Implosion
The Crush (1)
The Crush (2)
The Woolies
Encourage Saint X
Disparage Saint X
D A T E L I N E U P D A T E : The Crush - Part 2
Monday, June 25
I sent my message of ridiculous mishaps to Sassy on a Monday morning. By Thursday I still haven't heard anything and I'm beginning to grow somewhat discouraged.
Until Friday morning, that is, when I receive the following response:
Stage 1 accomplished: I got her attention! Decent compliment thrown in to boot. She's interested. She wants to know more. So what if we're not going to do that elaborate masquerade dance I envisioned. There's still a playfulness to it all. Truth be told, I'm elated. And feeling pretty impressed with being able to woo a woman using the power of words. I had no idea. So much wasted time! ( ! ! ! )
Seeing as this is Friday, and that I've been very light on work these past few weeks, I cut my typical day a little short, run some errands, and then sit down with a good manhattan and some groovy mood music to slowly, deliriously, begin crafting a response. I dedicate a separate page of notes to each point of inquiry. I wander through all sorts of realms buried within my brain as I gather details, envisioning her reaction to each thought I conceive . . . seeing her laugh at this little paragraph here, then scrunch down her eyebrows after startled appreciation of a small - but particularly profound - observation a little later on. Hours pass. It's pure joy. This woman who I'm digging - did I mention the cute picture? - wants to hear about me. I'm a big dorky blueberry!
Ideas, tactics, approaches flow as fast as I can write them down. But this is merely the first lap.
Saturday I begin piecing the narrative together. My morning slips by, consumed by such trivia as confirming the spelling of "La Dolce Vita", documenting the nutritional information from a box of cereal, replaying my video of "The Meaning of Life" for that kick-ass quote at the end. Believe it or not, I even managed to come up with a way around that thorny little question she posed about my last relationship. William Jefferson Clinton could take lessons from me. (Never has the controlled response of written communication so proven its worth!) Let her tread into that territory first. She brought it up. She doesn't need to know the depths of my freakishness . . . Yet.
More honing on Sunday. During all of this, I'm growing more and more smitten. Yes, I realize, even while I'm in the middle of it, how I'm projecting expectations onto her with barely any basis in reality. I can't help it and I DO NOT care. Once she reads what I write, she's mine. We're sitting together in the back of a bar listening to The Woolies go through their entire catalog of pop songs about love and longing. She's leaning back into my chest, head on my shoulders. My arms are wrapped around her, my cheek rests along her hair - okay, so this is the 'G' version. For the record, all of this will be happening next weekend. We waste no time.
Sure, I'm a little afraid of coming on too strong, or of not being carefree enough in my response. It's finally down to a page and a half. Whenever I have to choose between striking or leaving in something that may be a bit too sincere I remember: "[she] spend[s] book-drunk hours browsing through the shelves at City Lights." Despite her call for frivolity, this is a woman of substance. She's what I keep thinking about as I try to fall asleep at night.
It's finally Monday, and I run through a final edit. Re-read. Change one last "an" to "the". Re-read again. Finally . . I . . . hit . . . SEND.
No, sorry, I'm not actually going to supply the text. Some things, like her picture, remain on my hard drive. One bone, lest you think I abandoned the realm of the goofball. Here's the opening:
And then I really get rolling . . .
* * * * *
Read Part 3I sent my message of ridiculous mishaps to Sassy on a Monday morning. By Thursday I still haven't heard anything and I'm beginning to grow somewhat discouraged.
Until Friday morning, that is, when I receive the following response:
Saint X,
That was YOU in that smokestack? I could've sworn it was Saddam Hussein, but before I could tear off his mask, my bat signal summoned me off to another assignment.
Still, my adventures as a mere globe-trotting international spy pale in comparison to your misadventures. Suffice it to say I'm glad I was able to help you out of a tight spot.
Just between us adventurers (I promise I won't pass this info on to my contact among the left-wing Colombian kidnapping crowd), what's your story? Where are you from? How many brothers and sisters? What's your philosophy of life? Last relationship? Froot Loops or Apple Jacks?
-- Sassy
That was YOU in that smokestack? I could've sworn it was Saddam Hussein, but before I could tear off his mask, my bat signal summoned me off to another assignment.
Still, my adventures as a mere globe-trotting international spy pale in comparison to your misadventures. Suffice it to say I'm glad I was able to help you out of a tight spot.
Just between us adventurers (I promise I won't pass this info on to my contact among the left-wing Colombian kidnapping crowd), what's your story? Where are you from? How many brothers and sisters? What's your philosophy of life? Last relationship? Froot Loops or Apple Jacks?
-- Sassy
Stage 1 accomplished: I got her attention! Decent compliment thrown in to boot. She's interested. She wants to know more. So what if we're not going to do that elaborate masquerade dance I envisioned. There's still a playfulness to it all. Truth be told, I'm elated. And feeling pretty impressed with being able to woo a woman using the power of words. I had no idea. So much wasted time! ( ! ! ! )
Seeing as this is Friday, and that I've been very light on work these past few weeks, I cut my typical day a little short, run some errands, and then sit down with a good manhattan and some groovy mood music to slowly, deliriously, begin crafting a response. I dedicate a separate page of notes to each point of inquiry. I wander through all sorts of realms buried within my brain as I gather details, envisioning her reaction to each thought I conceive . . . seeing her laugh at this little paragraph here, then scrunch down her eyebrows after startled appreciation of a small - but particularly profound - observation a little later on. Hours pass. It's pure joy. This woman who I'm digging - did I mention the cute picture? - wants to hear about me. I'm a big dorky blueberry!
Ideas, tactics, approaches flow as fast as I can write them down. But this is merely the first lap.
Saturday I begin piecing the narrative together. My morning slips by, consumed by such trivia as confirming the spelling of "La Dolce Vita", documenting the nutritional information from a box of cereal, replaying my video of "The Meaning of Life" for that kick-ass quote at the end. Believe it or not, I even managed to come up with a way around that thorny little question she posed about my last relationship. William Jefferson Clinton could take lessons from me. (Never has the controlled response of written communication so proven its worth!) Let her tread into that territory first. She brought it up. She doesn't need to know the depths of my freakishness . . . Yet.
More honing on Sunday. During all of this, I'm growing more and more smitten. Yes, I realize, even while I'm in the middle of it, how I'm projecting expectations onto her with barely any basis in reality. I can't help it and I DO NOT care. Once she reads what I write, she's mine. We're sitting together in the back of a bar listening to The Woolies go through their entire catalog of pop songs about love and longing. She's leaning back into my chest, head on my shoulders. My arms are wrapped around her, my cheek rests along her hair - okay, so this is the 'G' version. For the record, all of this will be happening next weekend. We waste no time.
Sure, I'm a little afraid of coming on too strong, or of not being carefree enough in my response. It's finally down to a page and a half. Whenever I have to choose between striking or leaving in something that may be a bit too sincere I remember: "[she] spend[s] book-drunk hours browsing through the shelves at City Lights." Despite her call for frivolity, this is a woman of substance. She's what I keep thinking about as I try to fall asleep at night.
It's finally Monday, and I run through a final edit. Re-read. Change one last "an" to "the". Re-read again. Finally . . I . . . hit . . . SEND.
No, sorry, I'm not actually going to supply the text. Some things, like her picture, remain on my hard drive. One bone, lest you think I abandoned the realm of the goofball. Here's the opening:
Okay, okay. I confess. You caught me red handed. I'm really a 13-year-old boy from Boise. If my parents knew I was doing this they'd make the Cali Cartel look like the Idaho Knights of Columbus. (Your discretion is VERY MUCH appreciated!!)
And then I really get rolling . . .