beulahbondo's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- It's all too much Yesterday was a day I should have stayed inside. The noise pollution, the kind that I'm severely allergic to, was just awful. So was the itchy sweater and the glary sun. First stop: crowded coffee shop. The only available place for me to sit was directly in line with the loud voice of the crazily talkative guy who had glommed onto the passive ponytailed guy he was sharing couch with. Talkative guy, who was divorced, wearing shorts ("shotz") and a t-shirt, could not stop talking about tv, and how he was trying to cut back on it, but he just had to watch NASCAR (and honestly, if he had a been a quiet fan of the latter I wouldn't have cared), and all kinds of pseudo-philosophical BS that had no doubt occured to him post-divorce and mid-therapy (2x a week, apparently). Oh, jeebus, everything about him was so loud and aggressive, and he just wouldn't stop. As my mom used to say, with a sigh, "and they say women talk too much." Second: the drive to work, this on a Saturday. There was too much traffic, and too much sun glaring in on me, low and harsh. I can't believe I was bitching out the sun, but yeah. Third: at work. I had been asked to come in to make sure that the slide show for my boss's talk at the alumni retreat was working, so I had my laptop, and an extra copy of the CD, and etc., and when I got there, he told me that it was all set up and I hadn't needed to bring it. Okey doke. So I've just cut my Saturday in half, and I'm wearing work clothes (aforementioned itchy sweater) for nothing. Fourth: Another overly talkative male person. So I sat in on the alumni panel, which had some interesting people on it for sure: the creator of a massively popular sitcom that I did not watch in the 90s; the director of a museum of contemporary art in New York City; an arts policy guy; a jazz guy; a nice sculptor. But sitting next to me was some crazed guy from the class of '62 who would NOT stop with the quips and comments all during the discussion. "Joe Lieberman is my brother's best friend," or "I'll tell you who changed the world. One word: The Beatles." And he was all leaning toward me with his arm on the armrest, and I'm leaning as far away as I can, and so uncomfortable. So he's alternating quips and comments with noisy sighs and looking at his watch, and loudly biting his nails. At 4 pm, half an hour before the end of the panel, he says, "I've got to go. Can I write to you?" I just shake my head in a way that I hope is neutral yet polite. Fifth: I stick around to tell my boss that he did a good job, which he did, although I thought (mean, ungrateful bitch that I am) he did get a little bit grand in his summing-up, but that's because he's a lot better at urging people to support the arts than I am. And I tell him that a crazy member of the class of '62 tried to hit on me, and he gets all jokey and "C'mon Beulah, he might have been a major potential donor, aren't you ready to go the extra mile," and I am just not playing along. 10:42 p.m. - 2006-10-22 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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