Love like malaria
Happy Christmas Eve and Christmas to you all ... Sorry today’s blog post is so late in arriving. Yesterday was unexpectedly full of errands. First I was just supposed to be hanging with my sister-in-law in the afternoon and evening, then we had to trek all over Tempe and a Honeywell parking lot on a mission I won’t bore you with. But it turned out wasting gas on Warner Road — in search of the credit union then FedEx — was nothing compared to the adventures yet to come. Nor was downing a pint at Irish Pub the night before, or revisiting the coffee shop from my one date with the Winner.
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.
That was the plan, anyway. But sometime last night, Bro got pulled into a fracas that made the front page of the local daily paper today. Which meant much paperwork, which meant delays. A stranger wound up driving me to Bro’s house (since he couldn’t haul me in his squad car, and the gas station closed at midnight for the holiday), Bro driving behind in his Crown Vic.
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
They’re cute and friendly as all get out, but the problem is, water gets out too — when the one gets drinks from their little water bowl. Hence half-dollar sized drips all over the cement floor. But the backyard's all dust and they like to jump, so when they've had a little run around the yard, come back inside to get a drink then hop up to greet you, the newly formed mud gloms onto your jeans as if it too is trying to escape the terrors.
Last night they wouldn’t leave me alone once I’d bedded down on the couch. If it weren’t bad enough that Bro had left his loaded (but empty-chambered) rifle propped against the backside of the couch that I was sleeping on, I had to fend off the eager-licking dogs three times last night. Any time this morning they thought they saw me stir from sleep they’d rush in to greet me or maybe try to lick me from the couch that’s normally their bed.
This afternoon I finally escaped for a coffee at the junk joint Sister-in-Law had recommended. Though I had given the dogs a session in the backyard, I forgot to shut the bathroom door. Upon return, I found a trail of soggy kleenex bits and other debris from the trash. When I made a beer run later this evening, they’d eaten the feet and legs off some stockings of mine.
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.
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.
That was the plan, anyway. But sometime last night, Bro got pulled into a fracas that made the front page of the local daily paper today. Which meant much paperwork, which meant delays. A stranger wound up driving me to Bro’s house (since he couldn’t haul me in his squad car, and the gas station closed at midnight for the holiday), Bro driving behind in his Crown Vic.
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
They’re cute and friendly as all get out, but the problem is, water gets out too — when the one gets drinks from their little water bowl. Hence half-dollar sized drips all over the cement floor. But the backyard's all dust and they like to jump, so when they've had a little run around the yard, come back inside to get a drink then hop up to greet you, the newly formed mud gloms onto your jeans as if it too is trying to escape the terrors.
Last night they wouldn’t leave me alone once I’d bedded down on the couch. If it weren’t bad enough that Bro had left his loaded (but empty-chambered) rifle propped against the backside of the couch that I was sleeping on, I had to fend off the eager-licking dogs three times last night. Any time this morning they thought they saw me stir from sleep they’d rush in to greet me or maybe try to lick me from the couch that’s normally their bed.
This afternoon I finally escaped for a coffee at the junk joint Sister-in-Law had recommended. Though I had given the dogs a session in the backyard, I forgot to shut the bathroom door. Upon return, I found a trail of soggy kleenex bits and other debris from the trash. When I made a beer run later this evening, they’d eaten the feet and legs off some stockings of mine.
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.
<< Home