Jamalyn (jamalyn) wrote,

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What do I know?

The following is a transcript of a conversation I had yesterday evening in the middle of the bottled water aisle of Wal-Mart:

AnhMai (hereafter denoted as M): What’s 12 divided by 4?

Me (J): Three.

M: No, that’s not right.

J: Yes, it is.

M: No. That would mean I only have 3 days worth of water in my 24 pack.

J: What?

M: Four times three is twelve.

J: Yes.

M: So 4 per day equals 3 days.

J: For 12 waters.

M: Yes.

J: But didn’t you just say you were going to buy a 24 pack?

M: What? ... Oh ... Hey, you’re right ... So, 24 divided by 4 is 8 days.

J: Six.

M: What?

J: Twenty-four divided by 4 equals 6, 6 days, two times the number of days a 12 pack would last.

M: No, wait that’s not right.

J: Yes. It. Is.

M: No, I mean I don’t drink four per day; I drink three. That’s why my numbers are off.

J: I don’t think that’s why your numbers are off.

M: Oh, shut up. What do you know?

Hn. What do I know, indeed. *rolls eyes*


I went to go see the opera Miss Havisham’s Fire tonight. (For those of you who have read Great Expectations, yes, it is that Miss Havisham). I was supposed go with Mai, however, as I was about to leave work this afternoon, she comes jogging up and shamefacedly announces that she doubled booked and that she absolutely had to stay for some meeting or another that precluded her making it to the opera at all (much less on time).

Then, quite saucily, she informs me that she has already given her ticket to Craig and that he will be accompanying me for the evening.

Now I want all to know that I am not the one who just had to see this opera. In actuality, there could be nothing further from the truth. I’m worn out; I’m tired; I certainly don’t want to spend my few free evenings dressed to the nines listening to people screech (no, I’m not particularly fond of opera—as uncultured as that may be). Mai worked on me tirelessly for more than three weeks to finally make me agree to going with her.

And now I have the sneaky suspicion that she never planned to attend in the first place.

I want to see her hurt.

I won’t tell you that it was a bad show, because it wasn’t. In fact I was rather enjoying the end where old Miss Havisham moons on and on, reliving her wedding night (she was jilted) in a mad craze; talking to herself, getting drunk, slapping random objects with a fire poker and congratulating herself when she accidentally happens upon a smart witticism or two.

I was paying such close attention that Craig actually had to pull at a few of my loose hairs (those nagging little hairs around your face that never seem to actually “go up” when you’ve put your hair…up) to get my attention.

When he finally had it (my attention) he smiles, and in a devilish whisper asks, “It’s like a glimpse into your future, isn’t it?”

I want to see him hurt.

Opera isn’t supposed to make you feel murderous, is it? This stuff should really come with a warning.

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