2005-05-17 @ 7:49 p.m.
I virtually never talk to my landlord’s wife between rent checks. We just don’t talk, but today we both pulled into the driveway at the same time and I was dying to ask her about the strange events of two nights ago.
Her young grandson was in the car, so she sheparded him into the house, as I told her what had happened over at Casa d’la Witty, with the printer going off by itself, and my walk down the sidewalk to find her car running. She looked at me rather strangely, and then admitted one, but only one thing....that her doorbell had rung at that precise moment. 3:13 a.m. But that she was too scared to answer it. So she didn’t.
As far as her car running by itself out in the driveway. No explanation. She thought it might have been a storm going over (ahem, I was outside, there were no storms. Maybe a large alien space craft hovering perhaps, but no storms) and then she thought there might have been a car accident. Ummm, no. We live 50 feet from a fire station. If there were any car accidents without 5 miles radias, everyone knows it because the mega alarm goes off (which amazingly is happening as I type) and then that is followed by a bunch of fire trucks tearing out of the station and ripping down the street, making enough noise to wake the freakin’ dead. So no. There were no apparent car accidents. I wanted to talk to her a bit longer, but Grumpy Corleone was screaming his head off from inside the house....”Get in here. Get the hell in here. Hurry up. Get in here.” So the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle, i.e. strange goings-on at 3:13 a.m. Monday morning, are still a mystery.
On Monday, it was our usual meeting. About the only interesting thing about it was that one of my bosses brought in some artwork done by a guy who thinks he is the Second Coming of Christ. He does these elaborate collages which include a certain Supermodel. He evidently thinks he owns several mansions in heaven and this Supermodel is supposed to be on her way up to live with him. Hey, if you’re going to have delusions, might as well make them interesting, right? Personally, I want Johnny Depp to wash my dishes for me....naked, but only if he washes his hair first. I am a stickler for clean follicles. Even if its Johnny Depp.
After our meeting I went out to lunch with “J” the Married Man. Yes, said the evil husband stealing child. But I was very well behaved. No knee clasping or excessive eye blinking. I just ate a tuna sandwich. I can’t even remember what we talked about, so it must have been pretty damn fascinating. I think I was just really tired from the Close Encounter of the Weird Kind. On the way back, it had turned decidedly colder and I just had a short sleeved shirt on. I commented several times on how cold it was and “J” had on a jacket and well, you would think he would have been gentlemanly and let me slip it over my shoulders for two freakin’ blocks, but no, instead he just walked ahead of me yacking away like he always does, totally oblivious to the fact that there were ice crystals hanging off my chin and breastal area.
Note to witty: If a real date ever does this....HE’S OUT OF THERE!!!
Brrrr!!! But I survived the walk and ran into the building, while he stayed out front to smoke. Yark! Smoking. He already has points against him for that, so that’s good. I was actually very nervous about the group we were about to do. Why? Because it was about sex. Yeah. ha! SEX! Yee haw! I was Co-facilitating a group about sex when I haven’t been on a date since the Flock of Seagulls had a record on the charts. Yay! Also, for some strange reason, ever since “J” had shown me the list of subjects we were going to talk about, everytime he referred to our SEX week, he would always sort of do the nudge, nudge, wink, wink thing at me and say, “I’ll let YOU lead that one.” Oh honey, if you only knew how incredibly
Yet, for some reason, nearly everyone seems to think I exude this aura of knowingness, which is totally in conflict with reality and “J” for one, is fooled. The thing is, just because I’m a free spirited hippie type doesn’t necessarily mean I can recreate, on the spot, every kama sutra position, for a class of virginal Mormon. Although you might ask my mom. One time when I had told her about the crap that Zenshrink had pulled, she had told me that maybe he was showing me kama sutra positions. And I was like HUH??? Why would a shrink be showing me sexual positions during my appointment? And yet she didn’t think there was anything particularly strange about that and then she was kind enough to show me an interactive website which had little figures humping each other in every position known to mankind (and perhaps even a few from the animal kingdom). And I was sitting there, looking at it, wondering, how the hell my 76 year old mother would know about this site? And should I be proud or...well, horrified?
So all weekend I had been a nervous wreck wondering what we were going to talk about and whether “J” was going to do one of his many little innuendo jokes towards me about sex. I mean I can dish them out, but when someone does one to me (other than Charlemagne the Obnoxious French Guy, who’s such a wingnut that I don’t take him very seriously), I am usually pretty flustered. So we brought our people in and started reading from some internet material which “J” had brought in. It was about the effect meds have on sexual performance. He, of course, didn’t want to fess up to anything, but another guy said he had brought in some viagra to help get the job done with his girlfriendS. And I’m sitting, looking very intently at my paper. “get the job done.” Okay. And then our girl started talking about her sex life, and I’m like, ok, $8/hr. Are we having fun yet? I hope nobody asks me about my experiences. Isn’t it time for a smoking break. What? I don’t smoke. Ummm, isn’t it time for a pee break?
Fortunately we veered away from the sex part a little and “J” talked about finding his second wife through a personal ad (hope “A”s not reading this) and that the pitter patter of little feet was not far behind. But “J” did get me on my favorite subject....Personal Ads. Yay or nay.
Kinda makes me sound like Mr. Ed. “So Wilbur....What’s your opinion on personal ads...NAaaa-y!!”
I guess I kind of went off on my favorite spiel about how stupid personal ads are and what a crap shoot they are. Sorry “A”, but you know what my opinion is on these. He then asked me these two questions that were on a list in the article, which should have theoretically been asked of our clients who were there for the group, but instead he aimed at me: “What is the most important thing to you in a relationship? And then the question that really made my palms sweaty, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
Now, what did I say? I have absolutely no idea. Because whatever I said, it was suddenly about 5 minutes later and then it was his turn to respond...clients be damned. They were just sitting there watching us. And you know what? I don’t know what he said either. Because I think I was subconsciously doing that thing Pee Wee Herman used to do when he didn’t want to hear what someone was saying....as in, puts his fingers in his ears and then aimlessly sing, “la, la, la, la, la, la, la...”
In fact, nobody else got to talk after that. “J” was just talking about his relationships with women and love at first sight. At least he had sense enough to admit that there is no such thing as unconditional love, except for your kids. And then for a homework assignment, we (although as a group leader, I don’t really have to DO homework) had to go out and look for potential mates in a public place and report back what features attracted us the most, at which point, I rather pointedly pointed out to the pointy headed married person that he was not allowed to scope out women at the yuppie grocery store since he was (cough) married. Our group laughed, and “J” smiled, but he said it was ok to look but not touch.
How telling, huh?
So “A” this morning when you asked me if there was anything “new and exciting”, I wasn’t exactly sure if this fit into that category. I guess you could say, you weren’t specific enough. Like actually asking about “you know who” by name, like you used to always do with Married Guy. I had been so angsted out about the sex thing the whole weekend, I almost e-mailed you. I was afraid I was going to slip up and say something inappropriate like I always do and then wonder why “J” was showing so much interest in me. But I did keep the sexual innuendo I’m so famous for, under control. I was like Julie ‘freakin’ Andrews in “The Sound of Music”. Honest!
My question for you, however, Yente, is, is Harold, the polyester 70’s TV show guy in your group, your next match for me? I know he is, isn’t he? We both have mother issues. We both use humor to cover our feelings. We’re both Irish. We’re both angsty. But you yourself, said that two people with the same issues aren’t good for each other. I just don’t find him particularly appealing. Yes, he’s very funny, and I like humor, but curling up with him would be like curling up with Shecky Greene. And my God “A”, he’s 49 years old and he still lives with his mommy. It just reeks of Norman Bates. At least I escaped the clutches of my mommy when I was still in my 30’s. Being a man in his late 40’s, still dominated by his mother is kinda icky, wouldn’t you say? I could just see, if we ever went out, showing up at his house unexpectedly one day, and he answers the door in a gray wig and a flowered housecoat. Now how weird would that be?
Onto Item #2 from this morning’s appointment. Me learning to dance. Oh wait. I need a few minutes to compose myself after laughing my ass off 127 different ways. Me dancing. That’s rich. I have no rhythm whatsoever. I can write rhythmically. I can play the piano rhythmically. I can even walk somewhat rhythmically, but dance? I once had a room mate out in California who attempted to teach me how to dance for about 45 minutes. But I am so self conscious about my body that I couldn’t move without feeling stupid. I basically stood there looking like a 17 month old baby wobbling around looking like I was about ready to do a big poopy in my pants. I just can’t keep the beat with the music. My room mate, who was very, very patient, did finally look at me and proclaim, “You’re right, you don’t have any rhythm, I’m sorry.”
The only other time I ever attempted to dance was the same evening some guy attempted to get me drunk for the one and only time in my life. He was plying me with booze at some club in Petaluma and pulled me out on the dance floor where I basically jumped up and down like a member of DEVO and looked like a total drunken idiot.
But the ever effervecent “A” seems to think I have some secret Janet Jackson DNA coursing through my veins somewhere and that if I took dancing lesson, I could kill two birds with one stone. I’d learn to dance and I’d meet men. He even has a particular place in mind where they teach “contra” dancing, and I was like “Contra”? Like Contraband? Or the Contras down in Central America? But he said I would really like it there because there are Liberal Men there. And he said it twice. Liberal Men. Liberal Men Dancing the Craaa-zy Contra. I guess at the door, before anyone lets you in, you have to tell them how you voted last November...
John Kerry...OK, you’re in
John Kerry...OK, you’re in
John Kerry...OK, you’re in
G.W. Whaaa’aat??? Sorry, you’ll have to leave, but I think there having a hoe-down over at Walmart!”
But I did say I would consider it...the Contra Dancing, whatever the hell that is, only because I like seeing “A”s face brighten up when he says, “I knew you’d see it MY way.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty