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( Sunday, Oct. 19, 2003 7:42 pm )

>We need to talk

La la, how's it going? This weekend I did not get to go to NY as I was hoping (in order to see my two ladies, Ruby and Kelly, not to see the horrible horrible Yankees, of course), but instead spent FOUR nights in a row at Call's. That is insane. Now I am home, which is good, because there is food and shampoo here, and I needed to clean my room and take the air conditioner out of the window, but I am lonely and cursed with groundless Sunday Night Depression. I may have eaten three Tasty Kake pies in a row. It happens. Also, I love Call and I don't think he loves me. I am reluctant to confirm this with him. It happens.

This morning the opera singer who lives somewhere in the vicinity of Call's bedroom window and likes to practice during weekend morning hours switched his repetoire from interminable scales to Christmas carols, and inexplicably had acquired a piano. I've wanted to smother him on other mornings, but now more than ever I wished violence upon him. Hey there, piano man, shut your songhole.

Thursday night the Red Sox lost, but Call had thought ahead and purchased large quantities of alcohol both celebratory ($5 champagne) and consolatory (Wild Turkey). His post-game depression was both heartbreaking and deeply adorable. He believes in the curse, but he was recovered enough from the trauma by Saturday night, when he was at Jelly Boy's birthday party with me, shouting drunkenly about his fanship with the other sporty boys. I was pleased to see him his usual socialable self after the Juney birthday debacle, and mature enough to merely wish ill upon the Yankees.

I should stop harping on Call, I should, I know. But there's nothing else: Philly is OK, work is OK, reading and seeing movies are OK, I am somewhat useless and homesick, I still love June, we haven't caught any more mice or cockroaches. Meanwhile: I recall that every time I have tried to say something sweet and complimentary to him, he freezes up for a second like I'm putting him in an uncomfortable position. And he doesn't say sweet things to me. But he IS sweet. It pains me, it does.

Still no firm idea for NaNo. Neither Halloween. Did I tell you Juney and I were going to be the Olson Twins, but she backed out on me? Damn her. Call seems to want to be something collectively with me, though not the Olsons.

Postscript: I can't believe I forgot to tell you that I finally got to see Scmitty's television debut. I was almost going to miss it again but Juney in the nick of time had Matt tape it for me. And thank goodness. I called her up from Call's and she told me she had seen part of it on TV, had seen the Schmitty with her own eyes. "He looked about 12!" she cried. "I know!" I screamed in return, very happy to hear that he could be 30 and still look like a schoolboy. Actually I think we may have had that conversation in our kitchen, with Call merely steps away in the living room. And Juney wanted the three of us to watch the tape. Nooooo. The mental dissonance would have killed me. Plus, Call and Schmitty do not look dissimilar.

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