Last night, I drove into Seattle to meet a friend who was passing through on her way to Vancouver, B.C. We hadn’t met face-to-face before–she lives in New Jersey, within spitting distance of Manhattan. She used some highfalutin technological GPS gadget thingamajig to find us a restaurant. We ended up in a laquered black and red Thai place and despite my utter lack of experience with Thai food (unless you count that Thai sauce from Trader Joe’s), I enjoyed the meal. More than that, I enjoyed the conversation. It’s always pleasant to converse with someone who is talkative and in possession of strong opinions.
I had to walk to my car alone. She offered to walk me there (basement of a parking garage!), but I said, “no, I’m fine,” and I was. Lucky for me, no crazed urban rapist followed me or I would have had to do some extreme mom-karate moves, killing the guy with one well-placed kick. I say “lucky” because I’m sure I would have pulled a muscle if I’d been forced to defend myself.
I didn’t get home until almost 11:00 p.m. By then, I had to peel my contacts off my bloodshot eyeballs.
But it was all worth it, even my exhaustion today.
Oh, but bad news. I have recently been informed that you’re only supposed to have one space after a period. This forces me to undo a habit I have had since that typing class I took in high school. Ack. My thumb believes two spaces are necessary at the end of a sentence. I do not think my brain is strong enough to foil the unconscious space-space of my thumb.