Tickled Pink

I am not ready for Africa. 

Meghan bought me a purse for my trip as a going away present, and I am still about one-third packed, but other than that I can't say much for myself. I bought all-purpose shoes to take, but they give me blisters. I read Mandela's A Long Walk to Freedom sometime last fall, but that is the only book on my pre-Africa reading list that I have read cover to cover. For the last two days I have been reading Chelsea Handler, and I don't think anything she has to say about her one-night stands is going to be valuable to me in Africa. At least, I sure hope not. Last night, instead of packing or tackling the mountain of laundry in my room that rivals Everest, I chatted online with a Colombian that I thought was mine, but turned out just to be some creep with the same name. The conversation got a little out of hand, but as usual it was all my fault. 

 

Annie: What are you doing? 

Colombian: watching tv 

Annie: Probably porn. 

Colombian: yes porn

Annie: Really? I am so good.

Colombian: do you like porn?

It was a strange question coming from my Colombian, because he should know what I like by now, but I thought it could be some kind of kinky game he was playing. I still had my guard up though, because he hadn't spelled anything wrong yet, so I was suspicious. 

Annie: Do you have anything interesting to tell me? 

Colombian: You tell me something interesting 

Annie: I have nothing interesting to tell. 

Colombian: then let's talk about porn

I knew it! He was found out. My Colombian would have never remembered the apostrophe in the word let's. But I didn't want to jump the gun and ruin the kinky stuff if I did have the right guy, so I asked him to tell me something only he would know. He told me he knew many things. I asked him what color the walls in my bedroom are painted. He said pink. I said adios. My walls are NOT pink. Later when I decided to be old-fashioned and just call the real Colombian, I asked him what color the walls in my room are painted, just for the principle of it, and he said green. My walls are blue. An unmistakable blue. Although, when I told my roommate Logan the story he started nodding when I got to the part about the Colombian saying my walls are green. Logan was like, "Yeah, they're blueish-green. I'd call it aqua." Um, okay. I guess Pottery Barn calls it schooner, which isn't helping anyone, and is just as damn bad as calling it aqua. I definitely learned my lesson. You should always make sure that you know who you're chatting with on Skype, and guys are clueless when it comes to colors.

Oh, yeah. And maybe I should start thinking about packing.