Spurting Stangeness Everywhere

Sometimes the telephone is a conduit for time travel, one moment you might be chopping broccoli and in the next you are talking to a friend from long ago and faraway.

It happened to me twice tonight, which is strange because my phone never rings, stranger still was the lenghth. With few exceptions (hi! DW in Austin) I don't talk on the phone. My face and my eyes do a lot of my talking and they don't get much play on the telephone, also, I am prone to silence. Good listener, not such a good talker. A lot of that has to do with being exceedingly wary about what might fall out of my mouth, my Pandora's box, bats might fly out and such, that and being diligent about keeping the best and worst down. Secretive that way.

So the first call was surprising, hi DW in Austin!

And the second call was as well, until upon reflection I realized that your evil garden variety gnome was at work form of a high school girlfriend.

So there I was on Saturday, in my home town with my highschool posse. As I am the sole single childless lady the hens must cluck and scheme to get me wed and knocked up in short order. But goddamn if they don't work fast.

So we are arrayed in deck chairs with drinks and very small children screeching when Jah says, well J- is single. And in perfect Jah timing says he's perfect (beat) except for that skin thing. Right.

Once upon a time when I was fifteen going on sixteen I had sex in the hallway of Jah's parent's house with her older brother's best friend. I am not sure what I was thinking exactly except that I clearly was not, add to that the humiliation of being caught out by her parents on their way in (ahem, we had migrated to their bedroom) and you have a chapter only dimly remembered and subject to much razzing twenty years later.

So J- is single and perfect (beat) except for that skin condition - leprosy, gangrene? Still the best friend of one of my best friend's older brother and the evil hennish gnomes gave him my number and bade him to ring me and he did, tonight.

weird.

I have not spoken, nor thought (excepting ancedotal razzing) in 19 years, and it would seem that I have agreed to a date on sunday. I must be out of my fucking mind. Seriously. This is what happens when you cease to date for two years, your highschool girlfriends resort to setting you up with the boy you accidentally on purpose fucked in the hallway of your girlfriend's parent's house, and then got caught. Dear reader, I shit you not.

We reminisced for an hour and he kept asking me if I was still there and I couldn't quite explain that my eyebrows were working overtime and my cheeks were aflame.

So I will be driving south on sunday as he lives in C by the Sea, he offered to come to the City, but as I am only amenable to a lunch date I will meet him midway. Seems fair. He suggested the Ritz, I smiled inwardly and concurred.

Two things, how on earth to drop five pounds between now and Sunday and whatever shall I wear!