setting: on the phone, particularly harried after a day of teaching middle school, just having run from our house in North Berkeley to Bank of America and the post office and downtown to Kinko's all in time to beat the FedEx 5:30 p.m. package drop-off deadline for overnight shipments to the East Coast so that I could send my passport (oh no oh no, giving your passport away to a stranger, right up there with the dangerous combination of dirty underwear and out-of-control buses) and my visa application to the Embassy of Ghana in Washington, DC
me: I just did something our parents told us never to do!
Matt: Oh, no. Not again. What this time?
Matt is my oldest friend in the Bay Area--we met in May of 1998. I can be myself around him enough to call him, out of my mind with really un-upsetting news like this, and he will tolerate me. So we talked for three minutes but he was leaving work and then once I came home drained from all this hysteria, I fell asleep and did not call him back like I was supposed to. Sorry, Matt. I'll call during recess tomorrow, I promise.
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