Failure of the Day: oh, crap, it's me
So. Dinner. Here's the thing: I told Chris we were going to Tia Margarita. I insisited. I put my foot down. And then we checked the mail on the way out. I had two parcels waiting for me--the "Up Yours Bush! I'm keeping my right to choose" mousepad I ordered, and a fat envelope from from Melville House Press, where I had submitted my poetry manuscript earlier this month. big fat envelopes are No Good. It means they've returned the ms to you. The rejection letter was actually very nice and didn't seem to be a form letter ("We read with great interest; it is a strong collection but..."), but it was a rejection nonetheless so I was a little mopey. Not overly mopey, I don't think; I didn't cry or stamp my foot and wish professional bankruptcy on them or anything, but I may have pouted for a minute or two.
Chris took my hand and we walked to Clement street and turned right. Tia Margarita is to the left. To the right: Ernesto's. "Girls what get rejection letters," he said in the poorest grammar imaginable, which we favor as English majors, "should have the spaghetti." I protested. I did. "But my shame!" I said. "My SHAME! My myriad of blog readers (all 3, of which he is one) will think I am a big fat cheater!" Chris laughed and offered to go to Greco Romano and I agreed. But you have to walk past Ernesto's to get to Greco Romano. And I looked into Ernesto's as we went by, Ernesto's, our Favorite, the restaurant of the Wooing when we first started dating, where I first saw him order tortellini alfredo and pick out all the peas and knew it was Love. It was almost empty in there, at a little after 6, surely a prime dinner hour if a little early. I may have slowed my pace some to look. "I am kind of in the mood for pasta, " Chris said. Does anyone need to be told where we had dinner?
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Later last night, having recovered my from my fit of gratitude for my stay of Mexican food enough to trounce him at Srabble ("ozone" triple word score, double letter score on the z) Chris was flipping through the chanels and found a station that ws playing a movie called "Bullitt." I uttered a phrase, the power of which I grossly underestimated. I learned subsequently that this particular phrase seems to be some sort of Universal Male Kryptonite; it knocks that Y chromosome right out of whack. Chris's mouth fell open, and he had to mutter repeatedly to himself "She's just tired. She doesn't mean it." Then he walked into the bedroom and fell immmediately to sleep: such was the power of this phrase.
I will tell you the phrase but beware! if you are in possesion an a Y chromosome, have a soft place to land nearby; I accept to responsibility for injuries caused.
"Steve McQueen is Stoooopid."
So. Dinner. Here's the thing: I told Chris we were going to Tia Margarita. I insisited. I put my foot down. And then we checked the mail on the way out. I had two parcels waiting for me--the "Up Yours Bush! I'm keeping my right to choose" mousepad I ordered, and a fat envelope from from Melville House Press, where I had submitted my poetry manuscript earlier this month. big fat envelopes are No Good. It means they've returned the ms to you. The rejection letter was actually very nice and didn't seem to be a form letter ("We read with great interest; it is a strong collection but..."), but it was a rejection nonetheless so I was a little mopey. Not overly mopey, I don't think; I didn't cry or stamp my foot and wish professional bankruptcy on them or anything, but I may have pouted for a minute or two.
Chris took my hand and we walked to Clement street and turned right. Tia Margarita is to the left. To the right: Ernesto's. "Girls what get rejection letters," he said in the poorest grammar imaginable, which we favor as English majors, "should have the spaghetti." I protested. I did. "But my shame!" I said. "My SHAME! My myriad of blog readers (all 3, of which he is one) will think I am a big fat cheater!" Chris laughed and offered to go to Greco Romano and I agreed. But you have to walk past Ernesto's to get to Greco Romano. And I looked into Ernesto's as we went by, Ernesto's, our Favorite, the restaurant of the Wooing when we first started dating, where I first saw him order tortellini alfredo and pick out all the peas and knew it was Love. It was almost empty in there, at a little after 6, surely a prime dinner hour if a little early. I may have slowed my pace some to look. "I am kind of in the mood for pasta, " Chris said. Does anyone need to be told where we had dinner?
*******************************************************************************
Later last night, having recovered my from my fit of gratitude for my stay of Mexican food enough to trounce him at Srabble ("ozone" triple word score, double letter score on the z) Chris was flipping through the chanels and found a station that ws playing a movie called "Bullitt." I uttered a phrase, the power of which I grossly underestimated. I learned subsequently that this particular phrase seems to be some sort of Universal Male Kryptonite; it knocks that Y chromosome right out of whack. Chris's mouth fell open, and he had to mutter repeatedly to himself "She's just tired. She doesn't mean it." Then he walked into the bedroom and fell immmediately to sleep: such was the power of this phrase.
I will tell you the phrase but beware! if you are in possesion an a Y chromosome, have a soft place to land nearby; I accept to responsibility for injuries caused.
"Steve McQueen is Stoooopid."
posted by Nancy @ 9:41 AM
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