How was your day, Dan?

$

I am owed well over $1,500 by people I know.  I had no idea how much money I've loaned out, neglected to collect, not worried about...until now, when I overdrafted my bank account and racked up $200 in overdraft charges because I tried to use my check card to pay $5 for parking and $1.75 for lip balm.  But we'll talk about THAT another day, it's still not resolved.

I generally get paid back when I loan people money, so I don't worry about doing it; but in these times it seems everyone has a problem.  Meanwhile, these people have the same jobs they had before, so I don't understand where the money is going.  But it's not my place to question.

So I'm spending the day making calls, sending emails, asking politely but directly for what people need to give me; it's a terrible feeling, listening to the stuttering and the apologies, perhaps twinged with the regret that I didn't forget to ask for the money like they hoped.  Or I could be making that up in my head, but sometimes it must be true.

Suze Orman would kill me.

So creepy and sad: when asked about Michael's death, his dad Joe Jackson says it's "it's been really tough, remember we just lost the biggest star in the world"--but nothing about him being his son.

And of course he promotes his new record label. No wonder Michael was addicted to pills.  I feel bad for his kids, who now must live with this guy--and will undoubtedly get whored out as much as possible.  How long until the first photos of the kids are sold to People Magazine?

QUESTION

I am not going to type much because it hurts to move my fingers.  The reason?  My fingers are connected to my body, which is currently healing after my first session of Muay Thai kickboxing.  Holy smerge, we didn't lift a single weight and EVERYTHING on me is screaming.  Gravity is a formidable foe, yo.

In the absence of my significant other, who is currently away in the hopes of falling into the good graces of the United States once again someday so he may return, I have taken to righting the wrongs inevitably adopted during time in a relationship: calling forgotten/ignored friends, cleaning out closets, and losing that "nesting weight" that has congealed 'round my center core area.

So I bought cool new boxing gloves, yellow with red knuckle wraps, and I whaled on the bag for a while.  The most exciting part of kickboxing?  Whe you are the chunkiest tallest person in the class, the instructor uses you as a target to demonstrate.  He also takes great pleasure out of using you for target practice if you compare his class to Tae Bo, which apparently is a dirty word.

Although I will admit, some of my bruises are from when I tried to step out of the ring, and my foot caught the springy rope.  Splat.  My cool quotient went down considerably after that.

ANYWAY-

I need a good SLR camera.  Where do I buy one for cheap?  I don't have a thousand dollars.

(pronounced with a soft g, like "smurj.")

OMG

I forgot to deposit a check into my account, so when I used my check card I overdrew (is that a word) money.  I have six overdraft charges because I used my card for $1.75 at a parking meter, and $5 to pay for parking at the airport. 

But why did the bank continue to let me use the card when I was already overdrawn?  How do I get these charges removed?  It's seriously about $200 in fines.

GREENVILLE

I am stuck for the time being in Greenville, SC, due to weather delays at the home base.  Curses!  If only I still had that rental car in my grasp!   Me and the Ford Focus could have been zipping 'round this mighty metropolis, scooping up knicknacks from the various antique malls I spotted during my drive back.  Oh well.

Instead, I am at the airport cafe'.  And I am eating this:

OMG, people, this peach cobbler gives cause to just burst into tears.  It is so good.  SO good.  The crust is a little coconut-ish, and the vanilla bean ice cream was slow-melty deliciousness.  There were three scoops but in this pic there are only 1.5.  GET IN MY BELLY.

(sigh)

There's nothing else to do here.

EIGHT

The squares in the cement at the airport terminal entrance are in rows of eight.

I counted them while I was standing outside the door.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

T.L. had just walked away, 'round the corner to the security screening.  He didn't turn around, he walked pretty quickly; when he walks, he wiggles a little side to side.  Lugging his overstuffed backpack dampened the wiggle a little, but it was still there.

We had said our goodbyes outside the door, away from everyone else in the terminal.  Sometimes I don't care if people see me hug and kiss; sometimes my skin isn't thick enough.  This was a thin-skin day.  So we took it outside. 

He had packed a few days early, and left his giant suitcases sitting in the middle of the floor.  I didn't mind them, I expected seeing the suitcases.  We just walked around them.  I even bought a scale so we could weigh them to see if he packed them under the limit for the airline. (He didn't.)  But then later on that first day I went into the bathroom, and his shelf was clear, totally empty.  That shocked me.  It was a clamp right on my guts, ouch.

T.L.'s visa was up; he could have applied once again as a tourist, but there's no work here, in Florida or most places for that matter. I can support him, but I can't pay all his other bills he has to pay, sending money home to family and such.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.  One, two, three, four, five six seven eight.

We went to the airport early, and had an elegant breakfast of donuts and coffee.  We bought $28 worth of magazines for him to read.  And we sat on the chairs for about 30 minutes, not saying much of anything but with much in our heads.  "You always thinking thinking," he'd say.  Thinking thinking, too much thinking.

So the time came, and standing outside, with the big hug-and-kiss, and we just stood there for a moment.  And we said our byes and he left, and I just stood there for a while.  Walk back to the car alone?  Go home to the empty apartment?  No. So I stood there, blocking the door, and looked down.  And I counted the squares, over and over, it was interesting.  Eight.  I think I have some form of compulsion, counting things calms me down.  Light poles while I am driving, concrete squares on the ground when I am upset at the airport.

The luggage guys were very nice, they just walked around me and didn't ask me to move.  It never occurred to me I was in the way.  But then it was really tough, taking those first few steps down the sidewalk, towards my car.  I knew where I was parked but I wandered around for a little while.

It's not like I didn't know this was coming.  Months ago, I made peace with what would come. And I'm fine.  He'll come back someday, these things have a way of working out.  But it's going to be a long time.  There's not much to ease waiting the months, and months.

I have been in Palm Beach all weekend; Gorgeous is being cared for.  But I can't sleep in my bed.  Instead I went home, grabbed some clothes, and headed north.  Can't go home, yet. 

I woke up at 4 in the morning today because Gorgeous was laying on me and I was hot so I pushed her off and she got freaked out so she swiped at me and scratched my face but she didn't mean it she was just scared so I felt bad but it kept me awake and then I dozed off right before I was supposed to get out of bed so when I finally opened my eyes I was late so I had to rush around and I didn't get to eat my breakfast which left me spacey and confused and then when I was halfway to work I realized I left without those super-important papers that I was supposed to bring to work today but I was too late to turn around and go get them so I just kept driving and then when I got to work I missed my meeting so instead I went to eat eggs and a bagel down the street but the lady at the cash register short-changed me but I was irrationally upset over her keeping my 50 cents so instead of yelling at her and making a scene I just left and now I can't ever go back to that evil place because it is tinged with bad memories and when I was walking back to my office I looked down and realized my pants don't match my shirt.

What a crap day.

GIMME SUGAR

I wrote this article about Gimme Sugar, the new season of Logo's reality show about a group of hard-partying lesbians.

I haven't read this final incarnation—I get the heebie-jeebies when I read my own stuff—but I think it's pretty close to what I turned in. I had fun writing this one.

SAND IN MY SHOES

I had a couple hours to kill before going to an event—and I was bored after seeing "Up" by myself—and I remembered, Oh yeah, I live in Florida...so I pointed my car towards the east and drove until I saw ocean.

There is a sretch of tacky little motels along the beach in a town called Hollywood--between Miami and Fort Lauderdale, they named it "Hollywood" to envoke some of the glitz and glamour of its namesake in California.  But like its west coast brethren, the actual product is a crappy little strip of downtrodden-ness and despair.  Not glamorous. I lived in Hollywood when I was in LA, I loved the tragedy of it all, and I love it here too.

At the Hollywood beach, humble little motels line the oceanfront which I have always seen completely vacant but someone must stay in them.  They are painted orange and green, and other bright bright colors that bump up against the blue of the water, feigning a festive atmosphere even though the beds are probably lumpy and the walls are undoubtedly infested with mold.  Little shops line the road, selling the typical beach fare of sunblock and beers and soft serve ice cream.  The only major hotel is a Ramada.  How chic.  But all the people outside are smiling, just locals who know the sand here has less trash than where the tourists converge.

So I parked my car, no need to feed the meter as I've never seen them checked; and I walked along the sand, watching kids run around licking their lips with ice cream dribbled down their hands.  The tide was gentle, the waves were small and flopped onto the shore in short little bursts.  And I just wandered around, looking at people as they looked at me wondering why I was on the beach in jeans.  I ate an ice cream cone, very rapidly in the melting sun, and then meandered back to my car.  

I got sand in my shoes.  I didn't empty them out, I walked around the rest of the day with the sand in them to remind me of where I had been.  It was like walking on the beach all day.

NEW JERSEY

I need to discuss The Real Housewives of New Jersey.  Hopefully, dear reader, you watch the show, or you may be out of the loop here.

• First, this show is starting to drive me crazy—I can't figure out how much is staged and how much is legit.  With the New York cast, it was obvious the latest season finale was all scripted; when Jill started screaming at Bethenney about not being her friend because they didn't communicate on the merchandising display behind the bar at the party blabbity blabbity blah, clearly the producers said "We need a fight for our season finale, can you think of something?" and they cooked up this stupid scenario where no one's feelings would actually get hurt.  Fake.  Show's over.  Doesn't matter.

Buuuuuut, now we have Danielle coming on the show, and she is in a book written by a organized crime spy who tells a story about how she  (oopsie!) was arrested for KIDNAPPING and other blips of general lawlessness, yet she's claiming she was "in the wrong place at the wrong time" and she was roped into it.  And as she's telling her side of the story, claiming she had no idea what was going on with her then-boyfriend, obviously she's lying.  You can see it in her eyes.

The more she talks, and cries to her gay friend with no actual tears coming out of her eyes, she's making me wonder what the hell happened.  Does anyone out there know the story?  And did Dina really spread it around, or did the producers of the show decide to bring it in?  I need to read this book.  But I refuse to buy it, I feel like it's all a publicity stunt to sell some copies of the thing.

• I went to college in New Jersey, and half the girls in my dorm were just like Teresa: big smiling sticks of eyeliner on legs.  Totally fun.  Although I (extortion!) question how she got (husband's extortion!) an entire house filled with (husband is threatening people with extortion!) onyx floors. 

• If Caroline talks about "the family" one more time, which she obviously will, I'm putting her on mute. 

• On the subject of books: has anyone read this???