I put the mouse in the little 2.5 gallon hospital tank on my desk. He doesn’t like it in there. He’s very tiny and not very coordinated yet. I hope he doesn’t have a disease. I’m watching him groom himself right now. He licks his little hands and then washes his face with them. Cute! What’s a good name for a mouse? Sid Vicious? Christopher Little?
I decided that if I ever see Chopin again, I’m going to tell him off, the same way that I told off Seth. Somebody needs to do it. Deciding what I am going to say to him cheered me up considerably. I wish that I knew him better so that I could go straight for the heart when I do it, but on the other hand, knowing him better would necessitate…knowing him better.
I went to two AA meetings yesterday, which helped me to feel better. I guess I was also sad about having to surrender the dog (I was fostering a Saluki for a rescue group until its new family passed the home inspection). I knew that I couldn’t keep her–my life just isn’t suitable for dog ownership right now, and she was waaaay too interested in my birds–but I still grew quite fond of her, and it was nice to have something to hug.
I was talking to one of my girlfriends about being lonely.
“Let me ask you something,” she said. “Why didn’t you press charges against the Surgeon?”
“The DA will never take the case, and he’s so powerful that if he turns on me he’ll make my life hell. I have no money to fight him. I’m defenseless.”
“You still could have gotten him arrested. That would make it real for him in a hurry.”
But she doesn’t know about my secret job, and she doesn’t know that that’s how I met the Surgeon. And if some of it comes out, all of it comes out. The Surgeon has made problems “go away” before–money and lawyers, money and lawyers–but he would not be able to contain this. The story is too lurid, and he has a lot of enemies who would be delighted to lambaste him in the press. Nobody would care about me because I’m not important, but they would care about him enough to dig up the dirt on me. The Surgeon’s five-year relationship with the grad student dominatrix. The Post runs it along with the sex-ay photos from my ad and a few incriminating lines from my ad copy (along with the photo from my school website). My dungeon fires me (which would probably be good for me) and then I get fucking helicopter parents calling my school and tutoring center and complaining that they don’t want someone like me teaching their kids, never mind the fact that their kids are legally adults and I am a damn fine instructor.
I would be completely, irrevocably, totally fucked. If I wanted to teach again, I’d have to leave New York.
No wonder I’m depressed! I’ve been sitting on this IED for over a month! That asshole, with his flowers and his baby card! And why does he get to do whatever he wants in the world, and I’m the one who has to pay the consequences?
“Let me put it this way,” said my girl friend. “If it was your restraining-order ex, John, who made the house call, and not the Surgeon, would you have gone to the police?”
“Oh hell yes!” I would have been there ten minutes after he walked out the door. I live just down the street from my local precinct. I hate John. I pay good money twice a year to see where he lives. I feel safe as long as he’s on the other side of the country. He was so awful that I haven’t been able to bring myself to write about him on this blog, but here, I’ll give you a hint as to how nefarious he was: I really thought he was going to kill me when I left him, and when he was stalking me, he’d do scary shit like break into my apartment and move the art around on the walls, or leave the salt and pepper shakers in the bathroom. What was I going to do? Call the police and say the pictures are rearranged? And when the restraining order ran out, he emailed me five minutes after midnight! Five minutes! He was sitting at his computer, waiting! When I took him to court, he insisted on taking my stupid little futon. The guy had just inherited two million dollars and an enormous condo full of his father’s excellent furniture, and he wanted my futon. Know why he wanted it? So that I wouldn’t have anything to sleep on.
But I digress.
“Then why not the Surgeon? You’d have John arrested, but not the Surgeon?”
I couldn’t tell her the truth about my secret job and this idiotic Mexican standoff.
“You don’t do it because if you did, it would be over for good. You don’t want to burn the bridge. He was the love of your life and you won’t let go. That’s why you’re not dating anyone, too. You’re mourning. I’ve never known you to go this long without casually dating a few guys. You used to be the biggest player I knew! You used to have five guys in rotation!”
“I feel unattractive!” I yelled, defensive.
“Then fix it!”
“My career is stalled and I’m an alcoholic and a serial relapser!”
“Oh please! You and half the other people in this city! That’s it! We’re going out Monday night! Go get your nails done. You need to get laid. You need to get laid by a harmless idiot. A big, stupid idiot. An idiot in his 20s. The opposite of the Surgeon. You need someone you normally wouldn’t give the time of day to. I’ll pick him out for you.”
I groaned. This friend…well, we like totally different types of guys. I like intellectuals. She likes…well, I hate to say it, but she likes meatheads. The type of meathead who wears tank tops to bars and hair product. When I met her boyfriend, he was wearing an Ed Hardy shirt.
“We’re going to get our nails done and then we’re going out Monday night after work and you are going to get laid,” she said.
I winced. “I haven’t picked up a guy in a bar since…well, since I stopped drinking.”
It’s true. I haven’t had a one-night stand since I (mostly) dried out. Abduction weekend doesn’t really count.
“Time to get back into the swing of things!” she said.
“But I have to teach Tuesday morning,” I said.
“What are you, some old lady? I’ll be there at 7 to help you pick out the dress. Do you hair nice and wear it down!”
So…I’m going out tonight. Margaritas (non-alcoholic) at some meat market I’ve never heard of. As long as nobody expects me to dance, I’ll be fine.
This is the dress I am going to wear. Guys like white for some reason. I bought this dress a while ago and haven’t worn it out yet. This and red patent-leather pumps. Should be a hit. Especially since I can’t wear a bra with it.
Wish me luck. I’m a bit rusty. And I need to remember not to mention how long I was in school. Education is kryptonite to meatheads.
Ha! I need to find a musclebound retard with tattoos and plastic wrap-around shades and get my picture taken with him and send it to the Surgeon, claiming that he’s my new boyfriend. The Surgeon would have a rage-stroke!
I’m so lonely that it’s killing me. Even Parrot can’t cheer me up.
I haven’t seen a mouse in many days, but today there was a little one in the bathroom. It is tiny; the size of a quarter. Maybe a nickle. It’s a baby.
I captured it in a coffee cup and put it in the pitcher I use to water houseplants. I’m going to keep it. I had to give back the Saluki, because I was only holding her for her new family.