He Thinks I'm "Hot"

A class in “new media” at Purdue University is rearranging my world and redecorating my living space. Every sunny day begs a break from reading to “snap” a few digital images – handheld and tripod-mounted cameras at the ready. Webcam paraphernalia wires me for real time image access to Tommi on post in Iraq at the same time as Abe in Minnesota. Skype, a free online phone service – I’m all for “free,” gets us voice and a bit of feeling together at home. All this “hook-up” is not to mention an expanding connectivity taking shape around the work I do, the news I read, or the family photos I share with those I meet in the universe of blogging opening itself to me. Keeping up with course assignments rarely leaves time to reflect on the velocity and volume in all this change, but frankly, when I do … Wowzer! I can still see the shoreline from which I set sail in a pre-digital world, but it’s receding to horizon fast.

So …

I’m sitting in front of my computer a couple of days ago, and my webcam is set to broadcast – a bit of digital me for Tommi. I’m doing the flannel pants and sweatshirt thing on a still chilly Indiana morning while I race through paper grading and lesson preparations for my students in freshman composition. Tommi’s broadcasting, too – and pardon the “mom” comment on the side, but her room doesn’t seem to have changed much. Anyway, she just gets home from work, types in a “hey you” on the Yahoo messenger window that is always open between us, and my attention is immediately her’s.

I hear about work, her fatigue, and a comment or two about the people who have passed though the gate that day before she tells me that her friend, Pat, is there with her. “Pat?” and the “mom” me jumps to the front once more. “…male or female?”

“male” she replies.

“marred ro sinegle?” Typing fast costs accuracy, but that doesn’t matter when you’re instant messaging – one of the perks of the exchange. I can almost hear Tommi laughing as her words appear on my screen.

“married, mom. don’t worry. he’s my E-8 … my “right-hand man” at the gate.”

“he’s an NCO … a master sgt here but he’s been a first sgt at home – a big deal.”

“besides … if he was gonna be attracted to anyone, it would be you.”

“he thinks you’re “hot”

I lace my own words with laughter as I write in return, “Ok. I like Pat. Pat’s a good man,” before I remember the sweatshirt and flannels and add a quick addendum, “ahhhh, Tommi … can he see me right now?!”

LOL … LOL … “girl stuff” and electronic hugs put Tommi here/almost here while she tells me more about her friend and co-worker. “he’s beautiful, mom … he has a beautiful heart … and you know me,” she writes, “i always look for the beauty on the inside”

“I know, baby,” I write in return. “We’re seam people.”

She questions my turn of phrase, and I explain that “seam people” are those who turn a thing inside out to see what they’ve got a hold of – look on the inside to measure the strength of a fabric – it’s hold, it’s finish. They read the seams. “yep,” she writes in return, “i’ll have to remember that one” And there’s laughter again and she’s gotta go now and she’ll be back when she can and she loves me and i shouldn’t forget and she’ll say “hi” to pat for me. bye. bye. love you. bye. And the screen drops to gray reporting “Sentinel_47 has left the conversation.” I miss her. Touching is good. And ...

“Cool,” I think to myself in the afterglow of conversation. “He thinks I’m ‘hot’… .”