It's all about the chopsticks...
Sep. 21st, 2003 10:48 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mousmeDay started out quite well. Got up, performed usual ablutions, then grabbed my knitting and a few books and went to join ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
miseri for dim sum as previously discussed.
I'm always amused by the looks I get on public transportation when I whip out my knitting and go at it. They range from aghast, bewildered, and disbelieving to interested and even fascinated on occasion.
Joined up withmiseri without incident, and he informed me that we were waiting for the ever-elusive Joe, although we weren't sure whether he was coming or not. As it turns out, he did come, although it was a close call. He was nothing like what I expected (although I don't really know what I was expecting, really), and was perfectly nice. He doesn't, as miseri claims, have "absolutely terrible posture." While he does have a vague slump to him, it's not all that bad. No worse than mine, I guess, which, while not stellar, is not exactly hunchbacked either.
We had a lovely luncheon at a restaurant in Chinatown, although the dim sum hour seemed to have passed by the time we got there. We had previously been searching for a restaurant Joe had suggested, which served deep-fried milk, which I had never tried before. Unfortunately, Joe couldn't quite remember where it was, and so we gave up the attempt for the nonce.
The lunchtime conversation is what inspired my subject line, in case you were wondering. Long, involved discussion about chopsticks, the proper usage thereof, and the manner in whichmiseri and I had each acquired a pair of ornate silver chopsticks in the past. Amusing stuff. :)
Around 3:30 we called it a day and I came home to check for an email from Prospero's Daughter (that's what I'll be calling Miranda from now on) who was supposed to spend the day gaming but said she would get back to me by email during the day to set up a time at which I could come over to watch Six Feet Under the way we usually do.
Chatted withgriffen for a bit while home, who introduced me to some very fun links. There was neither email nor phone message from Prospero's Daughter, which I took to mean that her gaming session was going longer than anticipated. I figured I had lots of time to go to Zellers to get the yarn I need to finish a scarf I'm working on, but unfortunately I hadn't counted on the stores closing early on Sundays, and thus I am yarnless until tomorrow if I decide to go then to get the yarn in question.
Checked phone messages at home, with no result. Well, no message left, anyway. Called Prospero's Daughter, but got no answer. Left a message saying I'd try again later on, since I wasn't home.
Since it was nearly six o'clock, and thus close to the time when Prospero's Daughter had said she would at latest be leaving her game, I moseyed over to the Dunkin Donuts located across the street from her apartment and had a chicken salad sandwich along with coffee and a doughnut.
Dunkin Donuts has to be one of the stingiest establishments on the planet: they ask you in advance how many creams and sugars you want in your coffee and put it in for you. Now, to me, this takes about 90% of the pleasure of drinking coffee away. First of all, I like to be able to add sugar if I don't find the coffee sweet enough, but this robs one of that possibility. Second, a great part of my pleasure in drinking coffee comes from the act of delicately pouring cream into beige whorls in my coffee cup, adding sugar and watching the cream rise in billowing clouds from where it's settled near the bottom of the cup, and then gently stirring it for a long period of time until it cools to the right temperature. What I got instead was pre-flavoured instant coffee which was pre-stirred only cursorily and thus was far too hot.
Of course, it's minor, but I was annoyed because it's the most irritating cost-cutting measure that I know of, including limiting employees' access to basic office supplies in a call centre. *grr*
Luckily, along with the books I had returned tomiseri, I also included Moby Dick in the bag with my knitting. I had planned to read said book while waiting, and knit during Six Feet Under.
I checked my messages, then called Prospero's Daughter again at 7pm, but once again received no answer. Left a message saying I would try again at eight o'clock. Settled in with Moby Dick. Read fifty pages or so, then called again at about eight. I'm finding Moby Dick a slow, ponderous read (I usually read about 100 pages/hour), which was exacerbated by the comings-and-goings in the Dunkin Donuts, including a group of really loud people who kept migrating in and out of the smoking section (located near my table). I thought of changing seats, but the whole place was prohibitively small in any case, so I stayed put. Turned out that was a big mistake.
Left another message with Prospero's Daughter (was beginning to wonder if I qualified as a stalker by then), and sat down once again with my book. Was enjoying Melville's ponderous, very Biblical style immensely by then, in spite of the distractions and my checking my watch every five or ten minutes to make sure I didn't call too long after I said I would, in case Prospero's Daughter had got home and was expecting my call. I needn't have worried. Another call at 8:30 got me her machine yet again, and I left one last message.
That's when things got unpleasant. I may have mentioned once or twice in this journal, and most definitely numerous times in Real Life that I am a weirdo magnet. Random creepy strangers feel compelled to approach me and tell me their sordid life stories. Now, it probably didn't help that I'd been in that stellar establishment for going on three hours by then, I'll be the first to admit.
This is what started it: a stout woman came into the Dunkin Donuts and walked by me into the smoking section, loudly announcing her presence. I looked up, because her voice made me think it might bejoane's friend Freya, whom I'd met on a few occasions before. Turns out it wasn't her, but my sudden movement caught the eye of another of the Dunkin Donuts' denizens, who took the opportunity to ask me what I was reading. (He introduced himself as "Mike" later)
Me: Moby Dick. *showing him the title*
Mike: Oh. I've never read that.
Me: Well, neither have I, until today. *attempts to go back to book*
Mike: You know what I've been reading?
Me: *apparently ignoring all survival instincts* What?
Mike: This. *holds up Bible* I still haven't been able to figure it out, though.
This is where I should have headed screaming for the door. But, stupidly, I stayed put, thinking that I had to call Prospero's Daughter in twenty minutes anyway. This, boys and girls, is a very good lesson in how not to act when random strangers want to talk to you about the Bible or anything else.
Me: *flippantly* Well, it's been two thousand years and no one's been able to figure it out, so good luck with that.
Mike: Well, I've got a few theories.
There ensued twenty minutes of unadulterated torment, wherein this guy spouted incoherent theology at me, trying to connect the name of Jesus (supposedly "Jehova In Us" or something) to the actual name of God (Yahweh). He spouted some more incoherent tripe, and I couldn't tell whether he was trying to prove or disprove the Catholic teachings about the Holy Trinity.
He continued on and on, claiming that the King James version of the Bible was the closest translation there was to the Hebrew (which I know nothing about), and dragged one of his acquaintances into the conversation who was a rabbi (according to this fellow) long enough for the rabbi to confirm this claim. Whatever. It might be true, it might not. I just wanted out of the conversation. I couldn't tell where he wanted to go, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to know anyway.
He then asked me whether I had ever "experienced the Holy Spirit." When I expressed confusion about his meaning, he showed me several passages in the Bible which led me to understand that he meant it as speaking in Tongues. According to this guy, there was no other way to be touched by the Holy Spirit except to speak in Tongues. He himself had spoken in Tongues, he assured me, as had the other 600 members of his Congregation.
Oh, shit.
So while I shrank closer and closer to the window at my back, Mike told me about his Congregation (Pentecostal-something-or-other), and then all about his sordid past of drug and alcohol abuse and excessive sexual practices and all sorts of other fun stuff, and how he'd repented and been imbued with the Holy Spirit. So he was there to tell me to repent and allow myself to experience the Holy Spirit.
Kill me now.
Of course, given that I was wearing a three-quarter-length sleeve, the scars on my arm were showing, and he recognised them for what they were, and tried to use that as leverage with me. *snort* As if. Of course, then I got to hear all about his friend who was "into that" and ended up committing suicide. Lovely. In any case, I managed to escape at around nine o'clock, saying (truthfully) that I had to make a phone call.
*sings* Somebody saaave me! Let your warm hands break right through and saaaaave me! Don't care how you do it, just saaaaave me!
So I called Prospero's Daughter one last time and, still getting the machine after only one ring, I decided to risk running across the street and ringing her doorbell, in case she or her student was online and not receiving my calls. I got hold of the student (through the little intercom thingie they have in the building) who said Prospero's Daughter had been gone all day and wasn't back, but she'd tell her I'd stopped by.
Since I didn't especially relish the idea of spending more time in the company of Mike the Speaker-in-Tongues and his gang of freakoids, I hopped in my car and came home, where I have been ever since.
In other news this evening has at least confirmed for me that I must have at least a small crush on Miranda, since I a) was willing to spend three hours in a Dunkin Donuts waiting for her; b) put up with a half hour of Biblical torment because I was waiting to call her; and c) am in spite of myself feeling rather hurt that I was so easily forgotten in all this.
Now, this is completely unreasonable of me. She already emailed me once to inform me that she was gaming, which she was under no obligation to do at all. Even though she said she'd contact me again, she didn't owe me an email or a phone call. This whole Sunday night thing was my idea to begin with, and we don't even really know each other all that well.
In fact, while I might be reading too much into this, she's seemed kind of uncomfortable around me the last two times I went over there. It might have nothing to do with me, or she might just find me annoying (hey, it has happened!) and is too polite to say so to my face. I don't think it's the case —that's an extreme scenario— but it's not impossible that she finds me a little too intense to be around all that much. She might just want to keep this as a more casual acquaintance, which would be fine, I guess, if disappointing.
*sigh*
miseri for dim sum as previously discussed.I'm always amused by the looks I get on public transportation when I whip out my knitting and go at it. They range from aghast, bewildered, and disbelieving to interested and even fascinated on occasion.
Joined up with
miseri without incident, and he informed me that we were waiting for the ever-elusive Joe, although we weren't sure whether he was coming or not. As it turns out, he did come, although it was a close call. He was nothing like what I expected (although I don't really know what I was expecting, really), and was perfectly nice. He doesn't, as miseri claims, have "absolutely terrible posture." While he does have a vague slump to him, it's not all that bad. No worse than mine, I guess, which, while not stellar, is not exactly hunchbacked either.We had a lovely luncheon at a restaurant in Chinatown, although the dim sum hour seemed to have passed by the time we got there. We had previously been searching for a restaurant Joe had suggested, which served deep-fried milk, which I had never tried before. Unfortunately, Joe couldn't quite remember where it was, and so we gave up the attempt for the nonce.
The lunchtime conversation is what inspired my subject line, in case you were wondering. Long, involved discussion about chopsticks, the proper usage thereof, and the manner in which
miseri and I had each acquired a pair of ornate silver chopsticks in the past. Amusing stuff. :)Around 3:30 we called it a day and I came home to check for an email from Prospero's Daughter (that's what I'll be calling Miranda from now on) who was supposed to spend the day gaming but said she would get back to me by email during the day to set up a time at which I could come over to watch Six Feet Under the way we usually do.
Chatted with
griffen for a bit while home, who introduced me to some very fun links. There was neither email nor phone message from Prospero's Daughter, which I took to mean that her gaming session was going longer than anticipated. I figured I had lots of time to go to Zellers to get the yarn I need to finish a scarf I'm working on, but unfortunately I hadn't counted on the stores closing early on Sundays, and thus I am yarnless until tomorrow if I decide to go then to get the yarn in question.Checked phone messages at home, with no result. Well, no message left, anyway. Called Prospero's Daughter, but got no answer. Left a message saying I'd try again later on, since I wasn't home.
Since it was nearly six o'clock, and thus close to the time when Prospero's Daughter had said she would at latest be leaving her game, I moseyed over to the Dunkin Donuts located across the street from her apartment and had a chicken salad sandwich along with coffee and a doughnut.
Dunkin Donuts has to be one of the stingiest establishments on the planet: they ask you in advance how many creams and sugars you want in your coffee and put it in for you. Now, to me, this takes about 90% of the pleasure of drinking coffee away. First of all, I like to be able to add sugar if I don't find the coffee sweet enough, but this robs one of that possibility. Second, a great part of my pleasure in drinking coffee comes from the act of delicately pouring cream into beige whorls in my coffee cup, adding sugar and watching the cream rise in billowing clouds from where it's settled near the bottom of the cup, and then gently stirring it for a long period of time until it cools to the right temperature. What I got instead was pre-flavoured instant coffee which was pre-stirred only cursorily and thus was far too hot.
Of course, it's minor, but I was annoyed because it's the most irritating cost-cutting measure that I know of, including limiting employees' access to basic office supplies in a call centre. *grr*
Luckily, along with the books I had returned to
miseri, I also included Moby Dick in the bag with my knitting. I had planned to read said book while waiting, and knit during Six Feet Under.I checked my messages, then called Prospero's Daughter again at 7pm, but once again received no answer. Left a message saying I would try again at eight o'clock. Settled in with Moby Dick. Read fifty pages or so, then called again at about eight. I'm finding Moby Dick a slow, ponderous read (I usually read about 100 pages/hour), which was exacerbated by the comings-and-goings in the Dunkin Donuts, including a group of really loud people who kept migrating in and out of the smoking section (located near my table). I thought of changing seats, but the whole place was prohibitively small in any case, so I stayed put. Turned out that was a big mistake.
Left another message with Prospero's Daughter (was beginning to wonder if I qualified as a stalker by then), and sat down once again with my book. Was enjoying Melville's ponderous, very Biblical style immensely by then, in spite of the distractions and my checking my watch every five or ten minutes to make sure I didn't call too long after I said I would, in case Prospero's Daughter had got home and was expecting my call. I needn't have worried. Another call at 8:30 got me her machine yet again, and I left one last message.
That's when things got unpleasant. I may have mentioned once or twice in this journal, and most definitely numerous times in Real Life that I am a weirdo magnet. Random creepy strangers feel compelled to approach me and tell me their sordid life stories. Now, it probably didn't help that I'd been in that stellar establishment for going on three hours by then, I'll be the first to admit.
This is what started it: a stout woman came into the Dunkin Donuts and walked by me into the smoking section, loudly announcing her presence. I looked up, because her voice made me think it might be
joane's friend Freya, whom I'd met on a few occasions before. Turns out it wasn't her, but my sudden movement caught the eye of another of the Dunkin Donuts' denizens, who took the opportunity to ask me what I was reading. (He introduced himself as "Mike" later)Me: Moby Dick. *showing him the title*
Mike: Oh. I've never read that.
Me: Well, neither have I, until today. *attempts to go back to book*
Mike: You know what I've been reading?
Me: *apparently ignoring all survival instincts* What?
Mike: This. *holds up Bible* I still haven't been able to figure it out, though.
This is where I should have headed screaming for the door. But, stupidly, I stayed put, thinking that I had to call Prospero's Daughter in twenty minutes anyway. This, boys and girls, is a very good lesson in how not to act when random strangers want to talk to you about the Bible or anything else.
Me: *flippantly* Well, it's been two thousand years and no one's been able to figure it out, so good luck with that.
Mike: Well, I've got a few theories.
There ensued twenty minutes of unadulterated torment, wherein this guy spouted incoherent theology at me, trying to connect the name of Jesus (supposedly "Jehova In Us" or something) to the actual name of God (Yahweh). He spouted some more incoherent tripe, and I couldn't tell whether he was trying to prove or disprove the Catholic teachings about the Holy Trinity.
He continued on and on, claiming that the King James version of the Bible was the closest translation there was to the Hebrew (which I know nothing about), and dragged one of his acquaintances into the conversation who was a rabbi (according to this fellow) long enough for the rabbi to confirm this claim. Whatever. It might be true, it might not. I just wanted out of the conversation. I couldn't tell where he wanted to go, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to know anyway.
He then asked me whether I had ever "experienced the Holy Spirit." When I expressed confusion about his meaning, he showed me several passages in the Bible which led me to understand that he meant it as speaking in Tongues. According to this guy, there was no other way to be touched by the Holy Spirit except to speak in Tongues. He himself had spoken in Tongues, he assured me, as had the other 600 members of his Congregation.
Oh, shit.
So while I shrank closer and closer to the window at my back, Mike told me about his Congregation (Pentecostal-something-or-other), and then all about his sordid past of drug and alcohol abuse and excessive sexual practices and all sorts of other fun stuff, and how he'd repented and been imbued with the Holy Spirit. So he was there to tell me to repent and allow myself to experience the Holy Spirit.
Kill me now.
Of course, given that I was wearing a three-quarter-length sleeve, the scars on my arm were showing, and he recognised them for what they were, and tried to use that as leverage with me. *snort* As if. Of course, then I got to hear all about his friend who was "into that" and ended up committing suicide. Lovely. In any case, I managed to escape at around nine o'clock, saying (truthfully) that I had to make a phone call.
*sings* Somebody saaave me! Let your warm hands break right through and saaaaave me! Don't care how you do it, just saaaaave me!
So I called Prospero's Daughter one last time and, still getting the machine after only one ring, I decided to risk running across the street and ringing her doorbell, in case she or her student was online and not receiving my calls. I got hold of the student (through the little intercom thingie they have in the building) who said Prospero's Daughter had been gone all day and wasn't back, but she'd tell her I'd stopped by.
Since I didn't especially relish the idea of spending more time in the company of Mike the Speaker-in-Tongues and his gang of freakoids, I hopped in my car and came home, where I have been ever since.
In other news this evening has at least confirmed for me that I must have at least a small crush on Miranda, since I a) was willing to spend three hours in a Dunkin Donuts waiting for her; b) put up with a half hour of Biblical torment because I was waiting to call her; and c) am in spite of myself feeling rather hurt that I was so easily forgotten in all this.
Now, this is completely unreasonable of me. She already emailed me once to inform me that she was gaming, which she was under no obligation to do at all. Even though she said she'd contact me again, she didn't owe me an email or a phone call. This whole Sunday night thing was my idea to begin with, and we don't even really know each other all that well.
In fact, while I might be reading too much into this, she's seemed kind of uncomfortable around me the last two times I went over there. It might have nothing to do with me, or she might just find me annoying (hey, it has happened!) and is too polite to say so to my face. I don't think it's the case —that's an extreme scenario— but it's not impossible that she finds me a little too intense to be around all that much. She might just want to keep this as a more casual acquaintance, which would be fine, I guess, if disappointing.
*sigh*
