Despite the snow, today is a happy day. I went to sleep early last night and woke up feeling ready to take the day head-on. I've remained perky and content throughout the whole day.
One of the books I'm reading is Midnight Sun, by fellow University of Michigan alum Elwood Reid. He studied under my favorite professor, and so I feel some sort of kinship with the writer (after all, we look up to the same professor). I've read Reid's short stories before, and so I opened this new book with great anticipation. So far, it's an exciting literary thriller (there's no better way to say it) set in Alaska. It has a few elements of Heart of Darkness as well as a touch of the Hemingway adventurer. Good stuff; I can't wait to finish it.
Owls McGee and I have apartment fever, and we have it bad. We have gone so far as to create a separate web site about it. We leave each other notes like "I hope you are prepared for me to get all feng shui obsessed" and "Nobody wants to walk into her bedroom and feel like Timothy Leary, y'know?"
At work today I came up with a very clever idea, and I was strangely confident in describing it to my supervisor. "Best idea ever," I exclaimed. "Bigger than the New Deal!"
- - -
Update on Whoa: I have decided that he must be gay. This is the most likely scenario. Let us gather the evidence:
1. He is good-looking to the point that his job is being a model. I shit you not. Models work in the fashion "industry," which is filled with gay men and snarky fashion editors. As he is not a snarky fashion editor, the evidence points to him being a Friend of Dorothy.
2. He was wearing a very stylish outfit. Heterosexual men are able to piece together fashionable outfits, but proportionally less so than their gay brethren. The scale is just tilted in the favor of gayness. Granted, Whoa's outfit did not involve glitter or anything (it was a thrift score store) but he sweats stylishness all the same.
3. My memory is fuzzy on the whole "friend mentioning Whoa to me" bit. Did she say she wanted to fix us up? Or did she say she thinks we'd hit it off? Those could be two very different things.
3a. (But if Whoa is indeed gay, why wouldn't Friend say, "Uh, you know, Whoa is gay" when I mentioned my cheese-induced minicrush? Why would she offer to give him my number and do "recon work"?)
4. He was really friendly. He made and kept eye contact. He asked questions about my life. He loves the Cheese Castle. He said he hoped to see me again soon. This is all too charming to be true.
5. He did not ask for my phone number. For some reason he misunderstood me when I talked about an upcoming birthday party, and he said, "Well, I will definitely be there! When is it, next weekend?" You see, when I explained that it's not until May, that would have been a good time for him to ask for the digits, as it were. But he didn't, and lamely I blurted, "Well, huh-huh, you know how to get in touch, huh-huh." Smooth criminal, that's me.
These are all compelling reasons to believe that Whoa is not a fan of the ladies. At least they are in my head. I know there is a plausible and more convincing rebuttal to most of those points, but it just seems easier to believe that he is gay. If I do that, then everything is neat and tidy.
However, today I make this pact with myself: if he is gay, I will try to make friends with him. If indeed he is not gay, then I will confidently proceed with getting to know him in a potentially datey way. I can't not do it, especially when he seems to be a complete weirdo who doesn't use his looks to get ahead.
(Also, dear reader, I hope you know that I tend to amplify my neuroses in type. It's bound to be slightly more engaging to read that way, or at least that is the goal.)
One of the books I'm reading is Midnight Sun, by fellow University of Michigan alum Elwood Reid. He studied under my favorite professor, and so I feel some sort of kinship with the writer (after all, we look up to the same professor). I've read Reid's short stories before, and so I opened this new book with great anticipation. So far, it's an exciting literary thriller (there's no better way to say it) set in Alaska. It has a few elements of Heart of Darkness as well as a touch of the Hemingway adventurer. Good stuff; I can't wait to finish it.
Owls McGee and I have apartment fever, and we have it bad. We have gone so far as to create a separate web site about it. We leave each other notes like "I hope you are prepared for me to get all feng shui obsessed" and "Nobody wants to walk into her bedroom and feel like Timothy Leary, y'know?"
At work today I came up with a very clever idea, and I was strangely confident in describing it to my supervisor. "Best idea ever," I exclaimed. "Bigger than the New Deal!"
- - -
Update on Whoa: I have decided that he must be gay. This is the most likely scenario. Let us gather the evidence:
1. He is good-looking to the point that his job is being a model. I shit you not. Models work in the fashion "industry," which is filled with gay men and snarky fashion editors. As he is not a snarky fashion editor, the evidence points to him being a Friend of Dorothy.
2. He was wearing a very stylish outfit. Heterosexual men are able to piece together fashionable outfits, but proportionally less so than their gay brethren. The scale is just tilted in the favor of gayness. Granted, Whoa's outfit did not involve glitter or anything (it was a thrift score store) but he sweats stylishness all the same.
3. My memory is fuzzy on the whole "friend mentioning Whoa to me" bit. Did she say she wanted to fix us up? Or did she say she thinks we'd hit it off? Those could be two very different things.
3a. (But if Whoa is indeed gay, why wouldn't Friend say, "Uh, you know, Whoa is gay" when I mentioned my cheese-induced minicrush? Why would she offer to give him my number and do "recon work"?)
4. He was really friendly. He made and kept eye contact. He asked questions about my life. He loves the Cheese Castle. He said he hoped to see me again soon. This is all too charming to be true.
5. He did not ask for my phone number. For some reason he misunderstood me when I talked about an upcoming birthday party, and he said, "Well, I will definitely be there! When is it, next weekend?" You see, when I explained that it's not until May, that would have been a good time for him to ask for the digits, as it were. But he didn't, and lamely I blurted, "Well, huh-huh, you know how to get in touch, huh-huh." Smooth criminal, that's me.
These are all compelling reasons to believe that Whoa is not a fan of the ladies. At least they are in my head. I know there is a plausible and more convincing rebuttal to most of those points, but it just seems easier to believe that he is gay. If I do that, then everything is neat and tidy.
However, today I make this pact with myself: if he is gay, I will try to make friends with him. If indeed he is not gay, then I will confidently proceed with getting to know him in a potentially datey way. I can't not do it, especially when he seems to be a complete weirdo who doesn't use his looks to get ahead.
(Also, dear reader, I hope you know that I tend to amplify my neuroses in type. It's bound to be slightly more engaging to read that way, or at least that is the goal.)
Labels: books
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