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Listening to: From the Choirgirl Hotel. Not for long, though... it's not really matching my mood quite like I was expecting it too.

Currently Reading: Just barely started Jonathan Lethem's Gun, With Occasional Music. Kind of saving it for the train, as well as a stack of others (both fiction and non). Also, I recently read Laurie Notaro's I Love Everybody (and Other Atrocious Lies): True Tales of a Loudmouth Girl (again) in like two days, and peed myself laughing. Highly recommended. I also devoured The Broke Diaries by Angela Nissel in, like, a mere few days. Laughed until I peed. Also highly recommended.

Wishing: income. Lots of it. Other than that, life's pretty good.

I couldn't be more The current mood of ronkc@diaryland.com at www.imood.com right now.

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Do you love me?

27 March 2002 | 11:30 PM

So There.

Okay.

That last entry was cut a bit short. Anyway, yeah, my Grandmother can go on like that for hours.

Did I tell you your Great-Aunt Dorothy got robbed?

Yes. [Several times.]

Did you read the copy of the newspaper article she sent?

Yes. [Several times.]

Read this article. You'll never believe it.

But I will, because she's told me the story several times, and have read the article repeatedly. I may even have it memorised, who knows?

Robbed her! Broke into her house in the middle of the night and started eating her potato chips! When she asked who he was, he had the nerve to tell her that he was from the garage to pick up her car so they could fix it! At 2:30 AM!! Itsa damn good thing she gave him the keys or he mighta not left so she could call the police! Itsa wonders she's not six feet under right now!!

Don't get me wrong. I'm elated she's alive. But the re-runs of this drama-mentary become somewhat, well, unbearable.

Your Great-Uncle Ben [her brother, they live together for the sake of convenience] will get up anywhere from 4:20 AM to 5:30 AM and make a pot of coffee. Then he'll go back to bed. Then, he gets up around 7:30 AM to have a piece of toast with jam and a cup of coffee. He'll eat standing up at the sink-- says it's better for his system that way, see?

She will continue to document, verbally, his migration patterns between his bed, the kitchen, the TV, the bathroom, and the garage. It's his job to make sure the recyclables are in the correct bins and that all cardboard is properly flattened and that all garbage is properly sorted and bagged. Whatever would we do without him? He is nearly ninety years of age, and literally cannot hear himself, well, fart. Which makes for some good, childish potty humor. Bless his little heart, he does what he can.

Another thing about my dear, sweet Grandmother is that she'll occasionally speak in Portuguese to me. Mind, I'm fluent enough to get out of an airport and into a hotel, but the terms my Grandmother uses are somewhat out of my range. So far, this is what I've learned:

ti spingarda = bat out of hell
Ay! Jesus! = Oh, for Christ's sake!!
as ilhas = the islands
sopas = lit. soups, or a predicament, eg, "He's gotten himself into a helluva sopas this time!"
maluco/maluca = dummy
cou = ass
os frunguliados = messed up, eg, "I've gotten this all os frunguliados!"
stipou = moron
cadella = biotch

I'm not sure on the spellings on these, but I'm sure that if you care that much, you're capable of determining the correct spellings on your own.

So I went to coffee with one of my middle-school math teachers. He's totally awesome and I've had a perpatual crush on him since the 7th grade. He went to prison six or seven years ago for "lewed acts," if I remember correctly. It's probably something like showering in the nude. something ridiculous like that. Every time I drove by the prison for the four-and-a-half years between when he went in and when I went to college, I would look up at that huge intimidating structure and think to myself, he's in there, and I'm not. And that sucks. I just kind of wanted to be his best friend, you know? Of course you do, you've been there.

Anyway, a few months ago, I thought, I wonder if he's out of that horrible place yet? I looked on the internet and found his email address. We emailed back and forth, during the course of which he divulged to me that he identifies as bisexual. We emailed some more. I told him I would be here for Spring Break, should we go to coffee? He replied in the affirmative, and he gave me his number. So I called today and arranged coffee this evening.

It was great to see him. He's looking fantastic, he seems very happy, despite what he's been through lately. We had a magnificent time smiling and joking and remembering silly little things, and catching up on gossip. At one point, he said, "Why do I feel like Joan and Melissa Rivers at the Oscars?"

I said, "I don't know, but they sure are pretty."

"Pretty petty."

"Did I say pretty? I meant awful."

We talked about the meaning of life, about sexuality, about scandalous behaviour my classmates are reported to have engaged in since graduation. He even sang me a few bars of that song that goes, "I came from a small town..." or something like that.

Twice, he did that thing where a guy will stretch his arms above his head, thus "accidentally" lifting his shirt just enough so you can see his deliciously rock-hard abs for just a brief moment. *Swoon!*

After a while, he had to go, but we hugged (the second time that evening) and he blew me a kiss (again, the second time that evening). Having not fully absorbed what had just transpired, I did not return his kisses. At first.

When I got to my car, I was kicking myself for that, so I got out the cell phone, called his cell phone, appologised for my retardation-on-the-uptake, and blew him a kiss across the parking lot, and across the airwaves. I appologised over and over, but he just kept saying, "No worries, no worries." He's forgiving of little things like that. *Swoonswoonswoon!* We then said our goodnights, he promised to email me, and we went our separate ways, much to my chagrin.

I had pictured this going a little differently. I was wearing my too-expensive-for-just-anyone, world's-first gay pheremone, and was carrying flavoured condoms, as I had hoped to give him the best head of his life, despite Jamie's verbotting of any activity of this type. It hadn't worked out that way, however, which was okay, I guess. I had a really great time, and found that I'm more fond of this man than ever, even found myself hoping that he feels the same way. Which he might, I mean, who knows?

On the way back to my Grandmother's house, I sang at the top of my lungs, "I'VE! HAD! THE TIME OF MY LI-HI-HIFE! AND I'VE NEEEEEEVER FELT THIS WAY BEFORE! YES I SWEAR! IT'S THE TRU-HU-HUTH! AND I! OWE IT ALL TO YOU-HOO-HOO-HOOOO!!!"

Here's the best part, though. His vocational school's Spring Break is coming up, and he said that he would try to come visit me at school sometime. I really hope he does. I hope he visits for a long time. I hope that, after I insist that he sleep in my bed while I sleep on my tiny chesterfield or the cold, hard floor, I hope that he insists that unless I sleep in my bed, too, he won't, either. I'll finally give in. We'll cuddle and have babies somehow. It will be great. Even if I have to pay for his ticket myself, by whoring myself out down on Aurora, it's going to happen and it's going to be fantastic. I hope.

I wouldn't have traded this evening for anything in the world. If I had it to do over again, however, I would have done the following things differently:

1. I would not have divulged my belief that love is a social construct and my subsequent disbelief in it.
2. I would have either (a) mentioned that, as far as relationships are concerned, I'm not good at making a first move, or (b) touched his hand in a flirty manner.
3. I would have worn (a) my cute, urban hottie-wanna-be boots instead of my white tennis-shoes (I was in a rush), and (b) chapstick.
4. Rather than calling him to blow him a tele-kiss, I would have just run over to his car, explained that I didn't get it, appologise, and then make out with him in the back of his Jeep. While I have never made out with anyone before (I shamefully admit to you, dear reader), I could sheepishly, but cutely, ask him to teach me. It would be sweet and fun.

Here's the intended plan of action though. If there's enough time this week (which there probably won't be), I'll invite him to a movie (since he said he wanted to see me again before I leave), and then make a move in the movie theatre. In the dark. In public. Ooh, la-la. If not, we can do that when I fly him to Seattle for a week. Or two. Or a month.

OR

I'll call or email asking the following (seemingly stupid, but really very poignant) questions:

1. Are we friends? (Of course, we are, dummy: we're on a first-name basis now.)
2. Was that a date? (Oh, please, God, let that be a date!!)
3. If yes to (2), can we do that again? Very soon?
4. How do you feel about us, you know, dating?

Wouldn't that be funny, but scandalous, but exhilarating to be dating my middle-school math teacher?!

So, I told my Grandmother that I was seeing a friend from school (not a lie). If I told her who it really was, she would have lectured me about how to protect myself from rape, before forbidding me to leave the house. She things he's a friend from high school, which is fine. She wants me to bring him to her house for dinner sometime this summer, which I probably couldn't do without blowing her convenient misunderstanding.

So I came home, took my pills and went to bed, but after flipping and flopping for quite some time, decided that, because I have had coffee (a date?) with the man with whom I have been infatuated for years, I cannot sleep. I hope my sleeping pill kicks in soon, because damn.

So I'm going to try to go to sleep again, clutching my pillow to my bosom, (read: buh-zoom), pretending that I'm holding him. Forever. Sappy, yes. Hypocritical, definitely. But a boy can dream, can't he?

I imagine Constable Cuddlers wouldn't be pleased with this at all, but hey, when was the last time he even called me? So there.

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