Some dude asked me over the weekend, what I “did.”
And I answered, “well, sir, I fear commitment.”
can you darling…can you picture this?
The sun’s shining, but you curse its very life-warming essence, that’s how far down in the H.O. you are today. But the air smells crisp, and if it wasn’t for your inevitable arrival at your place of employment, life wouldn’t be so bad after all. You approach your BART station, stick your ticket through, and ascend/descend to the requisite platform. A seasoned traveler, you don’t have to wait long, no, not long at all, for your train to arrive.
And sure, your earphones are coddling your hangover. It’s not soo bad. It doesn’t matter where on the train you choose. Wherever you’re going, your day is about to be perfect.
This is why: Over the bitter strains of Belle and Sebastian, or maybe you’ve given in and bought a Brighteyes album… whatever your poison, fate interrupts, and you hear my voice – yes! my voice!! – announcing the approaching BART station. Your body fills with glee. Just imagine. “Dublin/Pleasanton.” Maybe I would pronounce the forward slash “Dublin-forward-slash-Pleasanton.” Maybe you’re not going to DP. You’re going to 12 street. “Twelth Street” – can you hear it?!! And then, how eloquently I would deliver the transfer instructions! Oh. That’s the sound of sweetness, that’s what that would be. Your toes would curl in anticipation. You wouldn’t be able to wait to detrain. And when you did, there’d be my smiling face peeking out of the top of the train. Waving; ensuring all my passengers safely made it off the train, over that little gap and up the stairs.
Yes, yes, this would be perfection. This is my calling. I am ready. Sometimes I might misspeak and say “MacBart” rather than “MacArthur.” I’ll develop a following. Folks will laugh – actually laugh – on my BART train. We’ll have dance parties when we go under the bay. I’ll turn on my mini radio, and abuse the microphone. I’ll open the doors at strange places late at night. We’ll let on the loonies, and never complain.
And let’s say you and I have plans for the evening, but we have yet to finalize them. While commuting, all you need do is press that little button (maybe three times) and you will actually talk to me way up at the front of the train in the control pit! We’ll have a quick chat, and arrange to meet at 16th and Guerrero at 5:15. I’ve been working since three a.m. – it will be time for drink. And then you’re not going to wonder all day when we’re going to meet up as you otherwise might have.
I say, life is grand. We’re not even going to need cell phones anymore. Now, aren’t you glad to see me?
Oh Those Cigarettes
My skin was itching, and I was tired of fighting it. So I dug through my purse to find the eighth of an inch of cigarette I’d hoped was still around. It had been a day or two since I’d indulged. Not long for some, but long for me, on this particular day, yesterday.
When I lit the match to the stub of a fag, the smell transported me back nine long years. It’s the difference between smoking and being a smoker, that smell. It was the beginning of a life-long love affair, and I smelled it yesterday.
I wonder if I’m alone in differentiating this odor. Perhaps it was the particular mix of suburban Northern California and newly lit charred tobacco. Perhaps I was just feeling nostalgic, but no, no, there was something different about this cigarette. Maybe I’d been carrying it around in my purse since high school, and Parliaments smelled differently then. But that’s not it, cause I smoked reds in high school, like the cool kids. No, it was the smell of that first drag, the particular odor of naivete. Something I’d lost, but somehow regained.
Today I wondered if a pack of smokes might make my day tolerable, and, should they, if they would again provide entrance to this strange time warp I’d stumbled on. I bolted out the office of the temp job formerly known as best temp job ever, to my local smoke shop, which I have, on occasion, utilized to buy the smokes that have proven in the past to make days tolerable.
And today? Well…
“A pack of Parliament Lights please” as I dig around my purse for quarters, hoping to put together the requisite $4.48.
“Are you 18?”
“Yes. I have an I.D.” oooh, but he doesn’t want to see my I.D. The question, apparently, was not out of concern for his tobacco license.
“Are you single?”
“Yes.” What was that?! Don’t tell stinky old nasty man the truth, stupid girl.
“You are?!” Lie now?! I already dug my grave. Let’s lie in it.
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you out on a date?” Let’s see. You’re at least fifty, and you work at a convenience store. Perhaps you own the convenience store, but…
“Um..not this week. I’m having a hard week.”
“Why?”
“Oh…family shit.” The short answer. I mean, really, there are tears in my eyes. Do I need to explain myself?!
He mumbled something I didn’t understand along the lines of helping me through it. I must have looked skeptical. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you next week, then.”
And now, yet another reason to quit smoking. Or at least to avoid that particular market. I realize that I crossed a line. Now I’m old enough that old guys will hit on me too. And, in case you’re wondering, the smokes taste like I’m a smoker, cause I am, and, no, my day is not yet tolerable.
My date with the millionaire
Background: the forecast, the initial proposal
From: Jennifer Sue
Reply-To: Jennifer Sue
Bcc: Dad Sue , zach Sue , Julia Sue , G. Sue , Will Sue
Date: Apr 15, 2005 10:08 AM
Subject: My Date with the Millionaire
Reply Reply to all Forward Print Add sender to Contacts list Trash this message Report phishing Show original
So, this is how the date with the millionaire went. (Feel free to spread this around the office, Dad.)
I was nervous. I remember hearing that he was shy and REALLY wanted a girlfriend. Not a good start.
He did NOT come to the door. Rather, I called him while he was on his way over, and he asked if he should call when he got here. Seeing an easy way out of introducing him to my mother (I mean, really, we are adults here), I readily agreed. He arrived and called (didn’t park – at least not on the right side of the street), but he did get out of the car.* I had Mom follow me out and take a picture of him from behind the gate. I’m pretty sure he noticed, but didn’t bat an eyelash (+2 Patrick points (P.p.).
* Denise – I really do not feel that it’s rude in this day and age to wait outside. Cell phones are the new doorbell!
He looked like a millionaire, dressed well in nice blue jeans, a black shirt and a white striped button down overshirt (actually, quite tasteful). And he’s much cuter than I remembered (+5 P.p.). We got into his Mercedes-Benz convertable roadster, but it was too cold to put the top down (-1 P.p.).
Thankfully, Mom had printed out the night’s movie schedule and written on it whether the critics liked them or not. Nothing was playing at a convenient time, and so we decided to eat first (though he’d had a sausage earlier in the day). Turns out he likes organic food. (+5 P.p.).
Anyway, we walk around Hacienda Crossings, but I refuse to go to Macaroni Grill, and there’s not much else. So then I suggest Main Street, and we go there and have a wonderfully delicious meal at Pastas? It’s right next to that coffee place (Coffee Beans & Things? – the one near Tully’s). We dined on bruschetta, and I had the crab stuffed prawns. He chose the special, a crab stuffed filet of halibut. I had a glass of the Mondavi Cab. Turns out he doesn’t drink much wine (-4 P.p.). Dinner conversation consisted of a rather dismal discussion of the future oil crisis (I brought it up – minus 10 Jennifer points (J.p.), but we’re not really keeping track of those). Then we moved on to corporate abuse of disposable products to encourage American consumerism, followed by a lovely chat about his family and Sweden. He goes there two months of the year!! Anyway, dinner conversation was lovely and he paid for everything. Plus 15 P.p..
Back to the movie theatre. We finally decided to see Million Dollar Baby. A good choice, because a good movie, but other than that a real downer and really REALLY long. We have some little Snickers bites. They weren’t very impressive (-10 Snickers points). The movie was long. I was tired. I finally got home at 12:20, and he was very polite. Quite a gentleman, opening doors and the such. My conclusion: both Southern men and foreign men have manners (for the most part).
So, in conclusion, it was a good date. On the scale of 0 to 10 where 0 is what results from my signing up to be on that terrible Blind Date show, and 10 is oh my god, it turns out my blind date is Orlando Bloom and Heidegger has just made a huge impression on him, I rate it a 7.3.
Yes, we’re going to go out again sometime. Yes, I curled my hair. No, he didn’t invite me to Sweden. No, I never found out his last name. He’s a gemini.
ReplyForward
————————————————————————————
>
> Dad Sue to me
> More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
>
>Whoa, this is more detail than I anticipated? I have forwarded it to
>the proper authorities. What is the highest scoring date you have
>had?
>
>Date: Fri, 15 Apr 2005 10:23:24 -0700
>To: Dad Sue
>From: Dad Sue’s coworker 1
>Subject: Re: Fwd: My Date with the Millionaire
>
>>>How does she expect us to do some real investigating without a
>>>last name? Geez!! She should kiss him on the next date for a basic
>>>chemistry test.
>
>”A day without chocolate is a day wasted.”
>
>————————————————————————————
Dad Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
>To: Dad Sue
>From: Dad Sue’s coworker 2
>Subject: Re: Fwd: My Date with the Millionaire
>
>They change their minds a lot. So in May, a Gemini might think he
>can’t possible live another day without an iPod, but then two days
>before his birthday, he’ll say Apple sucks … he doesn’t want to
>support that awful company, he would never be seen with an iPod …
>iPods are destroying the moral foundation of America and only Steve
>Jobs is getting rich. For his birthday, he just wants to have a
>quiet picnic at the beach with his closest friends, especially
>Sandi, his friend from New York who now lives in Portugal. Maybe she
>would fly out for the weekend.
>
>Oh, dear. Sorry to go on and on. I was just channeling a friend.
>
>>>Why?
>>
>>
>>>Oh, no … not a Gemini. It’s so hard to buy presents for them.
>>>cm
>————————————————————————————
Jennifer Sue to Dad Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
you know, on second thought, i give it a 6.9. My highest is probably a 7.3. But I don’t go on too many dates. If 10 is a date with Orlando Bloom, though, last night certainly can’t be a 7.3. Please let everyone know how I’ve reconsidered.
– Show quoted text –
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Mom Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
You didn’t send me your report but I did get a copy of it from Daddy. Why do you think he knew I was hiding behind the gate?
– Show quoted text –
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Jennifer Sue to Mom Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
i just put that in for comic effect. You aren’t mad are you?
ReplyForward
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Mom Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
No. I was just worried it was true.
– Show quoted text –
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Jennifer Sue to Mom Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
so, did you get a good picture of Patrick?!!
ReplyForward
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Mom Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
No I was too freaked. I did get a picture of the car with a tree going up the middle of it.
– Show quoted text –
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Julia Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
Fish stuffed with more fish: -15 date points. Ew!
At least you found out the important shit, i.e. his sign and how much
time he spends in Sweden.
La la!
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Jennifer Sue to Julia Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
it’s actually fish stuffed with shell fish. not quite the same thing!
– Show quoted text –
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Julia Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
whatEVER, yours was shellfish stuffed with shellfish.
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Jennifer Sue to Julia Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
good point. it was damn good though.
– Show quoted text –
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Julia Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
i’m suuuuuuuuuure.
i wanna go on a date. sniff sniff.
– Show quoted text –
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Jennifer Sue to Julia Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
hee hee!! and i have another to go on sometime.
– Show quoted text –
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G. Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
million dollar baby? how apropos!
– Show quoted text –
Tonight, a forecast:
This is how the date with the millionaire is going to go:
He’s going to have his limo driver pick me up at my parents’ house. He won’t know which house is mine (even though they are numbered) and he’ll have to call. Then he’ll come to the door and meet my mom. My mom will smile widely and accept him into our family. He’ll get a little flustered, but he brought me a corsage. A corsage!! Suddenly I like him a little more.
We’ll get into the limo–at which point we’ll have our first conversation ever (in person, anyway)–and drive to the movie theatre. We’ll have a glass of champagne in the limo to celebrate our going out after postponing the date twice. We’ll pick a movie, but the one we decide on won’t start for forty-five minutes. So I’ll spend forty-five minutes wishing I was on a date with someone who smoked. But at least he enjoys a good bottle of champagne!! We’ll leave the limo and walk around Hacienda Crossings, chatting about life and philosophy, and drinking champagne out of paper cups. Or maybe we’ll sit in the theatre and discuss politics and the human genome, and drink it from a flask. Either way, it is good champagne.
Finally the movie will start. He will, or he won’t, try to hold my hand (this prediction is guaranteed 100% accurate).
Then we’ll have dinner. I’ll order a couple glasses of wine. We’ll probably go to the only restaurant I’ve ever worked at. That won’t be ackward at all. At least they bring a jug of wine to the table and don’t keep track. And then I’ll try to pay for myself. But only as a gesture. He’ll see through me, and realize that I don’t actually want to pay for myself. I’ll tell him about my goal to have a million dollars by August. He’ll suggest that he funds one of my crazy entrepreneual schemes. Yes, the date is going well.
He’ll take me home as I’m tired and drunk. But not before we buy plane tickets to Sweden for May Day, and make arrangements for the bar/laundromat to open in June. I say! I’m sooooo lucky. Oakland is too, cause it is severely lacking a bar/laundromat.
sometimes
I put too much milk in my coffee, and then it tastes like milk.
I hate people
I try to do something nice, it blows up. I try to make a new friend, and it turns out I don’t want them. I try to keep old friends, and shit hits that fan. I try to fall in love, and…
there’s just no point. There’s no point. When one of us falls in, the other falls out. Regardless of who, why or where. Terribly consistent, disquietingly unrequieted.
G. said the other day (and I paraphrase) that commas can surely mislead one into believing that they are reading something poetic, when really the sentence structure is just as empty as the words.
I walked to work today with my pathetic excuse for an umbrella. It would flip up and I’d face into the wind. It would flip down and splash me with all the water that collected in it during its time flipped up. Do I need to suggest that this might be a metaphor for life? I think not, though I just did, of course. I stole the shitty umbrella from worst temp job ever. More of a curse then a blessing, both the job and the umbrella. I’m still shivering.
Who reads blogs, anyway?
I installed an invisible tracker in this thing – I didn’t think anyone even had the address. It got 16 unique hits yesterday. Apparently, some poor bloke in Missouri spent two hours and seven minutes on it. I do hope s/he enjoyed himself. Those are two hours and seven minutes that s/he’ll never get back. Blogs are the perfect avenue for sucking away other people’s time. If only other peoples’ time gave me super powers.
My mother was laughing hysterically at dinner last night, and uncharacteristically delving into philosophical questions. I drank my wine and retreated to my room to pack my childhood into boxes, getting rid of as much of it as I can. I’m glad they’re getting divorced.
I spend my time daydreaming of a magic BART ticket. It would never make the turnstyle blink SEE AGENT, and it would always have $17.80 on it. No matter how many times I used it, always $17.80. I’d save so much money, and time. And the convenience! Oh it’s almost overwhelming.
But, then, what if I lost it?!
So, a millionaire asked me out to lunch the other day
He’s not really my type. I normally go for brunettes. And he’s older, and very shy. I don’t know what we’re going to say to each other. (No matter, really, since he has yet to call to arrange it.)
I hear he wants a girlfriend. To be a millionaire’s girlfriend!!
Showered with expensive gifts. Taken to the best restaurants a city has to offer. Flown to Sweden on a whim.
Sigh.
And never to have to work again, come marriage, should marriage come.
And never to have to work again, come divorce, should divorce come. And come it must! Especially if we have nothing really to say to each other. (I don’t think I’d marry him if he made me sign a prenup. Then what would be the point of the whole thing at all?)
So here’s the thing. If he wasn’t a millionaire, I wouldn’t go out to lunch with him. (I think) I know he hopes it will be romantic, and (I think) I know I’m not interested.
But he is a millionaire, and I am broke. And I would like millions. Marrying him is probably as likely as winning the lotto, but at least I won’t have to spend any money on the way.
Oh, Aristotle! Please advise!
Now, I never thought that Aristotle would talk to me, given that I’m a woman and all. But here he is, reminding me of my goal to be eudaimon, and how I must be both disposed to be virtuous, and act virtuously, in order to accomplish that goal.
Here’s where I pull out my copy of Nicomachean Ethics (in lecture note form, of course), and cite the section on the virtue of openhandedness. My conclusion: I need these millions in order to truly be openhanded. Aristotle laughs at that. Since he’s dead, he sees right through me, he knows that I know I’m skirting the issue.
Ethics always comes down to friendship, I think, and Aristotle agrees with qualifications. On this particular occasion, he’s just launched into his lecture about how one must model their relationships with others after their relationships with themselves. About how you must love and respect the other for their own sake. And how you owe it to them, just as you owe it to yourself, to consider what’s best for them and always act in accordance with those goals.
I’m looking at Aristotle like, what are you talking about? And what does this have to do with my millionaire? Aristotle realizes that I only heard half the lecture. Since he’s dead he knows I was thinking about how much I want a cigarette. This launches him into a lecture on moderation. Ugh.
But then he brings it back. He says that I can have lunch with the millionaire, but that I should in no circumstances mislead him in any way. He recognizes that although the virtue of charity was not around in his time, it may be applicable here. He suggests that if I am to be both a charitable person, and a friend, I should have lunch with him. But as a friend, no sex.
No sex! Oh, Aristotle. Fine. But what about marriage?
No marriage! says Aristotle. Marrying for money is definitely not in the virtuous section of the Venn diagram he has etched in the clouds. Of course, Aristotle reminds me, if it turns out that I love him, then I can marry him. And, yes, that definitely would facilitate openhandedness. But he doesn’t seem to think I have much of a problem with that particular virtue, given what he’s seen. This brings him back to moderation. Jesus!
Argh. Jesus is back now too and he and Aristotle are arguing over Aristotle’s interpretation of charity. And sex, and procreation. Jesus seems to think I can have sex with him if I have his child, cause that would be charitable. Or maybe I heard him wrong. I leave them to argue, confident in my decision to have lunch with the millionaire, and if we don’t fall in love, hopefully I can set him up with one of my less ethical friends.
a day trip to Luxemburg
and we weren’t all that impressed. The trip to the Geldautomaat yielded nothing but Belgian francs, of which we’d become accustomed to spending.
A walk up a street lined with trees. Some store fronts, nothing impressive. We were hungry, but did not know where to eat. It was Sunday, and much was closed.
We continued walking. The weather was clear and crisp, sunny. We both had our sunglasses on, and were happily without our packs. We passed houses, vacant deli’s. They didn’t want our francs, and we acknowledged out loud that we did not know where the town center was.
Deciding that aimlessly wandering was not going to fill our stomachs, we retreated toward the train station. We turned left, heading away from the station. G. spied the yellow umbrellas advertising beer-a sure sign that the restaurant catered to tourists, and thus would be open late on a Sunday afternoon.
We each had a fairly mediocre croque monsieur, a Stella Artois and we shared a bowl of American ice cream. The sun was in our eyes, but it was nice to sit outside. We had another Stella and smoked cigarettes, complacent in our acceptance that this was what Luxembourg had to offer.
We headed back to the train station, and bought some fruit and beer at the train station store for our ride back to Oostende. We sat outside the station in the sun to wait for our train. G. went inside to use the W.C.. We knew almost everything about each other right then.
I sat, leaning against a wall, stretching my legs in front of me. I read my Henry Miller novel and waited for G.. A man approached, and spoke to me in broken English. My nationality must have been obvious, for him to assume that he should speak English. He let me know that they could see my underwear beneath my skirt. He assured me that it was very sexy, he just wanted me to know.
My face burned, and I thanked him, crossing my legs and tucking my skirt under them as to end their peep show. G. came back right then, and asked what that was about. I shrugged, dodging the question, and we went inside the station to catch our train.
