I was at the gym yesterday, texting my brother Josh.
We finished the conversation, so I put my phone back in my pocket.
The problem is, my phone can’t lock right now. The little button on top is no longer working, so what are you gonna do? Wait a WHOLE MINUTE for it to go dark on its own and THEN put it back in your pocket and resume your life?
No, thank you.
Plus, I’d miss out on sending texts like these.
(I promise you–I took my phone out of my pocket and saw that it was busily writing another text to my brother. I guess it wasn’t done with the conversation. Huh.)
How in the world did that happen?
I mean, Piston?!
And then the first letter of his name–followed by four of the cutest emoticons in the history of emoticons.
Not to mention the word Ave.
I was delighted with the whole experience.
And this picture–
Well, my boyfriend (I am sorry to say that I really dislike that word. NOT the person that word represents, mind you, but the word itself. I wish I could think of a better word, but they all make me feel just a little nauseous. The truth is that he’s my dearest friend, but that’s a rather awkward victorian-ish title. The truth TRUTH is his name is TJ, so maybe I will just call him that. Novel idea)–anyway, TJ liked the look of the stairwell and the exposed brick and the all around crumbliness of the building.
I liked the little dog named Fred that we met at the top of the stairwell.
“What’s your dog’s name?” I yelled, sing-song style down the hallway to his human.
“FRIT!” she yelled (or so I thought).
“Nice to meet you, Frit!” I said, this time directing my attention to the dog.
“It’s FRED!” yelled Frit/Fred’s human, offended now that I would presume she’d name a dog something that made no real sense, I guess.
“Oh, sorry,” I said at my goof.
“Woof!” Fred said, not caring in the least.
That picture also reminds me of how TJ and I laughed over Frit/Fred’s name debacle and talked about how the human really didn’t seem nearly as friendly as the dog.
It also reminds me of the hat shop we went into right after we left there. It is beautiful–part workshop, part boutique–full of large and ornate hats that don’t look like hats at all, really. At least not the kind you see in every day living. They look like costumes. Expensive and fantastic costumes. But when I asked the hat maker if she costumes the shows around here (Boston is a great town for theater, you know), she was highly offended.
Apparently there’s a huge difference between making hats for the Kentucky Derby (?!?) and for musicals.
At least I didn’t call her Frit!