September 28, 2003

• Still packing in the fun before classes get underway.  Attended a dinner party last night at the house to welcome this Fall's initiates.   Got some major cuties, fairly smart and well-behaved, too.   They're planning on accepting four of the ten, then continuing to secretly haze the rejects so they get the hint and don't even dream of knocking at the door next time.  Nice.  

  
  

  Yeah, I've been rather down on my guy since we got back.   I used to think Brett was the sweetest, most mature boy I ever met, but, chalk it up to peer pressure or the jadedness of advancing age, he's been getting more and more into these sadistic games now that he's an upper classman.   Actually the heavy critical feeling's mutual; as soon as he heard about church (Ellie signed me up for her bible group's newsletter, which we received recently in the snail), he came out with this tedious heart-to-heart that our relationship's much too physical for our own good, and has been keeping me at arm's length lately as if I'm a little coke whore, a part I decided to play up to the max yesterday for the amusement of all.  Fine for the time being, but just wait until rush is over.   Then we'll see about the righteous Sir Gawain.  

  
  

  Oh, the washing machine's on the blink again and I had to dash over to Sayler's early this afternoon with the second of Donna's home-canned Anjou pear kuchens to butter the man up for a speedy repair.   I made my way through the decaying rock garden, each cactus reduced to a shriveled heap, to find our landlord slouched in an easy chair in the front parlour behind the deluxe black glass screen door like a mystery talk show guest.  Outside on the veranda was an assortment of broken, dirt-encrusted ceramic planters and potsherds as if someone had gone into a mad repotting frenzy and cracked each plant open.   However, there were no new or live plants to be seen.  And, except for an empty plate of steak bones on the sidetable and a few crumpled Coors cans, some fallen onto the soiled carpet, what little I could make out of the man and his surroundings was shrouded in a drifting cloud of thick cigar smoke and a pair of designer mirror sunglasses.  I hesitantly pleaded our case and was advised to come in and stand before him for a proper hearing.   The thick pall of stale grease and manurelike smoke made me want to retch.   To my chagrin, the delicious gourmet dessert was merely sniffed at, being that our landlord admitted to having recently gone on a diet.  But I was listened to silently and completely, my story accepted with a series of firm nods.  As Sayler stretched and stood up to escort me back out, promising he'd give Jackson a call first thing tomorrow, I could see what had drawn Chelle.  A tall man in snug, faded blue jeans and unbuttoned olive green work shirt, he was still relatively young, with lean legs, trim waist, and broad shoulders.  His short dark hair, combed back to hide his receding hair line, was only slightly threaded with grey.   I remarked on his weight loss, and he broke into a smile at the compliment.  Still, both of us probably thinking the subject was too womanish, we awkwardly exchanged goodbyes and I skipped away.  

  
  

  Not exactly the sort of dude to pass the time with,  but we certainly can't let the washer go and visit a laundrymat.  Not in L.A.  The beer commercials lend a clue:  you're either in danger of assault, someone empties the wrong machine and rips off your clothes, or some street person wants to rob the change machine and you're in the way.

  • 8:45 pm
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