July 2009

I went to a different grocery store the other day.  Same kind of store, different location.  They didn’t have the beer I wanted (Pabst, 30 pack, in cans), so I didn’t buy any.  Then when I got to the pasta section, I swear it was as though I was on another planet.  There were no “small elbows” anywhere to be found.  The pasta was all in disturbing shapes never before seen.  Large elbows…somewhat familiar, but wrong.  Ziti? Radiatore?  All wrong.  What the heck is “Farfalle?” 


I only eat small elbows.  Sometimes, small shells are ok, but only in a mayonnaise-containing salad.  Spaghetti is pretty ok too with spaghetti sauce.  But everything else?  Small elbows and only small elbows.  Logically, I know it is the same subtance in a different shape.  And that’s just wrong.  Illogic won.


Digging through the display, though, I found some of the prize booty and made them last night: small elbows with spaghetti sauce.  Also, the beer I bought elsewhere ended up all in the fridge at Secondhand Thong rehearsal, and I am once again beerless…


So Jack and I were looking for a place to eat dinner.  There is this one restaurant nearby that I’ve passed like a million times.  It has a prominent sign out front.lunch-dinner

As you can see, it clearly indicates that food is served.  Or am I reading into this?


So, I called them, as it was a bit late and I asked if they were still serving food.


The lady that answered laughed with scorn.  “Food?!  We don’t serve food!”



Real story

E and I could never really remember how we actually met.  There was no one time.  I think we just sort of gradually became aware of each other as we followed our separate orbits and then gravity took over and we were friends.  I know I saw her on campus many times.  We dressed similarly and knew many of the same people.  That seems boring: there was nothing to remember.


Fake story

So we needed a story, which we then made up:  I was in a burning building, and E came by and rescued my cats. 



There may have been more details, but it’s even harder to remember a fake story.

There was a period of time after college when all my friends seemed to move away in a drawn-out exodus.  Most of them gravitated toward another city just like ours but with longer, colder winters.  My good friend E was no exception. 


 For awhile I pondered the possibility of orchestrating a “friend trade,” thinking that some other person’s friend must have moved here, right?  There are people moving here all the time.  I thought about it.  Then I made it happen.


E had moved, sure, but we kept in touch and the last time she visited “here” she also visited an old friend from high school whom I had never met and who had lived in Europe, and recently moved back.   I Facebook friended the mutual friend, found out she was a knitter, and invited her to knitting club, picking her up because she doesn’t have a car and lives close by.  Weirdly, we hit it off by telling E stories and figured out pretty quickly what other unusual coincidences that we have in common.


Of course E caught us posting stories about her on each other’s Facebook pages, but they were all such interesting, funny, warm stories that- well, how could she be mad?  It is too hard to make real friends in this world, especially starting as an adult, to criticize how one can become friends.  I will have to post more about this.  Maybe tomorrow.

Last night Jack and I were out for a late-night walk.  It was peaceful, walking in the park, with the dragon flying around and whatnot; the air still, warm, quiet.


As we were on our way home we heard several shots from a semiautomatic weapon and then a car alarm.  We looked at each other.  The sounds had clearly come from the cemetery.  Jack said that was very efficient.  Neither of us had our phones.


I raced home and called the police within five minutes of hearing the shots, trying to explain to an officer where I had heard them.  The cemetery has a new name.  He couldn’t find either name on whatever map he was looking at, asking a couple silly questions.  I explained exactly where. 


All our windows were open.  I heard one siren go toward that area when I was barely off the phone.


A couple minutes later, another siren. 


That’s all I got.

My friend pulled a hamstring and I called her up so she could tell me aaaallll about it.  She said, “It feels better when I rub my butt, but I can’t do that at work.” 


I said, “I rub my butt at work.”  You know, if it hurts or something.  (Seems logical to me, right?)  Maybe I shouldn’t do that.  Nobody ever says anything about it, but people are funny creatures.  Nobody will ever tell me if my deodorant isn’t working (or if I forgot to put it on), even if I ask.  Maybe I just need a better internal editor.


Or a backspace button.

I got a notice in the mail letting me know that if I opened up a new CD at the bank, they would give me $25.

I walked into the bank confidently. I knew exactly what I wanted.

I handed it to the teller, saying
“I have this piece of paper here that says you’re going to give me money.”


She looked at me with absolute terror before apparently realizing that I was not about to hold hostages.   Later it was funny.  At that moment it was not.  I did get the CD though.

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