4:56 p.m. - October 03, 2002
Anxiety and a confession
Working tonight at a black-tie affair in San Francisco and I dislike dressing up. Going beyond an Eddie Bauer solid provokes anxiety even on the best of days and the simplest of assignments; for something like this, I'm caffeine-jittery in my shorts putting off dressing as long as possible.
The money is enticing, so off to work I shall, with a smile and overflowing with charm and small-talk skills. I'm told the Mrs. Doubtfire guy (what is his name?) will be there and to watch my back because he likes to tease and provoke the interpreters who share his stage. You know the guy I'm talking about--the Nanoo nanoo Mork guy--the Fisher King dude--the comedian. Who cares. Point being, he'll be there. I kid you not, sign language interpreters get to go places and see things most people only read about in tabloids. Like the one time Jennifer Aniston's limo driver dropped her off at.... That's hearsay; I wasn't in the limo myself, and who gives an iota for actresses anyway?
This job has its ups-and-downs moments, though when I open my paycheck I see nothing but the golden fleece.
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Last night TJ stopped by and today I'm feeling disgusted and manipulated to a certain extent. He brought beer and a movie and I broke my own cardinal rule one: No Funny Business. Alcohol is a bad, bad thing but the devil in me says Receiving expert head is worth the headache.
I'm a prude until I get excited.
No more funny business.
I need to get out more.
