February 5, 2003 Hell is full of good meanings and wishings --George Herbert, Jacula Prudentum Back in the day, when Teddy lived on one side of the country and I lived on the other, I used to wish he'd move back East. It was too hard having him living way out in Godforsaken small-town Iowa and then slick San Francisco. Long-distance phone calls are expensive and email tends to blur shades of meaning. Besides, it's tiring to type page upon page of feeling and thought into an email. Face-to-face visits were a near impossibility. We saw each other once every few years, when someone Teddy knew back home was getting married, or his parents' finally begged him to come visit. Instead we'd rack up outrageous phone bills and spend half our workdays emailing each other and sometimes I'd pass the fountain in Liberty Place and toss a quarter in and wish that my best friend would one day again be living within driving distance. But I'd forgotten that wishes never turn out exactly as you dream they will; what's more is that they often turn out much worse. Apparently, I haven't been watching much of anything besides Boy Meets World on the Disney Channel these days, or I'm sure I would have gotten a refresher course in the pitfalls of wishing at some point. And I certainly haven't heard the un-Simpsonized version of “The Monkey's Paw” in quite some time or that other anti-wishing morality tale about the old couple where the husband wishes for some sausages and the wife thinks that is a stupid wish so she gets all passive-aggressive and wishes that the sausages stick onto his nose and then they use their last wish to remove the sausages or something dopey like that, instead of wishing for a huge, magically-replenishing fortune that they could then use part of to have the sausages surgically removed from the husband's nose. Duh. Please, people. I've got an exact game plan all laid out just in case I ever find an old lamp at a bazaar and I rub it and genie comes out of the spout and believe me, it doesn't involve any zombies coming back from beyond the grave and no one is going to end up with sausages stuck on the end of his or her nose. No, my wishes will involve that magically replenishing fortune, a very large publishing contract, and well, a pair of handcuffs and Billy Boyd in a kilt. Unfortunately, I wasn't so prepared in terms of this whole wishing my best friend lived on the East Coast again situation. And not just because my boyfriend happens to carry a very large grudge against him. Not that Holden's Vendetta of Blood doesn't make things a bit more difficult, but if that were the only difficulty, there really wouldn't be a difficulty, because that's Holden's problem not mine. The way I see it is this: I tried to tell Holden that Teddy was back and Holden told me never to speak of it again, so I don't ever speak of it, and that's that. Honestly, if Holden wants to be stubborn and cling to his precious vendetta, then cling away, baby. When I do see Teddy, nothing untoward happens – we're so over that “I've loved you for eleven years; I've always loved you” movie script we were playing out back in 1998, or at least I am. When I see him now, we grab some dinner and then we drink ourselves into a stupor and then we drink some more. Sometimes we go shopping for futons. Sometimes we have coffee. Sometimes we try to see Kymm's latest show and end up being stuck on the R train for two thousand years because Teddy doesn't pay attention to the notices in the stations warning him that they will be doing weekend maintenance work on the tracks. But mostly we drink (Jack and Coke for him, Singapore Slings for me, if the bartender can make them and the bar actually has cherry brandy, if not, then it's usually gin and tonic for me) and we talk about art and acting and writing and our own fucked-up selves and what fucked us up and why we've both still got the emotional maturity-level of two high school sophomores. Oh, and we smoke cigarettes. And, yes, we eat red meat when we go out for dinner. And, believe me, all that stuff is absolutely super-great. It really is. There is no one in this world that I can talk to like I can talk to Teddy. And there is no one in this world with whom I'd rather hang out and strike all these dopey, tortured-artist poses. Yes, I realize how awfully pretentious we must seem, sitting at long, scratched bars, drinking and smoking and discussing our psyches and our creative endeavors. But, hell, is it ever fun. So that's a wonderful thing about Teddy living on the East Coast. He lives in Brooklyn, in Bay Ridge, right near the Verranzano Bridge; his window looks out on the lights of the bridge and the bay. We sit on his futon and watch the ocean liners put out to sea. Another wonderful thing is that he's away from Linda the Crack Whore. He hasn't spoken to her in seven months. He isn't smoking crack or dropping E or visiting too many past-life regressionists and psychics who try to sell him $1,800 gold-plated soul pyramids. He's still way too thin – hey, crack will do that to you – but he looks good and it seems like he's starting to get his head in a better place. Right now you're wondering, So where's the downside, Kate? Your best friend is off the life-threatening, mind-altering drugs. He's cut himself off from his insane prostitute of a married girlfriend. He doesn't see that many psychics anymore. And you get to feed your drama-queen, Joycean play-acting tendencies by sitting in a bar and pretending you're Mrs. Parker and he's Scott Fitzgerald. So where the hell is the downside?! Right here: I can't live that life all the time. I have things to tend to here at home, not the least of which is Holden, whom I love dearly, despite all of my wishing for Billy Boyd in a kilt (and the handcuffs would be for me, people, not Billy. Honestly. What kind of a girl do you think I am?), and who a) does not harbor any love for Teddy and b) does not go in for all of this Bohemian-tortured-artist-stay-out-until-four-in-the-morning-discussing-Mamet stuff. So that means that I can't see Teddy as often as I'd like and certainly not as often as he'd like. And not just because of Holden. I have other friends I need to see and spend time with; I have my family; I have to work; I have three cats; I have my writing (sometimes); and I have a major commitment to Sabrina and Sammy and Rose Theatre. All of those things make demands on my time, and they should because they are all things that I care about and want to be doing (well, except for work). But these demands, coupled with the fact that I have to work my visits around Holden, make it very difficult for me to get up to Brooklyn with any regularity. Unfortunately, Teddy is lonely. He's not talking to his parents or his brother right now because his family contributes in a big way to his messed-up mental state and he's decided that he needs to figure some shit out before he has contact with them again. He's alone in a new city. He only knows two people in the area – me and Adriana, a girl he knew back in San Francisco, and we're both tangled up in our own lives a lot of the time. Teddy needs me and I feel bad that I can't give him as much as he needs. Even if Holden and his Vendetta of Blood didn't exist, my life here in Philadelphia would still make it impossible for me to be in Brooklyn as much as Teddy needs/wants me to be right now. So we talk and Teddy asks when I am coming up and I dance around the subject. Christ, those conversations are heart wrenching: So when are coming up here again? I don't know. I was out with the girls last weekend, and the weekend before I was at my parents', so I should stay home this weekend, and next weekend I have to do this reading for Scott. Oh. You're really busy. I guess I am. I'm sorry. But the weekend of the 15th, I'm supposed to go up to Manhattan on Sunday for something, so I'll come a day early and spend Saturday with you. You can even come with me wherever I'm going on Sunday, if you want. Okay. That sounds great…..The 15th, huh? Yeah. That's like three weeks away. Teddy, I wish I could get away sooner, but I just have all this stuff. You could come down on a weekday. What about next Tuesday? You don't work on Wednesday. I have to teach on Tuesday night. Oh, okay. Those conversations twist my stomach into knots and keep me on the edge of weeping. You can't even begin to imagine what it was like to talk to him about what I was doing for Thanksgiving and Christmas, knowing he was going to be alone in that Brooklyn studio. I told Holly about it and she was nearly crying over it. (Okay, so maybe that one is the absolute fault of Holden's Vendetta of Blood). But even worse is the fact that I'm so insecure about my own life and concerned with my own issues at this point, it's hard for me to always be there to listen to his problems. Right now, Teddy's lonely, he's isolated, he feels blocked creatively, he has this weird, imagined jealousy/competition going on with Linda in his head, he's suffering from psychosomatic physical symptoms like muscle spasms and back pain, he had some sort of unintended quasi-homoerotic experience while allowing a guy from his therapy group to do erotic massage on him – in short, he's completely fucked up. Unfortunately, I myself am lonely, isolated, feeling blocked creatively, feeling tired and frustrated from railing against The Man and corporate culture only to have to go straight back to them in order to pay my mortgage, struggling with weight and age and attractiveness issues, suffering from recent dental trauma, and feeling sincerely, all-around depressed and hopeless. Okay, I didn't have some sort of unintended quasi-homoerotic experience during an erotic massage, but I think I've got enough on my plate as it is. So Teddy calls and he needs to talk, but often my mind is elsewhere, niggling and worrying at my own problems. And it's not that he doesn't listen to me. He does. We do talk about my crappy life and what I intend to do to fix it; but nowhere near as much as we talk about his wacky life and what he intends to do to fix it. The majority of our conversations revolve around his problems. I try not to begrudge him that. Rationally, I know he's got things a lot worse than I do. He deserves my undivided attention. But I just can't right now, you know? It's gotten so bad that I avoid talking to him for weeks at stretch. The conversations make me so tired. So he'll call and I won't pick up and he'll leave a message and I'll feel bad, but I'll let days spool into a week before I call him back. And even then, I have to steel myself for the conversation. He called two weeks ago for my birthday. I called him six days later and now it's been another ten days and I haven't called again. I think about it and I berate myself: How could you do this to him? He needs you. Just call him. A freaking hour of your time and you'll feel better and he'll feel better and you'll see him on the 15th and things will be cool. I sit here and worry about him and miss him and feel like the world's worst friend; yet, I can't dial the phone. Actually, he called last night, after I had written the bulk of this entry. The phone rang while I was teaching my Tech Writing class at University A. Lovely. Yes, I was a shining example of corporate professionalism with my phone blaring "Concerning Hobbits" from Lord of the Rings right in the middle of my lecture on effective collaborative writing. Then he called again. Before I had a chance to turn the ringer off. Even better. He left two messages and in the last one, he totally called me on not getting back to him for weeks on end: Katie, it's me, again. I'm just calling back to say CALL ME BACK. I don't want three weeks to go by and then have you call and say, 'I'm sorry, I've been really busy with Sabrina on summer planning' or 'I'm sorry. My job is sucking the life out of me so I can't move' or 'I'm sorry. I was having tea with the Mad Hatter and I completely lost track of time. You know how the clocks in Wonderland are.'" Don't duck me, girl. Call me back. Gee, maybe instead of going to psychics, Teddy should set up shop as one and have people come to him. After that, I felt even more like crap than I usually do. And in these days of job-hunting and sending out stories for publication and feeling like my entire life has passed by while I was watching various incarnations of Law and Order, that's saying something. Although, I suppose it achieved Teddy's aim because I called him back after my class. Still, I timed the call so that I could talk to Teddy while I walked to the garage to pick up my car (oh yeah, we bought a car. Didn't I tell you?) and then during the 15 minute drive home. I knew that when I got home, I could beg off with the excuse that I had to parallel park the car. And that's a far cry from the girl who used to call him every other day and email him at least twice a day. Certainly, it's a far cry from the girl who wished for him to move back East. The next time I pass that fountain in Liberty Place, I'm keeping my quarters in my pocket.

7 Deadly Sins and Other, Less Fatal Diversions Pride: Job-hunting just sucks all the pride out of a girl. Envy: I went to see a production of Macbeth that Sabrina directed at a Quaker school in Brooklyn. Not only was I jealous of the kids who got to attend that school with it's elevators and modern decor and HUGE, state-of-the-art theater program that pays professional directors like Sabrina to come in and work with the kids for a term, but I also discovered that they actually pay a woman to stage manage all of their shows. All this girl has to do is hang out with kids, run the lights, organize the backstage stuff, and make sure the show runs smoothly -- all stuff I do for FREE. Why do I never find these cool jobs? Wrath: Seeking employment has once again focused my wrath on The Man. Sloth: I came home from an interview at a temp agency and took to my bed. Avarice: Is it so much to ask for a yearly stipend that will keep me from having to seek gainful employment? Gluttony: Hot dogs. Lust: Seems I really jumped on the bandwagon with Billy. Actually, I prefer to think that I started driving the wagon and everyone else jumped on. Either way, he's so popular, you can take a quiz to find out which side of Billy Boyd's personality appeals to you. According to the quiz, I dream of "Thinker Billy". Okay. Thinking's good. But I doubt I'd say no to "Social Billy" or "Sexy Billy" or "Adventurous Billy" or "Hobbit Billy" or even "Raging Alcholic, Manic-Depressive Billy". By the way, I made that last one up. You know, just in case Billy ever runs across this site (God forbid) -- he won't think I'm defaming him. He'll just think I'm a stalker. Book: Almost finished with Return of the King. Frodo just destroyed the ring. I spent the last two chapters, when Sam and Frodo were struggling towards Mount Doom, with tears streaming down my face. Tune: Hole, "Celebrity Skin": Better watch out what you wish for. It better be worth it. So much to die for. Task at Hand: Reviewing my Tech Writing students' rewrites of a business letter. The fun never stops. Quest for Publication: I haven't sent out the 13 copies of the comedy story yet. I don't know why, really; they're sitting on the hope chest all ready to go out. Maybe it's because out of everything I've written, I'm the most attached to these characters. Plus, I feel like it's the most sophisticated piece of writing I've done. I think I don't want Jake and Katrina to get rejected. Not to mention the writing I'm so proud of. However, I did submit the story for a new fiction writer contest. So that's something. It moves the tally up another notch. I hate entering contests because you often have to pay a reader's fee, and I loathe the idea of paying some editor to read my work only so they can reject it. But, winning a contest like this one will open doors for non-contest submissions, so I suppose the twelve bucks will be worth it if I win. If I don't, I will just have to enjoy being bitter about paying the fee and getting rejected. Total Submissions: 36 Rejections: 13 Acceptances: 1 Withdrawals: 7