Ladies night conversation turns to travel:
-Wait, I missed the story. What’s the story?
-She’s wondering whether to go out with the guy again. She slept with him for the first time and it was pretty bad.
-How bad?
-He didn’t visit the Netherlands.
-Wouldn’t go South?
-Nope. I don’t get it. It’s so much warmer down there.
3:43 p.m.
Category: My Life
People in the Neighborhood:
The guy three houses down from me has a big dog. Every time I pass, he nods toward the dog and says, “He’s friendly.” The first time, I didn’t think anything of it. Around the fifteenth time, I started to get uncomfortable. My theory is that my neighbor doth protest too much. At some point, that dog must have killed a small child or his owner wouldn’t be so insistent about how friendly he is. Friendly as in, “I just don’t understand why Cuddles ripped that woman’s arm off, he’s always been so friendly.”
2:19 p.m.
My cousin Ben makes a discovery about human nature:
“I have a Yahoo! email account and I was poking through my various settings and I ended up on my user profile page. One of the fields that people have the option of setting is Marital Status… Among the many choices was this one: Married but looking.”
2:50 p.m.
An autistic man walking in front of me:
“A cigarette butt on the sidewalk. A napkin. A straw.”
3:08 p.m.
I’m in love with Webvan. I know people throw the L-word around pretty lightly these days, so let me clarify: If Webvan had a penis, I would propose.
Webvan brings me flowers, wine, and quality ice cream in little round “this is quality ice cream” containers. Webvan never comes home with a can of smoked oysters and some salsa when I gave Webvan a list of the fresh produce I wanted. Webvan comforts me with ready-made meals after a hard day at work. As soon as Webvan can have sex with me, it’s a go.
Unfortunately, no matter what Dionysian wonders modern technology has in store, that day will never come. You see, Webvan is dying, and I think I know why:
A Brief Conversation With the Unenlightened Webvan Delivery Guy:
DG: Yeah, I work on the weekends, so Tuesday and Wednesday is my weekend.
Me: Hm. That’s kind of cool. You can do all of your errands without worrying about crowds or stuff closing early.
DG: Actually, you’d be surprised. The grocery store is always packed.
12:11 a.m.
We spent hours planning our meals and arranging gear in the packs: camp stove, wool socks, well-stocked first aid kit, water purifier, kitchen sink, and so on. We stopped for lunch near the trailhead after a five-hour drive, and my camping buddy (the Eagle Scout) had a sudden outburst: “OhmyholymotherofjesusCRAP!”
I jerked around to see what had happened; he just pointed to his shoes. Or rather, to his moccasin slippers.
“I left my hiking boots at home.”
3:30 p.m.
Why I like Molly: Molly and I rode the Fulton 5 home from Bay to Breakers. We sat next to two young men, one was missing a front tooth, the other had moved past intoxicated into catatonic stupor. Our toothless friend (let’s call him Uncle Jebb) introduced himself, and tried to draw us into conversation while we ignored him.
(Uncle Jebb begins touching Molly’s back for no apparent reason.)
Molly: …What are you doing?
Jebb: You had some fuzzy things on you. I was getting them off.
Molly: Hmmm. (Continuing conversation with me) blahblahblah.
Comatose Carl: Mmfmmffph.
Jebb: No dude, we’re almost there. If you’ve gotta hurl, hurl out the window.
CC: MMfffmfmMMPH!
Jebb: Dude, you’re not getting off.
Me: Jesus, if he has to hurl, let him out.
(Uncle Jebb and I have a brief verbal exchange, edited for length.)
Me: Molly, do you want to move, so he doesn’t boot on you?
Molly: I work with kids all week, I’ve had much nastier things on me than a little puke. I can shower.
Me: OK
(Jebb begins touching Molly’s back again.)
Molly: OK. You need to stop touching me now.
Jebb: OK.
Molly: Thank you.
3:27 p.m.
Years ago, I worked at my campus newspaper and used to get letters from inmates. (I think there’s a law that allows them free postage to write the press.) The letters were all written in pencil, and many of THEM had RANDOMLY capitalized WORDS, which the author further emphasized by going over them again and again until there were word-shaped holes in the page. Every inmate wanted a female pen pal, so they provided vital stats:
“I like romantic evenings with a beautiful woman where we could go on a picnic and listen to some Tini (sic) Marie. I also like to visit museums, like the La Brea Tard (sic) Pits.”
Wistful now? You wish you had an inmate penpal of your very own, don’t you? Well, I’m here for you. Jail Babes, “A Pen-Pal and Singles Introduction Service.” Enjoy.
10:17 a.m.
How I read the sign at the bottom of the Muni stairs:
No
Smoking
Drinking
Eating Graffiti
10:51 a.m.
At the Cinco de Mayo party, Amit carries over a container of green Margarita salt and calmly points to the slogan. All of us lean forward and exclaim, “WON’T STAIN SKIN!?” We are tipsy, and this is a major selling point. Also, the salt is very green. So green, in fact, that it definitely seems as though it would stain. Briefly, I imagine turning the party into an impromptu episode of “Fight Back!”. Calling everyone out into the yard, sprinkling them with a garden hose, and instructing them to roll around in the salt. I glance at all the men wearing Corona shirts and backward visors. These men have unusually square jaws. I decide that they are hardly the types who would cover themselves in salt if given the opportunity. I lick the back of my hand and offer myself up as a guinea pig. An hour later, it washes right off. I’ll be damned.
11:09 a.m.
Mighty Girl 