So last Friday I went on a date with a guy named W.F. At least I think it was a date. It didn't end in sex, and in my hyper-sexualized state of existence, that threw me into a morass of uncertainty.
We had lunch at Raffaela's and then we got dessert. He got up to look at the dessert display and came back and said, "I know what I want. It's this hexagonal tart that's part raspberry mousse and part chocolate." So he ordered that, and it came, and it was a regular, triangular piece of dessert. This was my immediate thought: "That's not hexagonal. I can never love you. You don't even know basic shapes." Then a second thought occurred to me and, pretending that I had to go to the bathroom, I got up and snuck over to the dessert case. Indeed, his dessert was only a slice of an originally hexagonal dessert. So I realized I could love him after all.
Of course, it wasn't a tart, but I can forgive that.
Except--wait--it is just occurring to me that maybe he said not "tart" but "torte," which is what it actually was--in which case he is perfect and I love him.
Now I have to figure out if this was actually a date or not.
When I was six, I picketed my house, hoping to be allowed to eat breakfast before getting dressed rather than after.
I marched back and forth in front of our front door, carrying a sign that said "BREKFAST FIRST DRESSED LATER."
My parents, being civil rights workers, didn't cross picket lines, and that was the only way into or out of our house,
so they were trapped there until they acceded to my demand.