My dog has diarrhea. Gross. I'm not sure I know how to clean it up. Gross. I am stalling. Gross.
I have a new unread Nylon, probably at least four unread Vogues, and the last Sunday Times unopened--that's not to mention all of the books I started this summer and didn't finish. Which reminds me... I still haven't received one of the textbooks I ordered a week ago from half.com. Bitches. But I did finally get my cell phone battery from ebay, so I will now be adopting Anna Mullin's old pink Razr as my full time phone. Which means that sadly I will be retiring Colin's old Samsung. But the caller id was all crossed up and everytime Tess called me it indicated that the girls' school principal was calling. Of all the times Jeremy's called me the id has almost never said the same thing. It seems to favor people from work. Bizarreo.
Last night I went to this MFA party and while trying to be nice to a new little couple in the program of course I put my foot in it and they looked super horrified and the girl got all defensive and protective, even though what I said was mildly funny and fairly benign. Oh well. In related news, it never ceases to amaze how drunk you can get from sharing in kegs/pitchers (in that order) instead of drinking single servings of beer. How drunk, you ask? So drunk you think you can pull off Whitney Houston's "How Will I Know?" at karaoke. That's just an example, though. Totally created for illustrative purposes.
Three albums are easing my transition from summer to superserious work time. They are Wilco's Sky Blue Sky, Tegan and Sara's The Con, and Over the Rhine's The Trumpet Child. They kind of all make me happy and concerned at the same time. And they kind of make me thank God for giving us music.
And now, to close, I have a super short story to relate. I'm trying to avoid being an interferring narrator so you may produce your own commentary. Enjoy.
A young woman notices a much older man staring at her from the end of the bar. She thinks not much of it, but when she must approach the bar for a beer, she is confronted with his notice. As a matter of exposition, I will tell you that this man is certainly close to or over 60 years old, quite stout, and he has very long, bushy, grey/black hair, drawn into a pony tail. And a long, bushy, grey/black, but well-groomed beard.
The young woman tells the barkeep to pour her a beer, and while the barkeep busies himself with her request, the bushy grey/black man attempts to engage the young woman.
"Whose little girl are you?"
She is puzzled. "What?"
"Whose little girl are you?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Well, " he gestures to her wedding set, "you're engaged aren't you?"
"I'm married, yes."
"Well whose little girl are you?"
"I guess, um, I'm my own little girl. I mean, uh, I'm my own woman."
"Oh, I didn't mean any offense by asking. I was just trying to flirt with you a little--"
"Well, my husband's name is Jeremy, if that's what you mean."
"--You know, like in a Shakespeare play."
"Which one?"
"Oh, definitely a romance or a comedy for you. But me, mine's a tragedy. My little girl left me after 21 years. She broke up with me. So I was just sitting here, noticing you all full of life, and hoping you didn't have a little boy."
The young woman's beers are ready and she turns away from the bar but tells the bushy grey/black man to take care.
Thirty or so minutes later on his way out of the bar he touches the back of her chair and demands,
"Say hi to Jeremy for me."
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2 comments:
that guy sounds like a real charmer. I bet you were wishing you weren't married so you could give him a shot.
Hope it's not too hot in Tennessee.
wait--how did you know it was me in the story?
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