Eat Your Heart Out, Dr. Claw.

Since the circus-meeting-of-destiny last April, it is safe to say Jon Horne and I have run the communication gamut.  We have used all means necessary, save the pony express, telegram, and carrier pigeons.  He first contacted me on facebook, as he wrote my number down incorrectly.  Next, the phone call.  Then texting.  And let's not forget those painstaking fall months when hand-written letters served to voice our growing affection and resulting misery due to separation.

And now our most recent communication vehicle: Skype.

I have learned that "skype" is both a noun and a verb.  "I skped Jon Horne last night," or "Skype wasn't very effective on Christmas day because there was so much traffic."

When I was a kid, talking to another person in real-time with a video screen was the stuff of cartoons or Back to the Future II.  [Was that Biff a despicable sir, or what?] Primarily I think of Dr. Claw, "I'll get you next time, Gadget!" or perhaps a communication device for Judy Jetson's long distance relationship with an older, college boy, much to George Jetson's dismay.  Either way - Skype: fueling my love for Jon Horne, one video chat at a time.

I spent the entirety of Saturday with Jon Horne.  On Skype.  We slept in, drank coffee and read magazines.  We made breakfast together, played three hours of online Scrabble (see next post).  Then watched a crappy George Clooney movie.  Later I dressed up for my first-ever Internet dinner date.  Said date involved laptops, headphones and French Onion soup.  Panera was the obvious choice: free WiFi, nationwide locations.  Came home, showered up, put on PJ's and watched Hitch.  "OK, ready? 3 - 2 - 1 - Play!" on our respective DVD players.  (Grin)

Look people, in the age of Twitter, iPhones, online social book-marking (thank you, CB), and lasic eye surgery - anything's possible.  That is ... except for making out over Skype.  Technology hasn't figured that out yet.  And that's A-OK with me.  Weird.