Notes to Self

My name is GNA Garcia. I am a gentlewoman scholar. My notes to self are often a little naughty, sometimes a little nice, and entirely uncensored.

More encounters with Steve, the taxi driver

Horrible sneeze day.
Tequila barfly.
Steve, the Taxi Angel.
Ride.
(FOUND PHONE IN THE BACK SEAT, WHAT? LET’S FIGURE IT OUT!)

Steve: I just dropped them of in Morton Grove.
Me: You better charge them for extra fare.
Steve: I will.

(In the meantime, Steve was asking about my manicure and pedicure. And, about my Canadian friend, Giulia. I showed Steve my fingers, but not my toes. Honestly, Steve is a little pervy.)

We get to my place. Steve knows where I live. I offer the cash I have. Steve refuses.

I hope Steve returns the phone and I hope Steve is around the next time I’m wondering the streets of Evanston at midnight.

People in my neighborhood Steve is a good one.

Encounters with Steve, the taxi driver

I’m walking home from the grocery store.
I see Steve in his taxi passing-by going the opposite direction.
Steve sees me. He flips a U-turn. Pulls up to my curb.

Me: “Steve you are my angel! Take me home! I’ve gotta take a piss!”
Steve: “Get in baby.”
Me: “Steve, you are a champ.”

Steve calls me Adriana, or something similar that begins with an A.

I say, “It’s GNA. And hurry Steve.”
Steve: “Don’t take a piss GNA. HOLD ON! I WILL GET YOU HOME!”

(Insert six blocks of banter about where-have-you-been and my Canadian friends. Good ole Steve. One-track mind.)

Pulling up in front of my building Steve says, “Don’t worry about it (the fare).”

I toss a crumpled $5 at Steve and ask, with one foot out the door, “Is that enough?”

Steve: “Go. Don’t piss. Run!”
Me: “Thanks Steve. You’re an angel.”
Steve: “You’re an angel, GNA. I love you.”

I kinda love Steve too. He is a person in my neighborhood. That’s pretty nest.

Any effort that doesn’t work without us being there isn’t really, truly working.

six word stories

Patio lights chatting fine with mosquitos.
Teen men skaters grind by outside.
Canadian Netflix keep my light on.

A kind response on OkCupid

"Thanks for noticing me and sending me a message. I’m certain you are a decent fellow; however, I’m not the gal for you. Good luck finding her!"

[Online daters: Feel free to use this text because, by my experience, it is met with kindness and courtesy.]

Be nice.

As a letter writer, writing a letter, at the perfect time, is choice. It is a golden moment… in my mind and so on.

All letters are all ways love letters.

Do stereotypes rule?

"You’re in post-production before you know it. The reality is that I don’t fucking know this person."

I say: Basically why I’ve never had a long-term relationship with a woman. Because the women who want me want a “man” without a dick. And that’s not me, on all accounts. (Roles, stereotypes, culture, all in play. You figure it out.)

“@audiosmut: “Did I make it all up? Maybe she was never into it.” http://t.co/ocbnJvVBFP #MoviesInYourHead”

In De Pen Dance Day

"Awesome plans this weekend?" asked my colleagues with raised eyebrows of hope. "No. I don’t have any Friends here like that yet." "Every time you say that, I feel sad."

Me too.

The Coach, a technology-equipt mobile outreach vehicle.

Time to take it to the students. BAM!

In dying, saying good-bye is a courtesy.

Tijuana wool pullovers doing the baked Fish shuffle to decent tweeked HSBand jazz. I wanted a table, a whiskey, and an ashtray. They wanted to dance. Now I’m eating ramen. Win-win.