2003-07-06

I feel like I should be wandering through Diaryland throwing air kisses and telling everyone they look good.

I should be sitting at the back with all the cool kids and snarking about all the other patrons.

But that would mean that I�m back with my frivolous attitude and flip comments, and I�m not really.

More and more I have been taking refuge in the �Sunroom�, one of those redwood and glass additions to the back of the house that ate up a lot of patio space and serves no useful purpose. They were very big in the �80s. The whole block was installing them. This one has radiant heating in the floor, of all things. That doesn�t work because it froze during a cold snap in �92. But I love the terracotta tile floor and the cream colored leather furniture. Also the small wetbar and minifridge tucked into the corner. This room has kind of been the dumping ground for all the myriad hobbies and projects taken up by the Greatest Generation in their retirement. The fruits of basket weaving classes and knitted afghans lie with watercolor scenes and model airplanes. The small bookshelf full of genealogy and family history that Sister and I would look at, amazed by our ancestors and the things they accomplished. My favorite still are the written histories that all the family members wrote. Sisters� and I with our childish handwriting sit in the binder next to those of Uncles, Great Aunts, and Cousins. This was the room where Sister and I played the most when we would visit as children, and the old credenza stuffed full of our board games and other toys always chokes me up a little. When I was 13 and visiting for the summer I used to do some really rude things with the Disney Color-forms. Ah, the adventures of Tinkerbell and the dwarves. I should pull them out, for old times sake. Mail some photos to sister. Mostly I just sit out there though. Not really reminiscing, not really doing anything. Ignoring the extra pounds that I�ve put on, or how I�ve let my life spiral out of control. All this history and change. It�s alienating my friends. The family is rife with concern. I�m sure an intervention is coming. Perhaps I�ll manufacture an addiction of some sort. Get two weeks at some new age facility in Napa and all will be well again. Everyone can feel better about themselves for nipping it in the bud and it will be a new beginning.

Except those 12 step programs annoy me. I was once coerced into attending a Shopaholics meeting by an ex. A rotund woman named Connie that just plain pissed me off led it. Connie couldn�t make a story interesting to save her life, and she threw in random brand names that just made them all the more pathetic. I thought the environment was supposed to be supportive, but an errant shoe comment led to some rather curt words. I like shoes okay! It�s not a crime. Or a fetish. Nor are being prepared and following styles. Damn right, I�m not admitting that I have a problem. You, ma�am in the blouse with the horrid vertical stripes and the clingy black skirt that does nothing but bad things for your hips have the problem, I�m thinking. You should really be next door at the Overeaters Anonymous meeting anyway. I do believe in a higher power, and his name is Ralph Lauren, now get off my fucking back. Really. It�s one of those things where every argument against comes off as defensive. Which sucks.

So, anyway, I�m bitter and bored and dissatisfied with my life and really can�t seem to shake out of the ennui enough to do something about it. Recent technical difficulties and myriad other things are not helping my mood much. Except to swing even more erratically. Maybe a trip to the desert. Or to the beach. Commune with nature. Or, better yet, with the urban landscape of which I am fond. Pack up my camera and make a documentary about street life. Because the irony would be amusing. Just wandering about observing, and catching it all on tape. To find out when people stop being polite, you know the rest.

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