Missing Austin
Sometimes, for no particular reason, I miss Austin.
I miss coffee shops that stay open past ten.
I miss avocado margaritas (I know how it sounds, but trust me; they're gooooood).
I miss the hike and bike trail.
I miss Yoga Yoga.
Today, Nate and I were chatting about what we miss.
"What was the thai place we used to eat lunch at?"
"Thai Passion," he wrote.
"I loved the pho that one place had on Sixth Street."
Before I had hit send, he wrote, "The pho place closed."
Nate has this eery way of of knowing what I'm about to say before I say it. He does it all the time in conversation, too. Either he is very intuitive, or I have a very easy mind to predict.
In any case, I'm very sad the pho place closed. I used to go get chicken pho when I was feeling under the weather.
All that said, there are some good things about Dallas, too. We're finally starting to feel like we have friends. We got out to dinner, drinks, plays, art openings, readings, wine tastings, we have people over for dinner, and get invited to parties. I know these are very mundane things. But each time you move, you have to rebuild your friendships and your favorite places. This is finally starting to happen for us here, about 18 months in. (That's about how long it took in Chicago, too.)
Monday
Tuesday
Scenes from the past
I’ve been keeping journals regularly since about 1996 or so. Ten years. Some of the entries are lists, goals, writing down my dreams (nightly dreams, not my, you know, dreams), funny things that happened, and ideas for future stories. Sometimes even a first draft of something.
Last night, because I was supposed to be revising, I picked up an old journal and started reading. Right after I graduated from college and before I began my first “real” full-time job, I had several gay male friends.
Like a lot of women, I went through a phase when gay men sought me out. I’m still not sure why this happens. There are a lot of factors, I suppose. You have things in common. Cute clothes, an appreciation of good-looking men, a knowledge of skin products, you know, the important things in life.
I had a job on campus my last year of school and I met my friend H. there. How do I explain this … H. and I were both looking for a man. But we had an appreciation for each other. I thought he was cute; he thought I was. People often thought we were dating because we sat side to side, often with our arms around each other, holding hands, squeezing each other’s cheeks, etc. I think we used to kiss hello and good-bye, but that was the extent of it. We liked each other, but we didn’t like like each other. We wanted to, and we both often commented on how much simpler our lives would be if a. he were straight or b. I had a penis.
Now … don’t get the wrong idea. This is not one of those “I was in love with my best gay friend stories.” I thought he was cute and I thought he was funny but I never seriously entertained the thought of dating him. Mainly because, well you know, I didn’t have the necessary … equipment.
I started going out to dinner with H. and his band of gay male friends and it was always fun. For one thing, they liked girly drinks and weren’t embarrassed about it. They liked to go to good restaurants. And they always appreciated my outfits. They also cracked me up. In one of the journals I read last night, I found an entry about one of these dinners. The “girls” had an extra chair for “accessories,” for all of our bags/man-bags, sweaters, and such. When I reached over to put my bag on the table, one of H.’s friends said, “Girl, you better not. One of these queens will snatch it.”
Later that night, this same friend hugged my goodbye. He squeezed me tightly, looked down my shirt and said, “Ooh, they’re real.”
Because I was used to going out with gay men that summer, and specifically going out dancing with them, I stopped taking suggestive dancing very seriously. Usually my friends were peering around my shoulder to look at the cute guy behind me, so you know, it was just dancing.
One night I went out with a girlfriend. We had gone to a salsa club, I’m pretty sure, which closed at 2 a.m. This is in Austin, by the way. If it’s after 2 a.m. in Austin, there’s pretty much only one place that’s still open for another two hours with music and has no cover. And that’s the gay bar down the street. We started dancing and almost immediately two guys come over and start dancing with us. You know, typical suggestive pseudo-sexual kinds of things.
I was dancing with a very good-looking guy. Tight designer jeans, check. Gym rat, check. Tight black shirt to show off biceps and six-pack, check. Beautiful skin, showing a love and knowledge of the skin products, check.
“I like your perfume,” he said.
Typical appreciation of fragrance, check.
“What is it?” he asked.
At this point, I should have known something was wrong. Very wrong. A gay man would have known.
“CK1,” I said.
I squeezed his bicep.
“Wow, you work out,” I said.
“Every day.”
“I can tell.”
I squeezed his butt.
“Squats?” I asked. “I wish my butt was that firm.”
Meanwhile, my girlfriend is waving frantically to me.
“I like your shirt,” I told him. “Where do you like to shop?”
He starts laughing.
My friend disentangles herself from her dance partner and hisses in my ear, “They aren’t gay.”
I had what you might call a moment of clarity. That perhaps a girl has been hanging around with too many gay men when she squeezes a complete stranger’s ass and asks him if he works out. Check.
I’ve been keeping journals regularly since about 1996 or so. Ten years. Some of the entries are lists, goals, writing down my dreams (nightly dreams, not my, you know, dreams), funny things that happened, and ideas for future stories. Sometimes even a first draft of something.
Last night, because I was supposed to be revising, I picked up an old journal and started reading. Right after I graduated from college and before I began my first “real” full-time job, I had several gay male friends.
Like a lot of women, I went through a phase when gay men sought me out. I’m still not sure why this happens. There are a lot of factors, I suppose. You have things in common. Cute clothes, an appreciation of good-looking men, a knowledge of skin products, you know, the important things in life.
I had a job on campus my last year of school and I met my friend H. there. How do I explain this … H. and I were both looking for a man. But we had an appreciation for each other. I thought he was cute; he thought I was. People often thought we were dating because we sat side to side, often with our arms around each other, holding hands, squeezing each other’s cheeks, etc. I think we used to kiss hello and good-bye, but that was the extent of it. We liked each other, but we didn’t like like each other. We wanted to, and we both often commented on how much simpler our lives would be if a. he were straight or b. I had a penis.
Now … don’t get the wrong idea. This is not one of those “I was in love with my best gay friend stories.” I thought he was cute and I thought he was funny but I never seriously entertained the thought of dating him. Mainly because, well you know, I didn’t have the necessary … equipment.
I started going out to dinner with H. and his band of gay male friends and it was always fun. For one thing, they liked girly drinks and weren’t embarrassed about it. They liked to go to good restaurants. And they always appreciated my outfits. They also cracked me up. In one of the journals I read last night, I found an entry about one of these dinners. The “girls” had an extra chair for “accessories,” for all of our bags/man-bags, sweaters, and such. When I reached over to put my bag on the table, one of H.’s friends said, “Girl, you better not. One of these queens will snatch it.”
Later that night, this same friend hugged my goodbye. He squeezed me tightly, looked down my shirt and said, “Ooh, they’re real.”
Because I was used to going out with gay men that summer, and specifically going out dancing with them, I stopped taking suggestive dancing very seriously. Usually my friends were peering around my shoulder to look at the cute guy behind me, so you know, it was just dancing.
One night I went out with a girlfriend. We had gone to a salsa club, I’m pretty sure, which closed at 2 a.m. This is in Austin, by the way. If it’s after 2 a.m. in Austin, there’s pretty much only one place that’s still open for another two hours with music and has no cover. And that’s the gay bar down the street. We started dancing and almost immediately two guys come over and start dancing with us. You know, typical suggestive pseudo-sexual kinds of things.
I was dancing with a very good-looking guy. Tight designer jeans, check. Gym rat, check. Tight black shirt to show off biceps and six-pack, check. Beautiful skin, showing a love and knowledge of the skin products, check.
“I like your perfume,” he said.
Typical appreciation of fragrance, check.
“What is it?” he asked.
At this point, I should have known something was wrong. Very wrong. A gay man would have known.
“CK1,” I said.
I squeezed his bicep.
“Wow, you work out,” I said.
“Every day.”
“I can tell.”
I squeezed his butt.
“Squats?” I asked. “I wish my butt was that firm.”
Meanwhile, my girlfriend is waving frantically to me.
“I like your shirt,” I told him. “Where do you like to shop?”
He starts laughing.
My friend disentangles herself from her dance partner and hisses in my ear, “They aren’t gay.”
I had what you might call a moment of clarity. That perhaps a girl has been hanging around with too many gay men when she squeezes a complete stranger’s ass and asks him if he works out. Check.
Friday
Funny Writer
Just wanting to pass along a link to a post and a writer I find funny. Very talented, this one is (imagine Yoda's voice here).
This story is what I consider a short-term gain (I'm referring to the boss in the post, not the writer).
Just wanting to pass along a link to a post and a writer I find funny. Very talented, this one is (imagine Yoda's voice here).
This story is what I consider a short-term gain (I'm referring to the boss in the post, not the writer).
Valentine's Day
You may not be thinking about this holiday yet. I hope you aren't. Retailers are, though. I was in a grocery store this week and saw an aisle devoted to red and pink. This got me to thinking about something that happened last year around Valentine's Day. I worked with two women. A day or two before Feb. 14, one woman got a bouquet of flowers. I can't remember what she said, but I got the impression she had "reminded" her husband to buy the flowers for her.
The other woman oohed and aaahed and asked where the flowers were bought. I believe she wrote down a phone number. The next day -- lo and behold! -- she had the same exact bouquet. I could be wrong, but I think she went home and told her husband to buy her flowers. At this point, the first woman turned to me and said, "Your husband better get on the ball."
Apparently we had regressed to junior high and didn't even know it!
Nate and I don't celebrate Valentine's Day. Besides the fact we find the "holiday" silly, we started seeing each other on Feb. 13. (No, we didn't want to go out on Valentine's Day when we first started dating. We both felt like that was a jinx or something. And, oh yeah, cheesy as hell.) We still celebrate our "dating anniversary," so that's usually when we got out to dinner or do something fun.
Nate does buy me flowers and surprises me with gifts from time to time. They are usually unexpected and I certainly don't go home and insist on them. Here's the thing: I believe a gift should be just that, given. If you have to browbeat your boyfriend/husband to buy you something, is that a gift? Is that "romantic?" I guess that's up to each woman to decide for herself.