clevermanka (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
clevermanka) wrote2011-06-27 08:46 am
clevermanka) wrote2011-06-27 08:46 am
Entry tags:
Story of my life
Let me set the scene: On Friday, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mckitterick had a present waiting for me when I got home from work. The (poor!) student who is helping to organize the CSSF donations found (to his horror, I'm sure) another box of PORN that we didn't find on the initial comb-through last year and it was all spread out on the dining table for me. Delightful! I browsed through a little bit of it--just enough to know what's worth keeping--but hadn't had a chance to really look at The Good Stuff yet.
mckitterick was booked for the evening, at the traditional Sunday night gathering for the writing workshop participants. I decided this would be a fine opportunity to have booze for dinner and entertain my new porn additions. I settled in for a fine evening of solitary drunkenness.
Two drinks and one book down, I was halfway through a retrospective of Bizarre magazine when the doorbell rang, followed by an insistent knock. I figured it wasmckitterick home quick for something forgotten, so I didn't bother to look outside before opening the door.
The person at the door wasn'tmckitterick. It was an adorable swishy brown-haired young man in tight jeans and a teeny tee shirt. I just looked at him for a moment before I noticed the enormous stack of pizzas next to him. Oh dear. That was most definitely not my delivery. While we both looked up and down the block, trying to figure out who in the hell might have ordered such a quantity of pizza (nobody was having a party as far as I could tell), he ran back to his truck to get the original receipt. As I watched him do his charming little trot back to his vehicle, I had a moment of "This story would have a really great ending if I was twenty years younger and male."
He got back and showed me the order receipt, which definitely had this address...and alsomckitterick's name. A-ha.
"I know exactly where you're supposed to be," I said, and directed him to the floor and dorm where the workshoppers are housed. He and the pizzas left.
The experience really hit home that I am: Too old. Gluten- and lactose-intolerant. And female. Story of my life, people. Story of my fucking life.
mckitterick had a present waiting for me when I got home from work. The (poor!) student who is helping to organize the CSSF donations found (to his horror, I'm sure) another box of PORN that we didn't find on the initial comb-through last year and it was all spread out on the dining table for me. Delightful! I browsed through a little bit of it--just enough to know what's worth keeping--but hadn't had a chance to really look at The Good Stuff yet. mckitterick was booked for the evening, at the traditional Sunday night gathering for the writing workshop participants. I decided this would be a fine opportunity to have booze for dinner and entertain my new porn additions. I settled in for a fine evening of solitary drunkenness. Two drinks and one book down, I was halfway through a retrospective of Bizarre magazine when the doorbell rang, followed by an insistent knock. I figured it was
mckitterick home quick for something forgotten, so I didn't bother to look outside before opening the door. The person at the door wasn't
mckitterick. It was an adorable swishy brown-haired young man in tight jeans and a teeny tee shirt. I just looked at him for a moment before I noticed the enormous stack of pizzas next to him. Oh dear. That was most definitely not my delivery. While we both looked up and down the block, trying to figure out who in the hell might have ordered such a quantity of pizza (nobody was having a party as far as I could tell), he ran back to his truck to get the original receipt. As I watched him do his charming little trot back to his vehicle, I had a moment of "This story would have a really great ending if I was twenty years younger and male."He got back and showed me the order receipt, which definitely had this address...and also
mckitterick's name. A-ha."I know exactly where you're supposed to be," I said, and directed him to the floor and dorm where the workshoppers are housed. He and the pizzas left.
The experience really hit home that I am: Too old. Gluten- and lactose-intolerant. And female. Story of my life, people. Story of my fucking life.
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