When we left off, it was only effing Friday afternoon of my Easter weekend and I decided not to torment you with more detail, so here I am tormenting you with more detail today instead.
After I bought my new bat house Friday morning, I headed to another bat house—therapy. Bah! Am on fire today, clearly. My Hairapist, like the rest of America and possibly the entire Milky Way, also wishes I’d stop speaking to Ned. I told her how we’d gone to the country to get a bat house, and really, say bat house one more time.
“What are you getting out of this relationship, at this point?” the Hairapist asked, and in case you don’t recall because you skimmed that day and expect me to fill you in now, because hoo care that I already wrote it, she often changes her hair color. Like, sometimes there’s a purple streak. That sort of thing.
That’s why I call her the Hairapist. Ned started it, really. She was our Hairapist, our second in a line of therapists we saw.
So I mulled that over because it was an interesting Q. Not sex, as we aren’t having any. Not feeling secure, because I don’t. “I guess what I get out of it is the hope that one day it will miraculously be okay,” I said.
Hairapist stared at me, the way therapists do. Her current streak is just sort of white on otherwise black hair.
“Okay, okay,” I said. “You’re right, you’re right. I know you’re right.” That’s a line from When Harry Met Sally. Fortunately, Hairapist enjoys jokes like that.
So when I got home, I got the neighbor kid, the son of the people who rescued Iris, to put up my bat house for me. He and his dad came by, and where to hang it is a very big deal. It has to be facing east or south, and so I had to spend 47 years figuring out where that was, and it can’t be well-lit with artificial lights, but it has to get sun during the day, and basically it’s a whole thing.
They hung it from my chimney, and no I don’t have a fireplace and there’s a thing on top of my chimney so calm down. “There’s cat poop up here!” the dad called down to me. Yeah, I’m sure there is. “I have a weird cat,” I told them.
After, they stayed and talked and refused water (really, I felt bad. I’d even traipsed down to what we in Michigan call the party store while they were house of bat-ting for me, to get water, and the guy at the “party” store gave them to me for free cause I’m down there all the time and I know how he’s moving back to Morocco soon cause his kids are grown and let’s just stick to the story at hand) till finally the wife came down, too. “How’s Iris?” she wondered, and right then Iris sauntered over.
“Is it okay to pick her up?” the neighbor woman asked, and right then I knew she was our people when it came to the animals. “Sure, she’ll let you.” Look at Iris’s little appalled spready toes. But she didn’t wriggle or anything.
Anyway, Google bat houses. There are all kinds you can buy and one bat eats 600 mosquitoes an hour. Which means all bats are my friends.
This picture has nothing to do with anything, it was just there on my desktop and I thought it was cute. Have you met my dog, Edsel, and my cat, Steely Dan? Edsel loves a cat.
Anyway. So after they left, which by the way was like two hours later (told me lots of neighborhood gossip), I phoned Ned and told him we really shouldn’t be, you know, hanging out. “Okay,” he said, with so little fuss that I was almost insulted. Shouldn’t he be gnashing his teeth and holding up a boom box and carrying on? He was almost cheerful. “Okay!”
I think he just enjoys my, you know, friendship, and I am really not that removed yet to just be pals with Ned, and punch him on the arm and play video games.
The only dramatic thing to happen Saturday was that I came home from the grocery store and smelled gas. I’d thought maybe I’d smelled it before I left, but when I got home, hello gas. So I waited outside for the gas people to come, and decided to Facebook Live it, a thing I’d never done before and for those of you held hostage on FB while we waited for the gas people, I apologize, but it did make the time go faster. It was like you were all stuck there on the porch with me, which would be curious given my porch can’t hold three Jehovah’s Witnesses, much less all of you.
Anyway, pilot light. Thta’s what was wrong. It was out. And the gas man told me that (a), it’s really tough to blow up from a pilot light being out, and (2) my pets wouldn’t asphyxiate from it, either. So forcing them all outside with me was for naught.
Yesterday I celebrated Easter by buying an instant lottery ticket and winning $10, and by going on a date that is another non-love match. I almost always win when I buy instant lottery tickets, and I think to do so once a year, at best.
The date was with a guy I’d been talking with on OK Cupid maybe a year ago or something. He’s all the way in Raleigh, but he had to come here anyway last night, so he asked if I wanted to get a beer.
I said yes, but then he got annoyed that I drank peppermint tea. Hey, I’ve had a lot of migraines lately. Alcohol is not your friend when you have the heads.
I went the same place I’d been to last weekend, when I had that afternoon date that lasted three hours. And unfortunately, I’d ordered peppermint tea then from…the same waiter. A waiter who clearly recognized me but who was being professional about it, but he met my eye and I knew. Right then I knew. So I said to him, “I was here last week!” I mean, might as well acknowledge the elephant.
“She was probably here with another guy,” said my date, who is from the East Coast and I noted was not one for the whole, you know, polite thing.
“I serve a lot of peppermint teas,” said the waiter. “I can’t recall who’s with who,” he said, and HE RECALLED EVERYTHING, I COULD TELL.
It was right then that I sort of noticed the waiter, a handsome man of color whom I hadn’t had time to really note last weekend. I considered coming back to that bar, sitting at his bar, and explaining I’m not a prossy, but someone who’s online dating. He probably knows that, but it might be nice to clear things up. Then I wondered if he was single, and could I really, at this advanced age, fall for a waiter at an upscale bar.
Probably not. I mean, does he have a health plan? So last night I not only had a date that wasn’t a love match, I also fell for and broke up with a waiter.
The good news about my date is that he brought me a book. He is, among other things, an antiques dealer, and he knew I read. I thought this was an absolutely lovely thing to bring someone.
We talked antiques a lot, as you can imagine, and I told him about my habit of collecting pictures of people I don’t know. “You know what we call people who do that,” he said, “Instant-family people. They’re usually pretty lonely.”
Hmph. I may be a lot of things, but I am not lonely. I spend most of my time wishing everyone would leave me alone. In fact, this weekend was the perfect combination of alone time and social time.
Oh! And just one more thing. I’d planned what I was gonna wear, but didn’t put it on till it was time to go, because pet hair. So with like five minutes before I had to be there, I pulled on that cardigan. Because nothing gets a man going like a cardigan.
Anyway, holes. The whole sleeve. Holes. What the FUCK, Steely Dan? Do you have any idea how many holes he’s–just as I wrote that, I heard him leap onto the roof. Sigh. I’ve taken to putting a CHAIR, an entire CHAIR, against the closet door, but then I go into the room and that door’s ajar anyway.
He just galumphed across the whole roof. That cat, man. Whose idea was it to get another cat?
Okay, I gotta get to work. OH! And ONE MORE THING OH MY GOD YOU HATE ME. You know how I was telling you lots of changes were coming my way? This other company was courting me, courting me like an online date. They found me through Linked In, and they saw my Contently page and so on. It was a full-time copywriting position, very fancy, lots more money.
For a month they were all, come play with us, June!
I turned it down. I really love where I work now, and every time I thought about leaving, I got sick inside. And the lots more money, man, that made me pause. Cause you know how money has been with me. But just even thinking about it now, I get a headache. It was just not going to be me. I was gonna have to be Fake Corporate June all day, and that would last maybe six months, and then Regular June would rear up and all hell would break loose.
So, here I stay. At my regularly scheduled job, which let’s face it, I really like.
Speaking of my job, I should go to it.