Going on with Zachary

I still don’t understand why I got Zachary a job. Yes I couldn’t stand the incessant ringing of the telephone, but I would have my assistant answer it, as it always seemed to be Zachary, my father or sister. But even my father and sister wouldn’t dare to call every ten minutes.

I wasn’t thinking with my brain but whatever girls think with when they’re in lust. Zachary was handsome–saw another picture of the person in “my name is Earl,” no that wasn’t fair to Zachary. Zachary was a rebel rocker; Zachary was an outlaw. Zachary was a nice Jewish boy from New Orleans who for some reason was madly in love with me.

To be totally honest, this is difficult. To go any further and be true to the reality, I have to talk about me, and expose my biggest weaknesses which are also most of my biggest fears. In the book and movie White Palace…well I related a lot to Susan Sarandon’s character, and no I wasn’t older,poor or a waitress; actually I was older by a year.

Later I was engaged to somebody eight years younger than me. One year, or nine months to be precise, was nothing.

I shared her least endearing quality. The book scared me so much I only recently saw the movie; and anybody who reads Courting knows how I feel about James Spader. It was my own private psychological thriller.

To go further with Zachary means remembering the story and the feelings while distancing myself from them. I think I’m almost there.
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Today I couldn’t do it; I should have been in Temple or with family but instead I sat at the computer, and answered comments while wondering when a broken toe truly heals and why I was the only person not to know nothing can be done except splinting it to the next toe so it won’t grow in funky. I do believe in conspiracy therories as this onew was obvious. How could I not know something everybody else did?

My niece is at a perfect age, just eleven, and last night she said:
“I know it’s alright to lie about sex, but is it alright to lie about age?”

Told her that those were the two things ladies and gentlemen used to be expected to lie about. But why was she asking me this?

“Bubbe said she had daddy when she was 20, but I know she was older.”

I didn’t ask why she knew this; my mother, her other idealized dead grandmother, was 35 when I was adopted. My sister was, uh, older than that when she had my niece. It could have been for some other reason but I thought if she wanted me to know she would tell me. I’m not into pushing people into talking. Had to do that enough in all my jobs. It’s one boundary that seperated real life from work life.

My sister and brother in law met at the Stephen Talkhouse in Amagganset in the Hamptons, Labor Day weekend 1990; yes, it’s more than possible to meet your mate in a club in the Hamptons. Labor Day weekend is the ideal weekend to meet somebody who has a share in a house as you’ve already gone through the tawrdy summer flings and are ready for something more serious.

Have no idea why I just added that; it would have made a nice just before Labor Day entry.

I’m talking around subjects as I do when I’m not ready to talk on the subject. Blogging is ideal for that; and I’m afraid that I’m getting too into blog speak.

I want the story about Zachary and I to be somewhat linear; I want it to be truthful, and very honestly, I think it would make a great memoir.