I had a phone conversation this morning with someone who could easily be termed The Sexiest Man I’ve Ever Known and somehow convinced myself that I dreamed it.  That was until he called back in the P.M. hours and confirmed that I had, indeed, spoken with him – at length – early this morning.

I really have to start sleeping more than 1 or 2 hours a night.

Is anyone even reading anymore?

Though, I’m terribly late jumping on the bandwagon, I’ve finally decided to “get hip” and buy a Wii.  Though the decision only came after several hours of watching and participating with friends on their Wii Fit Balance Board.  I’m in love.  Much much love.

Unfortunately, though I was able to find and purchase a Wii with relatively little difficulty, I have been unable to locate a Wii Fit to accompany it.

There’s always a catch.

Friday evening was spent at The Reperatory Theatre’s production of Les Miserables which may be my favorite production ever.  Though it wasn’t as astounding as when I first saw the London cast perform it at Robinson, nor was it as spine-tingling as it was in New York; I still found it to be captivating and intense, particularly in the intimacy of such a small theatre.

Saturday was jam-packed with a 2.5 hour drive to a Southestern Conference gridiron spectacle of epic proportions followed by a swift return and a turn-around to yet another football game:  My Alma Mater’s.  The game developed into a sound thrashing of another Southland Conference team thus thrusting my Alma Mater to #18 in the NCAA FCS – College Football poll.

Sunday morning found me at church, followed by a quick lunch with friends and a trip to the lake to vainly attempt to teach my friend’s extremely hyperactive son how to swim.  Unfortantely, he couldn’t/wouldn’t focus long enough to even learn to blow bubbles.   ~grin~  I tried to be firm with him, but when he’s screaming things like “Lillith!!!   I sar somethin shiny unner de wader!  Do you think it’s treasure like in Pirates of the Cab-ib-iben???” it’s hard to find the determination to get him to stop playing and start focusing.  Besides, it’s Sunday.   Our last day of freedom before a return to work, school and all the other hardships of reality.

I would much rather search for treasure.

He buys me a drink
What’s his name again?
Ted, Sam, Mike, Steve
Does it matter?

The vodka bites at my tongue
It tickles my throat
He’s saying something I can’t hear
A droning noise fills my ears

He’s complimenting me
He’d turn away if he read my thoughts
If he knew I was thinking
Could he hit me?
Would he?

A sharp slap across my cheek
A purpling bruise tomorrow
Would it change anything?

Would the bright taste of blood,
The quick sting of pain
Wash the apathy away
Leaving anger in it’s wake
Some other emotion
Any impression at all

Displacing the numbness
Replacing the loneliness

Just for a second
A minute
An hour
Would it make it leave?

On occassion, I will eat a package of Ramen Noodles – and nothing else – for dinner.  Not necessarily for some wistful walk down college memory lane and not due to some financial hardship; simply because I actually like them as unhealthy as they may be.

I love shoes, but I hate to wear them.  Given a choice, I’ll go barefoot.

I’ve been engaged twice and I still have one of the rings.

I am in absolutely no rush for the whole marriage, kids, white picket fence and a dog business.  A small part of me wonders if that will change as I get ever closer to 30.

I read at least 7 books a week (1 per day).  Most of this is done when normal, healthy REM cycle, people are sleeping.

Him:    Hey!

Me:   Ho!

Him:   Hip Hop

Me:  Hooray Ho

*pause*

Me:  You do realize, of course, that normal people do not begin conversations like this.  In fact, *normal* people wouldn’t even read this and understand it.

Him:  Nah.  We’re normal in our own way.

Me:  Ooookay.  Anytime you feel the need to add the phrase “in our own way” automatically assume that you’re attempting to rationalize something that’s utterly irrational in every way, shape and form.

Him:   Good point.

Phone rings, a glance at the Caller ID tells me that it’s my brother.  At 9:00 A.M. on a Thursday.  Strange:

Me:   “Hello?”

Brother:  “Oh shit.  I was trying to call Lillith Anders, not you.  Bye.”

Dial tone.

A few hours later:

Phone rings, a peek at the Caller ID informs me that it’s my father.  At 1:00 on a Thursday afternoon.  He never calls – he always makes my mom call and then he gets on the phone.  Weird.

Me:   Hello?

Father:  Excuse me, ma’am.  I was trying to reach a friend of mine and I must have dialed the wrong number.

Me:  Daddy?

Father:   Lillith!??!  Damn.  I was trying to call Larry.  I hit the wrong “L”.  Sorry.  Be careful drivin home this afternoon.  Bye.

Dial tone.

And yet again.

Phone rings, the Caller ID reveals it’s from my parents house.  8 P.M.  Definitely my mother.  Probably pissed off at my dad for something inocuous.

Me:  Hello.

Mom:  Lillith?   Oh crap.  I was trying to call your brother.

As she’s hanging up – without letting me even say bye – I hear her mutter:  Stupid speed dial.  Why couldn’t he just program it like it was at the old house.  Nooooooooo, instead I get to play musical keypad and try to figure out what number goes to what person.  Greeeeeaaat.

Dial tone.

*rolls eyes*    They should all be in a nut house.

You take the time to pack a nutritious, delicious, can’t-wait-to-eat-it, processed-food-free lunch and leave it sitting on your kitchen counter.

You slide on one of the shoes you had carelessly kicked off in the garage the night before and discover a rather large spider made himself a cozy new home in the toe of it.

You realize you managed to plug your Crackberry into the charger, but somehow failed to plug the charger into the outlet and thus have a very large work related issue before you even get to work.

You find yourself with extra time to swing by the coffee shop and treat yourself to an iced grande, sugar-free vanilla, non-fat latte and get a mouthful of coffee grinds in your first sip.

You excuse yourself to the restroom and realize you managed to put your panties on inside out.  No easy feat with boyshorts.

But, somehow, listening to Left Hand Smoke’s  “Step Outside” on repeat.  Over.  And Over.  And over again . . . seems to make everything seem better.

In fact, everything’s been great.