(this is annie)

more betty wisdom

"I've come to the conclusion that I kind of like the Cure. You know, they have a new record coming out." —my mother


Lately, my pants have been a little tight. And not the kind of tiiiiight! that is slang for "cool," but the kind of tight that translates to me vainly attempting to stuff my thighs into last year's trousers. I will spare you the details. Let's just say that the pants problem, combined with an overall lack of energy, have driven me to invent a fitness regimen.

I call it Operation: FTAS (Fitting into Trousers, Avoiding Sleepiness). This is how it works:

Eat better.
Fruity crepes made at home are healthy. The crepes benedict at Le Peep? Not so much. Therefore, I will make breakfast at home every day! One easy way to do this is to drink a chocolatey protein shake, which tricks me into thinking that I'm having dessert at 9 a.m.

But do not diet.
I am almost underweight, so I don't think I need to diet. I just needed to clarify that before anybody said, "But you are a size four and maybe you have weird body image issues." While I do have weird body image issues (don't we all?), I think it would be lunacy to diet. Instead, I am trying to eat with overall health in mind: more nutritious foods like vegetable tagine and fewer sneaky snackos like Rice Krispy Treats (those I make and shove off onto Jesse).

I really hate this one. I love to ride my bike and play soccer or wiffle ball, but the idea of exercise for exercise's sake is boring. Jen loves her treadmill and her kickboxing DVDs, and although I have tried to love things like that, I become very frustrated and I give up.

The beauty of Operation: FTAS is that you can exercise while watching Jim Lehrer's NewsHour. I time my sit-ups and leg lifts to match news segments. I do push-ups while Lehrer is talking between b-roll footage, because my arm strength is somewhat weak. Right now, the exercise time is only about 15 minutes, but maybe it will improve over time.

The results so far
I have been doing Operation: FTAS for only one day, but so far it is going very well. I woke up this morning and was sore in a good way. More importantly, instead of scolding myself for not exercising more, I congratulated myself for taking care of myself. Soon, the pants will fit again, and there will be no more skirty mishaps. I have great faith in this plan.

Matt cracked me up with this one.

Nothing gets me riled up like Ralph Nader. Yes, he did some good things for public safety, and I do agree with a lot of his policies. But I think that his misguided goal of running for president is a vanity campaign. In 2000, I thought the same thing, but had hopes that after his defeat, he would rein his supporters' enthusiasm to continue to raise awareness on progressive charges. Except he didn't, really. And then he came back to run for president again. Why, I wonder, does he shoot for the presidency—an unattainable goal for him if ever there were one—and not for a Senate seat or a smaller but still-important role in state government? And yeah, I know about the whole third-party argument, but I feel like his campaigning is akin to a hamster running faster, faster, faster in its metal wheel: pushing as hard as possible, but really getting nowhere.

I know Nader has the right to fuck up another election if he wants. Maybe I should be more live-and-let-live about his campaign, and not want to bite things when I think about what he's doing. But he is running not for the good of the country, but for his own glory. Can we all finally agree that Nader's 2000 claim that there was no difference between Bush and Gore was false? Can we agree that either Kerry or Bush will become president in January 2005, and that there are many differences between these men? Look, while John Kerry is certainly not the output of my Play-Doh Presidential Mold Machine, he'll take the country in a much smarter direction than Bush will.

Nader is so convinced that he's morally and politically correct that he refuses to compromise (a regrettable tactic familiar to Bush, too). And then, upset that many of his former supporters have abandoned him, he decides to write bizarrely angsty open letters on his website. This one reads like an intercepted note in Study Hall, the author whining that he didn't get invited to the big movie premiere with the cool kids. My favorite part is at the end, where he starts OutKasting it up with odd syntax ("Girth they avoid.") and a venomous pen that basically calls Michael Moore a big fatty. What a statesman.

Todd met me in the armpit of Herald Square, and he looked Toddish as ever. In my old age, I actually can't remember what he looked like before he grew his hair out, but he works the style well. I told him he looked like my dad circa 1975, with the beard and the thin plaid shirt, and I hope he took it as a compliment rather than some weird projecting "Daddy" thing.

We took the train down to the pants store, and Todd purchased a fine pair of trou (again, this is what my dad says, but I really do not have weird Daddy issues, okay?). We walked south toward Nolita. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining brightly, and a breeze was blowing gently. I was wearing my favorite skirt, an army-green number (did I just say that? Hi, I'm 83) that flares out nicely. I was happy.

And then the wind gusted, my skirt inversed, and my bum said hello to the warm spring sun. The worst part of it is that I was wearing a boring, pale green thong. Why couldn't it have been something black and mysterious, or fishnetted? Now, although he claims to have seen nothing, Todd has seen my underwear and my pale rump. Great. There goes the mystery.

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i am so petty

You cannot tell this over the interweb, but I smell good most of the time. I know this because I smell myself, and I think, "I smell lovely! Maybe I should stop sniffing my forearm while waiting in line at the post office." I also know that I smell good because people tell me so, and my mother's best friend asked her why I smelled so nice. I'm not trying to brag, I'm just saying that unless I have just taken a large bicycle ride, I am an olfactory sensation.

The secret to my good smells is Lush, a UK-based cosmetics company that makes bath fizzies and lotions and what-have-you. They generally use fresh and organic ingredients, and their products smell gentle, rather than overwhelmingly perfumey. When I was in college, I bought some of their goodies while in Toronto, and since then I have been a happy Lush mail-order customers. One of the bonuses of ordering my toiletries from Canada, aside from the good exchange rate, was that very few other ladies in Chicago would smell the way I do. I felt like it was my little special thing. Except now, there are stores popping up in the States. One is scheduled to open in Chicago. And it's not the terrible hike in prices that gets me as much as the suspicion that my secret weapon of smelling good is pretty much fading out of my arsenal. Soon, people will stop thinking that I smell lovely on my own merit, and this saddens me more than it should.

the other thing

...about New York, that I seem to forget every time I leave, is that its streets are teeming with beautiful people. Girls who look like they've pulled themselves out of photos in Nylon magazine. Boys with bright green eyes and fitted jeans. But it's more than physical attractiveness, really; it's this overall sense of people who are really living. New York isn't an easy city to live in all the time, and so I think that if you live here, you have to take it by storm in your own personal way.

My two favorite dogs are Itha and Wendell. Last night, I took the wee Wen for a walk around the East Village. We had a lovely time, and I thought, "Oh Wendell, I am so glad that we are pals." After taking him back to Ophi's apartment, I went around the corner to get takeout from the Angelica Kitchen. Since my earlier Starbucks freakout, I'd decided to do things that made me happy. Hence the purchase of underwear, the walking of Wendell, the talking with Todd and Matlock, and the vegan takeout.

Back on the couch at Ophi's, I contentedly ate my dinner. Wendell was prancing around, looking for a scrap of tempeh or something else that he's not supposed to eat. I gave him a few warnings, finished my dinner, and tossed the takeout containers into the garbage. A few minutes later, I heard some rustling. Little Wendell was doing the canine version of dumpster diving. "Oh Wendell," I sighed, picking up the scattered containers. But Wendell wanted those scraps, and he proved it by biting my wrist. I haven't had a dog bite since I was a child (the source of my still-present, mild fear of dogs). Now I had two tiny punctures, like miniature vampire bites.

I rinsed the wound and then tried in vain to remember my cursory Girl Scout training. All I could think about was how a woman I know recently spent a few days in the hospital, hooked up to an IV because her cat had bitten her. Or how another woman I know was bitten by a dog and also had to go to the hospital to save her young life. I began to imagine my wrist slowly turning a sinister shade of purple, and how I was probably going to lose my arm eventually. I'd have to learn how to write left-handed, and I'd never bowl well again (although, I tangentially surmised, maybe I'd become one of those inspiring sports stars who becomes great at soccer after suffering a tragic loss of appendage). Then I felt shame, because I was going to lose my arm from a bite by a miniature dachshund. Not by a pit bull or a rottweiler, which would lend serious tough-girl credibility to my flowered wussiness. No, I was going to have to tell my pitiful story to people who would ultimately laugh themselves silly upon hearing that Weenie D did the damage.

I seriously thought about going to the hospital, because (as you might guess) I am paranoid. But the thing is, I wasn't sure if my insurance would cover an emergency visit. Besides, I was already in my pajamas. This morning, the bite marks are scabbing over, and the inside fold of my elbow is feeling oddly tense. Whether this is due to sleeping on the couch or the impending destruction of my arm, I am not sure. Tune in next time, dear reader, to find out!

i am so upset.

I am on vacation and "astrology camp" in New York City right now. I love this city. Even though I'm taking a break from my normal job, I am still bound to freelance duties. So I'm typing in a coffee shop. I was all excited because I did my work quickly, and I was attaching the file to the e-mail, and (see, I am getting worked up) and Appleworks crashed, and I lost the file. So I have to redo that, which is frustrating because I have to rebuild the file from scratch rather than use an old one. On top of that, I got a voice mail l saying that the job I interviewed for last week is not going to me. Which is okay, I guess, but part of me keeps wondering how many times I can be rejected before finally deciding that I am incompetent and untalented and unemployable. I'm crying in a Starbucks right now—awful, awful STARBUCKS, because I don't know where else to get WiFi—and the battery is at 30% and I am seriously wondering if I am a big fat sucker for trying to be optimistic even though I feel like all these things around me are falling apart.

I just want to be eight years old, again and forever.

waking up with bill clinton

Jen and I spend a great deal of our friendship venting about the latest news story that goes unreported in the mainstream news. We also like to reminisce about the Clinton/Gore administration. Yes, I have problems with some of the Big Dog's policies (don't ask, don't tell; NAFTA; DOMA). But generally speaking, I sometimes wish that Clinton could have been the Prez forever. Or maybe he could share a rotation with Gore, Hillary, and "Ba-rock the house" Obama. I liked ol' William J all right when I voted for him, but the more I think about his presidency, the more I feel like he's an imperfect but fundamentally principled man. I long for the days when a president's lie was about a none-of-our-business extramarital affair rather than, you know, entering a misplanned and unnecessary war against the urging of the most of the world.

And so that is why Jen and I pulled ourselves out of our respective beds at six a.m. yesterday, waited in the morning drizzle, and finally bathed ourselves in the aura that was Bill Clinton on Oprah. We managed to snag second-row seats in the right wing of the audience, which probably would have garnered a joke had we not been so bleary-eyed. We were very excited to attend the taping, and I was in such a giddy mood that I was willing to mostly forgive the woman directly behind me who provided running commenary throughout the whole hour. I think she's one of those people who talks at the movie screen, you know? Like, "Oh no, don't go through that door, Vin Diesel! Uh-uh. Oh dang! Now you know that guy's just faking dead! Watch your back!"

So anyway, Oprah looked radiant when she walked out. A few minutes later, when Clinton walked out wearing his natty pink tie, I lost any semblance of composure. I held my breath to try to keep it together, but nope, it was too late. I started clapping and crying and doing the choked-up-throat thing usually reserved for proud fathers at summertime Little League games. I felt honored to be a few yards from Clinton, proud in a sort of patriotic American way that I didn't really think was possible. The show airs today, and if you have keen eyesight, you will be able to see Jen in the first few minutes of the show (a closeup, right after Oprah enters the studio) and me in the background later (wearing a striped short-sleeve sweater, looking very pale and shiny and toothy). What times were those? That's right: good times.

ted leo for vice president!

I know I say it all the time, but Ted Leo has the best voice in rock and roll these days. And if that were not enough, he and the Pharmacists put on a great live show every single time. I don't attend too many shows these days, but when the Pharmacists come to town, I will gladly leave the house twice in one day to watch them (and this is not the first time I've doubled the Pharmacist phun). On Saturday afternoon, I hopped on the ol' Free Spirit and pedaled down to the cosmopolitan Taste of Randolph festival to see their set. I stood at the edge of the stage, mini-dancing among the sort of Ted fans who sing along with the songs (mostly because I am one of those fans). Later, at the Hideout, the band played a set including their upcoming album in its entirety. Great stuff as always. Even the grumpiest scenesters danced.

I hope that Ted has one of those solid careers in music—something along the lines of an indie Neil Young or Bob Dylan (although Ted, I feel certain, would not cavort with booby models in lingerie commercials). If he were to stop making music, I feel like some of my idealism would fade. I mean, going beyond the songs sounding good, I feel like Ted Leo stands for something. That's rare, and I just have tons of respect for the guy. If he were to run for office, a sort of liberal Bob Roberts in reverse, I'd want to be his campaign manager. Ted Leo: He's got the prescription for political ennui!

northern state: all city
Long Island femme-raps.
Rad concept; I'd like to like
Them. Alas, stale beats.

tegan & sara: so jealous
Canadian, cute,
Funny, smart, good songwriters
All of the above

rilo kiley: more adventurous
Many people love
This band. This record did not
Kick my ass so much.

Jesse and I are working on our respective projects in his office, drinking Coca-Cola and eating stale Polish chocolate. The air inside this second-floor converted apartment is warm, but the cool breeze outside blows in from time to time. Jesse doesn't know it yet, but he's going to help me write this. I hope he is not angry about it.

Me: What are you doing?
Jesse: What?
Jesse: Working on Better Propaganda. What are you doing?
Me: Kinda itching my eye.
Jesse: And?
Me: Nothing. Tell me something clever.
Jesse: Annie in the Attic is a pretty bad name for a record.
Me: What is it called?
Jesse: Satanic Panic in the Attic.
Me: That's not so good. Do you have a good joke for me?
Jesse: What's a good one? (Clutches head frustratedly) Someone told me a joke at Rainbo the other night. (Pause) I don't know, man, I'm coming up with [either "nothing" or "a monkey"]. It's the heat.
Modest Mouse (quieter now): TALKIN' SHIT ABOUT A PRETTY SUNSET!

(five minutes pass)

Me:Did you think of that joke?
Jesse: No. It has something to do with a bear and a bar.
Me: Oh, I know this one.
Jesse: Some sort of a pun, with a bear eating a woman at the bar? Do you know what I'm talking about?
Me: No.
Modest Mouse (drawling): Cowboy Dan's a major player in the cowboy scene.
Me: This bear walks into the bar, and he sits down, and the bartender goes, "What can I get you?" And the bear just sits there for a while (pantomimes sitting in an ursine fashion). And the bartender goes, "Hey, why the long paws?" No! The big pause. Why the big paws?
Jesse: Yeah, that's not the one. It's like, "If you don't serve me I'm going to eat that woman over there." And the punchline is a pun. I can't remember.
Modest Mouse (inquisitively): Have I toldja? Have I toldja?


While watching this video of Al Franken, all I could think was, "My goodness, the man's got giant paws."

In other news, I just had a nice surprise of a freelance offer. Totally unexpected. And the good part about it, aside from the fun subject matter, is that it is going to push me much closer to the dream of being able to live off freelance and freelance alone. What is the rule of thumb? I can't remember. But now I'll be making a little more than half of my regular salary through freelancing. This is exciting, not because I am a money-hungry hog, but because it's rewarding to be able to support yourself independently. Feeling of accomplishment and all that jazz.

postmodern grocery poetry

Sign on an endcap display of smoothies at Dominick's: Summer rhymes with smoothies!

I had a packed weekend. The truth is that on the weekends, I like to do nothing at all. I enjoy eggy brunches, afternoon naps, lazy evenings, reading, and bicycle rides. Maybe renting a movie or taking Itha to the park if Weeks and I can ever get our schedules straight. But in general? I like to rest.

This weekend, however, was busy. I went to Lula with Jen on Friday night, which was pretty low-key. Then on Saturday, I ran errands in the morning before going home to pick up my bike. "I will go to the park and finish my book," I thought. "And probably I will run into people there, which will be all right." Except it didn't happen. Instead, I watched a group of kickboxing teenagers and glared at a pair of bratty pre-teens who had splashed water on me. I ate a petit pain au chocolat, and later I ate some so-so pad Thai from Penny's. I finished my book and took a nap. Throughout all of this, I tried to hide from the bright sunshine, but still I felt sunburn creeping over my shoulders.

Later in the afternoon, I pedaled down to Venus headquarters to send out some mailings and do other editorial tasks. Went home, ate some more (a recurring theme), and went to a goodbye party for Chad. Rode bike to Camp Gay and saw some bands. Was going to pedal over to Club Foot to see my brother play records, but by one in the morning, I chose sleep instead.

What's interesting to me now is that as I recount my Saturday, the writing tone changes. When I spend time alone, doing very little, I tend to notice more things and process the time differently. I remember details like snapshots. But when I get busy in my personal life (no, not getting busy in that way, pervy) my hours are whittled down to a to-do list. Or a "done" list. It's the difference between describing what I did and listing what I did. Nothing really profound to say, just a personal observation.


spa anxiety

Lately I've been juggling a lot of extracurricular activities, and so I am occasionally a little bit scatterbrained. For instance, when I am doing a rather mindless task like copying and pasting links, I'll start thinking about how to best make raspberry rice pudding. Or when I'm driving, I do so carefully but not with the intense focus of my just-licensed 16-year-old self—in large part because I have become a dirty old woman who squints at cute bicycle riders and then daydreams about midnight rides through the park. I spend a lot of my time daydreaming or thinking in abstracts, and this is generally not a problem when I have the free time to do it. During the last week or so, though, I have had little free time, and so my wandering mind sometimes steps into my regular time.

And yesterday, I purchased a product called the MD Skincare Dr Dennis Gross Alpha Beta Daily Face Peel Two-Step System. They should just call it The Only Stuff That Is Clearing Up My Noriegaface. I went to the spa retailer who offers me a decent discount and paid for the product. As I was signing the Mastercard slip, I started wondering if my life would have turned out differently had I developed different handwriting. Handwriting was one of my most challenging subjects in elementary school, in large part because I found the repetition boring. I also thought that cursive Qs looked like 2s, the Zs like clumsy cousins of the Qs, and the As rotund and boring. So by fifth grade, I began to form my As in a swirly bastardization of the printed A, and it has been the same ever since. Maybe, I thought, if I had made my As differently, that would have somehow changed my life one way or another. Would it have been positive? Negative? A little of both?

You can see how easy it would be, were you consumed by these thoughts, to pay for the MD Skincare Dr Dennis Gross Alpha Beta Daily Face Peel Two-Step System and forget the actual product. When the nice spa lady e-mailed me to tell me that I'd left my product behind, I hoped that it would look like I was just an adorable space case. Today, I stopped by to pick up the MDSDDGABDFPTSS and, a little embarrassed by my mistake, began babbling the praises of these overpriced little face wipes. The spa lady, who has always looked at me confusedly when I insist that two haircuts per year is fine by me, looked thrilled. She hugged me and said, "I'm going to make a spa girl out of you yet!" I am a little bit afraid of what that might mean: eyebrow threading? Leg waxing? The possibilities are endless and expensive.

the heart is a lonely hunter

I'm reading The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and I was curious to see what people thought of it on the Amazon customer review scene. A few reviewers said they found it too sad, ultimately depressing, that sort of thing. The literature snob in me was defensive at first, but then I decided to slip off my high horse and think about their comments. Of course, some were born of a shallow understanding of the book's themes, but other reviewers picked up on the loneliness and isolation and love in the book, and they just didn't like what it had to say. A real downer. And it's funny, because those are the reasons I like the book so much. I find truth in it. Label me a grumpy gus if you want, but the world can be a very lonely, alienating place. I don't think there's anything wrong or depressive in saying that. What saves the situation from falling into despair is the hope of the heart, the quiet search for connection. And that's what I love about the book, and why it feels so real and relevant to me.


the personal:
So I met Missed Connection for a snack. I love the snack-meeting, because it gives lots of options. Are things going well? Great, take a walk after snacking. Would you rather dine with gassy Oompa Loompas than with your snack partner? Oh! Look, here's the check, and I must be going now. You can never go wrong with the snack-meeting.

Missed Connection is a little shy (yay!) and (get this) he drives a scooter. I was initially giddy to see the little scooter, and then I began pining for my erstwhile Vespa. I swear to god, it's like I was in love with Vespy, and then she was stolen, and my heart has never been the same since. Anyway, because I overanalyze things, I believe that my discussion of John Ashcroft as my buddy icon may have given Missed Connection little incentive to follow through with our tentative plans to hang out this week. Which leads to:

the political:
How to get away with torture: a memo
What that means: because it was confusing to me at first
The New York Times: "Mr. Ashcroft, who seemed uncomfortable during the sometimes tough questioning, often responded by saying that the United States was at war and the critics often failed to take that into account."

Long story short: Even though the United States doesn't condone torture and it's illegal, the president can give it the go-ahead, because, you know, we're at war and that justifies anything.


The thing I remember most vividly about Ronald Reagan is that he represented an America that was full of hope and optimism and equal opportunity. It wasn't until I became older that I realized that America wasn't full of those things for everyone, and not until I was older still that I realized that some of his policies were about doing the opposite of those things. I lived through Reagan's presidencies, but not as an active participant in the political sphere. I just knew that he liked jellybeans, that my father liked to imitate his gentle rasp, and that a man named Oliver North was keeping cartoons off the airwaves.

Some of my friends are celebrating his death with great fervor. One of them is throwing a party to mark the occasion. And I can't help but think that it hits a little low. Say what you will about Reagan, but he was still a man (even if he was The Man). Although the mass media's near canonization of the former president is imbalanced—just as it was when Nixon died—to me it seems cruel to react with glee. Argue the man's ideology, question his sincerity, challenge the portrait of perfection they're painting, sure. But getting excited because he's dead? It just lacks compassion, which is, in a way, becoming what you hate about the man in the first place.

Stepping off the soapbox...

the plan of expatriation


When I visited Paris, I decided that I'd very much like to live there. Part of that desire is born of the undemanding nature of vacation, but I do genuinely love the pace of the city. If I lived there, I could learn better French, foster a better understanding of European culture, and get fat and happy on crepes and croissants. I could also serve as a unofficial ambassador from the United States, where it is seemingly acceptable to hate the French. Personally, I love the Frogs, and I would do my part to break the stereotype of the anti-French American.

The problems in my expatriation process are as follows. First, my French is pas si bon. It's largely limited to food and drink requests, political diatribes delivered in nursery-school language, and, for some reason, a detailed history of my relationship with Evan. Go figure. Secondly: without fluency, it's hard to get the proper papers. Without those, I won't find a job. It's important to have a job if you plan to pay your bills. On the flip side, if things became very desperate, I could become a stripper. You don't need to talk much, and in France, they like smaller breasts. Euro City, here I come!

the horror, the horror

I really love the concept of Missed Connections. Whether in the Reader or Craigslist, they are a constant source of entertainment for me. I like to imagine little romantic scenarios for the good ones. Occasionally, I will leave messages, never intending for them to actually lead to anything.

So, you know, when I left one the other day, I didn't think it would lead to anything. I just saw someone cute who was talking about old records, but I was shy (and honestly, a bit dirty) so I stayed away. I viewed the MC as catharsis, a feeble attempt at making myself feel less of a chicken when it comes to meeting people.

But today: oh god oh god oh god. It worked. I got an e-mail. From the person. And I know it's the right person, because the details lined up and there was a picture too. I feel about ten times more embarrassed than I would have had I just said hello in the first place. Lesson learned.


On Saturday night, Miles and I decided to paint the town red, or at least a deep shade of pink. We had a tasty dinner at Rodan and then moved on to the Rainbo. I hadn't been there since... February? Although they were playing some great music, we didn't stay long before moving on to Zakopane. Zakopane is neither hip nor glamorous; it has bikini-clad women on beer advertisements and a pool table and a television hanging in the corner. It's the kind of place that has regulars who've probably saddled up to the bar for years.

So Miles and I were discussing plans for our yet-to-be-named emo hardcore band, when the fiftysomething man next to us announced, "I'm going to buy you both a drink!" He had a slightly ruddy face, sad eyes, and about 40 extra pounds. Both Miles and I were shaken, I think, by this man's enthusiasm for buying us drinks. I pushed away his words with the sort of politeness that you use when a lonely, drunk stranger is trying to connect. I mean, I don't want to be rude; I just didn't want him to buy me a drink. Miles, however, was game. He's a brave man like that. "HEYYYY! DRINKS!" roared the man, slamming his empty glass on the formica countertop.

The bartender poured beers and whiskey shots, and the men drank them. Miles took his shot quietly, while the man sipped his before unleashing a hearty and impressively insane HAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Then the man told Miles and me that we made a lovely couple, really interesting-looking, a lovely couple, out on the town, really nice. We didn't correct him on the nuances of our long and platonic friendship, because it really didn't matter.

Then Miles abandoned me for the WC! And I was left alone with our new friend, who by that point had become pretty drunk. He was a bit wobbly, and he slurred unintelligibles at me while looking at my thighs. "Youra stunner," he mumbled, leaning in a little bit. "Eezzz bizzz." I began to feel rather nervous. Miles returned, my knight in girls' Levis. "Youraaa lovely, good-lookin COUPLE," he continued. "Srrrorfle bwahtzzz," which I interpreted to mean something about our supposed sex life.

The thing is, Miles and I don't have a sex life. We never have. It was time to set the record straight with this man. "Oh! Well! Miles and I, we are friends. We've been friends for almost ten years," I chirped, like I was a recruiter for some touchy-feely Care Bears cult. Miles and I felt old for a moment, and then the poor drunk man's face deflated. He became relatively quiet for a few moments, and then he hurriedly stumbled outside without a word of goodbye.

In unrelated news, I am looking for a job in writing, producing, editing. Print or web, either way. If you know of anything, please let me know. Thank you!


say hello

    it's anniet at gmail.


© 2009 avt

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