You are currently browsing the monthly archive for February, 2009.
I was in the elevator Monday night on the way down to the garage, my recycling in tow—glass/plastics/commingleds, the fun stuff. A grandma-style lady smiled at me. “Looks like someone had a good party,” she said, with genuine friendliness in her voice. Nope, I think. Just me. I smiled just the same, though, and told her that yes, it was fun.
Downstairs, I examine the evidence. Several bottles of wine, and a champagne I started (and finished) in the bath Friday night. A handful of empty beers. A dead Absolut (which was, in my defense, on the counter for a good long time before its demise last week). Padded, of course, by the usuals; an orange juice carton, an empty organic yogurt.
Later on, after Bible study, we’re trying to set a date for our next potluck. Someone suggests next Saturday. “Saturday doesn’t so much work for me,” I say. “My sister will be in town, and I think we’ll be wine tasting that day.” Fun, they say. “Yeah, and I don’t know what time we’ll be back, but honestly, we’ll probably just go and grab a margarita or something.” My Bible study—the average age of which is oooooh, 40—just stared.
That’s probably a pretty good approximation of our agenda, though. We are, after all, the family for whom happy hours are as celebrated as Sunday services; where “liquor store” is a list all its own on the hall whiteboard next to “Costco” and “grocery store.”
The family who, once told by my frat boy brother-in-law about the wonders of beer pancakes, has never looked back. I shared this gem with a group of people at a Shrove Tuesday pancake dinner last night. Pancakes are so hard to get consistently fluffy, they said, unless you go all gourmet and beat egg whites or something. I don’t know about that, but a simpler answer: beer. The cheaper the better. Use it instead of milk or water; seriously, so amazing. It’s been my pancake secret for a good long time.
On this precedent, my mom’s admission that the almighty parental unit is giving up alcohol for Lent nearly floored me. “Oh Mom!” I said, my tone the same as it might have been had she told me the house had been looted and the cars torched. “That’s so sad!” (Though her assurance that they’re planning to party it up every Sunday consoles me that no, they haven’t both completely lost their heads).
They’re planning to give all the money they’ll save to charity, too, which I think is incredibly noble.
I’m not giving up anything this year, per se. I have in the past—starbucks one year (painful), and checking e-mail during class once in school; last year, listening to my ipod on the train. I could reprise one of these or conceive another, sure, but I just don’t think it would have the desired effect. I don’t go to starbucks all that often anymore. I don’t always listen to my ipod. And sure as I’d miss the wine if I went mom and dad’s route, recycled evidence notwithstanding, it’s not a daily indulgence. (And ignore here the happy hours I have scheduled through, oh, July). I can’t think of anything that, removing, would realistically bring me the focus or the discipline the season asks.
For me, the key issue is time. Time is the commodity I hoard; it’s my most precious resource right now, and is the biggest root of my stress.
Clearly one can’t give up time. But one can better manage it; better allocate it. Maybe this will mean no more skipped Bible studies, or more moments of quiet with the macbook snapped firmly shut. Using my glass of wine moments for reflection, rather than saddling them with the great conquering of my growing list called “do this now.”
Maybe more mornings like this one, where I realize that the only Ash Wednesday service my schedule will permit is at 6.30a … And I go.
Yeah. I think it’s going to be a very long Lent.
The scary catholic tried to sleep with me last night. Repeat: the scary catholic. Tried to sleep with me. I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried, though one wonders, when did my life become so farcical? (Or tragicomical, maybe; abnormal, in any event).
He e-mailed early afternoon; he said he’d come over after work, we could grab dinner, and he’d bring the movie.
Magnolia is an incredible film, and I’m glad to have seen it. We sat on the couch all chaste-like for the entirety of its three hours, and while I can’t say I would have minded an arm around my shoulder, et cetera, it worked.
When the movie ended, we got to talking. It was a good conversation; life and love and art and experiences. His arm came out, he drew me closer, and oh, good gracious, good catholics don’t kiss like that.
I was joking with my back-home bestest the other night that I should aim to corrupt the guy; that way, he’d have something to repent, I something to give up for Lent. I’m hitting my fist into the table now, yelling up to the heavens, “But that was a joke!”
The kissing fast progressed, and before I knew what had hit me, his shirt was off, and he was standing in my living room unbuttoning his pants.
Uh-un. No way. I know my standards are not up there on the gold-paved road or anything, but I am so, so not a “puts out on the first date” kind of girl. ESPECIALLY not a “date” as loosely defined as this one, where there’s no planning, no excitement; no wine or anything.
Sad thing is, I’d be shocked if he’d pull this sort of stunt with the theresas.
What am I now, the village whore? Ignore magda for weeks, but invite yourself over at the last minute, bring her take-out from across the street, and in a very real moment of wham bam, thank you ma’am you can bed her?
I feel like I’ve been had.
Thank you, scary catholic; you are dismissed.
We were fast coming up on two weeks of radio silence when the scary catholic chips and dip guy called me last night. He’d followed up his whole “hey, I’ve wanted to ask you out forever” confession with a series of cutie text messages … for awhile. Then they stopped. I wasn’t really expecting to hear from him last weekend, with the intimidation of Valentine’s day and all, but I didn’t think it’d be long before I’d pop back into his mind, or into his calendar.
I’m a calendar girl. If it ain’t in there, it ain’t happening; I’m not the most crazy-popular person, but I have a lot going on. Uncertain men with uncertain plans do not mesh well, and I’ve recently found my heart sinking a little bit every time I block out another Friday evening or book up another Saturday night. I like having things to do, but I really was hoping to hear from him. These hopes were met with nothing. Nill. Never has my inbox felt so depressing as it has these last few weeks.
His name kept popping up—but in connection with regular mass e-mails (one of which had such a monstrous distribution list it was actually flagged as spam). ”My very Catholic friend is looking for a roommate! Any leads?” he’d write, to me and five billion theresas. Or, Tuesday, a forwarded ad for a Catholic men’s retreat followed by this message: “hope to see you gentlemen here!”
Okay, not cool. Call me, don’t call me, whatever, but take me off your Catholic guy-pals list. I fired back with words that were at once cheeky and borderline obnoxious.
Then, of course, he called.
I was in Russian, so retrieved the voicemail around 10pm. In essence, he said how great it was to hear from me (??), and was I free Thursday (today), because there was a movie he’d love to watch with me. He had it on DVD and would bring it over “if you have a TV and DVD situation in your apartment.” Ho there, cowboy. Did he just invite himself over? With one day’s notice? On a school night? Yes, yes it seems he did. Sure, we’ve been friends for awhile now, but never has he come over to my place. Odd.
I called back to, um, discuss … but no answer. I told him to call if he got my message before midnight, which evidently he did not. So now here I am, noon on Thursday, no calls, no e-mails, no plans tonight (lucky coincidence). Is he coming over? Who knows. Is he expecting dinner? Better not be.
I looked at my phone this morning after waking and, remembering, yelled WHAT!?, to no one in particular.
Why, why, WHY do I attract such very strange individuals? Has he changed his mind about the whole dating thing and is trying to keep it as just friends? Or does he think, possibly, that this is a date? I mean really, is the guy so busy that he can’t come up with a proper Friday date? A date-date, not a “hey, I’m bringing over a movie, yay Thursday”-date?
He mentioned Magnolia, which to the best of my knowledge is a fantastically un-catholicy movie. That, at least, bodes well. Still, I can’t be the only one who finds this extremely odd dating behavior.
If I gave out WTF awards, he’d take the nod this week for sure. We shall see how this all plays out, but I swear if it’s another inquisition a la Theresa, I will wash my hands of these crazies once and for all.
It was a very American weekend. I filed my taxes. I read the Sunday Post (and I mean the whole Sunday Post—not just my (ahem) usual diet of the Style section and the insert with the comics and the Target circular). I made chocolate chip cookies, took a nice Sunday drive, went to church, and did some shopping. But I did not bake a cherry pie.
For most of my growing-up years, President’s Day meant cherry pie. George Washington and his ax, you know; mom’s clever way of teaching morals, history, and culinary appreciation in one butter-laden swoop. I miss that.
I thought about making a pie this year, but something in the motivation department of my head just wasn’t cooperating. “Get up and bake a pie!” I’d say. “No thanks, we’d rather stay in bed for a bit longer, fix a cup of tea, and read Supreme Courtship,” my head responds. Not a bad way to go, in the end (and a hilarious book, by the way).
I have to say I’m in favor of our Presidents. I’ve poured a nice glass of Virginia wine—Norton, 2006, estate-bottled—as a toast, of sorts. Thomas Jefferson devoted many fruitless hours to Virginia viticulture. If you ever go up to Monticello, they’ll tell you all about his exhaustive attempts to make Virginia America’s answer to the French wine regions. Poor guy. He never saw it. I can’t say that we’re rivaling Napa or anything these days, but it’s become at least profitable; drinkable, too. Cheers!
It occurs to me now, in one of those “something is off / I might be presently making a fool of myself” moments, that Jefferson is not one of the presidents we are meant to be celebrating today. Right. Still, I’m sure Lincoln and Washington would be impressed by this here Commonwealth’s progress, yes? Yes, that’s what I thought, too.
The wine is good, although a pie might be better to have on hand when the IRS comes tracking me down. According to the filings I made this morning, the government owes me a sizeable refund. I’m convinced this is a grievous error; I owed last year, and since I made more money this year than last, something seems very backwards about this calculation. I’ll take the money if they opt to make the deposit, but I’m not holding my breath that they won’t come after me, all KGB-style in the middle of the night, with assault rifles and night-vision goggles and a warrant for my immediate arrest. Dear Magda, the government frowns on tax fraud. Contemplate that in federal prison! Love, the IRS. The cherry pie will save the day. I’ll pull out my apron, wipe the sleep from my eyes, and regale them with stories of growing up and learning to never tell lies as the pie warms in the oven. One bite and they’ll be mine. Not only will they drop all charges, they’ll all fall madly in love with my adorable domesticity and biting wit. They’ll fight bitterly over me, and the victor will sweep me off my feet and steal me away to a mansion in the suburbs where we’ll live a tax-sheltered life and I’ll never have to work again. I’ll get to spend every Monday in the kitchen, and our children will be brilliant and beautiful and eager to help do the dishes without having to be asked, ever. Profession: Incorrigible romantic; hopeless dreamer. Perhaps I should have listed that on my tax form.
I’ve never been a huge Valentine’s day girl. Sure, the flowers are nice, and a gold star to anyone who wants to send me chocolates; I’m all for celebrating love, but it seems so easily contrived this time of year.
Even looking back on the (many) attached holidays I’ve spent, I can’t point to anything really memorable. Well, not memorable in a good way, anyway. The first fourteenth I spent with J goes on that list. Dinner was a disaster. He hated the menu, I hated that we were seated under a cold air vent, and we’d both had hard days; then the surprise dessert I’d planned back at my place was totally lost on him when his back went into spasms. He got palpably angry at me for not keeping Advil in my medicine cabinet (my Aleve and Tylenol were not, it appeared, acceptable), and I drove my car into a snowbank trying to get to CVS to buy the man his “favorite medicine.” I was ten minutes late; CVS was closed. On top of that, it took me, a very small Asian man (whose girlfriend, I suspect, made him stop), a guy in a giant SUV with vanity plates reading “GODSQUAD” (a truly uncanny answer to my prayer between tire spins of “God, please help”), and the Alexandria City police (“just passing by; you folks look like you could use some assistance”) to get my totally-inappropriate-for-snow car on the road again. I drove so slowly back that I was actually honked at by a snowplow. Difficult to forget, yes. And probably an early sign of where things were headed.
I have a hard time with Valentine’s day because my imagination is just too vivid, too active. Nothing in reality is ever as good as it could have been in my head. I’m really good at imagining hugely romantic, hugely improbable situations. It’s easy to get depressed with an imaginary princess precedent.
It’s rather nice to take a moratorium from the propaganda; to spend a quiet Saturday at home without hope or expectation.
Of course, I am celebrating, in my way; before romance entered the scene, this used to be one of my very favorite holidays. What you can’t see in front of my macbook:
Yes, those pancakes are pink. And they are very, very tasty. Viva la Valentine! I really wish I had some doilies, and maybe some glitter. But definitely doilies.
I’m looking to take out a brother-in-law.
Early last month, my biochemist little sister started a new job. A new, super-smart biochemist’s job, of course, because she’s just that cool. I wanted to send her flowers, but seeing as she works on a bench with little cells in pitri dishes and things rather than enjoying a more conventional desk set-up, those flowers would probably be classed as “foreign contaminant” and banned entirely or something. The thought, at least, was there; I sent her a nice card instead.
A few weeks later, she turned 25. I remember 25; it was a really seminal birthday. A “suddenly the world sees me as adult” moment; a day of fears the likes of “why the hell do I not have my life better together, and my god, I’m a failure at everything.” I was actually offered this job of mine on my 25th birthday—the actual day!—but my depressed funk did not involve checking e-mail, so I didn’t find out until later. To the best of my knowledge, then, I was unemployed; not yet sure if I’d passed the bar so possibly never employable; living in my parents’ house. It was a pretty black day. It’s worse in our family, I think, where our parents are just adorable and in love and will regale us with stories of just how positively put-together and mature they were at our age. “Thanks, mom,” I feel like saying; “That could be me, I suppose, but not all of us choose to get married when we’re NINETEEN, thanks.”
Anyway. My sister. I was back here in DC by the time her birthday rolled around, but left in my parents’ care a cutie North Face fleece she’s been lusting over and one of those cool-kids sigg water bottles. (be it noted, she’s significantly more outdoorsy than myself).
I was talking to her over the weekend; storms are brewing on the home front, she said. In simple terms, she said, she’s just getting fed up with her husband’s selfishness. He’s never, not once in their two year marriage, cleaned the bathroom, she said. He’s in grad school, and every morning she drives him to school, and packs his lunch. She works, but she does all the cooking and all the cleaning and all of the organization of life’s details. A lot of this is her: I’ve long been under the impression that this guy is ridiculously immature, and she’s always been a nurturer. Unless she speaks up and says “Hey, help me out here,” which is out of character for her, I honestly don’t think it would even occur to him.
It seems something snapped in her, though; according to her retelling, they were talking about children (Dear biochemists, please have babies. I’d be a great aunt. Thanks.) this past week and she just blew up. “I don’t have time for children. Taking care of you is all the children I can handle right now” her arsenal, or something similar. Then, and I love this, she told him he “had no shareholder value.” My dad used to say that about our dog. Classic.
All couples, especially young ones, have their problems, and it’s really not my space to sit here all high and mighty with my pen of judgment or whatever. The bathroom, and the lunch-packing, and the apparent dependency I will overlook.
The job and the birthday I will not.
She got my card and my imaginary flowers and she cried, she said. Her husband had celebrated nothing but her higher paycheck. “Did he even notice?” She asked me. “Did he even care that this is huge for me?”
And, worse by far, the man got her NOTHING for her birthday. Her 25th birthday—nothing. Not even a card. “He said happy birthday and gave me a back rub,” she says in his defense, but that’s bullshit. You say “happy Friday” and give her a backrub, asshat. And there’s no way you let her cook dinner.
She went on making excuses for him, like his being busy with schoolwork or worried about (their) money would excuse such egregious behavior. Birthdays were never a big deal in his family, I get that. But they are for her! And he’s been married to her for two years; he knows this. She goes so far out of her way each year to celebrate his day, and here she was, on her scary day of 25, with nothing but a brunch with my freakishly perfect parents and a husband who can’t wait to get back to the lab.
I told her they’ve GOT to sit down and talk. Shareholder value or no, it’s a communication problem first and foremost.
They’re heading off this Friday for a long weekend at the Oregon Coast where they honeymooned; her idea, of course, but a valiant one. I hope they have a good time and patch up some of these rifts, renew that spark, et cetera.
Suddenly, my Valentine’s plan involving Bridget Jones, a bottle of wine, and a batch of cherry-chocolate chip cookies is looking pretty glorious. Pretty glorious indeed.
I’m not a huge wine expert, but from what I’ve read the tannins in red wine are what carry all of the health properties—the reasons French people don’t get fat, the good-for-your-heart elements, the essential minerals, and the like. I was at the Virginia Wine Expo yesterday, and it seemed like nearly every booth we visited had these very weak, watery-style reds masquerading as merlots and cab francs. “Notice the smooth taste?” the pourer would ask. “That’s because we make our wine without the heavy tannins!” This was apparently a bragging point for them; they’d say it like it was a gold-medal worthy feat. But why? Why without the tannins? We did taste some really good blends, but I’ve learned this much: I like tannins. Pour it strong and pour it dark, thanks.
That was just one of the weekend’s lessons.
I was deep-cleaning my kitchen on Friday night when the ringleader of the Theresas called me up. I’ve learned that, in the future, it’s okay to say no. Because if I don’t, Friday will happen all over again. She’ll come over, and complain about the bleach smell. “Yes,” I’ll say. “I just bleached the kitchen floor.” Then she’ll proceed to walk across that floor in her boots—not noticing, evidently, that I’ve checked my shoes at the door—and I’ll down the screwdriver in my hand so fast I won’t feel the tooth marks in my tongue. Then she’ll blow up a dinner I didn’t realize she was bringing in my just-cleaned microwave, and I’ll really feel like hurting someone.
She’ll want to go to the movies, but will worry that they’re all “inappropriate.” She’ll make me feel like a heathen for suggesting that, possibly, these movies are real life for most people, and if we’re going to love the world like we say, wouldn’t it behoove us to understand it? And aren’t we old enough to handle some scandal without it profoundly affecting us? One would think. We’ll settle on my Doris Day DVD, and I’ll pretend those R-rated movies next to it on my shelf were all unsolicited gifts from friends (lies!).
She’ll ask me her opinions on the “Catholic formation” of a potential new roommate. “Oh I wish you’d just be my roommate,” she’ll legitimately say to me, and I’ll nearly choke on the wine to which I’ve transitioned. Me!? ME! If she’s worried about this new girl’s Catholic formation, I challenge her to open her eyes a bit wider re: my wildly liberal interpretation of that which is and is not acceptably “Catholic.”
She’ll compliment me on things in my apartment, but will then ask, like a broken record, “how much is this? If you don’t mind my asking.” Which of course I do, but can that be said? “Why yes, actually, I do mind, and it’s none of your damn business?” I live in a very expensive building. I have some very expensive things. My car, my crate & barrel bed; my coach purses, my china dishes, and what she openly called my “yuppy urban herb garden,” courtesy mom and dad at Christmas. Sometimes I can fudge it. “It was a gift,” I’ll say; “I bought it a long time ago”; “I don’t really remember.” Sometimes, though, I’ll just humor her. “Oh, that cabinet? I got it last fall. It was around $800, I think; cute, huh!?” To which she will, inevitably, respond with a my-life-is-forever-rocked “Oh Magda. Don’t you realize how expensive that is?” And then, wait for it … “How can you afford that?”
That, right there, is my favorite question. Well, Theresa, there’s this place I go called work. I mostly think they’re a lot of morons, but if I go there every day, and slap a smile on my face, every two weeks they send money to my account. I save some, I spend some, and I give some away. And that is how I afford this. (What does she want me to say? I’m an heiress, and bought it out of my trust fund? I actually sell crack cocaine down in SE on the weekends? Seriously).
I try so hard to love this girl. But I’ve got to say no sometimes, because I don’t like writing posts like this, and I don’t like waking up angry on a Saturday morning because MY GOD the woman was here till 2am and DID NOT GET THE MESSAGE TO LEAVE EVEN THOUGH I FELL ASLEEP ON MY OWN COUCH. I’ll walk her to her car, and it’s another extrication exercise a la Houdini to get out, away from her tireless conversation, and into my bed. No, I don’t want to see all of your new car’s features. No, I don’t want to “experience” the sound system from the back seat. Let me go, woman. My patience and hospitality are seriously dried up.
All of this made Saturday morning come early; a morning where I learned that it’s not all that wise to dress in a college sweatshirt with my hair tied up and minimal make-up if I expect people to believe I’m over 21. This was demonstrated most spectacularly at the wine expo when a surely dementia-afflicted wine rep challenged my age. “Oh, well you look so young!” she said when she was corrected. Then, totally seriously to my friend who’s but a year older, “but your mother sure looks young, too.” Mortified silence followed; “She didn’t. Did she?” an unspoken hum between us. Noting that something must be amiss, Dementia says to my friend, “oh dear. Are you her sister and I’ve just insulted you?” Yeeeah, we didn’t taste any more of their wine.
Calling her boyfriend “dad” for the rest of the day was pretty amusing, though.
It also distracted me from the latest proposition from George. On paper the guy is so perfect—attentive, calls when he says he will, and has asked me out for some creative date or outing every weekend since I’ve been back. I get e-mails and texts from him constantly. If he was right, I’d be thrilled. Something’s just off, though. Something in his attitude rubs me the wrong way; something about the situation is just not adding up. It’s hard to explain how it’s not, but it’s not; I have a bad feeling about the whole affair, and hearing from him yields more dread than excitement. I’ve decided, this time, to trust that. I’m learning that that’s okay—that I don’t have to be super nice and write back to his texts because it’s polite. I don’t have to do something I don’t want to do because I’m wary of hurting his feelings. I don’t have to play along and hope I change my mind because it’s what he wants. It’s not for me, I wash my hands of it, and that’s okay. I sent him a very unlike-me blow-off style email today. I feel a little bad. But not that much.
Because the truth is, good things have a way of bursting through the grime. The tannins and the sediment may be earthy and rough, but they lend complexity; real friends push past the imposters and the insults. And kitchen floors can always, always be re-cleaned.
I remember at my law school orientation a distinctive bright orange flyer amidst a sheaf of dull and informative stapled packets. It said something alarming like 79% OF LAWYERS ARE ALCOHOLICS AND HAVE DRUG ABUSE PROBLEMS, in block capitals, followed closely by the name and number of the counseling center. “Reach out to us,” it said.
That probably should have been my first sign that I was in trouble; that this road I’m traveling is not always a smooth or pretty one.
If the people I work with are any indication, lawyers are broken. But in a lot of ways, so is the law.
I think this is especially true in the realm of technology, where I spend the better part of each day. BlackBerries, the ability to quickly scan documents online, court dockets a click away–these are very good things. But there are attendant grey areas, especially where information dissemination is so fast and so furious. It almost invites chaos, and crafty lawyers are leveraging it faster than it can often bend.
Take, for instance, this dispute–where the AP claims that the popular Obama icon infringes its copyright in the photo that seems to have been the underpinning inspiration. Really? Maybe, okay, but really?
As far as I’m concerned, copyright law is out of control. A recent scheme in England is instructive: lawyers there are claiming that playing the radio, or already-purchased CDs, to ANY audience–even a pet!–is infringement. You’ve GOT to be kidding me.
This kind of thing could just as well happen on this side of the Atlantic; the bigshot lawyers down at music industry HQ are fond of suing college students for file sharing (technically within their rights, but at what cost); mechanics for playing music too loudly (oh come on); and church groups who broadcast the superbowl to large gatherings of people (for crying out loud). Times are tough, but surely we needn’t stoop that low.
Today I came across the news that the University of Tampa actually issued an advisory warning students this past weekend that if they watched the superbowl in groups of more than 3.4 people (?), they would be breaking the law and infringing copyright. This is wrong: that would not be an infringement. On this point, a commentary on the TechDirt blog by Mike Masnick is, I think, especially poignant.
“We hear so many stories of bizarre interpretations of copyright law, that it clearly seems perfectly reasonable to many, many people that copyright law might actually say that about 3.4 people representing a public performance,” he writes. “The problem is not with some clueless folks at the University of Tampa as it is with (a) our current copyright laws that have been patched and duct taped together over and over again that no non-lawyer can truly understand them, let alone abide by them and (b) other recent rulings on copyright law that have made it clear to people that the law is used to stop perfectly normal activities.”
Precisely. He ends by urging IP lawyers to fix the law, and again I agree.
Then this news hits my inbox about some winning legalists back home, and I’m ready to sack this whole thing and move to the Bahamas. I fought the law and the law won, et cetera.
Dear Bar Association,
You all suck.
Dear Bar Association,
The ineptitude of your members depresses me beyond all modicum of rationality. Please accept my resignation forthwith.
Dear Bar Association,
Seriously!?
Dear Bar Association,
I really wish we all could get along.
It seems we’ve made it into the pink. Pink calendar pages, and pink flowers; pink hearts for sale next to those power-ranger valentines at the drug store check out.
We’re not ready to defrost just yet, but there’s something in that lining that promises—hints, really—at good things, soon.
Take Sunday afternoon. The car was reading a balmy 61′, and my peacoat, hauled along with expectations that Saturday night’s chilliness would persist, sat alone in the backseat, bathed in the sunlight from my open sunroof. The sunroof, open, in February! Unbelievable!
I’m often one of those people who glares at drivers who blast music out of their cars and it’s so loud that I could sing along, sitting clear over here in the next lane with all my windows up and my own music on, thanks ever so much. You’d think, then, that I’d realize that with the windows open, the music is that much louder. You’d think.
But then you’d ride with me, when it’s 61′ and the sun is shining and I’ve opened my sunroof and all the windows, and then maybe you wouldn’t.
At a traffic light, a guy in the next lane over looks at me and smiles. He flashes a thumbs up and says “great song!” as my face reddens.
The song in question was unfortunately “If you’re gonna play in Texas, you’ve gotta have a fiddle in the band.”
(No, I’ve never been to Texas. Yes, I really do love country music that much). Awesome.
The weekend brought as well numerous e-mails from George (mostly ignored after a really strange one sent in Russian) and a few texts from the chips&dip guy. Chips&dip guy was up north with college friends (and thinking of me, evidently).
I didn’t know quite what to think after dinner last week; he was so overt and all “I want to ask you out,” but then, well, he just didn’t. Whatever, I thought. Crazy Catholic.
Something about these texts, though, is freaking me out. It’s like my heart has run off and joined the circus. The crazy religious circus where they have eleven babies and think it’d be just swell to fill the weekend with adorations and novenas, and all the little prayers that everyone in the world knows and recites standing on their heads in a room filled with crucifixes. Now that’s a weird circus.
He sent another, last night circa 1.30am. He wrote things like “wknd.” I should be vexed! I should be sitting here at my keyboard, blasting the poor bastard for (1) writing in the middle of the night; (2) unnecessarily abridging the glory of perfectly good English words; (3) copping out and not just sending an e-mail, for crying out loud. Except? I’m not. I haven’t quite figured out why.
All I know is that re-reading that text this morning with the clarity that comes with being fully awake, I was in an exceptionally good mood. I couldn’t stop smiling as I repatriated the peacoat and tucked my pants into my snowboots.
It’s definitely still winter, but I’m loving that glimmer of sun.
