Grandpa: Hi sweetheart! How are you doin?

Me: Great! I have good news.

Grandpa: Oh? What’s that?

Me: I got engaged!

Grandpa: No kidding! That’s wonderful, that’s wonderful, honey!

Me: Yeah! I’m really happy.

Grandpa: Wow, that’s great news. Do we know this gentleman?

Me: No, you haven’t met him yet. His name is Bryan Mason; you’ll love him.

Grandpa: Is he a good guy?

Me: He’s the best guy I know.

Grandpa: Well, you should know, you’ve been around.

Me: Ha! True enough.

Grandpa: Congratulations, sweetheart. Let me get Grandma.

Him: We’re going for a toast.

Me: Where?

Him: Up here.

Drives into a dark little park at the top of a hill. Man in bushes crouches down as we enter the lot.

Me: Did you see that guy?

Him: What?

Me: That guy who hid when we drove in.

Him: Nope.

Me: He’s right back there.

Him: Huh. Let’s go.

Me: I’m not getting out of the car, there’s a psycho hiding in the bushes.

Him: Come on!

Me: No way! He’s seriously lying in wait for someone to rape.

Him: Let’s go!

Me: No!

Him: Come on. It’ll be fine.

Me: Do you have a pocketknife or anything?

(He closes the car door and heads out. I open the glove compartment and search for a weapon.)

And that’s why I had a pair of scissors in my pocket when he proposed.

Me: I’m going to go look at magazines.

Him: I’m going to go look at beer.

Last year bit monkey butt. I spent too much time helping laid off friends move out of the city, fearing for my own job, dating boys who weren’t nearly nice enough to me, and crying in front of the evening news. I rang in the new year from the hill in Dolores Park. There were fireworks, many drunken friends, a communal bottle of champagne, and a boy who is unusually nice to me. Also, there was a naked guy. He stripped around 11:57 p.m., then ran up and down the muddy hill, sliding and diving into the puddles while we chanted, “NAK-ED GUY! NAK-ED GUY!” It was the best. Any year that begins with a muddy streaker is a year I can get behind. Happy 2002.

3:39 p.m.

Me: (Finishing up a story…) I thought it was pretty romantic.

Him: That is romantic.

(Pause)

Me: Have you ever noticed how a lot of guys are intent on telling women romantic things they’ve done for past girlfriends. It’s like, “Ooh, check me out. I’m such a sneak-attack Romeo.”

Him: Hm… You know, it seems like I’m always just about to do something when you say it’s dumb.

Me: What?

Him: Like, I was about to tell you my romantic story, and instead I’m all, “Huh-huh, yeah. Stupid guys.”

Me: Ha! Rad.

(Pause)

Me: Tell me your story then.

Him: No.

Me: Tell me.

Him: No.

12:35 p.m.