Every weekend, I do scores of different things, meet scores of different people-cook and clean and do my laundry, read and dance and drink, chat and shop upto a point where I am convinced that it is okay to let the weekend go and embrace the impending Monday. I don’t know what the right word should be here, but it’s like the weekend has to consummated with something pivotal. Last weekend it was shopping at 10 pm. This weekend it didn’t work. Didn’t buy anything. (Screw beautiful blue silk dresses with rhinestone applique that show too much cleavage to be practical and hence must be returned woefully. But oh it was so pretty.)
Then I did something else and it worked. I picked up the phone. I can’t find the right words today.. but I’d say it was glea. Yeah. I could literally see him smiling ear to ear as was I. The phone call woke him up but he was listening intently nonetheless; he said it was “such a welcome surprise!”. Come to think about it, I don’t know too many people who’d say that to me wide awake, much less woken up from booze-induced slumber.
He understands and agrees that I am surrounded by idiots, that I need to change my scene. He matter-of-factly asks me, “You’re not trying to find a boyfriend in a night-club, are you?” He’s right to an extent- it’s not like one can come to expect civil behavior and chivalry and intelligent conversation in places where the inhabitants are predisposed to being intoxicated. I bugged and bugged and bugged him to come visit me on my side of the planet.. “See? I’m making puppy dog eyes. You can’t see me but I am! Let’s go to Cambodia.”
“Cambodia? Don’t they have mountains of skulls?”
Oh well, it doesn’t seem likely in the next 6 months. How tragic. We’ve agreed that assuming I make it to b-school, I’ll arrange to meet him in Paris, where we will act pretentious, wear berets and carry parasols. Believe you me, it takes two very smart people to have a really silly conversation like that (where every sentence is interspersed with uncontrollable giggling).
Speaking of great listeners and friends who are tragically misplaced in faraway places, Zee was in town for the weekend. Some people are terrific at maintaining friendships and Zee is one such guy. Friday night, we went out with a bunch of common friends to pig out on local seafood. Then I took him to Cafe del Mar (spanish for cafe of/by the sea) by the beach. On a sidenote, I think it’d be more appropriate if they called it Cafe del Mierda (spanish for shit) because it really sucked ass. It took us one and a half hours to get warm beer. The place was a tacky, vulgar freakshow. We couldn’t find a place to sit, stand or talk so we went and sat on the beach. I can do that just as easily by going to the 7-11. Not to mention, it’d cost less. On another sidenote, Zee says I’ve lost weight. Yipeee.
Due to my falling asleep for most part of Saturday, I didn’t get to spend much time on Saturday with Zee. Also, I had a birthday “party” of sorts to attend (Wheeler’s). Anyway, I managed to see him off at the cab-stand at least. He insists that I come to Sydney. I should…if only I can save some cash. I’m still recovering from the European-shopping-hangover.
Sigh. And now I’m back to the American. You know what’s weird? I can’t attribute our connection to the fact that we are always in a state of loose contact, rarely ever call each other and chat once a month for half an hour tops. Because we had this amazing connection even when he was here. We always had stuff to talk about, we understood each others’ jokes and we always respected each other. Maybe that’s it; it’s mutual respect that breeds a great friendship. There’s no room for pandering, patronising, degrading or abuse. I think the ha-ha jokes at someone’s expense get old and there had better be something meaningful to stick around for. That’s why I never find myself attracted to ha-ha-funny guys. I prefer the quiet witty ones with a dash of quirkiness.
Once I took a potshot at him and I felt really bad; so I lipsynced “I’m sorry” during a meeting and scratched “You have a great sense of humour!” on a piece of paper. He looked at it, crossed off the ‘u’ and slid it across to me, smirking proudly. Smart guys are so hard to find.
P.S. If you’re reading this, I still have no idea why you like that song!