This is the message I got back from the guy on Facespace. He responded so it looks like I won’t be deleting my account. My friend thinks I’m an idiot for playing little games like this to see whether or not I’m keeping Facespace. She says, “Either get rid of it or don’t.” Eh, that’s no fun.
“Good luck tho.” I can’t get that out of my head. Luck. Well, I bought a MEGA Millions lottery ticket tonight. The jackpot is 363 million. I prayed to God and said if he let me win I’d build a church and go to it every Sunday. As for the rest of the week I’d go to gay bars, nude beaches, glory holes, and cock fights.
In 1st grade I had a sunshine yellow Teddy Ruxpin lunch box. I loved it. I’d proudly swing it from side to side as I walked to the bus stop every morning. It didn’t matter that the bag of carrots was indenting itself into the peanut butter and jelly sandwich because I loved showing this lunch box off.
One day I forgot it on the bus. The next afternoon the bus driver held it up and yelled, “Whose lunch box is this?” Just as I was about to raise my hand and claim my baby, Brandon, the coolest 5th grader on campus, he knew how to tuck and roll his stone washed jeans like nobody else, was getting on and grabbed it from her. The bus driver’s voice was a lot softer than his so he figured he’d help her out.
“Listen up everyone,” he yelled. “Who’s lunch box is this?” he asked as he snapped it open. My half eaten sandwich went flying through the air and into the seat next to me. The thing about plastic Thermos lunch boxes is you can’t let food sit in them over night, otherwise they stink worse than a fart after a night of clam chowder and Guinness. He jerked his head and yelled, “Ewe! Gross!” and then handed it back to the bus driver. Everyone laughed.
“So, whose is it?” she asked.
There was no way I was gonna be affiliated with a stinky lunch box, especially after Brandon turned his nose on it. I sat on my hands and kept my mouth shut. The girl who got off two stops before me looked up and said, “Isn’t that Jim’s?”
“No. Not mine,” I said as I held up a brown paper bag with a half eaten PB&J inside. “This is mine.”
“Are you sure?” the bus driver asked.
“Yes,” I said.
This was one of the first times I can remember giving a fuck what other people thought. Now that I’m older I don’t care as much but there are times, like when I obsess over losing my hair, that I have to remind myself of this story and how happy I would have been if I raised my hand and confidentially owned up to what was mine; that sunshine yellow lunch box.
Chanel ended things with her Match.com boy before the 2 month mark, which means I will not be creating an account.
The age difference created a bit of a problem. She, a 31 year-old teacher who enjoys riding bikes on the weekend, got annoyed that he, a 47 year-old eastern European beer importer, would turn down every suggestion she made. He couldn’t go hiking because steep hills hurt his knees; rock climbing was out of the question because he didn’t want to hurt his back; camping was too complicated because he wore contacts…
She’s not going to renew her membership at the end of the month. As much fun as she had, it’s just too intense. It consumes your life and you’re constantly worrying about something—either you feel bad for not responding to that guy who keeps trying to go on a second date or you’re questioning yourself because that one guy who you thought was great won’t respond to your texts. The same thing happens in non-line dating, only it’s not as magnified and frequent. But I wonder if for a guy like me, who’s been on a handful maybe 2 dates in the last year, a little magnification wouldn’t hurt?
It’s been rough. I feel like I’m living in The Stone Age, especially when I have to use the clock radio as an alarm. I learned this morning that setting it to a mariachi station isn’t a good idea. Expecting the loud horns to wake me up, they somehow incorporated their way into my dream. Sure, it doesn’t help that I was already dreaming of Méjico and vaqueros but by the time I realized what was happening I startled myself awake and jolted out of bed. I was half an hour late to work.
Anytime you jolt out of the bed like that the rest of your day is crap. Luckily, just after the hellish lunch rush, things turned around when the hostess handed me a piece of paper and said, “Your Mom just called. She said someone contacted her about your phone. Here’s their number.”
When I called the number a woman picked up. She had an accent. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but I’m leaning towards Thai because the last place I remember being was at a Thai restaurant. I’m meeting her later tonight but there are several things I’m asking myself:
Do I give her a tip? I was easily going to spend between 4 and 6 hundred dollars for a new phone so tossing her a Benjamin wouldn’t be all that bad. Right? Ronnie says, “Hell no! If she brings it to you then you can consider tipping, but you’re driving to her so keep your wallet in your pocket!” I can’t. I’ve gotta offer her something.
Do I go alone? What if this is a trap and she invites me inside (in which I’d go because I’m as curious as a teenybopper who’s visiting her neighbor’s trailer for the first time) and end up getting clubbed over the head and sold to some underground slave market? I’ll bring Ronnie.
Last night I lost my cell phone. I’m telling people that I left it on the table at a Thai restaurant. I’m not telling people that it was midnight and I was black out drunk and the only thing I remember is looking up at the server as I shoveled Gai Pad Met Mamuang in my mouth and saying, “This is the best meal I’ve ever had.” I’m annoyed with myself today.
Last Saturday I went to a storytelling event. It was free but they suggested a $10 donation that would go towards a local high school’s swim team. At one point during the show the host asked the coach of the swim team to stand up and wave. He had chiseled cheekbones, broad shoulders, and a faded cut. Not only was he handsome but also well dressed. Under his form fitting, dust colored trench coat was a suit and tie. Were all swim coaches this hot? I had never met one before. I started to wonder how someone even gets into that profession. Is it a dream they’ve had since childhood or were they really just a social studies teacher who got pressured by the principal into coaching an after-school sport? I decided to introduce myself after the show.
“So how did you end up in this career,” I asked.
His demeanor quickly changed from business to casual and his eyes widened as he cocked his head back.
“I know what you’re probably thinking,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re not used to seeing a brotha teaching, especially swimming.”
Oh boy. This is definitely not how I expected the conversation to go.
“No, that’s not what I was thinking. I’ve just never met a swim coach before,” I said. Then I shut my mouth. In situations like these I’ve learned it’s best not to try and back pedal but rather just listen. He talked about everything from the Million Man March to Hurricane Katrina. When he was finished I asked, “So how long have you been a swim coach?”
“Oh, for about 2 years now,” he said.
“What were you doing before that?” I asked. Finally I’d get some answers.
“Oh, you know. This and that. I bounced around,” he said. Bounced around? What did that mean? Just then he excused himself because it was getting late. He walked outside and unlocked his bicycle from the rack. I watched as he peddled away, his coat tails disappearing into the night. God dammit, I guess I’ll never know why or how one becomes a swim coach.
So get this, you know how California signed a new law that’ll require schools to include lessons on the role and contributions of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgendered (LGBT) people in history, well my friend Rosie just told me that she may not have a job next year because of it.
The school she currently works at leases its property from a church and the Board of Trustees said that the new legislation goes against their fundamental beliefs so they will not renew the lease for next year. Rev. Louis Sheldon, chairman of the Traditional Values Coalition, says, “The new law will allow homosexual activists to indoctrinate the minds of California’s youth … and textbooks and instructional materials will all become pro-homosexual promotion tools.”
That’s absurd. We all know that the only people weak enough to get brainwashed are Christians, not the poor children who are getting their right to an education taken away.
I can’t wait until all this bullshit is over and a black man can marry a white woman homosexuals are just another boring person on the bus.