I haven’t been to San Antonio yet.  I will at least make a day of it soon.  Amy Dorsett, a reporter for Express-News in San Antonio, recently met with me over coffee at Mozart’s, an enormous cafe in Austin that roasts its own Jo, where she shared with me her list of things for me to do in SA.  We sat outside, shaded by an over-sized tree, worried we might be shat on.  We weren’t.  "That would so be my life," I said watching a white lump splat beside my pedicure.  I think that’s what everyone would say.  "Though I think it’s actually good luck if a bird messes with you like that.  Or at least gravity."  And I have been lucky.  I’ve also worked hard, but the luck has helped. 

The following day, I met with a Ed Ornelas, a photographer for E-N, who told me he was just going to shadow me for the day.  Drive around with me, run some errands.  Errands?  My typical day is spent showerless, sitting at my desk, speaking baby-talk to my dog, punctuating all this with a stab at writing.  Okay, those are my "writing days."  The rest are spent, exploring.  Sitting in cafes, certainly.  Grocery shopping.  I spend a lot of time in book stores and food markets.  "I can go with you to the market," Ed offers.  But I don’t want to go without The Suitor, who refuses to be photographed, declaring, "This isn’t about me.  It’s about you."   

"Well you’re not watching me work out," I told Ed, imagining what I’d look like with my hair pulled taught, bits of frizz pulling up, my face the color of fig jam.  Instead of watching me pump iron, he witnessed me break a sweat while pumping gas. 

"Oh God, are you really going to photograph this?"
"Why not?"
"I mean what does it say?"
"It says your car needed some gas."  I think too much.  Up until this point, I haven’t filled up a tank of gas since high school.  I explain this to him in a green tone as I slide my credit card into the gas dispenser, lifting the pump.  This is the embarrassing bit.  It’s a new car– "pre-owned," I tell him, "not used"–and I haven’t learned how to unlock this twisting feature on the gas tank.  It’s locked.  "Oh dear," I say, pump in one hand, twisting in the other, "this is more challenging than sex."  I cannot unlock the chastity belt. 
"Let me help you out," he says, "it will be our little secret."  He then fiddled with my hole and pulled the cap fresh off. 
"Thank you," I exhaled.  Then we climbed back into the car and plugged our way up a hill, slowly, behind a garbage truck.  "Now this is so my life," I said, "stuck behind a garbage truck.  Right here, in this moment."  And despite what any of our lives are, I think we all feel this way.  Or at least it’s easy to say we do.

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