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2001-06-02 | 12:17 p.m.

I've been re-reading my diary. The older entries seem better written because in the early days I was writing only for myself, and maybe Stephen, whereas now I am aware of strangers stopping by. Not a lot of strangers, but enough to prompt me to explain things I would not ordinarily explain to myself. This habit fattens the entries and makes them, on the whole, less readable.

Also, and this is a difficult subject to wrangle with, I am a little too happy right now to be interesting. Let's face it, I lost my job before Christmas and it is now JUNE and I have barely thought about working. I'm just having way too much fun. The only reason I can manage this is because Duff makes enough money for us all to get by. We're not wealthy, and if we had to make a car payment that would probably force me to get a job, but for the time being I can coast. This renders me immensely unlikable, I know.

Now at this point, if I am writing for the reader, I want to talk about all the years I've had to struggle for money, and how my teeth are all fucked up because I couldn't afford to go to dentist for so long, and how I take care of my kids and that is a job in itself, and how Duff sat at home for the first few months he was in California and I supported him then. All these things would be written with an eye toward redeeming my character in the reader's mind. But if I am writing for myself, why bother with redemption? I forgive myself everything anyway, and besides, I already know all that crap. I've been broke or near-broke for so many years that it is a part of my character. When I buy retail, it feels like I'm playing house. Like I am pretending to be another person---a person who buys retail. A matron, a suburbanite. Then I walk back to my shitty car---or rather, Duff's shitty car, since my shitty car was lost to me forever when my nephew Damien left it parked in front of his girlfriend's house for too long and the neighbors had it towed and he didn't tell me until there was a lien on it---and I remember that I probably shouldn't be buying retail.

So I have struggled, and I have not struggled. None of it is particularly important. I have nothing on Pramoedya Ananta Toer, yet people with fewer apparent worries than mine have killed themselves. I don't know what to think about that except to try not to take anything for granted.

I do feel guilty about not trying harder to work. I don't have to go get an office job; I could write something and try to sell it. But I haven't. That's why the diary is so seductive. It feels like writing, it is a sort of writing, but in the end it is just for fun. It's a sandbox. I can make a facetious argument that it saves money on therapy, but it certainly doesn't qualify as a tax deduction. (Actually, I could probably get away with deducting the $30 I spent on my gold membership by considering it a business expense, but woo woo, you know?)

I guess I'm concerned that if I write too much for an audience that I will begin to "buy retail," if you will---pretend to be someone I am not. I have a handful of friends who know what I'm really all about, most of whom I've known for more than a decade, but with everybody else, I buy retail. When I meet all these other mothers through my kids, I buy retail like mad. I am still myself but I'm filtering myself through what I imagine to be their experiences and prejudices. It's like being on a date. I let them see little glimpses of what I'm really like and try to gauge their responses, but the truth is, as much as I might enjoy myself, I never truly stop sweating the encounter until I'm in the car, driving away.

I suppose everybody does it. But deep inside I must have a hippie sensibility, because I really enjoy letting my hair down. I guess I'm a slob. I like to go barefoot, so much that I have calluses from going barefoot, and I often fall asleep in my clothes. I yell at my kids when I'm working too much, even when it's not their fault, and when I get going I sound like the reddest fishwife on the pier. I have a scary hard time throwing things away, and sometimes I catch myself keeping things like expired coupons and I have to force myself to refocus on the task. I always say I'm going to be one of those people you read about who are discovered decaying under a stack of newspapers that fell over on them. But I'm also a severe critic who has very harsh and not always wholly justified things to say about everyone and every little thing. These are sides of me I'm not anxious to show to nice people who merely happened to drift into my orbit. No, these traits I save to inflict upon my best friends. Who are truly the best.

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