Lola In The City

I have to admit. I have pretty much given up hope of meeting a man who at some point doesn't make me want to smother him in his sleep. But that doesn't mean there aren't moments when that hope flares up like million hot suns only to burn out like a dying star. Tonight on my way home from work, I had one of those moments. 

I noticed a guy on the train, standing about where I usually stand. He was tall, broad shouldered, ruggedly handsome (but not so handsome as to be out of my league), there was no sign of a wedding ring or any indication he might be gay. But I am not shallow or obsessed with looks (although I am obsessed with single and straight). These are not the things that grabbed my attention. It was what he was reading - "Blood Sucking Fiends" by Christopher Moore. CHRISTOPHER MOORE! He was reading CHRISTOPHER MOORE!!! 

I love Christopher Moore. He is by far one of my favorite authors. No one makes me belly laugh out loud in public like Christopher Moore. No one rocks my stripey socks like Christopher Moore. No one makes me want to commit heinous fuckery like Christopher Moore. And thanks to Christopher Moore I know there is always a fucking ghost.

"Gee, Elizabeth...what's the problem?" (There is always a fucking problem.) 

Imagine my joy this evening at finding a seat when getting on the blue line at Clark/Lake. I almost never get a seat on the blue line, certainly not at rush hour. I made myself comfy and proceed to bebop along to The Undertones on my iPod. I didn't notice him until somewhere between Grand and Chicago. I have never been so suddenly disappointed to have a seat on the train. I found myself trying to figure out how to gracefully get up with my four bottles of wine I just bought, push my way through half a train car full of people and nonchalantly mention that he was reading one of my favorite books. You know, all cool and Meg Ryan/Julia Roberts like. 

Sadly, we will never know how I would fare as a romantic comedy leading lady. He got off at the next stop. So, as usual, instead of my life being a romantic comedy, it continues to be one of those gritty, real, depressing, independent films. You know, the kind that is critically acclaimed but makes no money because nobody wants to pay to see that shit. But hey, I have four bottles of wine. Maybe I'll go read some Christopher Moore.