So, I like this tall boy. IKNOWSHUTUP.
The first person to say, "Nice man break" gets a slap from my shingles. Which hurt, by the way. I guess the hurty part was on its way when I wrote, "Oh, it doesn't hurt that much." It's like God is sitting there annoyed with me all the time. Reading my blog. "Oh really? You don't think shingles are so bad? Try this, heifer."
Why am I on God's last nerve all the time? Am I that bad? Aren't there other people who are more irritating, like--okay, I was going to say Saddam Hussein or Osama bin Laden, but I guess I can't say them anymore. What about Huey Lewis? Can't God be concentrating on him?
My POINT is, even though I was on a man break I met Tall Boy and I said, "Ooo! Look at him!" and then I was all, "No. Man break" and then I was all "No, but look at him!" and then I was all, "NO! Man break!" and then I was all, "But LOOK!" and this is probably why God takes time out of his busy schedule to find me jarring.
I've been seeing him for a few weeks now and believe it or not he lives IN THE SAME CITY, which is a first. Everyone I have dated since I have become old and single and not-so-swinging has lived in Winston or Charlotte or Tibet.
And I keep waiting to find out what's wrong with him. I mean, tall. I like tall. Has two kittens. Marry me now. Vegetarian. Okay, I'll never need to ask, Did you eat all the ribs? Does animal rescue in his spare time. Hi, are you Barry Gibb?
I know that made no sense. But you know how I am about Barry Gibb. And for the record, Barry Gibb has about five rescue dogs. So it kind of made sense.
Yesterday, Tall Boy sent me an email with a picture from his kittens. "Cora and Carmen say hi," he wrote. He even has good cat names.
But there. There was the flaw I was looking for. Dudes.
I know. Those kittens are adorable. Look at the one with half a face. And the carmely one sat on me.
But I wrote back: "What is with that blanket? Holy crap."
"I knew you were going to mention the blanket. I like that blanket. It's soft. I am secure in my masculinity."
"Maybe you shouldn't be," I wrote.
I mean, that thing is dreadful. It's not just that it is flower-covered. They are awful flowers. I don't know how the kittens aren't having seizures.
Several hours later I wrote back. "You know what I'm going to do? I'm going to whip out all my charms at this point, so you're gonna get all 'Oh my God, June is THE BOMB.' And then you're gonna say 'I will do ANYTHING for June.' And you're going to say, 'June. What can I do for you? Name it!' And I will say, Get rid of that blanket."
"I'm not getting rid of the blanket," he said, oblivious to my charms, which I thought I had already whipped out. "It's cozy. Am I supposed to sleep on a slap of concrete under chainmail? Is that more manly?"
"Yes."
Then I came up with an even more brilliant plan.
"Did you ever see Sweet November?" I wrote him, thinking this was the best idea ever.
I explained the plot of Sweet November, which many of you may recall I just saw. Sandy Dennis, who I find irritating much like God finds me irritating, is dying of something (they are never specific) (but she is all pink and healthy and glowing throughout the film) (sometimes she naps, to let us know she is dying), and each month she lets a new man move in with her. Throughout the month, she fixes whatever is wrong with each man. Naturally they each fall madly in love with old buck-toothed, nervous Sandy Dennis, but she unceremoniously kicks them out on the 31st, or in poor Anthony Newly's case, the 30th, because he got her in sweet November.
"She took men who seemed normal, but who had terrible problems, like hideous blankets, and fixed them," I wrote. "And OH MY GOD! Our first date was November first! I WAS MEANT TO CURE YOU OF THE BLANKET!"
"This is the most I have ever thought about Sandy Dennis," was all Tall Boy wrote back.
That was, in fact, the last we talked last night.
My feeling is that is because he went to the all-night blanket store to get something manlier.
