Sure I Love You Baby, Like I Love Fresca.

I've always liked that Tab tastes like liquid pennies.

I guess these boys do too.

And, of course, the design is so pretty, so clean.
They could teach something to the kids who (recently) messed up Fresca.

Get(ting) a life

I took the bus.

But the driver was bitchy.
(She got on at the same stop as me. She barged on and we thought she was cutting the line. She made us wait.)

Bus drivers tell me...

Transportation Alternatives

No cabs.

I'm preparing for poverty.

Backseat Shooter: Apparently, Alyssa is a cheat.

Long Division

It was the first time someone closed that sliding divider for me.

That ride was rough.

Sweet dreams

I can't remember the last time I saw my bed on this side of midnight.

Street stalkers

If, when we passed eachother on the street on Sunday morning, I laughed at you and you laughed at me, and we kept walking, and laughing to ourselves, then we're totally dating now, right?

Debbie Downer

His name may as well have been David Downer.

As he drove me home he regaled me with a tale of the fire raging in SoHo.
And as we passed a taped-off 14th Street he pointed out the remains of a dead body in the middle of the road.
(He’d witnessed the hit-and-run earlier in the night.)
I, in no mood to talk, nodded.

He pushed for my name.
I told him it was Debbie.

Backseat Shooter: 6M50

Perhaps it was my stunning beauty that casued this man to forget to run the meter.
Or perhaps he was as intrigued/confused by the hanging flip-flops as I was.

Niether one of us noticed the other until it was time to pay.

A Pretty Place to Live

The thought of moving to L.A.

I was delusional.

The L.A. that I'm looking for doesn't exist anymore as such.

And we all know what a stellar driver I am.

Extension

"You're a good girl," said the caller, inexplicably.

I hung up.

That is not true.

Please hang up.

No, but you did catch me at a bad year.

A suivre...

"Anyway, I am sorry it's in French, but it's such a lovely book and there's always pictures, right?" she wrote, on the note she'd slipped under the cover.

Oui.

All things go.

Speaking of Jesus. And beautiful: last night, Sufjan Stevens, two times.
Now I'm tired.
Details (and photos) later.

Bank

A check register that ended shortly after I started.

Were you with me at that ATM?

(I don't know what you looked like then.)

Reverence

"Goodbye beautiful," he said as I shut the door.

Minutes earlier he had been singing, out loud, about Jesus; so maybe that's just the kind of love he has in his heart.

Things, some (more)*

- something about backing the car up, down the highway
- something about thinking the cab driver's going to get you killed
- something about middle management
- something about music you've missed
- something about selling me a reconstructed blazer
- something about reading your blog like a book
- something about the best time to have a baby
- something about the necessity of flattery
- something about Steel Wheels
- something about flying away


*Last time I neglected to mention that I unwittingly stole this format from friend, Andy Selsberg, via his Citizen Truth. He's forgiven me. I think. He should feel free to steal my bit about cabs.

Flyover. Or, Stuck in the Middle With You.

Boys from the Midwest.
Boys from the Mideast.

Same difference/distance.

In a cab.

Her Side of the Story

From Naomi's MySpace page:
Friday, December 30, 2005

True Life: I GOT MUGGED
Current mood: sore

... After a sleepless night, I woke up, got ready for work, Jennifer and I leave, and as I shut the door I say, "This is the first time I am leaving my apartment after I got mugged." We part ways as I enter the subway to go uptown to work. As I go through the subway turnstyle I sigh as a train is just leaving. I walk down the stairs to find one of my taekwando heroes walking towards me.

He casually says "Hey."
"Um...Hi?"
"How are you fee..."
"Did you help me last night?"
"What?...did you just asked if I robbed you last night?"

Un-enamored

Today I had day dreams of leaving the office, hopping into a cab, heading home, and watching The Office.

Alas, I'm still here.

Backseat Shooter: 3M63. Or, Happy Heart Day.

A bit early for the "holiday," it looked like it had been decorated for years.

XO, Me

We pull up to the corner of Vanderbilt and Dean, I pay, and as I wait for the receipt:

“Umm, I try never to ask these things to the customer, but I just, I, uh, I just really want to.

You’re that psychiatrist, right?

I mean, I see you walking on the street and I think it is you, and then you raise your arm to stop me, and I think, ‘Wow, her, in my cab!’ But then I didn’t say anything, and now I think ‘I know I’m not supposed to say it when I pick up such people,’ but then I heard you speak and now I am sure that it is you, and so I just have to ask…”

I feel bad.

I stop him.

“I’m not a psychiatrist,” I laugh. “I could probably use a psychiatrist. But I’m not one.”

(“And how does that make you feel?” I can picture my roommate chiding/mocking me when I relay this whole bit.)

The fact that I’m going to write about this when I get home makes me sure I should see a psychiatrist, I think. To myself.

He asks for my autograph. He says he’s sure it’s me. He looks quite sad when I try, again, to protest.

I'm not sure whether he wants me to sign as Dr. Joyce Brothers. Or Dr. Phil. Or, I can’t think of any more, and I am so far from figuring out exactly who he thinks I might be, that I scribble “Thank you for the ride. XO, Me” on a scrap of Sunday’s New York Times Arts and Leisure cover. And then I dash.

Although I do think, for a moment, about asking him for his autograph too.

Only Naomi

Only Naomi would run into one of her saviors on the subway the morning after such a ridiculous circumstance.

She's recounted the story on her MySpace page, but I think she'll kill me if I link to it here.

I'll convince her.
Stay tuned.