How Romantic
M 5:17 PM 2-15-99
I haven't gotten to the Bible yet this weekend. Haven't done any exercise yet today. I typed for fifteen minutes this morning. Shirelle and Demona are on their way over here. I went to my stepsister Christie's baby boy Marcos' baptism at St. Thomas' Catholic church in Riverside yesterday. It was quiet when we walked in, but as soon as we sat down, the babies started tripping. Marcos squalled in mortal agony, and Cassandra started snaking her tongue out at the altar, and then little Veronica saw her and started doing the same thing, and then Cassandra started pulling her fist down from the air like kids do when the want a trucker to blow his air horn, but I think she was trying to cross herself, and then she and Veronica were crawling up and down and over the pews and started taking their shoes off. Back at the house, they sat on the porch, neither of them old enough to talk, but communicating with each other anyway, sharing a sense of humor, spitting water as far as they could over and over, and when they were done with that, they toddled outside and plucked geraniums and brought them in to give to my sisters, and were so pleased with themselves, they went out and brought in more until they had harvested every flower in the yard.
Shirelle had reservations for us, so we left around sundown. An ominous fogbank was rolling in from the west. We changed and went to Mr. Chang's in Beverly Hills. The nice cars and rich people made me feel a little violent inside. We got a fifty-five-dollar bottle of champagne. The place had black and white checkered floors. They put us in a corner at the back. Shirelle knew the maître d. I didn't want to know how. We had some squab and scallop dumplings. The squab was good, meaty but light, wrapped in lettuce. The dumplings were insubstantial. We had sweet, crunchy walnut shrimp and grilled tuna. Then some cake. Shirelle gave me a couple of cards and a New Library Edition of Oliver Twist. She had chosen that because of something she'd heard in "Good Will Hunting" she said, but she wasn't able to say what it was. I put the little box on the table (she says I threw it down). She didn't take it. She was making me ask. I stuttered and hemmed and bullshitted. None of it was working. I said, "I guess what I need to say is, will you marry me?"
"What?" she asked, though she had heard perfectly well.
I had broken out in a cold sweat. I repeated what I had said.
"Yes," she said and gave me a big kiss.
I paid the bill and we left. We went to the Hilton to go to the Coconut Grove, but it was closed. So we went to Trader Vic's.
I haven't gotten to the Bible yet this weekend. Haven't done any exercise yet today. I typed for fifteen minutes this morning. Shirelle and Demona are on their way over here. I went to my stepsister Christie's baby boy Marcos' baptism at St. Thomas' Catholic church in Riverside yesterday. It was quiet when we walked in, but as soon as we sat down, the babies started tripping. Marcos squalled in mortal agony, and Cassandra started snaking her tongue out at the altar, and then little Veronica saw her and started doing the same thing, and then Cassandra started pulling her fist down from the air like kids do when the want a trucker to blow his air horn, but I think she was trying to cross herself, and then she and Veronica were crawling up and down and over the pews and started taking their shoes off. Back at the house, they sat on the porch, neither of them old enough to talk, but communicating with each other anyway, sharing a sense of humor, spitting water as far as they could over and over, and when they were done with that, they toddled outside and plucked geraniums and brought them in to give to my sisters, and were so pleased with themselves, they went out and brought in more until they had harvested every flower in the yard.
Shirelle had reservations for us, so we left around sundown. An ominous fogbank was rolling in from the west. We changed and went to Mr. Chang's in Beverly Hills. The nice cars and rich people made me feel a little violent inside. We got a fifty-five-dollar bottle of champagne. The place had black and white checkered floors. They put us in a corner at the back. Shirelle knew the maître d. I didn't want to know how. We had some squab and scallop dumplings. The squab was good, meaty but light, wrapped in lettuce. The dumplings were insubstantial. We had sweet, crunchy walnut shrimp and grilled tuna. Then some cake. Shirelle gave me a couple of cards and a New Library Edition of Oliver Twist. She had chosen that because of something she'd heard in "Good Will Hunting" she said, but she wasn't able to say what it was. I put the little box on the table (she says I threw it down). She didn't take it. She was making me ask. I stuttered and hemmed and bullshitted. None of it was working. I said, "I guess what I need to say is, will you marry me?"
"What?" she asked, though she had heard perfectly well.
I had broken out in a cold sweat. I repeated what I had said.
"Yes," she said and gave me a big kiss.
I paid the bill and we left. We went to the Hilton to go to the Coconut Grove, but it was closed. So we went to Trader Vic's.
posted by johnz at 7:07 PM
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