Plumbers and sandwiches and earrings and bleach: That day I was almost off work.
I did stay up all night, yes, on a combination of caffeine, mild hysterics and work overload. I’m fine now. Thanks for asking.
This shakiness to my fingers isn’t just sleep deprivation. It’s also the reality of being really, really appalled at my own horribly bitchy behavior. Is it… is this guilt?
Remember faux Red Sox fan? That guy I have broken up with at LEAST twice now? And really, how do you call it a break-up when it’s not a relationship and you didn’t THINK he knew where you lived?
See the capitalization of THINK?
Called today. Said, “I’m outside your house.”
This is NOT creepy, because he is a contractor-interior-designy guy working a second homer’s cabin up the street. And he’s a really nice guy. A really nice guy with weird tattoo aspirations and a stupid earring, but a really nice guy. And I have a very recognizable car. It is. Um. Boston-y.
This IS creepy because he has never been to my house before. And he has this stupid earring.
What do you say?
Come on in, I think, in my bleached shirt, post-Weilland face, pink gloves and bandanna hair. This oughtta do the trick.
I forget how adorable I am, even with housewifey obstacles like cleaning shirts and fuzzy socks. It’s not his fault, really.
Comes in. Meets the dog. Says, “Your dog looks as dumb as my dog.”
Not the way to win with me, Faux-Red-Sox fan.
Leans over dog and starts making this scary mushy voice. I think I heard something like this on Fraggle Rock once.
I hate Fraggles. It’s complicated. We won’t go into it now.
“You’re a stupid-stupid-stupid dog, yessssyouuuuuarrrreeeeeee,” I think he said that. I don’t know. I don’t speak mush.
My dog’s eyes are wide and she tries to back away, but she hits the counter, butt first.
“You just have the dumbest dog.”
Really? We’re still going with this tactic? Because this is not the way to win me, Faux Red Sox fan. Why did I let you into my house? Why-why-why?
“So, I hear the Sox aren’t doing well.”
Not. The. Way.
“Are ya’ll (is it ya’ll or y’all?) going to make it to the playoffs? Because your pitching sucks.”
I have a spray nozzle of bleach and shaky aim. Could I fit this guy’s body in the unreachable crawl space near my ceiling, I think?
Can you kill a man with bleach?
“I heard you’ve had some injuries.”
No, I think. Crawl space is impractical. If I can’t reach it, how will I get this asshole’s body in the fricking crawl space?
“I’m going to laugh if Tampa sweeps you AGAIN.”
A forklift, I think. Clearly. I’m sure the university has one lying around.
“They swept you before, didn’t they?”
The university is fifteen miles from my house. Do you think anyone would notice an angry girl in pink gloves, a bleached T-shirt and a sour disposition driving a forklift 15 miles on N.C. Highway 105? Plus I have stairs…
“Well, didn’t they?”
I’d need lye or those little pine granules they throw on vomit on school buses…
“Lauren, you with me? I was just talking about how your team sucks. You have a lot of Red Sox hats.”
Good thing I bought garbage bags. Maybe I could use a snow shovel? Would it be cliche to just bury someone in my backyard?
“Geez, how much crap do you have? We’re not in Boston.”
Maybe I can kill him with my eyes. Squint.
“So, are you going to say anything?”
What good are my eyes if I can’t make this guy pop like bubblewrap? I like bubblewrap. I wish I had some. Oh! I do! I do! In my closet. Bubble wrap would really hit the spot and- He’s looking at me. Ohno. He is looking at me.
“No,” I say. “I am so busy. With the cleaning. I’m a cleaner,” take deep breath. Turn away. Turn slooooowwwwllyyyy away.
His hand is on my shoulder. Oh god. His HAND. On. My. Shoulder.
“I haven’t seen you in awhile.”
Vomit. Swallow it. SWALLOW IT. Stay cool.
“Yep. I’ve been busy. With the work. And the cleaning,” I say, subtle side step.
I have told the guy the following things on separate occasions: “My life is too complicated for a relationship. My life is too complicated for you. I am not interested in a relationship. I am seeing other people. I am going through a difficult-sort-of-break-up and it would be UNFAIR to you for this to continue. I do not want to date you. It is not you. It is me. Let’s just be friends. I plan to move far, far away from this lonely place. My feelings are complicated by the fact that my former person just came back from the fricking dead. I think your earring is stupid.”
“I’ve missed you,” he said.
“I’m cleaning,” I say.
“Do you want me to go?” he said.
“Uhhuh,” I say, spraying a big wad of bleach directly on my counter. Imagining how red his eyes would get if I sprayed him in the face with bleach. It’s okay, because it is just my IMAGINATION, see.
He glances at apartment.
I begin rehearsing meaner break up speeches in my brain like “I am not attracted to you. Your earring is REALLY stupid. You look nothing like Kevin Youkilis. You make me feel bad about myself.”
Start to open mouth. Am interrupted by Mr. Can’t-take-a-hint (oh, what a clever nickname my sleep deprived brain thinks that is right now)
“You know, I could fix your place up for free. This wall would be really great in a contrasting color.”
“Seriously. It wouldn’t be that hard. I could show you some swatches if you want.”
“Like, if we moved your couch over there, it would be like you had a sunroom.”
“And we could put all your Red Sox stuff here and find you a bar.”
Free. Nod. Enthusiastically. Hug.
“Okay. Call you tomorrow?” he leans over to pet my dog. Who, by the way, is still completely terrified of this guy (but she is terrified of everyone in the world). “You dog definitely has a stupid gene.”
“Good bye,” I said.
I hear a “call you tomorrow” through my shut door.
What. Is. Wrong. With. ME….???????
I am kind of off work today. No. Really. I have two things to write. And, while my office has been exceptionally annoying for being 15 miles away, I haven’t had to see a fluorescent light since yesterday. So, there’s that. If I close my eyes and put my cell phone on silent, it’s like I’m a real girl. Living the dream of an actual day off. I even cleaned my bathroom and everything. Aprons and pink gloves make cleaning so much more fun, don’t you think? My “Caveman” cleaning rag really does the trick. Even after all these years. Thanks, Johnny D. You really HAVE been cleaning up.
I’m actually scaring myself. I have been cleaning nonstop since like 6 a.m. Seriously. Me. Ms. It’s-not-that-I’m-not-taking-the-garbage-out-it’s-that-I’m-performing-a-physics-experiment-on-balance. My plumber came by at 8 a.m. and we talked about the gay marriage amendment in North Carolina and guns and mimosas and Cascade dish detergent and ate cookies and drank orange juice together. It was a lovely time. And my sink works! I’d take a picture, but you’ve seen a sink.
But the handiman/solarpanel-savvy/”I’m not from North Carolina” guy didn’t call yesterday either.
And my plumber (his name is Robert) agrees that the other guy I’ve told you about (the one with his measly little basketball watching claws in my brain), Mr. ComesBackFromtheDead is bad news. He said I am a talented, lovely girl and I remind him of his daughter and his daughter is too good for boys who forget that their almost-girlfriends don’t like mint chocolate chip ice cream. I should date a lawyer, he said. One that appreciates my talents and uniqueness and lives in the same area code. It’s a complicated situation, I say. And I don’t even think I want handiman to call before I work this out. Handiman will call, plumber said. The best way to get over someone is to go on a picnic on the Parkway with a solar panel-loving handiman, he said. I should keep the faith, he said. Keep the faith. Red Sox. Gahk. Talk about gun control again. It’s easier this way.
But back to you, Curt Young. This isn’t just about us. It’s not just about us and the Rays. Greater evil is afoot. Evil that you cannot even comprehend with your piddly Kyle Weilland-mistrusting walnut brain:
It says here the Yankees can beat the Phillies or the Red Sox, but not both. Our friends up I-95 can make life a whole lot safer if the Sox channel their pre-2004 ways, finding one more gag in their game.
Been thinking about our problems. We have problems, ESPN. You caught us! And blogger Bbopes may have head the nail on the unfunny head.
I’m getting my pump on this morning, watching SportsCenter, and they show the Florida Marlins relievers messing around with another releiver, Jose Ceda (I think), by locking him in a door in the bullpen by stacking up sandbags and other stuff inf ront of the door…and I thought to myself…when was the last time we saw the Red Sox do something like that?
Something IS missing. Remember the antics? The personality? The jokes? Where are they? The only joke I’ve seen played out lately is Kyle Weilland on our rotation and NO ONE thinks that is funny but Curt Young.
Here’s some cheerful reading- a blogger who thinks we’re a shoo-in.
I. Um. Didn’t find a lot of other blogs that. Um. Said that.
DAMN IT, CURT YOUNG.
I am going to go clean tile. Oh. bubblewrap! I am going to see “The Lion King” later. This time I’m not going to cry when they stop drawing the big lion. Nope. Not gonna.
I need to save my tears this week…