Starting the day before yesterday we had the following e-mail exchange:

Him: How about Tuesday afternoon, around 1:30 PM? Let me know.

Me: Tuesday at 1:30 works. I’m open to the where.

Him: Great! How about the usual?”

I had to wait a few minutes before responding. I didn’t want to embarrass myself or him by asking him to refresh my memory, so I didn’t type back “Now, where’s ‘the usual’ again?” I just said, “OK, see you tomorrow!” and thankfully he respond, “See you at Ciocolat!”

It’s not that it had been that long since I’d seen #1 Mentor; it was that we’d actually been to a few different places in Davis. In a way, though, I’m glad he thinks it’s our usual. It will make it easier for me.

In fact, it made me think about how most of my social interactions = going to lunch or coffee.  And how most of my social interactions are one-on-one. And each one of my friends has a corresponding place.

These patterns, these habits that seem so contrary to my variety is the spice of life approach to, um, life are actually quite relaxing.  I know where I’m going with each friend and that reduces the time spent on discussing where to go. We’re able to get down to talking about what matters and that really matters when our time together is so limited by schedules that are increasingly more difficult.

Always going back to the same place also means less time spent poring over a menu and more time on each other, so the compartmentalization of my lunch dates doesn’t bother me as much as it would seem to.

It’s comforting to know that when V. and I have lunch, it will be at Bernardo, and we’ll eat and drink the exact same thing. Every time. And so what? We know we’re going to be eating something really good and since we oohed and ahhed over it the first time, we don’t have to do it again and can get down to gossip and/or film, lit. and culture. Also, I like going to lunch with someone who’s not afraid to order alcohol.

M. and K. will always want Thai food. But in different places. I like eating with M. at the place on G. St. We often see someone else from the dept. And there’s soup. And even though I feel a twinge of something when I order prawns or meat, I know he doesn’t judge me harshly. K. doesn’t judge either, and if she and I don’t order alcohol, it’s only because we are on our way to class.

So sometimes we wait until after and go to happy hour. I don’t mind going to different places, which we do. We don’t hem and haw. If more than just a few seconds go by, I say “Sophia’s” because they have good mojitos. If we’re hungry and don’t care about atmosphere, we go to the Grad for a beer and free nachos.

E. is sweet and not-quite-granola, but we go to Delta. I’m going there tomorrow. I think everything there is vegetarian. It’s also an order-at-the-counter place and it’s good to get that out of the way. No waiting for a server who may forget about us or who may be overloaded. She usually knows exactly what she wants. Sometimes they run out of things, though and that really interferes with conversation.

I go to coffee and split cake with R. We like the cappuccino at Panama Red’s. It’s nice to be by the water. It’s quick to meet there and quick is good because I don’t get to see her much anymore, so it’s reallyreally good to not spend time figuring out where to go. If we eat, we narrow it to 2-3 choices and make up our minds right away. Sometimes I get to cook at my house!

I miss sushi lunch with C. Our schedules are way too different now. And E. won’t be back from France for a reallyreally long time and I hope the gelato place is still in business when she does get home.

Yesterday I declared Monday is dinner out night. I also declared that it would be dedicated to exploring the restaurants of Vallejo we haven’t yet been to. At least until we find one that can also be a “usual”.

I winced. “No…have you?”

“I’m sorry. I feel bad,” she continued, “I haven’t been keeping up.”

I feel bad too.

And so much that’s blogworthy has happened…

…but sometimes an emotion with political aspirations strays from my heart and finds its way into my head. Less frequently, it seeks to campaign, making clumsy attempts to leave the almost safe nest of the brain through my fingers and onto the screen or even more rarely, through my mouth into your ears.

Watching a bit of The Real Housewives of Orange County, I couldn’t help but view them in stark, unfavorable contrast with so many of the tough-loving women I knew growing up. I know that “Real Housewives” shows have their place and, I’d even argue, their value. However, what if networks also included series that might lead to some sort of social awareness? Maybe something like Real Ole Lady’s of the Rez. What? Too much..reality?

Inspired by Carly Simon’s line “You walked in to the party like you were walking on to a yacht…”

The host seated the pair in the booth to our left. They looked like the quiet sort of kids that would someday bring arms or explosives to school.

Some would say that’s a good sign, that when a teacher isn’t a bit nervous for the first day of classes, it means she’s burnt-out, washed-up, doesn’t care, isn’t a good teacher or some such…

But honestly, I can’t remember the last time I felt like this and I’ve been a competent, caring, mostly-energetic teacher for a long time. Starting before Friday night, I’ve been having teaching dreams nightmares. Saturday night I had a two-parter! In the first class session, I only covered an 1/8 of my lesson plan and was stressed because I didn’t know how to recover 7 days. In the second part, I found out that I wasn’t teaching one, but two upper div classes and the content of the second was a complete mystery and I was trying, unsuccessfully, to wing it, but the students had no idea. Friday’s dream was a bit better. If by “better” I mean sexy…which I do. And no, no students were involved!

The nerves are due to the fact that my 2:00 class isn’t a language class, it’s an upper division class of my own design. For all intents and purposes, I’m the professor. There’s a bit of pressure. From several sides, yes, but mostly from within.

I’m trying to squelch insecurity by  suppressing my tendencies toward absent-mindedness. This means I’m taking special care to make sure that my keys are in my bag, that my phone is charged and that I’ve gotten out of bed early enough to make and drink coffee here at home. For weeks I’ve been thinking of my profes and of which of their qualities I’d like to make my own. It’s going to be some time before I can amass the knowledge that they have, but their pedagogy also inspires:

A. is open, accepting and laid back. Almost anything goes if you can back it up solid. Makes work-life balance very attractive.

B. is gentle, but won’t let you embarrass yourself. Makes the occasional backslide into absent-mindedness very attractive.

C. is flexible organization personified. Chooses interesting texts. Kicks your ass lovingly into place. Makes practicality very attractive.

D. is tough as nails and gives the most extensive, constructive feedback ever. Makes citing your sources accurately very attractive.

E. is…well…a pure intellectual who makes every effort to connect on a human level. Expert in alterna-material, this one is especially inspiring.  Makes being “almost-all-business” very attractive.

F. is an organizational wonder with a beautiful speaking voice. Readers, syllabi, instructional objectives so clear you want to weep with joy. Makes having your shit together very attractive.

G. carries the soul of a poet in hard theorist’s cranium. Challenging questioning style, he takes well to his first impressions being turned on their heads. Makes literary gossip even more very attractive.

H. is youthful enthusiasm personified. Should give lessons on how to do your first year as professor. Makes jumping in with both feet  very attractive.

Trying hard…

A list of just some of the things it took me way too long to learn:

1. That’s Mick Jagger singing back up on Carly Simon’s “You’re so vain“!

2. You can and should always keep a good tweezers in your wallet. My sisters descended of hearty Eastern European or Mediterranean peasant stock know exactly what I’m talking about.

3.  We don’t have to dial a “1″ before the area code on our cell phones.

4.  The difference between Meg Ryan and Melanie Griffith – Griffith is the one you’d want backing you up in a fight.

5. What steampunk is.

6. “It only takes a minute, girl, to fall in love.” En serio.

7. RSVPing and mailing things don’t take very long either.

8. Spend on shoes, save on everything else.

9. Douchebaggery transcends age, race, gender, class, ethnicity, nationality and economic ability.

10. Palm Springs’ art museum kicks modern art ass!

11. Everything looks, smells, sounds, tastes and feels better with love.

That sounds like a compliment, but I honestly believed that I was running at the time…and to make matters worse, I’d just sped up for my “faster minute” as I passed his house.

It was one of those “Why bother?” moments that I sometimes have before, during or after a run. Another thing that makes me, paradoxically, question why I run is catching a glimpse of myself in a window or car mirror as I run by, or when I see my shadow and think thoughts like “Wow, after 2 1/2 years of this, I only almost have a waist.” Fortunately those moments don’t happen often, and I think I’d be really sad if I just gave up this activity. It’s taken me a long time to even call what I do “running” without qualifying my word choice.

I’m disappointed that I’m still so slow. In a whole hour I can only go just a little over 5.5 miles. But I still don’t want to train or set speed goals…my goal is to just not stop going out there.

The bus pulled to a stop and everyone but me exited, into the desert it seemed; there were no buildings near. The driver put the bus in Park. The airport was in plain view, but I asked anyway, “Should I get off here and walk that way to the airport?” He stood up to stretch. “No, please don’t! I just have to wait here another 2 minutes.” “Will we get there by 4:30?” He laughed, “We’d have to go really slow to get there by 4:30.” Normally I would have felt like an idiot and kept quiet. “I had to ask,” I replied, “because time and distance in Las Vegas are not like time and distance in any other city.”

Well, OK, Café and Bar Bernardo doesn’t have a membership; if it did, I’d sign up. As it is, I’m just a regular and not even the kind of regular whose name the staff knows. But they know my order, and that of my almost-tocaya, speaking of names.

For a few months we’ve been trying to go once a week and we usually make it. I value these lunches; we talk about work, our work and details before getting down to more personal topics. Sometimes we eat quickly and get back to our respective computers, but most of the time we can linger a bit, la sobremesa.

Tocayos are people who share the same name. My almost-tocaya and I have many other things in common and we always order the same thing at Bernardo. Sometimes the servers remember…

On Monday I went to Bernardo, but not with my almost-tocaya. I went with my mentor, who can be a bit formal and always appropriate. We approached the counter to order, “Go ahead, Val,” he nudged me forward.

The dimpled waiter/cashier smiled and asked, “The usual 3-salad sampler?”

“No no, not today… I’ll be doing something a little different. Just the Thai noodle, please.” And I let a tiny bit of panic show in my eyes. The kid’s a quick study; he winked almost imperceptibly and asked, “Anything to drink?” instead of his usual, “And the usual Sauvignon Blanc? One now and one after?”

I’ll be sure to take good care of his tip jar next week…

“It took me 10 minutes to find a  **** ****** DVD, I have smashed chocolate-covered pomegranate all over my white sweater and I’m trying to pin my bangs out of my eyes using a paper clip. Do I look ready for…well…anything?”

No, I’m even more not ready for Christmas than usual.