HAO's birthday. The one thing I left off that fascinating CostCo receipt was her present. Ever since I first became aware of such things, I have lusted after the trappings of scrapbooks and scrapbook-making. And resisted, knowing I'd never use them. And lusted, thinking I might use them, but even if I didn't they'd be fun.... So anyway I've seen some of the scissors in Hobby Lobby and they seem way inflated. But then I was in CostCo one night and saw two packages of five and four and I knew I would capitulate. I surprised myself by walking out without them, but that night in a rare shift in my thinking I thought about somebody else and decided they'd be perfect for HAO, for whom I have found, in the past three years, really dismally boring presents. There was her birthday two years ago when she wanted presents worth a quarter because she was turning 25, but there was a blizzard and I couldn't get the crickets I'd planned (an inspired idea if I do say so myself (and you know I would) in the pet store one day), but otherwise, I'm a boring gift giver. So the next night I went back and got them, because of course the nature of CostCo is that you can't rely on the stock. Except orange juice, which, happily, they always have.
Hilary, Haitch, and I went to Carmine's on Penn, which reminded me of Buca di Beppo. Which reminds me, RDC has heard Denver's going to get one of its own. One entrée was more than enough for the three of us, even when one of the three was I, because another of the three was Haitch (which is another reason she's two-thirds my weight): spaghetti with wonderful tomatoes and portabello and spinach. And plenty of parmesian. The restaurant also makes this amazing crusty sweet yet garlicky roll, mmm. Plus, when the server saw the packages on the table, she brought a nummy tiramisu for the birthday girl. Happily, the espresso liqueur didn't offend Haitch's gag-reflex hatred of coffee so much she couldn't enjoy it, plus there were three chocolate-covered strawberries. A fine place.
Haitch liked her scissors. I was pleased. I told her that I had planned to wrap each individually so she'd have nine packages to undo, but I didn't because I knew if I opened the packages, I'd want to use the things. And Hilary gave her "Dead Man Walking," which we all love.
It had valet parking, and as we drove up, I thought the valet was an extremely short young man. No, he wasn't a valet but a valet host and greeter ("Have a nice evening, ladies") and he wasn't a valet because he wasn't an extremely short young man but in fact an eleven-year-old boy. He was still there at 9 when we left, and I ask you, where were this child's parents? In Colorado, a child under twelve legally cannot ever be left unsupervised. Of course, a child of exactly twelve years and no days is legally allowed to babysit an unspecified number of other children of unspecified ages, which flouts my respect for both the average nine-year-old and the law. I kept my trap shut (to him), but as we left, Hilary, being more tactful, asked playfully if didn't he have school tomorrow. He said he had no school for two weeks, being in one of those nine-week-on-then-two-off elementary schools. Now, those make sense to me. You don't forget as much in two weeks as in two months and much less time is lost to review, and the U.S. schools had a long summer break because we used to be a predominately agricultural society that nevertheless provided a free public education. That's why the legendary "public" (our private) schools in England don't have long summer breaks: their clientele weren't needed to work the land. So anyway, the kid didn't have school, but did he need a job? That job? Don't boys usually mow lawns (none in Denver) or something?
How have I lived in such unblissful ignorance of the pillow book for so long?
In reaction to this and this, I've been thinking about my behavior, with not only Columbine but with anyone. I used to be goofy. I used to be unafraid to be footloose and childlike and unrepressed around anyone and everyone. What happened to that? When did I--gulp--grow up? When did I start acting like a tight-ass little prude, an initial image that someone held of me that I have, finally, totally blown?
With Columbine, as with everyone I meet, I had hoped to be all me all the time (like talk radio, and I sound about the same--ya, ya, unsupportedly opinionated ya rant ya). I can point to three things in my own head working against unleashed, unpaved, unplugged me. One, my awareness that my own is no match for his formidable mind. I honestly believe that however aware he might have been of my beta to his alpha alpha ness, he wouldn't have ridiculed me for it, either to himself or to others later or in his journal, but I would have. This made me aware of the hypocrism of my betaness, as well. Two, see above, "in his journal." Am I going to be such a nitwit around every escribitionist I meet or only the ones whose mental capacities I envy? Three, observing always affects the observed. Now that I'm trying to measure my velocity, I can no longer measure my direction.
Go to previous or next, the Journal Index, Words, or the Lisa Index
Last modified 26 October 1999
Speak your mind: lisa[at]penguindust[dot]com
Copyright © 1999 LJH