2000-08-10
Dear Diary:

����Cue The Talking Heads' "Burning Down The House" please, this is the soundtrack for this entry.

����I'll wait.

����So as I write this, he's just left for lunch with Her, at the same restaurant where they first met a few weeks ago. There are complications, but maybe they can be overcome.

����He has sweaty palms, rubbery knees and is so well and truly smitten that he can hardly breathe.

����Heck, I can hardly breathe because I so desperately want this to work out for him.

����Welcome to the wonderful world of internet chat, brought to you by the folks who brought you ICQ and today by the letter L.

����Sometimes it feels like passing notes in high school.

����Only I'm 49 and he's 27 and we live in different countries, time zones, and head spaces. Yet somehow, for about two years, we've been passing notes.

����How very odd.

����I had been fretting over him a bit because as he talked about the lovers who were drifting through his life, it was if he was talking about visitors. I had been worried that he had lost the ability to fall in love, that he was well and truly burnt out.

����Silly me.

����So now I'm dying to know:

����--Did she like the earrings he bought her?

����--Is she as smitten as he?

����And as I'm writing this, watching the clock, waiting for him to come back from lunch and tell me about it, I'm laughing. I don't know either of them in real life (whatever THAT is) and so none of this should matter at all.

����But it does.

����Let them get on like a house on fire. He deserves this in his life.

����Heck, we all deserve it.

--Marn

Old Drivel - New Drivel


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Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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�2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.