Synchronicity

This is getting to be a familiar comment.

Someone also pointed out that my index for August 1996 was all screwed up, so I had to go through all of my entries to create a new one. Of course, I started reading all the entries, and I think I did write a lot differently, or at least I had a lot more going on.

I can't believe I moved to Los Angeles one year ago. An entire year. It's not home yet.

I also noticed in several entries I was taking long, coma-like naps. I note this only because today I took a 3-hour nap that resembled a coma in many, many ways, except for the attainment of psychic powers.

Of course, today's nap may have been brought on by last night. Warning: gratuitous self-exhibition ahead.

Last night I got together with a couple of other sheilas from the program, including Jackie, the one from New Zealand who's gotten us all saying "sheilas." Jackie, Kathleen, Linda and I met at the Ye Olde King's Pub in Santa Monica, a pub and restaurant place that's a major magnet for all of the British/Australian/other-funny-English-speaking-accents in the area. Two dart boards, lots of beer, and a giant King of Hearts card on the men's room and a Queen of Hearts card on the women's.

I had three beers, all of them McEwan's. I've never had McEwan's before; clearly I thought it was pretty tasty. Linda must have had 4 glasses of wine, but as she puts it, she's French, so she can handle it.

We discussed screenplays, each other's mainly. I had read Linda's and Jackie's -- one of Jackie's rocks and I think has immense potential. I just got Kathleen's last night. We discussed other people in the program, notably Bernice, the one who annoys everyone, and Fabio. We also discussed our coming year, the program, and what we've been up to.

At ten Kathleen and Jackie took off -- they both live near USC, so Kathleen drove them to our meeting. Linda and I stayed for a while and talked. We spent a long time discussing other people in the bar and how strange they were -- there was the pudgy, squarely-dressed, middle-aged woman standing by the bar who was looking around the room and tapping her foot to the music. She was there, but not in the moment.

I can't remember how we got onto this, but Linda asked why I keep putting myself down. Why I always dress in baggy t-shirts and shorts or pants. "Those are boy's clothes!" she said.

I do it to conceal my body, I said. (See, in depth conversations are just not so much fun for me when I'm hyper-aware of my psychological motivations.) It wasn't enough to be a grade ahead in school; I had to develop before the rest of the my class. I also don't have a typically attractive figure...at least, I don't think so (thankfully, Darin thinks so). I run towards heavy. I will never be described as "slender." I grew up with wild curly hair and weak eyes and despite having lived as long with good haircuts and contacts as I did with bad hair and thick glasses I haven't shaken that image yet.

The fact of the matter is I'm not very comfortable with the idea of being attractive. I don't take compliments very well: it took me reading a Poirot mystery by Christie in which Poirot takes compliments by simply saying, "Thank you." Hey! No stammering! No refutations! What a concept! So that's what I've done: I just say "Thank you" and move on.

I don't know why it's so hard for me to accept myself. Like I'm committing some sin if I think about myself or something I do positively. My favorite saint when I was little was St. Rose of Lima -- file that in the Freud-o-meter.

Oh wait: I have an even better story about why I'm extremely uncomfortable with male attention.

When I was nine my parents finally took me and my sister out of the parochial school we both hated and put us in different private schools. I went to Renbrook Academy. I was new and shy. I haven't changed much.

Anyhow, at some point, probably right after I got there, I got a phone call. It was from the most popular boy in the class, and he invited me out for ice cream. I was so excited. I told my father that this boy had asked me out on a date. My father got on the phone and asked what this was all about.

What this was all about, of course, was a joke.

There were a lot of kids in the class on the other end of the line, and they were all cracking up.

I cried. A lot. (I'm kind of getting teary right now.) Because deep down I figured that I deserved as much. I mean, how stupid could I be, of course it had to be a joke, a trick.

I thought about that each and every time a guy showed interest in me. I kind of always had it in the back of my mind that this had to be a joke.

So. There's your more-than-you-ever-wanted-to-know for this week.

Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics

I finished my restructuring of the Buffy spec. It's way better now.