Pizza Delivery, Part II.

This series, written several months in retrospect, loosely follows from this post. Hint: pizza represents something else. Part I is here.  I hope you enjoy this and/or good pizza.

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I scurried into Starbuck’s two minutes behind schedule.

A dark, slender man strolled towards me. “You must be Robyn. I’m Delivery Boy.” He smiled and offered his hand.

“I am. I mean, I’m Robyn. Good to meet you.” Nice warm handshake, and you’re pretty cute, I thought.

“Good to meet you too.” 

Delivery Boy proceeded to treat me to coffee and a brownie. We sat at the nearest table, where seamless conversation included talk of family, career, and my favorite comedy movie, Airplane! At that, he aptly recited nearly every line: the surely-Shirley banter, cockpit and Turkish prison quips, prim and proper little girl with a penchant for all things black, etc.

I don’t remember laughing so much on a date, except under my breath. This was a very good sign, so good my mind floated to romantic thoughts of stringy cheese, long pieces that get twisted up around the tongue and stretch to great lengths, keeping me entangled in a flavorful feast for countless meals, maybe even a lifetime’s worth.

Note to self: Whoa. How quickly the independent, empowered woman left the building. No string cheese, remember?!

Note in response to note to self: Did you say something? I can’t hear you. Pizza! Pizza! Pizza! Pizza – with string cheese atop, along the side, and spread all over, please. I’m hungry.

I nibbled at the last of my brownie crumbs. We suddenly noticed it was dark out, so Delivery Boy walked me to my car.

Our date ended with a warm embrace, quick peck, and agreement to see each other again.

To be continued.

Woman on the Verge of Paradise: Pizza Delivery, Part I.

This series, written several months in retrospect, loosely follows from this post. Hint: “pizza” represents something else. 

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We darted for the Tea Bar’s only vacant outside table.  Brandi placed her Iced Ginger Peach Tea aside my Chocolate Chai Frost and declared, “It's about time we caught up!”

“Okay.” I jumped right in. “So, I know I talk a big game about celibacy, and not wanting a man…” —I relaxed into my chair and sighed, the sun piercing my face—  “…Maybe it’s just the heat. But what I really want is ‘pizza,’ good ‘pizza’ before I die.”

“I hear you,” she nodded and clasped her glass. Orange-pink liquid surged up her straw, halted mid-stream, and shot back down. “Hold on! Why didn’t I think of this earlier, Robyn? I have a guy friend who wants ‘pizza’ with no string cheese.  He’s nice and normal too, wouldn’t give you anything to write about.”

“Sign me up!” I giddily devoured my frost, without noticing its taste.

Note to self: Psst, are you sure you want pizza with no string cheese?

Note in response to note to self: Did you say something? I wasn’t paying attention. Pizza! Pizza! Pizza! Pizza!

~~

The guy, hereafter named “Delivery Boy,” called a few days later. His voice was deep and decisive, the tone of a man smooth with take-out, yet respectful enough to not suggest Round Table for the first date. Instead, we made plans to meet at a local Starbuck’s that Thursday evening. 

To be continued.

Special Guest, Aussie Author Anthony J. Langford

                                                                                                  

Today, I’m thrilled to introduce my good friend, Australian Author Anthony J. Langford.

Men at Work’s "Land Down Under" blasts the stage, as Anthony strolls out with a wave and smile. Anthony and Robyn exchange a warm hug. She signals for the music to stop.

Robyn: Welcome, Anthony! Thanks for making the trip. She motions towards a pair of chocolate brown recliners, and both are seated. Say, is Oprah still in Australia?

Anthony: No, darlin'. She taped her finale there in 2010, but Aussies are still going wild. So it’s great to be away from the commotion. Thanks so much for the invite.

Robyn: My pleasure. You’ve soared since we met a few years ago in that sketchy place, the Blogger Coffee Shop. Now, you’re a family man with a precious toddler. Plus, you’ve been published. I love your book, by the way. I’m not just saying that. Robyn pushes her opened purse towards Anthony, and he readily stuffs it with Australian chocolates. She drops her bag, wipes saliva off her chin, and continues. Your novella, Bottomless River, spans relevant topics like alcoholism, teen turmoil, and dating violence. You write with such humanness, Anthony. It’s a wonderful read that leaves a lasting impression.

Anthony: Glad to hear it. I want people to feel something, like I want to when I read. Flowery prose doesn’t interest me. Just give me believable characters. They don’t have to be likable, as long as they’re real. And the feedback I’m getting has been fantastic so something must be going right. People have told me that they’ve cried, which is amazing when you consider how short the book is. Just goes to prove it’s not about length.

Robyn: It’s not? Robyn looks confused. Well, I do like that yours is so short. Turning red: I mean, your book is short, only 58 pages.

Anthony, wiping his brow and exhaling a sigh of relief: Yes, in fact most people who purchased Bottomless River have read it within the first week or first day. We’re all so time-strapped, thanks to demands we’ve placed on ourselves with the internet, that we’re just not reading that much anymore and we’re losing the younger generation. I have teenage step kids and I see them and their friends obsessed with technology but seemingly frightened to death of books. Novellas were once more popular. I think they’re prime for a comeback.

Robyn: Any messages for those of us (clearing throat, pointing at self) who want to publish a book someday? As you know, I’m a big fan. You’re a funny, talented woman. Blushing, Robyn reaches into her purse, breaks off a smidgen of chocolate and offers it to Anthony. He shakes his head “no” and continues, composed. Just keep working at your craft. Don’t sell yourself short by rushing to get published. Once you’re rejected by a particular company, you can’t resubmit the same work. Give yourself the best chance by being the best you can be. Even though it’s a frustrating even depressing business, the key is not to give up.

Robyn: Yes, perseverance got you there. And your main character doesn’t give up on a quest for resolution. Short of giving a spoiler, I’ll say I felt relief and hope at the end, though sad to turn the final page. But we’ll be seeing more books from you, poetry and prose. For now, my friend, thank you for your time, words of wisdom, and –whispering- the stash.

Anthony: Thanks for your friendship. We’ve had many great laughs over the last few years. Best of luck and love to you Robyn, and your readers.

Robyn:  Thanks, Anthony. And thank you, audience. To the cameraman: Go ahead and roll the clip before the final credits.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sWY_h-Oqrmc 

Wordplay, A Saturday Centus

I've been ditching class for too long. It's back-to-school time, so I re-entered Jenny Matlock's Saturday Centus.  She challenged us to write a sentence without the two most common letters of the English language, "e" or "t".

Here's my humble offering: My mojo ran away.

Jenny's assignment also prompted this little rhyme:

Wordplay

There's "hop" in "hope" without the "e"

And "can" in "can't" minus the (apostrophe) "t"

Wordplay alone serves to attest:

Sometimes we manage more with less.

Be well, enjoy the weekend, and keep hopping.

Cracked Egg, Scrambled Town

Having completed 500 blog posts, I figure I can do some re-posting without your noticing. Wink. This one is from June of last year, as part of  Jenny Matlock's Saturday Centus. The prompt is bolded below. My inspiration came from a scrambled egg I'd eaten for breakfast, and Mother Goose's Humpty Dumpty. Please enjoy.
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Cracked Egg, Scrambled Town

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

"Sue!" cried the Counsel, tasting money and fame.

"The wall was built long ago. Our state is to blame:

 Construction malfunction! I'm quite the sharp tack.

I just wish I could bring our poor Eggy back." 

The entire town wept over Hump's inner goo.

But grief turned to distrust when the vestiges grew. 

Mr. Bacon climbed up to the top of the wall 

and found a huge keg whence Dump took a fall.

He sniffed and he licked but the beer was all gone.

With yolk 'round the rim, the evidence was strong.

"Looks like we've been had," he relayed to them all,

"by an imbalanced egg that fell off the wall!"

Back to School, Sundays in My City

Hi, friends. I hope this finds you well, not too hot, and surviving the back-to-school madness.

Unknown Mami hosts an extraordinary weekly party. Visit her site here to appreciate scenes from across the globe. It's a small blog world afterall.

Welcome to Chico, California. Temps have soared to 106 F.
                                                         
                                                          What's a gal to do but visit...

                                                                          Bidwell Park,

  

and follow a man driving barefoot on Interstate-99,

 

while our town mascot prepares to send his youngin' to school?!

Catch your breath and enjoy the sites of almost-fall.

Thanks for visiting. Happy Sunday and new week.

Men Time vs. Women Time

It had been a while since I corresponded with Mr. Salsa. Just yesterday, though, he sent a run-on sentence via email. He closed with, “In the men time take care.”

This provoked deep thought. Men time ? Must’ve been a typo, right? Because men time  is time that may never happen. Like when men say “I’ll mow the lawn later” or “Sorry, I’ll make it up to you some time” or “I’m going to take you on a romantic getaway when the time’s right.”

In contrast, women time  happens all the time and beyond time. Like when women say “Dear, I’m a little moody right now” or “Give me a moment to explain why you shouldn’t have done that” or “It’s time for chocolate.”

So, yeah, I think it was a typo. He probably meant “women” and not “men time.” He likely wants me to take care to a never-ending extent. 

This in mind, I sent a brief, cheery response. "I'm doing fine. It's good to hear from you..."

Mr. Salsa replied with another run-on sentence and apology, “EXCUSE AL THE TYYPOS ON MY PREVIOUS MESSAGE.”

That confirmed it. It was a ty(y)po.  He meant “women time.”

Yet I’m left wondering who Al is, and why Al sent that email -with tyypos- on Mr. Salsa’s behalf. In time (men time), I may never know.  

 

The Latest in Chocolate: Chocolate Soda & etc.

The young cashier at Cost Plus enthusiastically approved this purchase: Coco Fizz, a chocolate soda! In retrospect, as I glance at the empty bottle, I enthusiastically approve the checker's enthusiasm. Coco Fizz combines the smoothness of creme soda with the good 'ole fashioned choco-taste of  a Tootsie Roll. It's yummy, and thirst-quenching too.

Looks like you can find this one at zuberfizz.com, if you don't have Cost Plus in your area. I'm confident you'll like it. In fact, I give Durango Soda Company's Coco Fizz a 9 out of 10. 

What do you think? Ever drink carbonated chocolate? Are you tempted?

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Now, a Sub-Post on the Sex Talk Post:

To all who shared your sex talk stories in response to my Home-schooling post, thank you. I've compiled them here. To keep it simple, I removed names and didn't include everyone's responses. My apologies, though I appreciate it all. You amused and enlightened me.

This particular correspondence keeps me laughing. (You can't go wrong when mixing MommaFargo's insight with Al Penwasser's humour).

MommaFargo: LOL. Oh my.
I remember those horrible school videos on sex where the boys and girls were separated. They talked about your period and what not. It was like the traffic video..."Blood Flows Red On The Highway"... only different. Then I looked it up in the anatomy book at the library.

Too bad we didn't have Google back then. LOL

AlPenwasser: @Momma Fargo: If blood flows red on the highway, I'd think about getting a SUPER-absorbent pad. I'm just sayin'....

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Have a sweet Sunday and new week.
                           Keep a smile and stash of chocolate.