2002-05-29 - 8:31 p.m.

On the internal soundtrack: "Something to Talk About", Bonnie Raitt

Well, I had a good weekend. It was the first weekend in a while that we were able to stay close to home -- no family parties, no trips to Virginia -- and we could just hang out together and bond.

I don't really understand why this is, or how it works, but there is a noticeable difference in my relationship with Poindexter when we have long periods of time alone together. It feels better. I feel closer to him and mushier about him. It also seems to melt stress. Maybe it's because we focus more on each other, as opposed to focusing on other people or things (I've been obssessed with houses lately).

Other people think we're nuts for demanding so much time alone together -- very few couples I know have that kind of requirement -- but neither of us is really happy if we don't.

We still had crap to do, though. Saturday we had to get up at the crack of dawn to go out to Delaware County to get car insurance. Final total: $2400. I asked her what it would be if we moved to a specific area code outside Philadelphia. Answer: $1300. Unfknblvbl. So we would save $1100 each year if we move out of here, in addition to the my tax.

I think the problem with the insurance is that you can have a high-crime area and a low-crime area within the same zip code here in the city. So the fact that we live in a really nice, well-kept area with no slummy crap anywhere nearby (unlike the block-to-block nice/crap dichotomies elsewhere) is not taken into account. There's high crime somewhere in the zip code, so the insurance rates are high. Gah.

Today after work we went to get our titles and tags. That was just ... hell. We got a woman who was so busy trying to be efficient that she DIDN'T LISTEN to our specific questions and situation, so she made a few erroneous assumptions and ended up wasting some time doing the wrong thing. I freakin' hate that.

It ended up okay, but Poindexter is NOT happy about the status of pickup trucks in Pennsylvania. He had to get a special "TRUCK" plate, and he's not allowed to drive in areas that say "NO TRUCKS", such as Kelley Drive in the park along the Schuylkill (SKOO-kull, if you were wondering) River. He was flabbergasted. It's a PICKUP. A LITTLE one. It isn't used for commercial purposes. SUVs don't seem to have truck plates, so why a little pickup?

And did I mention how STUPID it is that you have to have a TRACING of the VIN or have it VERIFIED by a MECHANIC or NOTARY!? What is the POINT of THAT? I have the Virginia title and a Virginia photo license! What good does the tracing do?

Well, don't get me started.

After this, we went to a packed IHOP for breakfast in which we were one of about five white people; the rest were black. That was an interesting flip. In college I remember black folks feeling self-conscious when they're the only black person in the room. I thought it was kind of weird because I don't single out lone black folks in a room. I'm vaguely aware of the colors of random people in the same way I notice hair color or height, but that's about it. But I confess I did notice when I was almost the only white person in a room. Hm.

One of the white people was a man with shaggy black hair and a mustache, who was standing by the entrance struggling to keep his eyes open. He had to have been on something. He would stand there and his eyes would slowly close, his head would nod, then he'd wake up with a jerk. Rinse, repeat. He was repulsive and I wished he would leave or sit down, but he just hung out by the entrance and occasionally the manager would chat with him. The manager didn't seem to be trying to chase him out.

The IHOP was also packed with gorgeous women, so I kept poking Poindexter and saying look at HER! And HER! And WOW, look at HER! There was also a big hulking guy there waiting for someone by the door -- he was 6'5" and proportioned big -- with a six-week-old baby daughter with a LOT of hair. She looked so impossibly tiny next to her big father. I and every other woman who walked through the door had to stop and coo a bit.

So we ate our breakfast/lunch, and then we went wandering around looking for neighborhoods again. I fell madly in love with a neighborhood full of trees and big old houses; we shall see if anything comes on the market that we can afford.

We happened by a kitchen store, and I suggested we stop in. I wanted to get a ballpark figure for a kitchen renovation to make sure we were looking in the right price range for the fixer-upper type houses. This turned into a complete drool-fest, looking at super-quiet dishwashers and two-drawer dishwashers (me) and superfancy cooktops and subzero refrigerators (Poindexter). He gave us the high-end estimate first (hence the drooling) and then showed us how to cut down on the cost some. It was enlightening.

Then we went home and got into bed and passed out cold for an hour and a half. We were tired.

Sunday, I sat around in my purple underwear and pink fuzzy slippers all day. I was hot except my feet, which were like ice. Odd.

Sunday evening, my folks came down and we went out to dinner at the Devon Seafood Grill by Rittenhouse Square. After dinner, we sat in the park for a while people-watching and chatting.

On the corner of 18th and Walnut there occasionally sits an EXTREMELY LARGE woman, on a milk crate, soliciting donations. She is VERY, VERY LARGE. I'd like to know what her deal is. She was playing a recorder, although I use the term "playing" loosely.

My mom is particularly interested in the street people. She watched them with fascination as they poked through the garbage cans. We don't have street people in my hometown.

At one point, I saw a guy walking through the grass (which had gotten a bit long) with a small creature with long ears hopping madly around his feet. It was boinging around like Tigger. The animal stayed very close to the guy's feet the whole time. I was enchanted.

Evelynne: Look! A trained bunny!
Poindexter: It's a dog.
Evelynne: No, look at the ears! It's hopping! It's a bunny!
Poindexter: It's a dog.

So of course I had to go find out for myself. Poindexter was right. It was a 6-month-old Yorkie with long pointy ears. The thing was so freaking cute. The guy with the dog was almost certainly gay, but the dog was a total chick magnet. He had women stopping him every 20 feet to inquire about the dog. I suppose the dog also attracts other gay men, though, so it must be worthwhile in the long run.

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