Harriet

Harriet the Spy was one of my favorite books as a kid. First of all, she was allowed to roam through New York City alone. Secondly, she could go into that soda shop and order an egg cream. I didn’t know what that was, but I wanted one. Thirdly, she wore Converse high tops. And last, she did what I’ve been doing all my life. Spying and eavesdropping, baby.

Recently, I had cause to channel some Harriet. It was very innocent: I saw someone’s car where it shouldn’t be (ahem!), and so I just sort of lingered in the area to see what transpired. I felt very Charlie’s Angels, you know? I dropped by the place where the car was parked—it was a public place, not like I was creeping up the dumbwaiter, like Harriet did—and chatted with the maître d’. So! Exciting! Then I called a friend and told her what I was doing, and she laughed till she cried.

Nothing really transpired, and it wasn’t like I was watching a drug deal go down or anything. Still, it was pretty exciting (which gives you an idea of how happily normal my life is).

The same friend who is so entertained by me was wondering about an acquaintance this past week. “Let’s Google him,” I suggested, and five minutes later, thanks to my superior Internet-trawling skills, I had his email and two newspaper articles in which he was mentioned. “You’re so Harriet,” my friend said admiringly.

It made my day.

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