General awkwardness in the workplace, as a result of some vague creepiness that I won't discuss now, because, you know, they can see everything. I'm doing a little consulting for this massive think tank -- part of my new interest in classic, full-time work, as opposed to my blithe free-lancing bull-shittingness this year -- & somebody's relative was clingy and strange, and I was uncomfortable, and mentioned it to everyone over the weekend, and then I suspect that my mother, who has still never got over her drugged-out betrayal of me as a child (see last entry, perhaps? or the one before that?) called up some CEO or something and complained. What a ridiculous thing to do, huh? No more ridiculous than jumping into the sea, I suppose. But I'm thirty-one, and quite capable of taking care of myself. Almost, I reminded her last night over the phone, as old as Jesus. My mother laughed a short, barky, embarrassed laugh and said that I was no Jesus. I said we could agree to disagree, hung up, and FINALLY did my taxes. O lord. I am in such enormous trouble with the IRS.

Was telling IR about it and she said, drawing deeply on her little inhaler, "I thought you were the type that could handle sexual harassment." IR delights in sexual harassment unless she is feeling like a feminist and wants to kick the ass of the establishment. I explained that I don't mind the ordinary kind: insinuations, dirty jokes, lingering hugs, rude remarks. I can shoot back with the best of them, turn on my heel, and split. But I hate weird awkward longing or bungled friendliness or anything open to interpretation that leaves me feeling cruel or tired or trapped or strange.

Had to travel halfway across town last night on a subterranean train to pick up a tweedy charcoal-colored suit and a mommish rose-pink shantung jacket (long, with shoulder pads; wore it to a wedding in May; looked vaguely slutty and plump underneath in sausageskin shocking pink skirt and camisole; danced clumsily with groomsman; was mocked because I had a hangover and had behaved disgracefully over the telephone the night before.) Had to pick up jacket and suit from dreadful little aesthete from whom I had once (before I moved into the new place, after things fell apart habitation-wise with the MB) sublet a room. Little aesthete had spent the summer in Italy, suit & jacket hanging limp and wilty in his closet like a pair of bruised and unfortunate petals. He came back with a tendency to wear only charcoal-gray pinstriped trousers or jackets or polo shirts and fabulous shoes made of the supplest possible milano leathers. This tendency did not go unreported by the man himself. "I love shoes," he said. "If you see a woman and she's dressed really beautifully but then she's wearing a pair of cheap shoes, it just ruins everything. I think a pair of great shoes can really make an outfit." He also reported that in Italy he was often "sweating like a pig." On this visit, he ushered me into the dingy, open-plan apartment he shares with a couple of other little aesthetes and, as I swept out crushing my garments to my decidedly unfevered breast, he indicated a shoe rack by the door. "I love shoes," he announced, running a hand along the length of one smooth, russetty-looking leather man-pump (not a penis, I just don't know the terminology for men's shoes) with a cunning little side-buckle, possibly murmuring, "my babies .. ." I reminded him that I knew all about it. My own shoes were dull in comparison, of course: garnet-colored alligator loafers. He then remarked that it had been so hot lately that he'd been "sweating like a pig." I sighed. That morning, on the telephone: "man, I've been moving stuff all day. I'm sweating like a pig." I smiled graciously and made my exit, promising to be in touch. I love it when both people pretend things like that. If he never saw me again, he'd be perfectly happy, & I would be perfectly thrilled.

But the neighborhood was interesting and run-down: one of those formerly-elegant neighborhoods full of prewar brownstones covered with winding, desperate roses and robust, desperate graffiti. The sidewalks seemed especially bare and pale and oddly golden in the hazy light that filtered through the clouds, and the road sparkled with broken bottles and small tendrils of green, and there were glassy-eyed, interesting children with moist skin walking around everywhere, and stores that sold dirty newspapers. I wanted to live in that neighborhood, but no one would let me. But I did manage to flirt weakly with a couple of young, solid thugs with devilish white smiles. Oh yes, my dear. Oh yes.

AND I came up with an idea for a new project. A magazine called "bluestocking." It would be a fashion/lifestyle/literary magazine for literary ladies, and it would be 30% sincere. Though in saying that, I don't know how sincere I'm being. But I walked home wrapped in a deep robe of warm, shimmering bliss. Please contribute ideas, advice, encouragement. I bless you all.

things I like today: starbucks tazoberry blended w/ creme. pronounced creem. even though sometimes there's a grave. idiots.