Monthly Archives: February 2003
February 8, 2003
Well, though he wasn’t a septuagenarian, he had left college before I learned how to tie my shoes. Alas.
And yes, I did learn how to tie my shoes late. But not that late.
Back to the drawing board.
February 7, 2003
Tonight I have my first date with one of my Hurry Date matches. (The end result of the Hurry Date was fairly anticlimactic: out of perhaps ten or fifteen people I circled “Y” for, three also circled “Y” for me. These did not include, alas, the publicist for All My Children.
Surprisingly enough, they did include the guy to whom I made a confession of murder; I’m seeing him tonight. I suspected in the dim bar lighting that he might be a septuagenarian, but I wasn’t sure so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. One of the two others responded to my post-match e-mail but not to any subsequent e-mails, and the other didn’t even respond to my post-match e-mail, which was okay because I had absolutely no recollection of him anyway.
Not the most fruitful endeavor I’ve ever undertaken.
Maybe I should confess to murder more often.
February 6, 2003
I was IMing a couple days ago with this man, whom I love madly though we’ve never met, when the subject of sperm donation came up, and I realized I’d never mentioned my time as a sperm donor in these pages. Rather than write a long entry about a series of events that happened years ago, I am going to post the lyrics to the (true) song I wrote about the experience. It’s called “In The Lesbians’ Bathroom.” Lyrics are in italics; stage directions are in parentheses and not italicized.
So I’m here
In the lesbians’ bathroom.
I’ve got my own plastic baggie
For making a kid
Right here in my hand.
(Looks at right hand. Sees baggie in right hand.)
I guess I need that hand.
(Shifts baggie to left hand.)
Right here in my hand.
So I’m here
In the lesbians’ bathroom.
I brought the right reading material
For making a kid:
Honcho magazine.
Good thing I thought ahead.
The lesbians don’t subscribe to Honcho.
I had to get a sperm count
And a motility test.
(Those little guys can swim, lemme tell you!)
And sixty-seven percent of my sperm
Are not deformed.
(Apparently that number is high
Since they started throwing chemicals and shit in the water.)
The lesbians are waiting
With their turkey baster in hand
(‘Cause they’re old fashioned).
So let’s just see what Honcho magazine
Has got to say:
“He opened up his eyes and he gasped
At the low-hanging bag of love of the youthful Umberto.”
Oh!
Oh!
Oh!
Oh!
Oh!
OH!
(Almost!)
OHHHHH
February 5, 2003
Everyone must go here at once. You don’t get the full effect unless you have the sound on.
It’s not exactly work-unsafe, but your coworkers might look at you funny.
February 4, 2003
Recently the coach of the cheerleading squad sent us an e-mail listing squad members’ positions (flyer, base, mid base flyer). I sent out a response to the squad asking if it wouldn’t make more sense to list top, bottom, and versatile. (This was obviously a joke, since with one possible exception everybody on the squad is clearly a bottom.) I got a couple “Grrrrl, you are so funny!” e-mails from squad members. Then the coach sent me an e-mail saying, “LOL, but in all seriousness, team members are discouraged from sleeping with each other, because it can create some very messy situations.”
I was like, oh, you spend half an hour at the tryouts talking about the importance of being on time to practice but you wait until NOW to tell us THIS?
I guess it makes sense, though.
Because why else did anybody go out for the squad? If he’d said at the tryouts that we weren’t allowed to sleep with each other, we would all have gotten up and left then and there.
February 3, 2003
Today, after gymnastics class, I was on the crosstown bus and a lady with a cane got on. I got up to give her room to sit down, which she did, after which she thanked me for my kindness. Several times. Then she started talking about how she had found her calling and she was going to become an Orthodox nun. This was different from a Roman Catholic nun, she explained; the Catholic Church was not the true church, having been created by the Bishop of Rome in the 11th century as a means to seize power. She kept on Jesusing at me until my stop came.
And the flabbergasting thing is that I didn’t mind at all.
Usually I can barely keep from flying into a rage at the sight of people merely reading the Bible on public transportation. But I kind of enjoyed listening to her.
“Thanks for letting me talk to you,” she said as I got off. “And say a prayer for me, for my legs.”
And I did.
What is going on?
February 2, 2003
This afternoon I overheard the following conversation on the subway:
BLACK GUY (to WHITE GIRL dressed in faux Black Girl Outfit): “You know, because of the state of the country, the way things are and stuff, your parents owe my parents some shit. Like 40 acres and a mule. But you can make up for it by buying me a drink.”
WHITE GIRL: “That doesn’t make any sense. I’m a first-generation American. My parents are immigrants.”
SECOND BLACK GUY (to WHITE GIRL): “Your parents immigrated from South Africa.”
WHITE GIRL: “So? That’s like saying all Germans are Nazis. That’s hating.”
FIRST BLACK GUY: “I should just walk around Wall Street giving people invoices. ‘Here, I’m from the Corporation of the Freedmen’s Bureau, and you owe me 40 acres and a mule.’ I should go to NBC and give them an invoice. ‘You owe me 40 acres and a mule, or equal value. I’ll take a sitcom deal.’ I’d sure as shit be funnier than David Alan Grier.”
WHITE GIRL: “Yeah.”
It’s times like this that I wish I supported capital punishment.
February 1, 2003
N.B.: I posted twice yesterday. This is it for today.
What L. said to me after ten minutes of making out after watching Lara Croft: Tomb Raider tangled up with me on my couch:
“This is an awkward moment to say this, but less awkward now than in ten minutes. . . . I’m not really into this.”
What I said:
“Well, drat. . . . You’re right, it is an awkward moment, but I understand.”
What I should have said:
“You’re damn right it’s an awkward moment, especially since you had the opportunity to say the same thing when you lay down on my bed ten minutes ago or when I asked you if you wanted to come into my bedroom fifteen minutes ago or when you put your arm around me on the couch two hours ago or in fact at any number of times before now, any of which would have spared me at least some of the utter humiliation I feel at this moment, plus when you showed up at my door I was appalled to see that what I’d thought (in the dim restaurant lighting) was blond highlighting was actually premature graying, and anyway I spent most of the movie thinking about how my office crush is so much more interesting and attractive than you are, so get out of my fucking apartment, you bastard.”
I’d thought for one brief, shining moment that there might actually be somebody I didn’t hate.
There goes that theory.
