� Steve Martin

I am wearing: beaded lambswool librarian sweater over the tight turtleneck leotard from my mom�s old cocktail waitress uniform, low-waisted black skirt that offsets its boxiness with front and back slits to the upper thigh, maroon wool tights that have designs knit in to see some leg through, and black patent-leather boots. So from the neck down and with my mouth shut I am all set to meet Steve�s ex�s friends tonight � the party now numbers not two but three, and since one of them has started extending invitations I fear the roster will yet increase � and project an image of discreetly sexy grownup confidence. Unfortunately, from the neck up I look like a person who has been very sick all week and sleep deprived for about two days, glassy crusty eyes and fever blotches and red nose and chapped lips, and my voice either comes out as the monotonal sinusy croak of an idiot (I cannot aspirate sounds nor speak in long sentences without pausing for breath) or is supplanted by spasms of hacking. Dear Wendy,I can imagine the e-mails now, She had nice boots, but, whoa, she�s not a patch on someone as pretty and smart and socially adept as you, and, in case you couldn�t tell, in this hypothetical scenario I am clinging to those nice boots as if they were my freakin life raft, begging you not to take them away from me. I am going to write a mean letter to Almay about how their pressed powder, rather than mitigating my complexion�s sickbed ruggedness, has brought it into even higher relief, so that I look like I have a faceful of rugburn. And since it�s Linda�s on a Friday, what do you bet that Todd and Lori and crew are on the scene?

You are asking me, patiently: Yes, but why does all that matter? It just does. Humor me, all right?

I made matters worse this morning by washing my hair in freezing cold water because Rebecca, unknown to me, had turned off the hot in anticipation of the property manager�s visit to fix a too-loose faucet. The second it hit my head my sinuses clenched up in turgid protest and I knew I�d made a horrible mistake, but the second it hit my head the mistake had already been made, and what could I do at that point but grit my teeth and scrub. OK, actually I probably began to make matters worse last night by going to Book Club instead of home to bed and then to Steve�s ditto. I blow-dried my hair to the consistency of thistledown and could not get warm this morning, I was wearing my pea coat in the office until noon. You may also be asking why it�s such a big honking deal to Steve that I meet his friends tonight rather than on a day when the full spectrum of my flavorful charms may be on view, and the answer is that it just does. I could fight him on it, but with me feeling so miserable and whiny (ha, could you tell?) I don�t think I could do this without it turning into an actual fight, and with me ditto, I�d start crying and then it would be a big mess, and the fact of my neck-up grotesquerie vexes me mightily but, really, does not merit that. It�s not that big a deal. So on with the show.

Consistency of thistledown: and then I put lots of product on it, the expensive stuff, so it doesn�t look as bad as you�d think, it is perfectly Linda�s-ready. The Steve Martin bit is in the sig file of a Gastro-affiliated woman with whom I correspond from time to time. And speaking of Gastro, holy cats, everyone here is being so nice to me, so so so nice to me, it feels like the circling of wagons, like they want me to be safe here. And that�s a feeling worth paying for. All the nurses are stopping by to check on me and see if I am feeling better, and there seems to be a tacit agreement in place that it�s not fair I have to be here therefore it�s not fair to make me work. One of the doctors gave me some a cassette with dictation on it and insisted that I not do anything with it until Monday. Another one has extended the deadline for a project I was helping with. One of the office gals is keeping me in herbal tea. Everyone says they hope I am better soon and that they can tell I am a hurting cowboy and feel so bad for me, and � here�s the good part � I believe them. I absented myself from a pharmaceutical company�s presentation today at lunch because I didn�t want to germ up the conference room or make a coughing spectacle of myself, and they saved me some lunch. I could make more money pushing papers in a cube farm at Starbucks or some outfit like that, but by the more humanistic measures, Gastro is not bad at all. If you will pardon my pun, Gastro is the shit.

Want to know what I do not like? When old friends get in touch and ask what�s up, and you mention, since it�s germane, that you have a new fella, and then they ask, "So is this a long-term possibility?" On the one hand, just in the rational sense, yes it is, because I am no longer a self-destructive and callow youth who is inclined to waste my time on beautiful doomed losers, and I thank you for recognizing that fact for the progress it is. On the other hand, to the people who ask the question, who tend also to have visions of minivans and mini-people dancing in their heads, giving such a simple affirmative answer is interpreted as grounds to follow up with other inquiries about cohabitation and rings and shit. The prospect of dealing with which makes me the interrogatee feel creepy and defensive and so I reply to the original question with something tonally regrettable along the lines of, "I DON�T KNOW YET, FOOL! WHY DON�T YOU WAIT AND SEE LIKE THE REST OF US?!"

In the lovely waterfront apartment complex where LL and her man live, the residents� organization posts calendars of activities, lectures, and movie nights. I espied one in the elevator last night that advertised a double-feature event of Wedding Planning at 5 and Relationship Workshop at 7:30. Um, shouldn�t that be the other way around? I giggled all the way to my car. Then as I was driving home I realized I was within spitting distance of another Eastside locale where I once or twice dallied, and with my remembering body I had the feeling again of that zooming engine and fast tight turns up freeway onramps, not so long ago but impossibly distant, and from the present tense I said a non-loaded hello to the remembering. Hello and then a non-wistful goodbye, because I had somewhere else to be.

Me mum�s get-well recommendations for the weekend include hot toddies. That makes me giggle too. In the giggling sense of the word, I�d rather eat glass.

Hats off to the righteous ladies of Book Club, who understand that literature is forever but the Michael Jackson documentary is one night only. Hats off to the future law students among us. Hats off to my shoeshine boy and his delightful conference-caller. Hats off to all who have made this ugly sick week better with cheese and bacon and sympathy and the funniest pet trick I�ve seen in my life.

Huh, now I am feeling not so crabby anymore. How do you like that.