Saturday, May 08, 2004

Spiro's, Melville

Saturday, May 08, 2004

Service: * * 1/2
Food: * * 1/2
Ambience: * * *
Babe Count: * * 1/2

Spiro's can be a really glum place. At times, the service sucks stale croissants. This afternoon is one of those days. I'm here with Stacey, and I haven't eaten anything all day, and I'm really quite fiercely hungry, and I've ordered the roll stuffed with bacon and scrambled egg, with just one proviso, one silly little old proviso that any kitchen should be able to get right: no goddamn fat on the goddamn bacon, gottit???

Of course, the waiter assured me he had the order. I made extra eye contact and made triply sure.

Sat out in the garden of my flat with my palmtop and drew this self portrait just after sending Jacqui the 9-sms epic telling her to move on, to let me be responsible for my own feelings. As you can see, pain and sorrow and misery are what I'm taking responsibility for. Goodbye Jacqui. I hope you come to your senses, sweetheart.So the food has arrived. And I open up the roll just to make sure. Not only does this bacon have fat. No. It's actually ALL fat, with a few tiny streaks of bacon inside.

"J.J!" I call. (This is NOT the same J.J. from the Spur debacle. This is another unfortunate soul with the same acronym.)

He scuttles up. I lift the roll. I point at the mounds of ghastly bacon fat.

I say, "Before we go any further, J.J., I have to explain to you that I am extremely hungry, and when I'm hungry, my blood sugar is low, and when that happens, I get extreeeeeemely irritable. I asked you for no fat, and this is ALL fat. Please take it back and make it again."

"Oh, oh, I'm sorry," he stammers. Takes the plate, runs to the kitchen with it.

Comes back about fifty seconds later.

"J.J.," I say, "did they simply cut the fat OFF MY FOOD?"

He smiles. Shrugs. "Yes."

"That's not possible, J.J., cos there was NO BACON. It was ONLY FAT!"

I open the roll up. There's a measly streak of bacon. I probe further. Under the bulk of the scrambled egg is another nest of bacon fat.

"Sorry, Stacey," I say, "but this is unacceptable. And I'm on the verge of popping. J.J., take this away, and bring the bill. We're leaving."

"Aw," he says, "they got it wrong. I'll get them to make it again from scratch. No fat. I promise."

My blood sugar might be low, but he's imploring very sweetly, so I give them another chance.

The reason my blood sugar's so low is that I woke up quite late this morning, and didn't have quite the amount of time I needed in order to eat AND get to my kahuna massage on time. So I ate the last five pieces of corn thins in the house with a bit of jam while I dressed. They taste a bit like stale popcorn, but they're really lovely with salami and cheese.

The kahuna massage is a gift Jacqui gave me for my birthday on the 17th of February. It's at Skin Sense in Rivonia, a really swanky place with a three month waiting list. So the earliest I could take my massage was today.

Yesterday morning I got an SMS from Jacqui wishing me a happy massage, and asking me to enjoy it with the love with which it was given. I sent her a message back to say thanks. Then I lay on my bed for half an hour crying.

I've agreed to Jacqui's request not to make contact with her. And here she is sending me loving smss again. (The last one I got from her came in response to my news that I'd finished my screenplay. She congratulated me. I cried then too.)

Later last night, late, I got another sms from her, saying that she's worried about me, and asking if I'm okay. So I sent her one back kinda asking her why she's sending me messages when we'd agreed on no contact, and asking her if she's okay, and asking her what she wants from me, and mentioning that it's coming across as really selfish on her part to be making contact with me, but denying me that same contact. So I got another sms from her asking if she could call me. So I said yes, and my home phone rang.

And in the hour-long call, we both wailed from start to finish. And she misses me. And I miss her. And I want her back. I want her in my life.

This is Sjoerd Douwenga, the dude who owns Mardo Photos in Sandton City. They're the dudes who play out my palmtop drawings on photographic paper. I was there earlier this afternoon getting printouts of all my drawings to take to The Spaza Gallery in Troyeville. Looks like I'm going to be exhibiting there on their "Faces" show. Lionel Murcott and I are the two confirmed artists so far. Exhibition opens this Saturday, 15 May 2004.I tell her about an insight I've had in therapy. Zahava has mentioned a technical term called cathexis. The definition I'm about to give is a total busk, and may very well be completely wrong, but it's what I've understood of the term. "Jacqui," I say, "cathexis is something that happens in the development of a child. When it's really small, its world consists of it and its mother. In an abusive or dysfunctional family, the baby and the mother become inseparable. The baby thinks it IS its mother, and vice versa. There are no boundaries. And while this is normal for the first year or two, it's supposed to end, with proper boundaries being set up. In my case, it seems those boundaries weren't set, cos of my mom being alcoholic, and probably cos my dad was abusing her."

Jacqui's listening through her tears. And I'm sort of blubbering along as best I can. I say, "I think that what's happened between you and me is cathexis. By being in a close intimate relationship with you, I've cathected you. I've made you into my ideal woman, and I've become absorbed by you, and I've absorbed you. Which accounts for your feeling enveloped by the relationship."

Evantually, we rang off, and I cried myself to sleep.

I don't understand why she wants contact with me, but doesn't want me. I don't understand why she's hanging onto me, when I've been quite clear with her that I've let her go, and that I'm trying to move on. I don't understand why we're not together. Cos while there's a PART of me that might have cathected her, there are humungously healthy and aware parts of me, the majority of me, that loves her in a completely normal way. And she loves me too. What's with this woman!!??

Jacqui... please make up your mind about me. Stop with the mixed messages. Move on. Find a nice boy to make love with. Compare him to me. Then phone me and ask to come back. And yes, I'll honour your request. I'll welcome you back, provided I'm not in a happy and loving relationship with someone else. But stop with the confusion. I don't need it, and neither do you.

So this morning I get another sms from her, telling me that she's terrified that our contact last night might have given me hope. So I wait till evening to send her my reply. Which is a nine-part epic sms telling her that I'm responsible for my feelings and my hopes, and that these have nothing to do with her at all. And that she's responsible for her feelings. And that there's nothing she can say or do to stop me from having hopes of reconciliation.

And she sends me an sms back to say that she's relieved.

I dunno.

Anyway. Who knows how the heart works? It's confusing and it's sore. And all I really know for now is that I'm very, very hungry, and I need to eat.

Stacey's just having a slice of carrot cake and some tea. We're not really on a date. Just kinda coffee-shopping together. It's unlikely that anything's going to happen between her and me. Possibly cos of a lack of chemistry. More likely cos I'm nowhere near being able to consider another human being as relationship material. Which in her case means a shag's out of the question.

J.J. brings my meal. And it survives the inspection. And they've put triple the expected amount of bacon inside.

"I wonder if I can spot where they've spat in it," I say to Stacey.

"Nah," she says. "You're probably so used to the taste by now."

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thanks for your comment!