I put on my old gray Calvin Klein suit about an hour ago—the one I bought while Maud was still in elementary school, and it fit (which is a testament to yoga and to the power of despair to use up calories). I’m going to see a conservative person about a conservative job, so I put on lipstick and mascara (does that stuff go bad?), and then I put on clogs. The clogs looked ridiculous: I’m supposed to look like Patti Smith, and instead I look like Nurse Bob. So then I put on my Frye boots. They were better, but they’d probably lose me the job, with all that metal crap sticking out of the bottom of my pants where my lady-like ankles are supposed to be. Shit.
It’s OK, I thought: I don’t look too weird. And then I realized that I had a protection cord around my neck—bright red—right there in the middle of all the black and white. It came from my teacher. Between that and the boots and the freak flag (mommy’s unite!), I’m going to be eating cat food soon. Except that’s made with meat.
I was sitting with Alan a few weeks ago—Bronnie’s Dad, who’s a super famous fabulous brilliant retired trial lawyer who has generously employed me for the past three months—and he said to me, “I have problems with authority.” And I thought, “Right on.” If he can say it without apologizing, I can say it: I have problems with authority. The last boss I had (not Alan, whom I adore) surreptitiously read my email. That’s legal, right? But this was a four-person operation, and I was second in command. I’m not good at things like that.
But, wait: I can’t give up on him, even if he was a giant fat asshole, read my email, and then fired me. I will bless him, and wish him enlightenment in this lifetime. Please, you go first. In the meantime, I’m off. I pray that I get this job if it would be of benefit to all beings, and that I don’t if it won’t.