~Thursday~ Another one of the “Let’s Get Loud” riders was on today. I don’t think I’ve officially given this woman a name, but she talks loud and constantly. I’d never noticed her getting off at my stop before, but that’s what she did today. She walked in front of me and the back of her black t-shirt said: “Extremely Tasty Chicken: Not Responsible for Knocked-off Socks.”
As we got closer to my building, she crossed the street, as if she were possibly heading toward The Brickyard, right off of which—inside the food court—there’s a Chick-Fil-A. However, I Googled “Extremely Tasty Chicken” and “Not Responsible for Knocked-off Socks,” neither of which returned a Check-Fil-A result, or any other chicken food place for that matter.
That aside, I think it’s risky using an idiom, and a sort of inverted one at that, for a slogan. If your chain becomes international, it’s going to be hard to translate “knocked-off socks.” But I digress…
In other news, geek husband (the husband of “Right-hand Rule Lady”) sat in the seat in front of me, traveling alone this morning, and I leaned over far enough to see what he was reading. I was betting my yenta status that it would be science fiction. Jedi Search. Quod Erat Demonstrandum.
The man sitting up one row and on the opposite of the bus from me was reading a fancy version of some bible. When he turned the page, I could see the name of the next chapter: Proverbs.
The woman in front of him had a “lumpy head.” Her black kerchief, which covered her hair, had these sharp angles all up under it. When my eyes got to the part of the kerchief that was sticking out a little—down by her neckline—I saw three of these huge plastic—a green, blue, and yellow one—curlers in her hair. Then, I looked in the front, although I was seeing her from behind, and there was a place where the kerchief didn’t quite cover the curlers there, either. I’m guessing this would be very distracting if you were talking to her.
As my friend, Joe, would say, “Classy with a k.” I guess, unlike most people who curl their hair to go out, she was curling hers to go home. So, that later this evening when her husband came home from work, she’d’ve accomplished item #2 on the 1950s list of “How to Be a Good Wife.”
This is the first letter to Prudie that I’ve seen that involves Twitter! A sign of the times.
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Dear Prudence: We were going to leave it at that, but since the breakup, I have occasionally gone back to see how she is doing. I know that my wife and son have no idea that I am keeping up with her. Even though she never posts anything salacious, I feel a little like a dirty old man. I make a vow to stop, but a week later I find myself going back just to see how she is doing because I convince myself that I am doing no real harm. Should I be worried about my behavior? —Can’t Stop Reading Tweets Dear Can’t Stop, Since what you are doing creeps you out, and you want to stop but can’t, I’m not going to tell you that it’s fine if you find yourself compelled to read the natterings of an 18-year-old girl who used to bounce around your house. On the surface, of course, it’s perfectly harmless. That’s the thing about Twitter—if a Twitterer has a public account, anyone can access those random thoughts. But clearly the random thoughts that start running through your head when you read her sweet little tweets make you hope that neither your wife nor your son come in and find you daydreaming over her updates. There’s no Twitter Anonymous yet, but since you find yourself powerless in the face of her 140 characters, the test of your character is whether you can stop checking in and accept that she’s out of your life. —Prudie |
Everyone should take such a fun approach to their wedding. If there’s going to be drama—and you know there is—then it might as well be dramatic!
I forwarded my e-mail dated July 8th about the dangerous water meter cover—the first one I sent to the city, which to-date has still never been answered—to a slew of contacts on the City of Raleigh web site, a couple of whom were managers and a couple of whom had the title of “superintendent.” Those were all water people. I also copied some manager in the public safety department.
When I got off the bus this evening, the cover was fixed. Snap. Snap. Snap.
I met Alex out at Trailer Park Prize Night at Flex at 11:30, where we hung out with Steve (Walter’s beautiful boyfriend), Henry, and Henry’s friend Bruce, most of the night—with stops by to say hello by Dave; Paul; Rodney; Kurt; Champ’s cute, cute boyfriend Jim, whose birthday it was; and young Josh.
It was a hoot of a night, but a much later one than I had anticipated. My thought going out was that I’d leave shortly after the show started at 12:30. Well, that didn’t happen.