2004-04-14 - 9:38 p.m.

On the internal soundtrack: "A Day In The Life", Beatles

Monday, April 12

Poindexter and I have a lot of goofy IM conversations.

Last night Poindexter dreamt that I cheated on him with Paulie from the Sopranos (OF ALL PEOPLE!), and has been giving me shit about it all day, as though it really happened. Today in the car at a stoplight something came up (neither of us can remember what) that resulted in him screaming, "...BECAUSE YOU SLEPT WITH PAULIE!!" And he was SO loud, and there were people on the corner, and I wonder if they heard even though the windows were shut. I was laughing so hard I had tears in my eyes.

Also, I'm meeting Peter for dinner tonight.

Evelynne: What should I do, meet Pete in Rittenhouse, or ask him to come over this way for dessert around 7? (I was thinking of the crepe place)
Poindexter: Up to you. I'm watching hockey.
Poindexter: He must not be a fan.
Evelynne: I asked him that already.
Poindexter: STRIKE ONE!
Evelynne: Dork. See here
Poindexter: Does he disco?
Evelynne: I like disco.
Evelynne: he says that women like men who dance even when they look like epileptics
Poindexter: LOL
Evelynne: Or something like that.
Poindexter: Women must not like me.
Evelynne: Guess not.
Evelynne: My list of desirable qualities in a man [written when I was about 19] said "likes dancing".
Evelynne: Perhaps I should reconsider you.
Poindexter: I'll bet PAULIE likes to dance!
Evelynne: CUT IT OUT WITH THE PAULIE THING!
Poindexter: lol
Evelynne: If I'm gonna do a Paulie, it's gonna be Senior, goddammit!
Poindexter: nut.
Evelynne: Because he gets misty about little kids and the Santa bike, and the POW-MIA bike.
Evelynne: I LIKE SENSITIVE MEN!
Poindexter: hm.
Evelynne: You shoud be concerned because you never get misty about anything.
Evelynne: I might lose interest in you.
Poindexter: Nothing to do with his "size twelves"?
Evelynne: No, actually, he frightens me a little.
Poindexter: I get misty about hockey.
Poindexter: Those dramatic intros to Hockey Night In Canada.
Evelynne: You do not.
Evelynne: You get excited, that's different.
Poindexter: Some are very tear-jerky.
Evelynne: And you LAUGH.
Poindexter: no!
Poindexter: I'm laughing away the lump in my throat.
Evelynne: Bull SHIT.
Poindexter: how do you know?
Evelynne: You gotta be kidding me.
Poindexter: Man of mystery....
Evelynne: I'm going to beat you, mystery man.

[There's no segue here -- I was thinking about ordinary people who become famous, like the Teutels]

Evelynne: Do you think it would be harder to stick to your principles about infidelity if you were famous and had women throwing themselves at you all the time?
Poindexter: It might be harder to make the commitment, but I don't really know how much more difficult constant temptation would be.
Poindexter: Could be a lot, might not be.
Evelynne: I'd give you six months off from the marriage.
Evelynne: That's an extenuating circumstance.
Poindexter: Some of those rockstars seem to have contempt for those backstage girls.
Poindexter: LOL
Evelynne: Of course, this means I can do whatever I want for those six months too, although I may not want to.
Poindexter: hm.

Tuesday, April 13

So, I made plans to meet Peter for dinner last night, at the Taj Mahal at 19th & Chestnut. I'm still checking out Indian restaurants, since the one near my house is a little too expensive. I'm looking for Indian home-cooking kinda food, not the Indian equivalent of Fork.

I get there, and the security gate is down. Oops. I thought maybe it wasn't open since it was a Monday. Nope, worse than that. The restaurant no longer exists. There was nothing inside but a couple of chairs, I think. I was quite relieved that I had arrived first, because imagine if he had shown up and seen the missing restaurant -- he might've thought I was some kind of fake LJer or playing a practical joke.

Fortunately -- sort of -- I had a backup Indian restaurant, Minar Palace at 16th & Sansom. I say "sort of" because the decor was worse than McDonald's -- cafeteria tables and chairs squeezed into two tiny plain rooms -- one like a deli and the other (which we actually sat in) like a vestibule. Peter's omnipresent smile did not fade so presumably he was not too horrified.

Besides, the food was good and CHEAP -- I ordered three $5 entrees, ate half of one, and brought the rest home. Three chicken dishes: vindaloo, korma, and jalfrazie. I will be going back, repeatedly. I'm reading online reviews now and it appears that we ended up at the better restaurant, food-wise if not decor-wise.

After dinner Peter suggested we get coffee. You would THINK that getting a freaking CUP O' COFFEE in a CITY would be EASY at 7:45pm on a weekday, but NOOOOOOOO. Starbucks at 16th & Market was closed. The ING Direct internet cafe was closed. Did I mention it was FREEZING cold and pouring down rain?! We finally ended up at the Warwick Hotel (which is where Charlize Theron lives in "The Italian Job"), and I'm glad we did, because it's a lovely hotel and it was a nice quiet bar, even if the TVs were showing girls in tiaras gagging over disgusting "food" items on "Fear Factor".

I managed to be quite civilized in conversation out in the real world, given all the weird shit I say to Peter online. But that is almost always how it works for me during the first few meetings -- it's almost like starting over with getting to know someone, so I get all polite and non-freaky. In Peter's case it was a little worse because he looks nothing like my mental picture of him (dark-haired and purple-skinned, as per his usericons) so I kept feeling like he was someone else I'd just picked up off the street as a dinner companion. I know eventually everything will knit together and he'll be the same person to me online and off. :)

A friend of mine said something in IM about "different neural pathways" being used during interactions in person vs. in writing. She was joking-but-serious, I think, and there's something to that. For me, talking to someone online is a direct brain-to-brain connection, kinda. But offline, there's all this additional visual and aural information to process, and there's all those little social rules about interacting in public, and it's almost like a barrier to getting directly into the person's head, a barrier that's not there online. It annoys me, but I can't seem to bring myself to break the barrier and be exactly as I am online (which is exactly "myself", and so is how I am with people who know me best) until I've spent a certain amount of time with a person.

Wednesday, April 14

Two little unrelated thoughts triggered by the tangent-fest that is Peter's journal:

1. I cannot sort things. Like laundry (darks/whites) or recyclables (plastics/aluminum). There's something wrong with my brain. Eventually I start to mess up and throw a dark sock in with the whites. It is the most bizarre thing and makes me feel like a moron, but I think a moron would actually be better at sorting than I am.

2. When "Karma Chameleon" came out, that was my brother's and my favorite song ever. We kept saying "It should be number one!" I'm pretty sure it did make it to number one at some point. And here's the thing: As you probably know, I can't comprehend lyrics. They sound like nonsense syllables to me. Nowadays, I just look them up on the web, but that wasn't an option in 1984. So if I was singing a song to myself, I'd just sing nonsense syllables.

Well, one day I was washing dishes in Home Ec, and apparently I was unconsciously singing to myself (hopefully not too loud), and most undoubtedly singing nonsense. And a classmate looked at me and said, incredulously, "Are you singing 'Karma Chameleon'?" Good LORD, I was embarrassed. I still feel embarrassed now. (Which makes me wonder why the hell I am telling you all about it, but that's what LJ is for, I suppose: confessions of embarrassing incidents.) I can only hope he recognized the tune and didn't realize I was just making up syllables to sing.

-------

I am FINALLY getting around to posting photos of the dress [info]dulcevox was kind enough to send me -- these photos are the payment for the dress. :) Unfortunately I need to find some better freaking lighting. Daytime pictures, perhaps? Only one picture really shows off the loveliest part of the dress -- the black lace overlaying red satin fabric.

The first two photos were actually not supposed to be taken (Poindexter was fooling with the camera), but they turned out better than the third, so I'm including them anyway. As you can see, I threw the box and my clothes willy-nilly all over the floor.

It's just a skosh too big -- particularly in the boobies area, surprise surprise ;) -- but it can probably be tailored. Now if I can just figure out how to look cool and goth instead of the usual "Look! I have a duck umbrella!"

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