March 31, 2009
Family traditions
I've been talking to my uncle J. on the phone over the course of the last few days. He has been in and out of mental hospitals and rehab, did crack for years, and a whole host of other things not worth going into at the moment. He is also bipolar, and this is largely why I wanted to talk to him. He is one of only two people who I know that deals with this issue, and I crave understanding on this topic. He and I have a difficult history, but I needed to know more about his experiences, his diagnosis, his medication, how he feels right now.
It has been enlightening and terrifying and disturbing.
On one hand, he was very kind and supportive and reassuring. He understood things that I do and think and feel that not many people understand at this time. But hearing that he has to change his medication every couple of years because his body gets used to them, and hearing his descriptions of feeling full of rage and confusion and being locked in a room in a hospital were scary.
It's also apparent that he's not particularly well-controlled by his medication right now. "Believe me," he said. "You have an advantage over everyone! You're better than everyone else!"
"What?" I asked in bewilderment.
"Some people look at this like a disease or a disability or a problem that has to be dealt with. But it's not! You know how shit works! You know how life is! You get to experience it to the fullest--the highest of the highs that no one else will ever know, and the low, low, lows, too! It's an advantage, and you just have to start looking at it that way," he explained.
I sighed and said, "I know what you mean, and there are times that I love that I'm so emotional and so changeable and so...intense. But I'm exhausted. I just want some stability. I just want some quiet. I would like to have a little bit better of an idea of how I'm going to feel from one moment to the next."
He had a hard time understanding this.
It has been enlightening and terrifying and disturbing.
On one hand, he was very kind and supportive and reassuring. He understood things that I do and think and feel that not many people understand at this time. But hearing that he has to change his medication every couple of years because his body gets used to them, and hearing his descriptions of feeling full of rage and confusion and being locked in a room in a hospital were scary.
It's also apparent that he's not particularly well-controlled by his medication right now. "Believe me," he said. "You have an advantage over everyone! You're better than everyone else!"
"What?" I asked in bewilderment.
"Some people look at this like a disease or a disability or a problem that has to be dealt with. But it's not! You know how shit works! You know how life is! You get to experience it to the fullest--the highest of the highs that no one else will ever know, and the low, low, lows, too! It's an advantage, and you just have to start looking at it that way," he explained.
I sighed and said, "I know what you mean, and there are times that I love that I'm so emotional and so changeable and so...intense. But I'm exhausted. I just want some stability. I just want some quiet. I would like to have a little bit better of an idea of how I'm going to feel from one moment to the next."
He had a hard time understanding this.
March 30, 2009
A good shake
Today we had an earthquake while I was at work. It was a 4.3 centered near San Jose, so I felt it pretty strongly in Los Altos (20 minutes away).
I will never get used to earthquakes; I don't care what everyone around here says.
March 29, 2009
Planning ahead, repeating: A series of vignettes
I always wanted to go to summer camp, but my family was broke, broke, broke. So I slept in the backyard and ate clover, pretending they were special wild mushrooms I'd found that would give me the power to fly away if I just ate enough. I wonder what the neighbors thought--see the wild-haired little girl in the yard with her pillow, gobbling down grass, desperately wanting it to be enough.
*************************
I used to keep a small bag packed in case our house caught on fire. I wanted my most treasured items at arm’s reach at all times in case I needed to flee fast. I remember one incarnation of my emergency kit was a little plastic suitcase that included my grandmother’s obituary, a quarter my grandpa gave me for good luck before my 4th grade spelling bee, a little red metal truck—not much bigger than one of the Hot Wheels—that came from my dead great grandfather in the event I was born a boy, a rubber mermaid with blue hair that I loved, and a piece of my mother’s lingerie because it smelled like her perfume.
Looking back I’m quite impressed with my emergency kit’s thoroughness because, at present, my emergency earthquake kit only contains a few bottles of water.
*************************
Repetition has always comforted me. As a child, one way I fulfilled this need was by pretending to sell hot dogs. It's still not clear to me why I did this because, for as long as I can remember, I've loathed hot dogs. But when I was upset and alone I would regularly gather up the raw hot-dog-making materials and pretend to sell them for hours.
The green waxy rhododendron leaves from the bush in our front yard made perfect buns. Broken sticks served as the actual "meat" (if any part of a hot dog can be called such). Freshly mown grass played the part of multiple toppings, including relish and sauerkraut. But my personal favorites were the onions. I would scrape white paint chips off our house that badly needed re-painting--and if I were ever to have been caught for this there would have been hell to pay--and break them up into bits for chopped onions. In my neighbor's yard a small dried up well with a lid made a perfect drive thru window.
I prided myself on the quality of my ingredients (each one hand gathered!), the value of my hot dogs (only pennies apiece!), and my unfailingly courteous service. Every once in awhile, though, a customer would get snippy with me. At my hot dog stand, the customer was not always right. When I was unable to reason with them I would take their order, throw it through the drive-thru window into their car, and tell them to go fuck themselves as I’d heard my mother do with various real and imaginary people. Then I would brush the chopped onions off my hands while muttering, "Some people are never happy," and put on a big smile for the next customer pulling up for their order.
*************************
My grandpa and I spent a lot of time together when I was very young. On weekends we often went out to breakfast. We would eat in silence, mostly looking out the window or at the other diners; occasionally we would comment on the quality of the food.
My favorite weekends were those when we went to Shoney’s. If you’re not familiar with Shoney’s, it’s a sit-down family restaurant that has breakfast, lunch, and dinner. On the weekends they were known for their breakfast bar with its endless supply of steak fingers and bacon. I enjoyed the food, but what I really loved was filling out the comment cards.
Part of my excitement was that I was even allowed to fill one out in the first place. My mother never would have allowed this, but my grandpa patiently loaned me his pen and answered my questions about the spelling and meaning of words like “accuracy” and “promptness.” If asked, he would also describe to me his own assessment of the meal.
I was also excited because it was so rare that anyone wanted to hear what I had to say, and here was a restaurant—a corporation—who wanted to know in detail about how my dining experience had been. So I told them. Over and over. I filled a card out each and every time we went to Shoney’s. I related the details of our order down to who had ranch dressing on the side. I carefully and truthfully rated our service and meal and overall dining experience. I reported on the server’s cheerfulness and the cleanliness of our table. I was convinced I was providing an important service. The Shoney’s company had a reliable source on the operations of their store in Bridgeport, WV and, because I loved Shoney’s, my comment cards were invariably glowing.
One day an official-looking letter arrived for me at my grandpa’s house. I squealed with glee when I saw that it was from Shoney’s. I just knew they were writing to thank me for all my efforts, and to encourage me to continue providing them with feedback! I ripped it open excitedly and my grandpa and I read it together:
Dear Miss Ashcraft, it began. How thrilling! How official! We at Shoney’s thank you for your business and your feedback via our comment cards. I knew they were paying attention! We value the feedback of our other customers, too, and ask that you do not complete any more comment cards. Please continue to enjoy our restaurants. Sincerely, Shoney’s
I was crushed and began to cry. I had thought they wanted to hear what I had to say, even if I ate the same meal every visit. I never did fill out any more comment cards at Shoney’s. I was filled with terror that—as soon as I picked one up—gunmen would surround my grandpa and I and haul us off to jail. He was just an old man! He wouldn't be able to handle doing time like I would. I put on my stiff upper lip and fought the urge to comment, knowing in my heart I was protecting our futures.
*************************
I used to keep a small bag packed in case our house caught on fire. I wanted my most treasured items at arm’s reach at all times in case I needed to flee fast. I remember one incarnation of my emergency kit was a little plastic suitcase that included my grandmother’s obituary, a quarter my grandpa gave me for good luck before my 4th grade spelling bee, a little red metal truck—not much bigger than one of the Hot Wheels—that came from my dead great grandfather in the event I was born a boy, a rubber mermaid with blue hair that I loved, and a piece of my mother’s lingerie because it smelled like her perfume.
Looking back I’m quite impressed with my emergency kit’s thoroughness because, at present, my emergency earthquake kit only contains a few bottles of water.
*************************
Repetition has always comforted me. As a child, one way I fulfilled this need was by pretending to sell hot dogs. It's still not clear to me why I did this because, for as long as I can remember, I've loathed hot dogs. But when I was upset and alone I would regularly gather up the raw hot-dog-making materials and pretend to sell them for hours.
The green waxy rhododendron leaves from the bush in our front yard made perfect buns. Broken sticks served as the actual "meat" (if any part of a hot dog can be called such). Freshly mown grass played the part of multiple toppings, including relish and sauerkraut. But my personal favorites were the onions. I would scrape white paint chips off our house that badly needed re-painting--and if I were ever to have been caught for this there would have been hell to pay--and break them up into bits for chopped onions. In my neighbor's yard a small dried up well with a lid made a perfect drive thru window.
I prided myself on the quality of my ingredients (each one hand gathered!), the value of my hot dogs (only pennies apiece!), and my unfailingly courteous service. Every once in awhile, though, a customer would get snippy with me. At my hot dog stand, the customer was not always right. When I was unable to reason with them I would take their order, throw it through the drive-thru window into their car, and tell them to go fuck themselves as I’d heard my mother do with various real and imaginary people. Then I would brush the chopped onions off my hands while muttering, "Some people are never happy," and put on a big smile for the next customer pulling up for their order.
*************************
My grandpa and I spent a lot of time together when I was very young. On weekends we often went out to breakfast. We would eat in silence, mostly looking out the window or at the other diners; occasionally we would comment on the quality of the food.
My favorite weekends were those when we went to Shoney’s. If you’re not familiar with Shoney’s, it’s a sit-down family restaurant that has breakfast, lunch, and dinner. On the weekends they were known for their breakfast bar with its endless supply of steak fingers and bacon. I enjoyed the food, but what I really loved was filling out the comment cards.
Part of my excitement was that I was even allowed to fill one out in the first place. My mother never would have allowed this, but my grandpa patiently loaned me his pen and answered my questions about the spelling and meaning of words like “accuracy” and “promptness.” If asked, he would also describe to me his own assessment of the meal.
I was also excited because it was so rare that anyone wanted to hear what I had to say, and here was a restaurant—a corporation—who wanted to know in detail about how my dining experience had been. So I told them. Over and over. I filled a card out each and every time we went to Shoney’s. I related the details of our order down to who had ranch dressing on the side. I carefully and truthfully rated our service and meal and overall dining experience. I reported on the server’s cheerfulness and the cleanliness of our table. I was convinced I was providing an important service. The Shoney’s company had a reliable source on the operations of their store in Bridgeport, WV and, because I loved Shoney’s, my comment cards were invariably glowing.
One day an official-looking letter arrived for me at my grandpa’s house. I squealed with glee when I saw that it was from Shoney’s. I just knew they were writing to thank me for all my efforts, and to encourage me to continue providing them with feedback! I ripped it open excitedly and my grandpa and I read it together:
Dear Miss Ashcraft, it began. How thrilling! How official! We at Shoney’s thank you for your business and your feedback via our comment cards. I knew they were paying attention! We value the feedback of our other customers, too, and ask that you do not complete any more comment cards. Please continue to enjoy our restaurants. Sincerely, Shoney’s
I was crushed and began to cry. I had thought they wanted to hear what I had to say, even if I ate the same meal every visit. I never did fill out any more comment cards at Shoney’s. I was filled with terror that—as soon as I picked one up—gunmen would surround my grandpa and I and haul us off to jail. He was just an old man! He wouldn't be able to handle doing time like I would. I put on my stiff upper lip and fought the urge to comment, knowing in my heart I was protecting our futures.
An incomplete recount
I dreamed of you again.
You were finally alone, which you never are when I've seen you. It makes me wonder what you'd do if you were.
I digress.
You had been away a long, long time, and I ran into you at home. Your mom and brother were so happy to see you. I had been up for three days without sleep, and was preparing to return to San Francisco. A pair of someone else's pants was mixed in with mine and, not thinking, I put them on.
When you and I spoke you were very quiet. You didn't say much but your brown eyes fixed on me intently. I saw your eyes flick to the pants I was wearing. "Oh, my God," I said, "Are these yours?"
"No, they're my wife's pants," you said, sitting down. Is it just me or did you emphasize the word wife a little too much? I thought. My next thought was, I must've lost weight. She's skinnier than me! And the thought after that was one that recalled the suspicion I always had that you wanted a skinny art chick who rode bikes and enjoyed things like finding meaning in repetitive wallpaper. (Remember our little joking arguments about that kind of stuff? I hate to point out that I was right, but if the chamois fits...)
When I woke up I was so irritated that I'd focused on my fucking weight in that dream. Then I felt moody and morose.
Must. Bake. Cookies.
You were finally alone, which you never are when I've seen you. It makes me wonder what you'd do if you were.
I digress.
You had been away a long, long time, and I ran into you at home. Your mom and brother were so happy to see you. I had been up for three days without sleep, and was preparing to return to San Francisco. A pair of someone else's pants was mixed in with mine and, not thinking, I put them on.
When you and I spoke you were very quiet. You didn't say much but your brown eyes fixed on me intently. I saw your eyes flick to the pants I was wearing. "Oh, my God," I said, "Are these yours?"
"No, they're my wife's pants," you said, sitting down. Is it just me or did you emphasize the word wife a little too much? I thought. My next thought was, I must've lost weight. She's skinnier than me! And the thought after that was one that recalled the suspicion I always had that you wanted a skinny art chick who rode bikes and enjoyed things like finding meaning in repetitive wallpaper. (Remember our little joking arguments about that kind of stuff? I hate to point out that I was right, but if the chamois fits...)
When I woke up I was so irritated that I'd focused on my fucking weight in that dream. Then I felt moody and morose.
Must. Bake. Cookies.
My log has a message for you, too.
I miss S. My life and social activities--hell, San Francisco, in general--just aren't the same without him, goddammit. I just read an email he sent around answering questions about himself, and it made me miss him worse:
Subject of email: RE: Bout me - Send one back :) (this is the expression i am wearing right now!)
Text of email prior to quiz, including his signature of sorts: drunk and bored, so suck on it, tiger!
My log has a message for you.
-Log Lady
Subject of email: RE: Bout me - Send one back :) (this is the expression i am wearing right now!)
Text of email prior to quiz, including his signature of sorts: drunk and bored, so suck on it, tiger!
My log has a message for you.
-Log Lady
March 28, 2009
I am planning to send my kids to summer camp.
I always wanted to go to camp myself, but my family was broke, broke, broke. So I slept in the backyard and ate clover, pretending they were special wild mushrooms I'd found that would give me the power to fly away if I just ate enough. I wonder what the neighbors thought--see the wild-haired little girl in the yard with her pillow, gobbling down grass, desperately wanting it to be enough.
March 27, 2009
Los Logos
My talented friend Jill at Flyeye Design is working on a logo for me for 6 Birds Cards. Here are the first two possibilities she sent. I really like the first one best, and sent her some thoughts and feedback on it along with an additional idea of my own (that is probably lamer than your grandpa's bowling shoes. What's that you say? Your grandpa's bowling shoes rock the house? Well, alright then...).
Anyway.
I'm excited!
And my book club is coming over tonight. And I'm working on buying Jenny's little mini couch because I miss my own desperately.
And and...
Morning reflection
*sigh* *smile*
I will never get tired of having dinner cooked for me. It's only ever happened a couple of times on a one-on-one basis, and it's utterly addictive. And it turns out that playing Scrabble at 2am in a hole in the wall joint in the Tenderloin is really fun.
How lovely.
*proceeds with caution*
I will never get tired of having dinner cooked for me. It's only ever happened a couple of times on a one-on-one basis, and it's utterly addictive. And it turns out that playing Scrabble at 2am in a hole in the wall joint in the Tenderloin is really fun.
How lovely.
*proceeds with caution*
March 26, 2009
Everyone Deserves A Roof
While driving to work at 4:45 am this morning (ugh) I heard NPR's "Marketplace" talking about EDAR (Everyone Deserves a Roof). Apparently, the EDAR serves as a heavy duty shopping cart by day and a tent on wheels at night. It is intended to provide homeless people with weather resistant shelter, particularly in light of the sharp increase in homelessness in light of the current economic circumstances. They were interviewing a family that consisted of two parents, two children, and two grandchildren who were living in EDARs since the husband lost his job in November. I was simultaneously struck by the sadness of needing a product like this and the cleverness of the design. If some of the same minds who worked on designing a dry, mobile, practical shelter could be put to use on a more permanent solution to homelessness, imagine what could happen.
March 24, 2009
In my mind...
...a group of us get together, tell her to go fuck herself, and march out arm in arm. Then we go toast our badassness over a margarita.
March 23, 2009
Conversation
[After an earlier discussion of my tendency to speak through analogy...]
J.T.: I just want to know if I'm barking up the wrong tree.
A: What if I'm a fire hydrant instead of a tree?
J.T.: So I'm supposed to piss on you? That's the worst analogy ever!
J.T.: I just want to know if I'm barking up the wrong tree.
A: What if I'm a fire hydrant instead of a tree?
J.T.: So I'm supposed to piss on you? That's the worst analogy ever!
Bits of news
I've commissioned a logo for 6 Birds Cards. And I'll put it on a business card. Once the logo is done and the cards are made, I'm getting myself in gear to start taking them to merchants. I'm making stockpiles of cards. I package them in little sleeves and everything.
I'm very, very close to having a new part-time job here.
It's weird to end up with someone who is a better communicator than you (because I like to *think* that I am but my shortcomings have been quite apparent in the last couple of days).
This evening I'm remembering the intimacy and comfort of seeing your laundry mingle with someone else's in the dryer.
Lamictal is $138.00. I can't pay that.
I'm very, very close to having a new part-time job here.
It's weird to end up with someone who is a better communicator than you (because I like to *think* that I am but my shortcomings have been quite apparent in the last couple of days).
This evening I'm remembering the intimacy and comfort of seeing your laundry mingle with someone else's in the dryer.
Lamictal is $138.00. I can't pay that.
March 22, 2009
For my papa
Last night I dreamed of my Papaw and Grandmother's house on Chestnut St. in Clarksburg. They lived in a big old two-story red house across from the graveyard until I was about 12 years old, and I have so many memories of being in this house.
In fact, if I could go back in time and do anything, one of the two things I would do would be to spend a weekend with them at this house circa summer 1984.
In my dream they were still gone, but the house was frozen in time--down to an icy glass of Papaw's bourbon and Sprite sitting on the end table next to his place on the couch. I wandered through the house and took everything in.
I examined the threadbare flower-print couch. The clock on the horse and carriage still sat on top of the giant television, along with pictures of papaw and grandmother as children. There was the small set of shelves with my aunt and uncles' and father's senior pictures on it next to the living room doorway. The sheers hanging on the windows still smelled like papaw's cigarette smoke.
In the hallway was the old desk with years of doodling on it and the old yellow telephone with the dial. The china cabinets in the hall and dining room still sat silently, holding their fancy dishes. The organ waited to be played. As I walked to the back of the house, it started to grow dark outside and I felt my old childhood fears of what was waiting for me around the corner re-emerge.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and still contained my cousins' and I's Strawberry Shortcake mugs, the yellow tupperware sugar bowl, and the little ceramic figurine of a little girl that held the toothpicks. My eyes shifted to the dark doorway that was the entrance to the basement, and I knew I was too afraid to go down there. Instead, I decided to go upstairs.
I climbed the 17 stairs covered in old green shag carpeting, and along the way I touched the pieces of wood in the banister that I knew were loose. My memories of this staircase were particularly strong, because my cousins and I regularly slid down the steps on our butts, counting each step as we thumped our way down; my uncles Jim and Joe regularly put us on their backs and shoulders and ran down the staircase. We screamed with delight and terror as they yelled, "Who's your favorite uncle!?"
I came to the top of the staircase to the clothes hamper and the bathroom doorway, and recalled that my grandmother reported seeing her mother-in-law's ghost at this very spot. A shiver of fear ran down me. I gulped it down, wanting my dreamy reverie to last longer.
The bathroom still contained my favorite things: the child's backscrubber shaped like a giraffe (which I now own); my grandmother's robin's egg blue Estee Lauder power box with the giant silky powder puff inside; Close-Up toothpaste; a bar of Zest soap in the shower, and the bottle of Chloroseptic which I loved to spray into my mouth to make my throat numb. I smiled when I eyed the toilet paper, remembering the day Michelle and I had unraveled two whole rolls to wad up and stuff under our shirts to make us look pregnant. We got in trouble for being so wasteful, and the family used a plastic bag of wadded up toilet paper for the next couple of days.
That's as far as I got in my dream. I never made it into any of the bedrooms. But I was grateful to re-experience the sights and smells and memories of this house again.
In fact, if I could go back in time and do anything, one of the two things I would do would be to spend a weekend with them at this house circa summer 1984.
In my dream they were still gone, but the house was frozen in time--down to an icy glass of Papaw's bourbon and Sprite sitting on the end table next to his place on the couch. I wandered through the house and took everything in.
I examined the threadbare flower-print couch. The clock on the horse and carriage still sat on top of the giant television, along with pictures of papaw and grandmother as children. There was the small set of shelves with my aunt and uncles' and father's senior pictures on it next to the living room doorway. The sheers hanging on the windows still smelled like papaw's cigarette smoke.
In the hallway was the old desk with years of doodling on it and the old yellow telephone with the dial. The china cabinets in the hall and dining room still sat silently, holding their fancy dishes. The organ waited to be played. As I walked to the back of the house, it started to grow dark outside and I felt my old childhood fears of what was waiting for me around the corner re-emerge.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and still contained my cousins' and I's Strawberry Shortcake mugs, the yellow tupperware sugar bowl, and the little ceramic figurine of a little girl that held the toothpicks. My eyes shifted to the dark doorway that was the entrance to the basement, and I knew I was too afraid to go down there. Instead, I decided to go upstairs.
I climbed the 17 stairs covered in old green shag carpeting, and along the way I touched the pieces of wood in the banister that I knew were loose. My memories of this staircase were particularly strong, because my cousins and I regularly slid down the steps on our butts, counting each step as we thumped our way down; my uncles Jim and Joe regularly put us on their backs and shoulders and ran down the staircase. We screamed with delight and terror as they yelled, "Who's your favorite uncle!?"
I came to the top of the staircase to the clothes hamper and the bathroom doorway, and recalled that my grandmother reported seeing her mother-in-law's ghost at this very spot. A shiver of fear ran down me. I gulped it down, wanting my dreamy reverie to last longer.
The bathroom still contained my favorite things: the child's backscrubber shaped like a giraffe (which I now own); my grandmother's robin's egg blue Estee Lauder power box with the giant silky powder puff inside; Close-Up toothpaste; a bar of Zest soap in the shower, and the bottle of Chloroseptic which I loved to spray into my mouth to make my throat numb. I smiled when I eyed the toilet paper, remembering the day Michelle and I had unraveled two whole rolls to wad up and stuff under our shirts to make us look pregnant. We got in trouble for being so wasteful, and the family used a plastic bag of wadded up toilet paper for the next couple of days.
That's as far as I got in my dream. I never made it into any of the bedrooms. But I was grateful to re-experience the sights and smells and memories of this house again.
"Picture me rolling."
My friend Nick makes the most hilarious videos of his son Elliot. In this one he learns to roll with his homies.
March 19, 2009
Grandmother; swallows
(Perhaps I should separate those two topics better.)
Today, March 19, has been two years since my grandmother died.
Today is also apparently the day the swallows return to San Juan Capistrano, CA.
Today, March 19, has been two years since my grandmother died.
Today is also apparently the day the swallows return to San Juan Capistrano, CA.
March 18, 2009
Hours of entertaining myself
I found this book on clearance at Border's: The Bird Songs Anthology (200 birds from North America and Beyond featuring Audio from The Cornell Lab of Ornithology). It's like a See 'n Say of bird species because you can listen to the different calls and clucks of each bird. My own birdies get very worked up when I play it, and I never seem to get tired of hearing them squawk in unison at each bird call. I am very careful not to play the cries of their natural predators, however; that would be cruel.
I am now working on or have completed 7 boxes! This morning I got up extra early so I could spend some peaceful pre-dawn moments working on one before leaving for the grind. I can lose myself in them for hours. The one I'm working on now is particularly personal to me (and that's saying a lot because they ALL are personal to me) and involves cutting the page number 98 out of dozens and dozens of my books to be put on the box. Perhaps with his fancy new camera and its enviable bokeh capabilities that my own crappy little camera does not share, Matt might assist me in documenting the boxes before I sell or give them away...
March 15, 2009
Why any of this surprises me anymore I don't know.
Setting: In the car at the end of a first date. We had been driving around and, after I made it clear we were not going to end up at my house, I told him I'd take him to a BART station. I am about to pull out of a parking place, and I'm selecting a playlist from my iPod.
K: [takes iPod out of my hands] Do you just wanna make out?
A: [sits back against driver side door] What?
K: Do you just wanna make out for a little while?
A: No...
K: [in a surprised voice] Really? Just for a little bit?
A: No. I'm sorry to disappoint you. You're nice, but I would need to go out with you a couple of times before I knew if I wanted to make out with you.
K: You don't make out on the first date?
A: No, I don't. [pauses to gauge his reaction] Is that so shocking to you?
K: Well, yeah. I mean, how do you know if you want to go out with someone again or not? I have to make out with someone first and then I can tell if I want to go out with them again. If I like kissing you, then I'll know...
A: Is that the only way you have of telling if you want to go out with someone again?
K: [thinks for a second] Well, it's not the only way. But it's the way I use. You really don't make out on the first date? I can't believe it.
A: Obviously I'm not the girl for you.
K: So you're just taking me to BART now?
A: Well, if I don't want to make out and you don't want to talk...
K: It's just that there are limits to talking. I only have so much I'd want to say anyway.
K: [takes iPod out of my hands] Do you just wanna make out?
A: [sits back against driver side door] What?
K: Do you just wanna make out for a little while?
A: No...
K: [in a surprised voice] Really? Just for a little bit?
A: No. I'm sorry to disappoint you. You're nice, but I would need to go out with you a couple of times before I knew if I wanted to make out with you.
K: You don't make out on the first date?
A: No, I don't. [pauses to gauge his reaction] Is that so shocking to you?
K: Well, yeah. I mean, how do you know if you want to go out with someone again or not? I have to make out with someone first and then I can tell if I want to go out with them again. If I like kissing you, then I'll know...
A: Is that the only way you have of telling if you want to go out with someone again?
K: [thinks for a second] Well, it's not the only way. But it's the way I use. You really don't make out on the first date? I can't believe it.
A: Obviously I'm not the girl for you.
K: So you're just taking me to BART now?
A: Well, if I don't want to make out and you don't want to talk...
K: It's just that there are limits to talking. I only have so much I'd want to say anyway.
March 14, 2009
Thank you. I think.
Email from a friend who saw my blog for the first time:
M.F.: Your blog rules. I can read all kinds of embarrassing stuff about you on my phone while taking a dump now!
M.F.: Your blog rules. I can read all kinds of embarrassing stuff about you on my phone while taking a dump now!
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