The Anonymous Mr. A. X.
In celebration of Celia's b-day (among others, Patrick, too, I think) we went to Draught Horse tonight; really the only viable bar on the entire Temple campus unless you count Maxi's, which is a pizza place that closes at like 6. No one wants to go to Maxi's because it is too close to the rest of the educational world of Temple and you can't comfortably drink beers there without thinking that you should instead be studying at the library.
Mr. A. X. was there with his dark curly hair and dark eyes. Mr. A. X. is the most well-dressed man in my life and probably also the most polite. He calmly admonished me for hanging up on him earlier in the day. I begged him to do something out of character so that I could write about it in my blog, but he (again, politely) refused: "Aimee, I do not want to be in your blog. And if, perhaps, you do write about me in your blog, please, for the love of God, use a pseudonym." Fine, Mr. A. X., until you do something more interesting, this serves as your 13 minutes of fame on my blog.
Every day on my way to work, I pass groups of children on their way to private Catholic school. I forget the name of the place, St. Something, but they have to wear maroon pants and white tops. My favorite kids are the ten year olds. They are still on the cusp of self-consciousness; cute but also a little aware. It seems that they know that this is the last year in their lives before they have to start worrying about how they look, if girls/boys like them, if they are cool enough to fit in. They are still awkward but not completely awkward, which is why I love them.
I have not yet mentioned my parent's visit. They brought me my doll house from my childhood and a little table and two kid-sized chairs. They insisted that I put the doll house together right away and then my stepdad suggested that I could decorate the walls o
f the house with little bitty wallpaper. I envisioned the rest of my life; this sad woman who spends six hours a day decorating the doll house and making up little stories about the family. I put the mom doll on the kitchen floor, imagining her passed out drunk because the refrigerator was empty. The dad lay upstairs on the wooden yellow bed, lamenting his fate because he's gay and in love with his co-worker, Steve. The doll house could be useful in any one's therapy session as a way to act out dramas and to discuss what's a good touch and what's a bad touch.
Mr. A. X. was there with his dark curly hair and dark eyes. Mr. A. X. is the most well-dressed man in my life and probably also the most polite. He calmly admonished me for hanging up on him earlier in the day. I begged him to do something out of character so that I could write about it in my blog, but he (again, politely) refused: "Aimee, I do not want to be in your blog. And if, perhaps, you do write about me in your blog, please, for the love of God, use a pseudonym." Fine, Mr. A. X., until you do something more interesting, this serves as your 13 minutes of fame on my blog.
Every day on my way to work, I pass groups of children on their way to private Catholic school. I forget the name of the place, St. Something, but they have to wear maroon pants and white tops. My favorite kids are the ten year olds. They are still on the cusp of self-consciousness; cute but also a little aware. It seems that they know that this is the last year in their lives before they have to start worrying about how they look, if girls/boys like them, if they are cool enough to fit in. They are still awkward but not completely awkward, which is why I love them.
I have not yet mentioned my parent's visit. They brought me my doll house from my childhood and a little table and two kid-sized chairs. They insisted that I put the doll house together right away and then my stepdad suggested that I could decorate the walls o
f the house with little bitty wallpaper. I envisioned the rest of my life; this sad woman who spends six hours a day decorating the doll house and making up little stories about the family. I put the mom doll on the kitchen floor, imagining her passed out drunk because the refrigerator was empty. The dad lay upstairs on the wooden yellow bed, lamenting his fate because he's gay and in love with his co-worker, Steve. The doll house could be useful in any one's therapy session as a way to act out dramas and to discuss what's a good touch and what's a bad touch.
Comments
A