20 calls and 3 messages later
Yesterday I forgot my mobiles at home. Loved
it. Woke up all chilly, this morning.
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Tango steps
I lingered with my gaze just to observe the faces of the Romanian family leaning against the small fence. They must’ve been from Moldova somewhere, judging from what I could previously catch with my untrained ear. Their faces were quasi-blank, not sure if the couple was heterosexual, or just playing a prank, the kind teenagers would sometimes do when intoxicated.
So why was I later playing along the same cues myself? walking ahead of the couple on the rather busy streets of the mountain resort? Ms Gloria Gaynor was giving me the look, freshly pasted on all available savage posting spots. Was the sidewalk indeed not wide enough?
I was one step ahead, the world was two steps behind. Nobody got bashed, so maybe things were headed in the right direction.
Mobile my ass
It was Sunday, and little bloguette007 took me places. We were due to watch
this, which we did, and it’s not half as bad as some would want you to think it is.
One thing I did not understand though. At one point, the hero drops his clam shell on a row of stairs and… ooops! it’s broken. But really broken. Who buys that? I mean I was just talking to my mum on the phone, must’ve been nervous, and I dropped my mobile (again!). The mobile hit the cup I bough and gave to my assistant and both fell on the floor. The cup, and the mobile, not the now ex-assistant! The mobile is still fine. For the those wondering, it is a damn Sagem I am trying to ditch. Looks like a Nokia, but is not. OK, I am into princessy things… sometimes. End of story is the cup broke, but the phone did not. Little bloguette007, whose phone I can certify looks like it has actually been through the last three world wars, and I am including here the war on terror of course! said the exact same thing: “I have a similar phone, it’s been through worse, it doesn’t break like that”. I guess it’s just a plot of Hollywood producers to counter, for whatever reason, the product placement.
The tomato soup
Do you remember the time I didn’t like tomato soup? It was the only time my father had to resort to corporal punishment, the only time I remember. I really had driven him nuts and over the edge. One slap. It has not resolved the disliking issue, my body decided later and unrelatedly that tomatoes are a good thing.
You try, you might. Otherwise… In other words, those who don’t try have no chance to succeed. Somehow this cliche came to mind the other night when, in public, my pictures were being taken by virtually unknown people. And I remembered how I loathed myself in pictures. Pretty much like I hated tomato soup. Or yogurt. Only much worse. Because that was me. All pimply, red, white, too tall, to skinny, too this, too that. Than I grew up, and I lost a load of complexes. Now I am making red and white be part of my coat of arms. And I let total strangers take my picture. And I search the Internet to find it and see: maybe I look OK.
(As things come and go, I wrote this post mentally. Then I forgot it. Now it’s back.)
Gone are the days
I used to wake up determined to express myself.
Lying about lies, does it make one a truth teller?
About a week or so I though I have seen her in the street. But it wasn’t her. The most exigent girlfriend of mine. The most hardworking. And the most cold cut too, broke up with me clean and sharp when her career came into the equation.
So, now, you are gay and walking in the street. It’s somehow chilly so you and your fag-hag are doing the one item, which is so easy to be mistaken for the regular heterosexual boyfriend girlfriend drill. And here she is. The most exigent ex-girlfriend with her husband…
I can only imagine what she might have thought. Quasi-embarrassment floating all over.
Spermcount
What better time to count your eggs, than Easter? If there is none, call your gay brother and not only drop them on him, but also do incidentally mention the possibility of him becoming the gay donor uncle for your child . Do altogether skip repeating the test, fertility treatment, adoption etc.
Conversation in the Cathedral
“Have a drink!”
“No! I have stopped drinking.” and after a short pause: “You know drinking leads to things you might later regret. Like getting together with your ex…”
“Oh, common! The most important part is not to have sex. I mean sex with your ex. Did you?”
“So I have stopped drinking for now”
“… What about your current boy friend?”
“Oh, I didn’t have sex with him yet”
Simonitis
“Love, he said, is like morning breath. If you don’t pay attention to it, it’s gone in no time.”
Followed by holiday blues
It smells like steak. Mushrooms, what an interesting smell, dump, like a tomb, but appetizing. I am an exquisite cook by accident. Some well chosen ingredients, some over the phone advice. Delicious. The radio yells some all time hits. I insert “him” into me. Not really carrying about the fact, maybe it feels to me it’s some duty, but also who cares. It is not a person, although I’d rather it were. Most of my plans are not, although I would rather they were.
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