So. Good god, if it ever gets to the point where it’s remotely serious and I have to tell her about the blog, this’ll have to be erased, so eat this note after you read it, ‘kay?
A Very Nice Time. She’s funny, and she smiles a lot: I think that’s what I like best. She seems quietly content in herself. I tend usually to be attracted the cynical, the depressed, the pessimistic. The occasional psychotic (no, you don’t know her). The opposite of me. She’s rather more like me than those I usually date, and that makes me wonder. Opposites are a pain in the ass, but you gotta admit, they attract. Boy howdy.
It was a very casual night, since she had only had a short nap after her 30 hour shift (and I complain?) and I got off work at seven. Late dinner at the taqueria down the street from my house, and then Pieces of April, which I thought was darling. Patricia Clarkson rocks the house. And Oliver Platt was very good. Katie What’sHerFace was very good, too, but I kept wanting to wipe off some of her eye makeup. She didn’t entirely convince me that she had a tattoo on her neck and black rubber bracelets. She’s so good looking.
Then a night walk back to my house, through my neighborhood, which never fails to make me happy. I actually kick up my heels sometimes. I try to do this surreptitiously, but people occasionally notice. I don’t think she did, though. It was a suave little hop. Yeah.
(Confession that I probably shouldn’t blog, so it’s that much more interesting: Awkward kiss at the car. No, really. So awkward I just started it over. I believe I said something inane like, “All righty.” Then a sweet kiss, but a little.... well, no word works but awkward. In the past, luckily, I’ve been more often confronted with the Oh-Lord-Wow-NOW kind of kiss, and this wasn’t it. I don’t tend to revisit awkward kisses. Call me non-old-fashioned. But this one I’d like to revisit. Maybe inside, with a bottle of wine (pity I don’t cook), instead of next to her car, standing in the road, in the cold. But I did want to kiss her more, so that’s a good sign.)
Men are easier,* I tell you that much.
Recently a friend asked me, upon hearing I had a website, “You have one of those online journals? [Snicker.] I could never do that, I’m too private.”
I responded, like I always do, with how I’m very private too, I just fool people into thinking they know more about me than they do, and that I just let them read only what I choose to reveal. I’m so private you think I’m NOT private!
I realize here and now, it ain’t true. I don’t have a private bone in my body. The only thing that censors me at ALL is the fact that my mom reads this blog. Hiya, little mama. Otherwise, we’d be discussing the fact that my darling friend Tara, who works for Toys in Babeland, thanked me yesterday for taping Keen Eddie episodes for her with this gift. Mom, don’t click. DON’T! Not work safe, either. (But everyone else, you know you want one. “Writer’s block will never be the same.” Heh.)
No knitting content today. But I’m almost done with the first sleeve. Yippee!
* Gross exaggeration, I realize, and could be construed as offensive. I don't mean it like that at all. But they can sometimes be easier. Think about it. TWO women processing, all the time? Yow.
** Addendum, after several GREAT comments. Men do process. In fact, some men I have known process more than me. Maybe it comes down to what George Sand said, that the differences between the sexes are so tiny that we blow them up out of all proportion. Well, she said it better than that. Obviously. But you know what I mean. Mwah, keeses to all, men AND women. (Now the rumors start....)