Wednesday, July 18, 2007
And life, squeezes so tight that I can't breathe
We are in Oscar's car driving to his apartment in Brooklyn, when I realize that I have left my cell phone at home, on my desk, in my rush to gather things together after Oscar called and informed me he missed me and was coming to pick me up.
"Shit! I forgot my cell phone!" I say.
Oscar slows down a little and asks if I need to go back and get it.
"Nah, I'll be all right. I don't live and die by my cell phone and anyone who needs it has my work number."
"I don't have your work number!"
I laugh at Oscar's indignance. "You don't need it! I was referring to family members who may need to call regarding my brother."
He harrumphs.
"Do you want it?" I ask.
"Well, I should have it," he says.
The next morning, torrential rains and a hell of a thunderstorm kept Oscar and I in bed a little while longer than normal, as we snuggled under the covers and giggled together about nothing in particular. And even though I was still having aftershocks from the previous night's earth-shattering orgasm, I managed to coerce him to engage in a little early morning nookie (my absolute favorite time for gettin' some). He then dropped me off at the subway station so I didn't have to get drenched on the walk there. And gave me his only umbrella.
So cute.
Later that afternoon, I realize that I had left an article of clothing at his place. I call him from my work number (since I don't have my cell phone).
"Hello," he says.
"Guess what you have now?" I said, not even bothering to identify myself.
"Your work number!" he responds.
I am ridiculously pleased. For reasons that are difficult to explain. I called him from an unknown number and he identifies me and what I am referring to immediately. He doesn't fluster to figure out who I am. He doesn't have to mentally work through a slew of women who may be calling him.
He excitedly tells me that he will be sure to store the number into my information in his phone.
___________________________________________________________
The word on the street is that my brother is getting better. The doctor managed to placate my mother (who has no coping skills) by assuring her it's just a 'raging' case of pneumonia and it's going to take some time to cure it. This does not however, placate my control-freak of a father who also happens to be a doctor. He is currently driving down to my brother to oversee all future medical decisions. Arrogance thy name is Rick (that's my dad). At least he's going above and beyond the call of fatherly duty, considering he lives about 400 miles away, and I can't fault him for that.
__________________________________________________________
Last night I met up with Spatch at an adorable wine bar in Chelsea. Thank you Citysearch! I walked in and immediately loved the place. The decor was minimal but cozy. And the seating was such that I got sink into a soft booth seat and Spatch got her hard, rigid chair. Everyone was happy.
We talked non-stop through dinner. The Friar, Oscar and The Redhead were our topics of choice. When she mentions her frustrations at still missing The Redhead intensely, I assure her that breakups have no set timeline and we get over them when we're ready. I suggest that cutting off contact would probably help. I remember that after The Ex and I broke up, I would crave him, so I would see him and then everytime I gave in to that urge, it was like we were breaking up all over again. It only prolonged the pain. Ugh.
When I ask her about The Friar, her face absolutely lights up and I fear that she is not remaining as emotionally detached as she claims and I call her on it. She assures me that she's keeping it cool and casual, but I'm not sure who's she's trying to convince more- me or her.
We leave a ridiculous amount of food on our plates and head out into the cooling night. Due to the steam pipe explosion, her subway line is still not running, so I walk her all the way home.
On the way home from the subway, a man on the street calls out to me as I pass him, letting me know that he thinks 'bigger is better'.
Thanks buddy. I've been searching desperately for a man who thinks that the way to my heart is by essentially calling me 'fat'.
Fuck off.
Today's Title from: The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill by Lauryn Hill
"Shit! I forgot my cell phone!" I say.
Oscar slows down a little and asks if I need to go back and get it.
"Nah, I'll be all right. I don't live and die by my cell phone and anyone who needs it has my work number."
"I don't have your work number!"
I laugh at Oscar's indignance. "You don't need it! I was referring to family members who may need to call regarding my brother."
He harrumphs.
"Do you want it?" I ask.
"Well, I should have it," he says.
The next morning, torrential rains and a hell of a thunderstorm kept Oscar and I in bed a little while longer than normal, as we snuggled under the covers and giggled together about nothing in particular. And even though I was still having aftershocks from the previous night's earth-shattering orgasm, I managed to coerce him to engage in a little early morning nookie (my absolute favorite time for gettin' some). He then dropped me off at the subway station so I didn't have to get drenched on the walk there. And gave me his only umbrella.
So cute.
Later that afternoon, I realize that I had left an article of clothing at his place. I call him from my work number (since I don't have my cell phone).
"Hello," he says.
"Guess what you have now?" I said, not even bothering to identify myself.
"Your work number!" he responds.
I am ridiculously pleased. For reasons that are difficult to explain. I called him from an unknown number and he identifies me and what I am referring to immediately. He doesn't fluster to figure out who I am. He doesn't have to mentally work through a slew of women who may be calling him.
He excitedly tells me that he will be sure to store the number into my information in his phone.
___________________________________________________________
The word on the street is that my brother is getting better. The doctor managed to placate my mother (who has no coping skills) by assuring her it's just a 'raging' case of pneumonia and it's going to take some time to cure it. This does not however, placate my control-freak of a father who also happens to be a doctor. He is currently driving down to my brother to oversee all future medical decisions. Arrogance thy name is Rick (that's my dad). At least he's going above and beyond the call of fatherly duty, considering he lives about 400 miles away, and I can't fault him for that.
__________________________________________________________
Last night I met up with Spatch at an adorable wine bar in Chelsea. Thank you Citysearch! I walked in and immediately loved the place. The decor was minimal but cozy. And the seating was such that I got sink into a soft booth seat and Spatch got her hard, rigid chair. Everyone was happy.
We talked non-stop through dinner. The Friar, Oscar and The Redhead were our topics of choice. When she mentions her frustrations at still missing The Redhead intensely, I assure her that breakups have no set timeline and we get over them when we're ready. I suggest that cutting off contact would probably help. I remember that after The Ex and I broke up, I would crave him, so I would see him and then everytime I gave in to that urge, it was like we were breaking up all over again. It only prolonged the pain. Ugh.
When I ask her about The Friar, her face absolutely lights up and I fear that she is not remaining as emotionally detached as she claims and I call her on it. She assures me that she's keeping it cool and casual, but I'm not sure who's she's trying to convince more- me or her.
We leave a ridiculous amount of food on our plates and head out into the cooling night. Due to the steam pipe explosion, her subway line is still not running, so I walk her all the way home.
On the way home from the subway, a man on the street calls out to me as I pass him, letting me know that he thinks 'bigger is better'.
Thanks buddy. I've been searching desperately for a man who thinks that the way to my heart is by essentially calling me 'fat'.
Fuck off.
Today's Title from: The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill by Lauryn Hill
Posted by Chloe
at 11:31 AM |
Permalink to And life, squeezes so tight that I can't breathe |
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