2006-09-05 @ 1:45 p.m.
Sunday afternoon, 4:43 p.m. “Knock, knock, knock!” on my front door.
Of course any knock at my front door immediately strikes fear into my heart (remember, I live at Crazy Central Apartments). Plus I was still in my nightgown...What? It’s was a holiday weekend. I’m taking a holiday from getting dressed!! And I hadn’t washed my hair either since Friday and I pretty much looked like one of those people you see at highway off ramp begging for money. Again...ditto on the holiday weekend thing. But Guardcat doesn’t care, as long as I provide a warm lap to sleep in and feed her “ner-ners” at precisely the stroke of midnight.
I was definitely in the catching up on sleep mode, since the previous week I had been woken up no less then four times by my neighbor’s various wonky-doodle behaviors. Like Crazy Winnie over across the way, screaming at 6 a.m., one morning, “I hate everyone” at the top of her lungs out her window. I mean it woke me out of a sound sleep. She has this thing where she leaves her windows open and screams and argues with....I don’t know....imaginary people? The first Sunday I moved here last summer she had done an elaborate tableaux involving God and masturbation. And priests. And masturbation. And Jesus. And masturbation. I’m not really sure who was “doing” who, since her screaming is sort of disjointed and hard to follow. But one thing for sure, its always loud and its always early in the morning, the damn bitch.
So I’ve been catching up on my sleep this weekend. As a matter of fact, Saturday when I got home from cake decorating lessons, after a little computer time, I had laid on the couch about 11 p.m. and woke up, fully clothed, with the lights and computer on the next morning at 8:20 a.m. That never happens. I never get to sleep before about 1:30-2 a.m. even on work nights. And to think, a little cake decorating knocked me out cold at 11 p.m. heh!
Oh, so the knock on the door. I have a glass door, so I could see the outline of a person. And for some reason when people knock they always try to open the screen door and that always freaks me out, so in my angst ridden state I didn’t have time to run and get a robe. I just walked to the door and yelled “Who is it?” Usually if its the little old maintenance guy Walter, he can’t hear me, but this time I got a loud and clear “Harold the Geek”!
So I slowly unlocked the door and just stuck my head out. I was in my nightgown after all. Didn’t want Harold to get aroused or anything. And there he was, in his usual khaki safari attire. A tribute to Aussie TV host Steve Irwin perhaps? Probably not, since his tragic death by stingray stinger still hadn’t hit the airwaves yet. No, it was just Harold the Geek being well, Harold the Geek in all his safari splendor.
He said, “I have another whistle for you. Its a better one. Its purple.”
Me: “Um, okay” (thinking, Oh great, another one to throw in with my ever growing pile of Harold the Geek gift whistles).
And then he did the most amazing thing. Maybe some of you saw this coming. I know “A” did, since he’s probably been couching Harold for like months and months and months.
And fucking Months.
Harold: “There’s a concert of Deutsche Schlegar music at my church on October 3rd and I’d like you to go with me. Are you available?”
I was thinking, honey, those are two totally separate questions. Am I available....yes. Do I want to go to some weiner schnitzel concert at a Catholic Church with you? No.
But I have to admit, I was slightly taken aback about being asked out, since, well, you know, I haven’t been officially asked out since the musical group WHAM had a hit on the charts. But I was able to think fast (must have been all that sleep I’ve been catching up on), because I was able to tell him I just got a new job and had no idea what the hours were going to be yet. In other words, I was truthful and left it open.
Why? Because Harold the Geek is not exactly my cup o’tea, and just because I’m (cough)desperate, doesn’t mean I have to lower my standards to date an oddball Republican who lived with his mommy in his fifties, until she died recently. I mean this guy has been bringing me whistles dressed in safari outfits fercrissakes. Doesn’t that kind of send out a “Warning, warning, Will Robinson” kind of signal? I already live at Twin Peaks. I don’t exactly want to start dating the dancing dwarf guy.
And we really couldn’t be more different. If I were Janis Joplin, he’d be Lawrence Welk. If I was “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind”, he’d be “Patton”. If I was “I can’t get no Satisfaction”, he’d be “The World’s Greatest Polkas”. Do you get my drift?
And I can just imagine him showing up the night of the concert dressed in like full lederhosen regalia. You know...leather shorts. Embroidered Bavarian shirt. And a hat with a massive pheasant feather sticking out. Oh my god, I would either laugh so hard I'd go into cardiac arrest or I’d have to trip on purpose on the way to the car and then beg off the concert, because I’m sure not gonna walk in with Will Ferrell, Lederhosen Man.
So this ain’t gonna work. I want somebody normal. I don’t want somebody who tells you how much they paid for the whistle they just handed you. I also don’t want someone who keeps talking about their mother's death. I don’t want to sound callous or anything, but if you’re trying to pick up chicks, dear, don’t talk about your mom's final breath. It just sort of casts a pall over things, ya know? Its okay later in the relationship, just not when you’re asking for a date. Because I bet I know what the main subject matter would be for the night. Mother this...mother that. Yeeks.
So that was the date-asking thing. He did almost walk away without giving me my whistle, the damn idiot. He then came back and handed it to me. He then started to walk away and kind of tossed over his shoulder....”My whistle is bigger.” I kind of smirked to myself.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty