– Jane Smiley, in "Horse Heaven" (It is wonderful, so go get yourself a copy)

Get this: last week I was on Capitol Hill and hit Value Village to get a cream pitcher and sugar bowl, which on Thanksgiving I was mortified to realize neither of which I owned. I had time to kill so I also tried on a few pairs of jeans, and wonder of wonders I ended up with a pair of Levi’s that fit perfectly (and that fit perfectly one size less than what I would have guessed would do so, hey hey) for $2.99. Regular readers of this space will recall that shopping for pants usually causes me acute trauma – that the expedition is almost always a failure. This was the total opposite of failure! Then, when I wore the pants a few days later, I found a five-dollar bill in the pocket.

(For the record, Vanessa says that I have no right to bitch about not being able to find pants that fit. She’ll do an imitation of me in a mock whine, Oh, my legs are sooo long, poor me, and my hair is sooo thick I can’t do a thing with it. To my shorter-legged compatriot, all right, I will concede the point. But still.)

Thing Two: Yesterday I was over at Ben’s and these were the magazines on the floor by his bed: the New Yorker, Mojo, Magnet, Rolling Stone (he would want me to tell you that he doesn’t subscribe or think it’s any good anymore, there was an article in it a friend of his thought he’d like), and Fine Woodworking. On the bedside table was a grotty old used-bookstore copy of Barrett’s "Irrational Man" on top of a big box of drill bits. Can you believe all that? Could it get any better? It’s almost like someone set-designed Bedroom Of Monitor’s Dream Date. I was giggling at what a first-class job that person did, how well that person knows me.

Thing Three: Ben’s bed, Ben’s bedroom; yes indeedy, sweeties, I have had sex. Or, I suppose, am having, in the present progressive tense. Hooray for me. This isn’t the kind of diary where I go into all the gory details, so all you get is one question. You: "So how was it?" Me: "Hoo boy, it was *fantastic*." You: "Oh, that’s so great." (Or: "You bitch.")

A few days ago Vanessa sent me e-mail asking if I’d be interested in interviewing for a contract position at the company she works for, writing from disparate and scattered sources the first-ever employee manual. Of course I would, I said. So I got together some writing samples – actually that part, I mean Adam’s part in it, is a story in itself, grr – and Vanessa set it up and this afternoon I went in. I have had much opportunity recently to think about jobs and interviewing for them and all that sort of thing, and somewhere along the line I put words to something that had been half in the back of my mind for years, and that is that when people are interviewing for a "creative" position, the interviewers are reassured when the so-called creative person comes in looking the part. Within the bounds of corporate respectability, you understand – I’m not talking about a blue mohawk or a cow costume or anything like that. You don’t want to interview for a content position dressed like you would for a paralegal gig any more than the other way around. Potential employers’ expectations of you, rightly or wrongly, go beyond your smarts and skills and multitasking ability, and by playing to those expectations, you not only make the implicit case that you’re exactly right for the job but you also flatter the interviewer by reflecting his or her expectations of you thus predisposing him or her towards you before you’ve said a single word. (Vanessa and I were talking about this tonight apropos of something else, how it may not be fair that we tend to be judged by superficialities like dress and appearance but that doesn’t make us bad people for conducting ourselves in such a way as to provoke positive judgment.) So instead of the interview suit I wore a little black short-sleeved sweater with a short black-and-white wool skirt, which ensemble made my waist look waspy a la maybe Tuesday Weld, semi-opaque black tights, and Mary Janes. I put on the garnet earrings my father brought me from Prague, the Crocodile glasses, and, was it over the top or not?, a pearl necklace, and thus attired I caught the bus downtown and participated in the lowest-stress non-interview of my life. Vanessa’s boss, Marty, and the project manager didn’t even look at the writing samples or my resume, or ask me anything about my relevant experience, before they brought out a file folder full of flow charts and set it down like it was mine, sketching the framework of the project and explaining that it wasn’t fully spec’d out because I would probably have my own ideas about how to carry through. I didn’t want to assume, so I acted my part, sitting up ramrod straight (also very Tuesday Weld, don’t you think?) with my briefcase on my lap but playing Creative Type by throwing out an occasional impish smile or ten-dollar word, nodding vigorously when they made observations about the scope of the project, an employee manual as a "living document," how it’s better for someone to be writing the thing who is entirely outside the industry. Ac-ting! Less than half an hour there were handshakes all around and I got sent home with the file folder in my briefcase – yes, it is black leather, but it has a row of die-cut flowers across the bottom and a strange large hasp; I got it for five dollars at a thrift store and I assure you it went well with the rest of the costume – and instructions to look everything over and come up with a time and billing estimate ASAP. Easiest interview ever. As I was walking out, Vanessa, who had not participated in the meeting, was on her way to the bathroom, and she asked me how it went. Great, I said, but it was weird, Marty didn’t look at my writing samples or ask me about my credentials, he doesn’t even have any evidence that I can spell and punctuate. We were in the elevator lobby. She stopped, looked around in a surreptitious manner, and beckoned me close to her. I leaned forward, and she cupped her hand around my mouth and whispered. "It’s the pearls," she said.

Ha! I love that Vanessa, what a character. But seriously, contract work I will take where I can get it. She told me yesterday that they’re probably willing to overpay me and that if I do a good job and make Marty like me, I might be able to parlay the employee-manual assignment into consideration for a permanent position, this in an industry which believe me is a hell of a lot more stable than high-tech and for a company that is currently hiring. Tomorrow morning I’m meeting Ed for coffee, ostensibly to hand over before I leave for PA a bunch of cds I made for him. My ulterior motive, however, is to pick his brain about how much I should charge and what timeline I should commit to, since he’s been doing the freelance thing for months now. I also have a line on a part-time job through a friend of Steve’s. On the one hand, I am not wild about the idea of part-timing even though there is some possibility it would eventually go full-time, and this would be much less of a sure thing than apparently today’s interview was. On the other hand, it can’t hurt to send Steve’s friend a custom version of my resume and a nice note, and I will do that on Saturday. Saturday afternoon volunteerism, Saturday night I have to go to a party with Ben and meet some of his friends (oh my stomach), Sunday afternoon to Sacramento to see my boyfriends, Monday afternoon home and Tuesday morning fly the friendly skies on back to you’ve-got-a-friend-in-Pennsylvania. So this might be the last entry for a while, though if I can find one of these internet-café outfits in Happy Valley I am thinking that I will have some blocks of free time in which to avail myself of their services.

Tomorrow night cocktail hour with Paul and his friends, though I will not be drinking because I seem to have tangled with another kidney infection, I am insurancelessly going to the doctor tomorrow to write a big check for the privilege of having my pee inspected then another one at the pharmacy for antibiotics and painkillers. I’ve been trying since last weekend to knock it out myself and finally had to concede defeat today; the subtext of my meeting with Vanessa’s colleagues was how I was in so much pain I could barely hold myself upright. I was to have gone to "Band of Outsiders" with Ben tonight but bagged out. Instead Vanessa came over and we ate olives and watched "Temptation Island." Why was it OK for me to be sick and not quite myself around Vanessa but absolutely impermissible for this suffering to be witnessed by the person who is after all going around calling himself my boyfriend? I don’t know. And I feel bad about having crapped out on him, both bad as in lousy and bad as in the opposite of good. Earlier on the phone, I explained to him that I don’t like being sick and I don’t like what it does to me, so that when it happens I tend to be like a dog in that I just want to be left alone. He had offered to bring me things. It is true that I didn’t want or need anything, and what I said about being doglike in illness is also true, but when he called, it was clear that he thought I was alone, and I didn’t correct him. I don’t know, is this awfully bad? I have been trying to figure it out myself. I think maybe part of my boy sensitivity is the nature of a kidney infection – I mean, to get through it until you have the drugs, you chug water by the pint, so, you know, you pee a lot, you have to keep getting up and going to the bathroom. It is deeply undignified, and it lacks the sympathy-provoking systemic incapacitation of something like the flu. In fact, it could be seen as rather comical. And is that the light in which I want to be regarded by someone who hasn’t even known me for very long, whose impression of me is perhaps not fully hardened? I know that theoretically the boyfriend person is he around whom one should feel comfortable letting it all hang out (or flow out), but I firmly believe that displaying one’s comfort level can sometimes be gratuitous. I don’t know if that’s even the whole story, though. After Ben called I caught myself parsing the brief conversation, looking for a scrap that might indicate whether he really wanted to come over and see me or was offering to do so out of some sense of boyfriendly obligation, which if it was the latter, well then he needs to know that I am no charity case. (Yes, I still have that chip on my shoulder. I am imperfect – so sue me.) I don’t want to be the one saying "Yes, please, I would like to see you," grasping and clinging, I don’t want to be doing that kind of wanting more than Ben is. Argh. Who knows, maybe I’ll come clean about all this the next time I see him. And maybe I wouldn’t be acting like such a jackass, like such a *girl*, if I weren’t so compromised – I have a high fever and the shakes, it is a good thing I got that doctor appointment tomorrow.

Oh, I just remembered this, then I was also guilty of another lie of omission, this one to Vanessa. Wow, when I fall off the wagon, I fall hard, and square on my face. We were just sitting there being crusty and talking about the fellas like we usually do – though "Temptation Island" seemed to have helped – and somehow we got on the subject of the species that can’t make up its mind, for instance the ones who stick to you like glue and ask leading questions about whether you want kids but then accuse you of pushing too hard for a commitment, the ones who are at your apartment five nights a week and calling all the time yet wig out if you should use the word "boyfriend." I told her that I hate the boyfriend conversation almost more than any other that recurs in my life and that I never initiate it. Yes, she said, but then how do you know if it’s OK for you to sleep with other people – you wouldn’t want to have been faithful, assuming that someone is your boyfriend, and then find out later that you could have gone home with the hot guy you met in a bar one night who was all over you. I allowed that this was a valid point, and for a few moments we silently mulled it over. Then she said, I think that the period of time between when you first start dating someone and when that person officially becomes your boyfriend is just awful, because you don’t know anything, and until you do you’re always holding back a little bit just to protect yourself, but that’s sort of a bad sign for any relationship to start under. Yes, I said vaguely. She looked at me. "How about you, Monitor?" she asked, grinning. "Have you taken any steps towards the boyfriend conversation?" Um, I said, thinking fast, I told you, I never initiate that stuff, though I did promise Ben that I would not invite any of the Rock-a-Teens back to my sumptuous lodgings at the downtown Sacramento Quality Inn. This was true but also jokey, and so we could laugh and the issue was deflated, whew. Main reasons I have not been up front with Vanessa and continue not to be:

1. Because when I first signed my name next to the line that said Girlfriend, I thought she would laugh at me or tease me, and I am sensitive to that kind of thing, especially since Vanessa is so much cooler than I am and, ridiculous as I know this is, I don’t want her to see me as uncool.
2. Because I know how Vanessa feels about the friend who gets the boyfriend, and more than I don’t want to lose her excellent company, I don’t want her to feel like she must pre-emptively withdraw it.
3. Because I would just feel like such a dork making an announcement as if it’s an IPO or something – I mean, what do you say: Vanessa, I just want to let you know, Ben is my boyfriend now? Lame!
4. Because I am made uncomfortable by the identification of certain aspects of my life with the universalities of "boyfriend," "relationship," etc., as if I’ve become subsumed to some vast commonality with which I would not choose to associate myself, as if the specifics of my very own experiences are less valid than the way others would see and quantify their broad strokes – I don’t know how much this has to do with the guilt of heterosexual privilege and how much of it is me being the stubborn and arrogant minister of information – and since I know Vanessa would call me on that stuff, I’m putting off as long as I can the need to defend myself.

Maybe one of these days she’ll be talking to Steve and he’ll just let it slip. Could I get that lucky? More to the point: Am I that big a chickenshit?

A couple nights ago Ben was over, we were talking in bed and he was saying how he liked me and he also admired me. What on earth would you admire me for? I asked, honestly baffled and, shut up, not just fishing for compliments. Just the way you always try to make your life a thing that’s interesting, he said, the way you pay attention to things and the way you explain them, the way you think they deserve to be explained well. (This paragraph is about something else entirely, but please join me in pausing for one moment to reflect on how dreamy and terrific Ben is, what a marvelous thing this is (a) to say and (b) to say to ME. And I am not even going to tell you about the line from the Cummings poem.) One of the things Adam used to say to me was that I fundamentally lacked courage, that it was courage above all that he always admired in other people but that in that department I gave him nothing to work with and that this made him a little bit sad for me and what I could have been and done instead. He was referring, for example, to my tolerating crappy treatment at work, and to my staying at work, in Seattle, under a bushel as opposed to perhaps moving to Manhattan where I would less likely be told to keep quiet at parties and not intimidate the other guests, or to a different place where I would have been accepted – this is Adam talking here – into a high-octane MFA program. I can see, could always see, a sense in which he was right. But really, I tried to do what I thought was the best I could with what I thought I had, and if with respect to either of those categories I was wrong, well too bad for me but it’s all in the past now so there’s no use kicking myself. The thing I could never make Adam understand is that I don’t believe in a definition of courage that’s so narrowly construed. See, he read Ayn Rand when he was young enough to be won over and not yet old enough for his critical faculties to be engaged, and that is something you must always keep in mind when debating such abstractions with him. Q is going to become a nun despite how that life will cut her off from some of what she does and loves and despite the fact that many of her friends will never understand the undertaking nor will she be able to explain it to them. A guy I know is in a tricky secret relationship with a much-older woman whom he can’t see very often or for very long, and he’s been suffering under terrible constraints and obstacles for a few years now just because he is madly in love with her. The Zookeeper decided to pursue research in an field for which he had no training and would be judged next to people who did. Really, aren’t most of us – the sane and stable, self-reliant ones -- just doing the best we think we can with what we think we have? Vanessa put a personal ad in the paper. I packed in my whole life and moved to New York because not to have done so would have been slapping hope in the face. Matt P. has been through some emotionally brutal shit over the past several months and has come through it unbruised and with his gentle, caring nature intact. It is amazing to me, amazing and inspiring, how people keep on going, keep forging ahead, keep to their own agendas even if they couldn’t possibly articulate these agendas, even if they feel less like agendas than instinct. From whatever source, people get a sense of the right thing to do. They answer their own calling and act in accordance with their own values as well as the necessity of the moment. They get the job done, and they do it every damn day. How can this not be courage?