� John Russell, in "Lucian Freud as a Boy Wonder Still Learning to Draw," NYT, March 9, 2003

I bollixed up the crossword puzzle yesterday because I had DODGE CARAVAN instead of DODGE MINIVAN. Bah. And last night I had a dream that I was in a car with Steve, on a deserted country road late at night, and he pulled over and began to make all manner of promises and poetic declarations, so that I was stunned into silence, and then he started crying as if moved by so much emotion and I stared at him and then realized something was wrong with his tears, they were too big and round and milky-looking � and then, still in the dream, I shuddered awake from the dream that was the country road late at night and instead I was in a laboratory with needles stuck into my eyes and my head and there were scientists in white coats running around saying things like "Fuck! We still can�t get the tears right! It was so perfect right until then!" and what began to dawn on me as I gradually woke up is that these people had implanted in my mind all memory, sensory and otherwise, of "Steve" � that he didn�t actually exist. I was lying there with the needles in my eyes thinking, Oh, now this really pisses me off. I bet I had a dream like that because yesterday aft in my so-called interview, I was talking about neuroscience. Or because I�d made the appointment to have my tattoo touched up and the brown unpurpled on Sunday afternoon, while Steve will be at a party hosted by a friend of his secondary big-time ex (medium-time ex?) and the lady in question will be there too. Bah.

Lucas sent mail. I haven�t talked to him since the unfortunate documentary party of September 2001. Here are the top five questions he had for me: 1. Are you alive? 2. Are you married? 3. Are you writing? 4. Are you elaborating upon your rich inner world? 5. Have you found happiness?

OK, so here is how things stand with what Vanessa calls the jobby-job. I had my meeting with HR yesterday afternoon and even if it had been the interview equivalent of a cold call, even if I had not been here since, god, November, I think it would have gone very well. The HR lady, who by the way looks like the Wife of Bath with a dirty-blonde pageboy, likes me a lot as long as I don�t act too smart. Though there was a nice part right at the beginning where she said, "When do you plan to go back to school?" as if that was assumed, and she and I have never discussed that, I have never discussed it with anyone at Gastro or the hospital. I can�t tell you how reassuring that was. And I didn�t have to lie in response to the question, I said that I had no immediate plans to go back and part of the reason for that was that I was still sorting out what, out of a number of options, I would study when I did. The interesting part came when I said something about genetics as a possibility, and she said, Well, in case you want to pursue it, there is a position in the genetics division that�s going to be opening up, and it�s a Level 3 instead of a Level 2, so it would pay slightly better too. This was also right after I had made it clear, as elegantly as I could, that I was less than pleased with the salary range and offer at Level 2 Gastro, and I said Oh yes yes, I would absolutely want to be considered for the other position, and I asked her what I would need to do, where I would send my resume, etc. She said Uh-oh, I wish I�d thought before I mentioned that, everyone in Gastro is going to be angry with me if they find out that my big mouth is the reason they lost you to genetics (and isn't it also reassuring to be wanted that badly, for anything?) � and then she said she was going to try to get the Gastro gig reclassified as a Level 3. I am waiting to hear back from her about that. Even at Level 3, I hasten to add, it�s pretty brutal, but every little bit counts, right? The major suckage is that contrary to what I was told by the previous HR person case-managing me, who has now conveniently moved on to a different job, health insurance does not kick in right away but, get this shit, 90 days after the first first of the month of one�s full-time employment. I�ll spell it out: July. This makes me angry because I was flat-out lied to, so of course yesterday afternoon I had to have my fit of muscle-fixing whether my pride demanded that I go back to temping over it, but it didn�t last even as long as I thought it would, and if that means I�m numb, so what, I�m numb. I have a cushy slacky low-paying job where people like me and I have time do to the puzzle and write in my diary, and the window office is mine until July � by which time, with me having kept a closer eye on job sites and the classifieds, I�ll be not only health-insured but three months closer to something better.

And speaking of something better, yesterday was also good as a reminder of how well I come off in interviews. No brag, it�s just true. I am going to keep that in mind as I start sending the resume out. Except do I also come off as a lesbian? The Wife of Bath seemed eager to have me understand how fantastic the benefits were for domestic partners, I swear she was looking at me meaningfully when she was explaining them.

The verdict�s in on the new haircut and the verdict is that I look good. Again, no brag. I�m talking about guys totally checking me out, nodding and smiling at me as I walk through the corridors, doctors (!) trying to make eye contact and slowing down when I pass as if hoping I�ll slow down too. Sorry, fellas, I got no time. Wednesday night after trivia I was at the Twilight Exit with Steve and a female friend of his, and she complimented the haircut too and made a pal of me by saying that it�s because of the eyebrows that it especially works, that I have expressive eyebrows (while not a unibrow and not unruly, they are more substantial than is the current fashion) and a good forehead and therefore the style that accentuates them is a keeper. Thank you, Lila!

And thank you also to my sister, who when I told her last night about Plan B.S. responded not with derision but with Well, duh, telling me all along when I talked about maybe getting an MFA, she had been picturing me as some kind of really cool science writer. I told her that my life was parched from lack of quantifiable data and she knew exactly what I meant. This reaction was like the Wife of Bath�s when-are-you-going-back-to-school to the tenth power, and I was happy that it was my sister it was coming from. I have seriously played Cupid twice in my life, and if one time was a fiasco that humiliated me to my viscera and then made me want to weep with gratitude that the rawly-dealt participant was still willing to talk to me, the other one ended in a wedding, and that is a .500 average that feels a lot better than that, like way more than breaking even. (Ha, look who�s disdaining statistics now.) Talking to my sister was like the fix-up that worked. I feel much tougher than I did earlier this week and more justified too, almost as if I�ve earned something. She also pointed out that it should be possible to take several of the intro-level science classes by correspondence, which would be cheaper and less time-consuming than doing them in a classroom, and I am going to look into that next week. And Number Two is so thrilled about all this, and a certain option in particular, that it's the therapy equivalent of advocacy journalism. I should make an appointment with an advisor at the UW, now that I think of it, I should go in there with my hotsy-totsy transcript and my new haircut and my interview skills and just the right cocktail of blazing smarts, customer-service can-do politeness, and servility, and I should do it before I sign anything here so that it won�t come out of PTO. Maybe I will start experimenting with my shaker this weekend.

I subscribed to the Washington Monthly today. Josh Marshall made me do it.

P.S. (1:30 pm): Bad*ass*: I just blew off a lunch meeting while I was writing this but I get free catered lunch anyway. Vive la resistance!