Furniture delivery

Last night Laura and I wound up at Busboys & Poets. We'd started with drinks at Indebleu, moved on to Zengo for appetizers. And then we decided to walk up to U Street.

I swear, Laura has no fear. She walks all over DC at night by herself. We walked up 11th from downtown to U Street.

I've been mugged - only once, and years ago - and so am a complete chicken walking in the dark. I was so twitchy the whole way. I put on my commuting shoes, stuck my platforms in my bag, and make her walk really, really fast. We practically sprinted.

We got up to U Street and were trying to decide where to go. Somewhere easy and comfortable and not stressful and where we wouldn't have to talk to random men. Because, as I have mentioned before, guys trip over themselves to give her their cards.

She denies this but I swear it's true. I've seen it happen a number of times. Hell, I've been tripped over a number of times.

In any case, we wound up on a super comfy couch at Busboys. Laura was starting to get cranky, so I insisted we get some chocolate into our systems and ordered cake. Good call.

There was a couple sitting on a couch near us. If I'd been good at geometry I'd know the term. Like, if our couches made an L, they'd be one side of the L and we'd be the other. Not facing us but in very close proximity.

Laura and I were turned on our couch facing each other; I had my back to them. In other words, Laura was facing them. This only matters because basically, talking to me means she is also talking at them.

She has today off. And so at some point we were tired, and eating cake and lounging, winding down from the night and just brain turned off silly. So she begins describing her Friday in contrast to my upcoming one.

She began, "I'll probably roll out of bed without my alarm. But still early. Probably about when you're putting on your work clothes and hurrying out the door."

"I love how they put fresh strawberries on the cake, don't you?"

Not deterred, she continues, "Yeah, when you're walking to work, I'll be lounging in my garden. And just as you're getting to the office, I'll just be stretching," and with this she makes a big, lazy stretching motion.

I look away.

"I'll be wondering if I want to make another pot of coffee or go for a run. . ."

I pretend to brush a stray hair off my forehead. With my middle finger.

"And then I'll probably take a long, leisurely shower."

I remark on how delicious my iced chai is. Yum!

She ignores. "Hmm. After that. Ahhhh. I might make myself a nice, relaxing cup of chamomile tea. Maybe I'll flip through a magazine. That's probably what I'll be doing as you sit at your computer.""

"This chocolate cake is amazing. You should really have more."

She continues, "And between 11:00 and 1:00 I'll just hang out and wait for the furniture delivery men.

I pretend to be completely engrossed in the chocolate cake. "I love this cake."

"Yeah. And if one of them is hot, I'll probably just go ahead and have sex with him."

This makes me giggle. "I don't see why not. You have the whole day off."

And then the look on Laura's fact turns to mild horror. She whispers, "Those people just heard me say that! And they think I'm serious!"

I start to laugh. Then she does. We are both laughing so hard we have tears running down our faces.

Because what do you then say? You can't really wave and get their attention just to say, "Heh heh! And heh! Just kidding! Not really going to have sex with the furniture delivery guys! No sirreee! Just making idiotic conversation with my friend over here! Heh!"

I was so glad that this time it was her and not me.

The garden state of did I actually say that? Or, how to turn all of New Jersey into a suburb of New York

I'm slightly hesitant to post this so soon after Miss South Carolina. But I trust you know that the differences between the two of us are far vaster than skin deep.

I know about the maps. I just sometimes don't think about the individual states.

My date the other night - the one whose name I couldn't remember - is originally from New Jersey. (And Dagny, apologies in advance for what I'm about to describe.)

We spent a little time talking about New Jersey. The fact that I don't know much about it. That my sister-in-law is from there but I have no idea precisely where. That the accent is interesting but she doesn't have one. That his is very slight. That I stopped there once on my way to NY and had the best cheese fries ever on the Jersey shore.

In other words, all positive, and not particularly substantive. I never deliberately denigrate the place anyone calls home. Just occasionally accidentally.

As I was eating my seaweed salad, he was talking about missing the amazing produce that he grew up with. Fantastic corn, incredible tomatoes, all kinds of fruits and vegetables. He was, in fact, rhapsodizing about the tomatoes.

"Huh. They grow all those things in New Jersey? Really?"

Agriculture, it turns out is huge in New Jersey. Did I not know this? No.

"What," he wanted to know, "do you think most people in the state do for work?"

Goodness. I'd never given it any thought.

"Well, I suppose I thought they commuted to New York."

"The entire state commutes to New York?"

Hmm. I know I'd commute to New York.

"You do know it's called the Garden State?"

"Yes."

"Why do you think they call it the Garden State?"

That bit I'd actually thought about before. Yes, I'm properly cringing as I write the next line.

"People always talk about how beautiful it is. So I always assumed New Jersey was full of lush green lawns."

"Nice lawns? You thought it was an entire state of nice lawns?"

Well, in a word, yes.

Proof that the US American education system rocks

If schadenfreude is your thing, you'll love this video. It's really painful.

Because my guy friends are who they are, their email conversation around this was not, "I'd do her!" but rather whether she's a Republican or a Democrat. Honestly.


You know how sometimes you get into a conversation about something that has nothing to do with reality? But you take a stance on something, and then when you're pushed, you stand firm. You will, in fact, argue it to the bitter, bitter end. Just because you believe you are right. Even if it makes no sense. And has nothing to do with anything.

Here's an example of what I'm talking about. And it's related to the video above.

Yesterday I had a conversation with Maricel about an argument she'd had with her boyfriend. About their possibly one day sometime far far in the future children.

She'd asked if he'd mind if his daughter were in beauty pageants. He's fairly conservative, and she was certain he'd say no.

But he said he'd be fine with it. "Absolutely! Sounds great!"

"So you'd be fine with her parading around in little bathing suits and high heels on stage. But she wouldn't be allowed to date."

"Exactly. As long as there were no touching, she could wear whatever she had to. And then if she won the pageants, she'd be earning lots of money!"

So Maricel said that she'd have to finish high school before she started entering pageants. And she could do pageants while she went to college.

He said that if she were winning loads of cash, he wouldn't care if she went to college or not.

Maricel was incensed. She wasn't about to raise a daughter with a huge emphasis on looks and none on brains. Their daughter would have to go to college!

This turned into a pretty heated argument. About a fictional daughter.

In a separate conversation, he asked if it would be OK with her if their son ordered a mail-order bride.

No way. Maricel is Filipina. And all she could picture was her son winding up with a money-grubbing, green-card seeking trollop. And there was no way in Hell she would let this happen to her son.

"Why not?" He asked. "What if he'd exhausted all his other opportunities for love?"

So she argued that he actually believes in the sanctity of marriage, and does he really believe one can find love and be happy by ordering someone from mailorderbrides.com?

I'm summarizing both fights, of course. They both went on and were long and drawn-out arguments.

She told me both stories back to back yesterday, although it turns out they were conversations separated by days. But they were together in my mind.

And so I had to point out the ridiculousness of the contrast between their fictional children.

"So according to Mike, your daughter is going to be this gorgeous, amazing creature who wins Miss USA. And your son is going to have to resort to buying a wife."

"Exactly. Our daughter is going to be fantastic. And our son is going to be a complete loser."

"Huh. Sorry about that."

And, she continued, "I don't want to have a stupid daughter who thinks only looks are important and people need to have more maps."

"She won't be stupid. You're both bright. She might be really boring, since she'll probably spend all her time with stupid people with the inability to string a coherent sentence together. But she'll be smart."

This was scant consolation to her.

And then I gave it a little more thought.

And asked, "But what I don't get is, if you're daughter is constantly surrounded by all these beautiful, albeit vapid, women, why can't she just set your son up with one of them? How come he has to buy a wife?"

It might be a sign to stop dating so much

I wonder if I'm getting too cavalier about the dating thing.

Once I get into this pattern of going on a lot of dates, I get incredibly blasé. I never get nervous. While I do generally try to look presentable and remember to put on makeup, I don't even necessarily bathe beforehand anymore.

I know that I used to get excited about dates. I definitely used to perform my ablutions, and fret about my outfit, and wear cute underwear. Not because I was planning to get naked, but you know, because it was kind of special.

Where am I going with this? I had a date last night. And as I was walking over to meet him, I realized I couldn't remember his name. Seriously. Steve? Dave? John? I was pretty certain it was along those lines but none of them. I was hoping it would come to me. It never did.

Laura happened to text as I was walking, and I texted back with my panic. She said, "Try Asmodious." Helpful. Thanks.

Fortunately, I could just walk up and say, "Hi! Nice to see you!" And all was fine.

But still. I felt like a boor. I was raised better than this.

We met at Russia House. He ordered pierogies because I declined a vodka cocktail, even though one of the best things I have ever had is their horseradish vodka, because I have finally learned that I can't quaff liquor pre-dinner without disastrous consequences. I even told him about drunk-dialing my mother as an example of this. I left out the butternose incident of the same evening.

I always feel slightly dangerous having cocktails at Russia House. As if I might be involved in some nefarious activity. I think this is why I like the place. Me, girl next door blonde bob first born rule-follower. When do I ever feel dangerous?

It was a gorgeous night, so we headed to Perry's roofdeck for sushi. You know August has practically emptied out DC when it's a nice evening and easy to get a seat on the roof of Perry's.

It was fun, and during dinner I forgot that I didn't know his name. He's very bright and interesting and fairly intense. All of which I like. He started a story involving him being told repeatedly that people get tired just watching him, because he moves and talks really fast and never sits still.

The point? "I've never met anyone who moves or talks faster than I do. Except you." He meant this as a compliment.

It's true. My default is fast. People always think I'm late or in a hurry, but the truth is, walking slowly bores me. It takes more physical (and emotional) effort for me to stroll than to walk quickly.

And I genuinely do talk ridiculously fast. My dad is always telling me he can't understand my phone messages. And I need to slow! down! But it takes a lot of concentration to talk slowly.

A couple years ago a friend of mine and I were out with a group of people, including a guy I was dating. He said he looked across the room at us, and we were talking and gesticulating so fast he was mesmerized.

He said, "You never once broke eye contact. And the rate of information exchange was just dizzying."

So. The eating of sushi hampers my rate of information exchange immensely. I'm certain I'm not remotely elegant as I sit there chewing a mouth over-full of rice and fish. But apparently I continue to gesticulate as rapidly as I would otherwise. Charming.

But back to my original point. I came home and looked at my last email from The Date. You know, so I could figure out his name.

Argh! What kind of churl gets treated to a nice dinner by a man whose name she cannot remember?

I do think it might be a sign.

I delete you

I cull contacts from my phone regularly.

If we haven't talked in a while, and I don't have a particular inclination to call, I'll probably delete the person. If I met you ages ago and we thought it was a great idea to exchange numbers, and then neither of us ever called, I'll delete. Even though you can jump to a particular letter, I just don't like having to scroll through too many names.

And I delete men from my phone with alarming alacrity.

You piss me off. Delete. You hurt my feelings. Delete. You disappoint me. Delete.

A good friend of mine has always said this is foolish, that I want to be able to know who is calling. She, in fact, was with me when I got a call from a number I'd just deleted. A guy I'd lightly dated for a couple months. Things got weird, and then it ended.

And I sent a very nice email wrapping things up. Goodbye. And then I deleted him from my phone. Goodbye.

And then, very next morning, as I was leaving Tryst I got a call from a 202 number. I showed it to her. "Anyone we know?" She shook her head.

I answered with a, "Hello?" in the tone of voice you use when you have no idea who is calling. And then I looked at her and said, "Oh, hi! Greg!" She nearly fell over laughing. With an "I told you so!" look.

I've also had to put guys back in - multiple times, in fact. First enough calls from the cell phone and I realize it behooves me to be able to identify the number. So I program that back in. And then the office phone. And then home phone. And I'm back to having all their numbers.

Which may, down the road, get deleted in one fell swoop. Delete contact? Absolutely.

It's obviously not an act of ambivalence. If you didn't care if you saw their name as you scroll through numbers, you'd just leave it. It's odd that it feels like a small victory, in some way. Perhaps it's slightly malicious. Or petulant. Or something in that direction. I realize this.

But still, there's something very satisfying about it. Delete contact? Yes. You might not know it, but I'm done. Goodbye.

Rational? Not necessarily. But how often is that one of my grand claims?