Love like malaria
The plan was that, after wrapping my business meetings and hiring paperwork in Tempe (where I’m now employed by my alma mater in a 20 hour/week writing job I can almost pay all minimal bills on — woohoo!), I’d hang out with the sister-in-law (in town for a summer-job interview), then take a shuttle down Tucson way for sibling bonding with her husband, Deputy Bro. He didn’t have days off till Saturday, when I leave for California, but his shift was supposed to end in time to pick me from the gas-station drop-off for a brief visit squeezed around his work schedule.
Once here, he pulled me into the bedroom for a 30-second lesson on how to use the handgun he keeps beside the bed (because, you know, clearly the one civilian child in the family would think to use a gun if facing a prowler), then headed back to work for two more hours with his paperwork. Leaving me with his crazy dogs.
Anna Broadway, dog-sitter
So, really, I haven’t had time to blog, much less meet men. The good news is, I’ll rendesvous with the folks and Sis in Cali, when their roadtrip takes them north, so if I meet any hot men on New Year’s, Dad will be around to do first-hand vetting.
The fever that never quits
What’s that you say? I sound a trifle delusional? Well I am after all recovering from what College Girlfriend (my host the early part of this week) has declared my worst pine ever. She should know. She was there for my first musician crush (at which I should sworn off creative men for good, father resemblances be damned), the Winner saga, and bits and pieces of everything in between. Bad. And yet also shocking that her friendship should have such fortitude. Wasn’t always that the girls I thought were cool would be my friends; in childhood most friends I sought after rejected me. Now it’s just the men.
But really, if my pines are getting worse, it must be a sign love is just not like malaria but chicken pox as well — the older you get, the worse the bouts. This time it’s clearly in the bloodstream for just when all seems well — the fever is gone and mind restored — a flameout occurs in which my head takes off for another four hours in situ febrile. I suppose I shouldn’t be so shocked at this. When I went to India, my first round of malaria meds got stolen from my photo locker. If only it were that easy to get and replace a prescription for my heart ... So far I’ve been on an over-the-counter routine, buying clothes and CDs and chocolate and cards and, well, generally shopping every favorite old haunt I stumble across. At least I’ve got B.B. waiting to give me a taste of the blues when I reach California; an Amazon order awaits at my aunt’s.