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| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
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A Friday Night Quickie
Hot Mama So, I was had the evening. I rode Frida out to my self-defense class where I learned how to make a fist. (Don't laugh. It's important to know these things so that you don't break your hand when you're beating the shit out of various thugs.) We practiced punches, hammer strikes, and palm strikes. It's beautiful stuff. One of my instructors came over and held out her palm for me to practice on and I gave her five or six rapid punches and on the last, was gratified when she issues an "ow!" and shook her hand out. I cut out of class a bit early because I had to ride Frida down to the concert hall for the symphony concert and as the class ended half an hour before the concert started and I had to change clothes once I got to the concert, I was cutting things kind of close. But I'll bet you're all dying to know what I wore. Well, die no more: I'll tell you. I wore a black button down shirt and black chinos and my motorcycle boots to my class thinking that if I didn't have time to change that this would have to do for the symphony. (Don't laugh. Those same boots, shined up all pretty of course, took me to the opera last summer.) I had shoved a black skirt and black leather high-heeled pumps (that have a very cool tread and buckles across the vamp) into my tank bag, and those (along with some bright red lipstick and a pair of handmade turquoise earrings that I traded for some of my work last summer) completed my outfit. It was rather cool, I must say, running up to the concert hall in my red and black motorcycle jacket. My date was very impressed and said so just before I disappeared into the bathroom to change. And can I just say? I hate women's bathrooms because they're designed by men no doubt so that there is one stall for every two hundred women at any given event, which is a phenomenon that I've heard referred to as "passive-agressive architecture." Anyway, since I didn't want to take up a stall to change (or wait in line for a stall to use), I ended up changing in full view of the line of women who were waiting to pee. I heard some teenaged girl say to her mother in a perfect stage whisper, "She rides a motorcycle." And I was, like, yeah, baby, I sure enough do. I also almost made the mistake of wetting down my black pants when I rested them on the sink ledge and they set off the automatic faucet. (Damn things.) Some woman who was washing her hands at the next sink said (as I snatched my pants away), "That was close." I replied, "Yeah, I would have had to ride home all wet" and laughed. I shoved my pants on top of the paper towel dispenser, combed out my hair, put on my lipstick and packed up my tank bag and went out to meet my date. The concert was beautiful. It was Stravinsky and Mozart (the Requiem Mass, which I love). We changed seats at intermission to get away from a whispering pair of teenaged girls and a head-bobbing guy and ended up having a chat with another couple who was doing the same to get away from their annoying neighbor. After the concert, there was another quick change in the bathroom, a ride home (a bit precarious because it had grown very windy and the crowd was, as crowds are wont to do, very aggressive about getting the hell out of the crowded parking lot). The date and I went back to my place for coffee and pie and conversation. And I'll leave the rest up to your imagination--though don't strain yourself, because it wasn't that great. Tonight is the much-anticipated Ladas and Ladas Chica dinner, then another concert. Whew! I feel very worn out and am--gasp!--skipping the gym today so as to gorgeous-ify myself for tonight's proceedings.
More lies:
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