327 Market

I have so much sympathy for parents.

The boyfriend of one of my charges popped by last night to “say goodnight,” a process that took a good two hours. I didn’t want to be annoying, but I also didn’t want to find him at the house in the morning, either. So I just contented myself with being present... running to the kitchen and hanging with the Eighth Grader. I started reading that whatever, staggering book by Dave Eggers (I found it on the coffee table). I think I am already annoyed with it. Which is pretty much what he predicted in the preface. So, he succeeded, right? He predicted the oucome, and now I think I am ready to read something else.

My body is still adjusting to the dryness. I think I had a nosebleed last night (I hope I didn’t bleed on their sheets). My lips are permanently chapped, and I can’t seem to stay hydtrated. My eyes were burning last night, I think it is the pollution.

The kitchen is a temptation beyond Hogarth’s wildest dreams of food bedlam. I need to consciously stay away. Its stocked with every munchie imaginable. There is a TV in every room. A massive 60 incher dominates the parlor. I spent a good part of last evening watching Being John Malkovitch on the Master Suite’s DVD player. It was oddly a propos, as I was laying on some one else’s bed, responsible for someone else’s children, eating some one else’s food (the EG and I had sushi after her jazz band practise), answering some one else’s phone, in a wholly strange town. I was really homesick for my little messy room with my ancient twin bed and my empty larder.

I met the maid on the way out. She apologized for disturbing me. I wasn’t disturbed.

I love my life. I miss it so.