See also Webfolio, Whimsy, + I Art Wert

July 31, 2000 +

I have started to rediscover the pleasures of passion.

Not passion as in hot, steamy sex -- though I would love to rediscover that one of these days, thank you very much -- but the passion of the hobbies and interests that I had all but forgotten, the passion of simply living my life the way I like it:

Exploring new music. Making mix tapes. Reorganizing the CD collection. Going to the gym. Waking up early. Not finishing the beer. Keeping the apartment clean. Visiting friends on short notice. Shopping at a brick-and-mortar record store. Going out to dinner without forcing it to be a date. Being optimistic.

Tonight I'm cleaning my apartment some more, paying my bills early and working on my (offline) journal for a while. I'll do it with the stereo on and the TV off, like I used to. And it will be great.


July 28, 2000 +

Rob, channeling Mr. Hill: "Pretty girls are like buses, another one comes along every fifteen minutes." Good ol' Rob.


July 27, 2000 +

The noodle shop delivery man, tall and thin and Asian, smiled broadly when I opened the door, and presented me with the bill.


I hate this moment. Do I tip too little or too much? I'm of the round-to-the-nearest-dollar school, because I'd hate to burden a busy delivery man with hunting for change just so I can give him exactly fifteen percent, and now I have a dilemma.

Most of the time I order from the same few places, and it's easy. $7.75 for the pizza parlor down the block, give the guy $9, be a sport. $13.20 for my usual Chinese? Twenty-dollar bill, $5 back, natch. But $12.45? Two and a half dollars on $12 and change seemed like a lot to me, but a twelve-percent tip on a rainy night would just be mean.

I gave him a twenty. He pulled out a bunch of singles from his pocket. One, two, three, four, five. Ah, what the heck. It's just a buck. "That's good. Thanks a lot."

The delivery man must have done some quick math, because suddenly he bowed at me. "Thank you," he said with another broad smile, bowing, straightening out, and bowing again before heading down the stairs.

Best buck I spent all day.


July 18, 2000 +

I am often asked why I don't have call waiting on my home phone. I say it's because I hate the interruptions, which is accurate. But the real truth is that everyone else's call-waiting beeps tend to make me sound like a complete idiot.

Me and her: A nice five-minute conversation, slowly degrading into small-talk.

Me: "Gee, I think the laundromat shrunk my sheets."

Her: "Oh, can you hang on a second? [pause] This is long-distance, can I call you back?"

If I don't get a call back, her final memory of me -- for at least a week, until I get back from my trip -- is my voice absent-mindedly blabbering, "Gee, I think the laundromat shrunk my sheets." Perfect.


July 14, 2000 +

Why my boss is a good man to work for, example one.

Setting: Thursday morning discussion of product X, which is nonessential, would cost more than $5,000, but will help with an impending hardware conflict when I am working in our London office next week.

Him: "Do you need it?"

Me: "No."

Him: "Will it solve the problem?"

Me: "Yes."

Him: "Well, order it then."

It will be here on Monday.


July 12, 2000 +

You know, like when you challenge someone to punch you in the gut as hard as is humanly possible, and you figure, no problem, because you're feeling good, and you're strong, so you'll use the moment to show off that strength, and besides, you've been there before, so you know what's going to happen, and you're expecting the impact, and you are so ready for it -- and then it hits, and still, despite your steely preparedness, you find yourself doubled over, mouth agape, gasping for air?

It's that kind of hurt.


July 10, 2000 +

So much to say, so little desire to say it.

So much to do, so little motivation to do it.

Sometimes I wish I were better at being me.


July 5, 2000 +

The giggling is the best part.


Overheard: "I can't go to the wedding. Can you imagine? It'd be like, 'So how do you know the bride?' 'Yeah, well, I used to bag her.'"


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Copyright © 2000 David Wertheimer. All rights reserved.