You must picture this. "84 Corvette. Slung nice and low to the ground. I'm 49 and not slung nice and low to the ground. There is no way to gracefully enter an "84 Corvette. It cannot be done, even by a contortionist. So, I make this fall-over-the-seat entrance while she's watching.
It could be time to drop back ten and punt, a classic football ploy for turning the advantage to the other side, for throwing in the towel, for getting your ass out of a bad situation.
She turns and sashays to the parking lot and let me tell you she can sash her shay.
So, I decide to not punt just yet.