Monday, April 24, 2006

Long Delay

I asked my kindly old professor if I could be his assistant for his class on Hollywood musicals next year. He agreed, but warned me that it might not be what I have in mind; I'll have to be ... technically savvy. I reassured him that I will do fine. It's a paid position and since he's personally vouching for me, I don't have to go through the bureaucratic system of lost resumes and unreturned phone calls.

And I suggested karaoke nights.

Because I am able to spout off the entire Cole Porter songbook by heart, which makes me, yes, a humongous nerd.

***

Sexy Spinster's coming up to see me this week! Oh girl, it's on ...

PALM READING CONTEST!

***

I just came back from waving off Banana Chic at the bus terminal. We had such a good time together doing touristy-yet-not-touristy stuff. Visited the architecture museum, attended the comedic play "Shit Job," watched a German foreign flick (Sophie Scholl = worth a box of hankies), clubbed in leu of entering a trannie strip joint (her idea), shopped (mine), had gourmet hot chocolate at a fancy schmancy chocolaterie (mine again), and chillaxed for hours under the sun (both of ours).

What did I buy? You know, some one-off closet staples and an Indonesian wood carving of a seahorse I named "Haagenslosh" in reaction to "CD rack". Same old, same old. I also carried home an IKEA tabletop someone threw out, jazzified it, and turned it into a wall installation. And this morning, I went to ye olde market and bought a few stems of purple orchids to put in my large, yellow, Rococo-excessive teapot from the Salvation Army thrift store. New sheets, new curtains, new towels: my apartment has basically been given a well-earned facelift.

Why, you ask? Well, my award money had to go somewhere since my tuition is fully covered by my givers (and takers) of life. Secondly, it's simply time: a fresh start begins with a fresh update to go with my new rock & roll Peggy Moffitt 'do (being a *sniff* hair model and all). Reason? M. Biologique apparently came by last week to remind me of his lowly existence again, but I thankfully wasn't home to receive him; cleaning house rids any remaining remnants of his skankery. Lastly, it's all due to love!

Okay, that's more than a bit of a stretch, but still closer to the truth than I'd care to admit.

And it's not with the $500 Miu Miu espadrille slingbacks I tried on and will never be able to afford nor the $400 Christian Louboutin wedges with turquoise ribbon detailing that make me want to slip out of all my clothes nor the DKNY sneakers I would've dropped and did 20 for but they didn't have them in my size nor even the red patent leather peep-toe pumps from Hugo Boss Banana Chic thought were the ugliest things since the Elephant Man. None of them! ... although they come very, very close.

No, it's with ... a man. Yes, one of those things. It's been two years since I've felt a pure pang of the giggles just thinking about somebody's voice over the phone, that frantic pull of delirium that overrules every rational gene as it overworks the senses to a halt. I smile when I picture him in his tortoise shell frames, brows furrowed, concentrating on a lecture. And I smirk when I remember how he calls me a bad girl, then imagine what I'd do to him as one.

Tall, lean, and dreadfully handsome with a wit that just won't quit. He's creative and cerebral and so funny it hurts, I knew something had to be forged. I told him to approach me and he shyly consented, happily handing over his digits. We corresponded, it was instant chemistry, I should have done this sooner. I was brash and assertive and ignored "the rules" because, as his gaggle of female "friends" can attest, the worse thing to be is another hanger-on whose affections he's oblivious to.

Oh crap, I'm gushing, gushing is counterproductive. I'll stop while the going is good and forget I have to see him tomorrow for our Hitchcock exam ...

A bonafide catch with no chip on his shoulder: What a delightfully novel concept!

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