Monday, October 02, 2006
 | Take it to the Coda. I received the last of my boxes last week. The box itself looked like it had been dragged behind the mail truck all the way from Jersey; inside the box, however, was even more amusing. One of my books was missing, the jacket of another book had disappeared, my Goonies DVD was removed from its case, and ALL of my headshots and postcards were gone. Yes, the postcards with my e-mail and phone number displayed clearly on them. That's right. If that wasn't enough to creep me out, there were also items in the box that were NOT mine. First, and this is what had made me think for a second that I was on the receiving end of a cute little joke, was an unopened DVD called "Knowing Jesus Christ through the Mormon Church." I mean really, that's too classic. But then -- wha? A DVD about Mike Tyson? And a very used copy of "Things to Do and See in Greenville, South Carolina"? What? Two days later, I received an e-mail from the postmaster in Grand Rapids, Michigan, letting me know that he found a slew of my postcards and headshots scattered around the post office. He asked me for an address where he could send them "free of charge". How nice of them not to charge me for sending MY shit that got swiped from MY box that I paid them to send safely to me! Nevertheless, I e-mailed a big friendly "thank you!!" that included my parents' address, and two days later my pictures arrived at my house. Except, well, I only got five headshots. I'm pretty sure there were about a hundred in my box when it left Guttenberg. Can't help but wonder where they ended up. I try not to wonder too much, though, because my imagination can get kind of vivid, and that's not good when you're a young single girl living alone. And SPEAKING of being single, I definitely gave out my number on Friday in the most ghetto suburban tacky fabulous way. Sitting in my car at a major intersection on the way to see Ragtime at Lakewood... window down because the weather was perfect, singing to one of my nostalgic happy songs that had surprised me on the radio, when... "HEY. HELLO!" I turn to see two boys in the car to my left. Cute. I think. "What's your name??" Boy sitting shotgun shouts. "Ohhh hahahahaha.." I deflect with forced laughter. The light refuses to change. Beat. Beat. Beat. "So... how ya guys doin?" "What were you singing??" Demands Shotgun. A slightly embarrassed/awkward grin. "Um...Counting Crows?" "OH MY GOD!" Shotgun whips out his cell phone. "I'm getting your number. I'm from Arizona!!" I think the connection I was supposed to make there was that the Counting Crows are from Arizona; therefore he has some kind of sentimental place in his heart for them and any girl who sings along in her car must be the girl for him. That or he needed some excuse not to seem like the random guy in the car next to me demanding my digits. Okay so seriously, I am not this girl. I'm the girl who had no problem telling the creeps on 8th Avenue to fuck off. I don't believe in encouraging stupid behavior like horn honking or shouting at strangers. You think a girl is cute? BE A FUCKING GENTLEMAN. All girls deserve to be complimented, flattered, and asked out in a nice and decent way. I don't take someone seriously if they are asking me out without manners. Shouting from a car is poor manners and it pisses me off. But... I was in a great mood. I felt pretty in my brown dress, Mr. Jones was on the radio, and I was meeting three of my favorite girls for a long overdue Happy Hour before a night at the theater. And, well, I kind of wanted to do something to stick a sharp pin in the arrogance of a certain condescending psuedo medical man who shall remain nameless. So the next thing I knew, I was calling out my phone number to Shotgun, (Whose name I then learned is Demetrius. Of course it is.) before the light turned green and I turned onto Terwilliger. I have to admit, it was liberating. It's nice being back. Everything seems different and nothing seems different all at the same time. And I have a kick-ass balcon |
amused
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