I crossed the threshold yesterday once again.
I called one of my readers.
Ok, first’ backstory.
I’ve been bragging about the $7 t-shirt bonanza and ThatGrrrl wrote to me and asked if it would be asking too terribly much if I could possibly purchase some t-shirts for her and send them to her (let me just interject right now, and say that I only have one nice favor-doing thing in my entire body and she used it up, so sorry if you wanted me to buy you shirts as well, but I’m just going to have to say no. It’s not my fault’ it’s just genetics. Besides, the sale is over anyway.) and she would reimburse me for the cost and shipping. And then her adorable husband, who writes to me occasionally, wrote to me and also asked if I could do HIM a favor and get the shirts because apparently she’d been bemoaning the fact that I practically stole those t-shirts from the store at such low, low prices.
So I agreed. Because I’m that kind of girl. And it wasn’t that big of a deal. After some consternation about colors and size, she sent me her address and I was going to take my camera to the store and take pictures of the colors. But didn’t. Because I’m THAT kind of girl too. A lazy forgetful procrastinating kind of girl. So yesterday, I received an email from her telling me to not bother with the camera because it was the last day for the sale. Oh. Oops. Sorry about that. See’ careless flowerchild mode bites me in the ass sometimes.
So last night, we were supposed to go to a housewarming party for our friend Joe who bought Cheri & Joel’s old house. Which is surreal, because I distinctly remember warming that house once before and I would think that my residual warmth would still be there, but I digress. It was an excuse for a party.
Esteban wanted to be there at the second the party was to start, but I was watching Ghost World and I pshawed his efforts to be on time. At our last shindig, people didn’t start arriving until an hour and a half after the starting time because we know a lot of inconsiderate folks. What is more, the very same inconsiderate folks would be at this party. Hence, there was no way that I would forsake Steve Buscemi to go and sit around waiting for people to show up. Esteban wandered around the house, antsy as all get out because he is On Time Guy, but then settled down in front of the TiVo to watch a saved Star Trek. Finally, after a half hour, I told him to just go without me and I’d follow as soon as the movie ended.
Which it eventually did, leaving me wishing that I had been half as cool when I was 18 as Thora Birch, with her wacky little vintage dresses and combat boots and the way that the background music would beat with each contemplative step she took. And then I hopped into the Monster and sped off to De Pere, which is where the majority of the friend contingent reside and is also my secret place to score wads of $7 t-shirts. My hope was that I would be able to find more colors and styles than at the more popular, larger locations.
Then I spazzed. I was standing in front of the t-shirt display and I realized that I still didn’t know which colors ThatGrrrl wanted, and there were like, three different styles in 12 colors, and I didn’t really want to buy or have her feel obligated to take 27 t-shirts. That meant one thing: call her.
I remembered her full name and the state she lived in but couldn’t remember the city. Thus, I called my cellular company and made them look it up, assuring them that she was the only ThatGrrrl in the state of North Carolina. Which I entirely hoped was true. But I found her and the number. Then I repeated it to myself and the poor fool at the cell place like 42 times so that my early Alzheimer’s disease wouldn’t strike it from my mottled noggin.
Then the weird part. How to start a conversation like that, with someone you’ve only corresponded via email. I took a deep breath and dialed.
Her husband answered. Now, luckily, I have corresponded with him as well, so I didn’t feel like a complete and utter internet freak stalker type person. And he knew what was going down with the entire Operation T-Shirt, so that erased a BIT of the awkwardness.
Just a bit.
‘Hi, um, D, this is (my real name), er’otherwise known as Weetabix?’
People in the store must have thought I was insane.
There was a pause. I cringed. But then he exclaimed, ‘WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETABIX!!!’
It was such a post-modern moment.
I managed to describe to him the types, styles, and colors available and we ended up with 7 shirts for ThatGrrrl. Whom I always address by the wrong name. Because I’m a spaz.
Oh, and he called me a curvy round sex goddess. And that made me blush like a goofball because it’s one thing to see it in print or say it myself, but it’s another thing to have someone address you as such. Especially when you’re standing in the middle of the Ladies Department, wearing Keds with no socks, khaki cargo shorts, an army green t-shirt, and your hair is in what is supposed to be trendy mussy mode but really looks like you just spent all afternoon watching a movie with your head against the back of a LazyBoy.
This brings my total Diaryland encounters to : Angeline, The Rancho Lesbiano Experience, which included BadSnake, Jake, Deb, JerseyGrrl, and their visitor, Mechaieh. And sort of Chauffi, whom I pleaded with him to call my cell phone and leave a voice mail, because I had had a dream in which his voice sounded like a cross between Darth Vader and Satan and I wanted to make sure that he wasn’t going to eat my eyeballs or something when I go to San Francisco for Journal Con in October.
All in all though, it was very nice to talk to D for the brief time that we did. Diaryland encounters are a weird thing because you usually feel as though you already know the person, in some cases, very well, but it’s as though the volume has been turned up’ or maybe even down, in some cases. (I mean, I’m just a girl’until you get to know me, anyway.) So it’s like talking to a friend you just haven’t been properly introduced too.
We live in both a strange and wonderful time.
(cue swelling music of something by Moby)
And I’m enjoying every minute of it.
Well, until I stumble upon my first freak. Then’ you know’ probably not so much.
