I’m Amanda. I’ve got wide eyes, a smart mouth, and a MetroCard. And I’m not afraid to use them.
TBID and I had our last debate date last night. We went out to Dirty Bird, this soulful comfort food restaurant, before tuning in. The buttermilk fried goodness and veggies fueled interesting conversation the rest of the evening.
TBID: Everyone loves to hate brussels sprouts.
Saturday is a big day for TBID and me - the bliss is going on the road. We’ve taken a few day trips, but never something as monumental as this Saturday. There are a few reasons for this: 1) We’re really caught up in our personal weekend routines and get cranky if we don’t follow them and then spin in a circle three times before reuniting, 2) No, really cranky, and 3) TBID is one of the city lovers.
I used to be in this relationship I wrote about quite a bit. When it all started, I didn’t have a lot of expectations. By the time I realized I was crazy for the guy, which happened quite fast, expectations were everywhere. As naive and un-Amanda as it sounds, I actually thought that I might be with him for like, a really long time. (I don’t want to type “forever,” because I might hear the echoing snicker of the universe, and I’m trying to listen to Internet radio).
Weeks ago, I had dinner with TBID and his family at this really swanky place. I felt anxious before, because I don’t really enjoy food the way that they do. When I eat something, I don’t really want to know how it was made and I don’t want to examine every little taste. Eating just doesn’t excite me like that.
It’s significantly cooler outside than it is inside. I’d open the windows, but two of them have air conditioners perched in them, one is blocked by my desk, and the other in the kitchen might bring in flies.
I started the weekend with more funk than James Brown. Three days away from work sounded amazing, but the feeling of recreational obligation crept in. Regular weekend vegetation isn’t considered a waste. In fact, nothing is occasionally what you need to do.
It was endless, childish chatter and we put our faces together as we talked. I think Iris was accustomed only to talking properly, as it were: considering, pausing, modifying, weighing her words. To talk like a philosopher and a teacher. Now she babbled like a child… She seemed to be giving way to some deep need of which she had been wholly unconscious: the need to throw away not only the maneuvers and rivalries of intellect but also the emotional fears and fascinations, the power struggles and surrenders of adult loving.
I bought this book at a thrift store tonight, because it was written for me:
Book report to come!
TBID would rather go to a museum than wander through the woods. One time when I was telling him about my fruit picking adventures, and how much closer to nature I felt when I did my own berry and apple gathering, he replied, “Yeah, I feel that way when I go to the farmer’s market and get stuff for lunch.”
True story. I’m fully dressed for the day much earlier than normal - in a nice skirt and heels even - so I can get free breakfast on Park Avenue. Also, maybe work contacts, but breakfast is the definite draw.
