Paranoid?!?! HA!

 

 

    Now, I've had a fair-share of girlfriends throughout my years on this planet.  Some have been quite pleasant, and others have given me the chilling feeling that usually comes with the realization that this person is simply one bad day away from squawking with primal delight as she chases a terrified rodent into the woods in persuit of a hot lunch. 

 

    The thing is, somewhere in the subtle wiring which comprises my personality make-up, when the relationship ends, and with no regard to my own personal well-being, I always find myself muttering with solemn resignation the words "we're still friends, right?"  It's usually at this point that my brain rattles itself into a complete neural shut down like an old car digesting a tank full of bad gas. 

 

    One day, not too long ago, one such former girlfriend called, and I began to question my instinctive desire for self-preservation.  Here's how it went:

 

    "Hello?" I answered.

    "Hey." She said.

    "Hey?" I asked, my voice carrying a friendly sort of excitement and wonder.

    "You sound angry," she said.

    "I'm not angry at all."

    Then, my brain struggled itself back to life, gasped the the words be angry, dammit!  Then, it sputtered and once again convulsed itself to sleep. "It's good to hear from you."

    "Are you sure?"  She asked.  "Is this a bad time?"

    "Not a bad time," I responded, ignoring the potential exit strategy openeing before me.  "What's up?"

    "Do you remember that bookcase your mother bought us?" She asked.  "The one from Ikea?"

    Of course I remembered it.  It's the collection of Swedish lumber that came in the deceptively small box which took me thebetter part of two weeks to figure out how to assemble with only a small wrench and my masculine pride.

    "Yeah?"  I asked --wondering if she'd lit it on fire in an attempt to cast some sort of gypsy curse upon me and my family. 

    "I need help moving it," she answered.  "Are you free today?"

 

    Now, I should have said no.  I should have lied and told her that I was getting my teeth pulled or that a Bible-sized plague of locusts had gathered upon my lawn, and I would be spraying all afternoon.  But did I?  Of course not.  I said that I'd be over in a jiffy, put on my cap and coat, and hit the road toward a questionable future. 

    

    When I arrived, she was in the kitchen.  Moreover, she was in the kitchen doing dishes.  This was a stunning thing for me to witness, and I found myself wishing I'd had a camera so as to have a permanent record of this incredibly rare moment in mankind's existence.  After all, when we were together, I think her idea of this "kitchen place" was a magical room I'd simply enter and return from bearing sustenance, and her idea of a dirty dish was simply a blood-coated, eight-inch chef's knife that she absent-mindedly forgot to toss in the river on her way home after a bad day at work. 

 

    "Hi," she said. "It's upstairs in the den.  I figure we could just tip it on its side, and we could slide it down the stairs, and we could put it in the living room."

    It should be noted at this point that her definition of "we" varies greatly from my definition of "we."  In my world, "we" means she and I doing something together.   

    However, in her world, "we" usually means me doing something completely alone while she stands behind me chiming randomly, "Are you okay?  Do you need help?  What was that cracking sound?  Do you want me to call an ambulance?" 

 

    So, like a mule, I embraced my solitary purpose and trundled up the stairs to the den to find the cumbersome, Swedish-excuse for a bookcase un-emptied and containing the following inventory on its shelves:

    1 half finished bag of Dorritos

    3 DVDs (which is odd because her DVD player is in the living room)

    1 ashtray full of buttons of various sizes and colors.

    1 pair of pink flip-flops

    2  brass, reclining Buddah bookends holding between them:

    1 book.

 

    Anyway, I emptied the shelves, put the everything on either the desk or the floor, and tipped the awkward hunk of furniture on its side, and proceeded to slide it out of the room --my efforts were made much easier by the carpeted floor.  Hey, I thought.  This is going to be a cakewalk!"  And, as I reached the top of the stairs, I heard her call from the kitchen, "I'll be there in a second."

    "Don't worry about it." I said.  "I think I can handle it." 

    Somewhere in the center of my higher-reasoning, a flicker, a sputter and a gasp of warning escaped, but it was silenced by the notion that I could finish this task and return to the saftey of my world rather quickly. 

    So, I managed to yank and tug this thing to the top of the stairs where it teetered precariously, and I looked behind me to check my footing (trust me, I've learned to watch my back in this sort of situation, and today, it is clear, was no exception). 

    Anyway, with my shoulder doing what it could to prevent gravity from breaking the inertia on this bookcase, and thus sending the two of us careering down in a tangle of broken bones and shattered Swedish lumber, I turned and saw that she had placed a tray, a roller, and an open can of bright yellow paint about midway up the flight of stairs.

    "Hey," I shouted. "What's with the paint?"

    Now, any rational person probably would have said "oops," or "I'm sorry about that," or "I was hoping you wouldn't notice that.  I wanted to kneel before your mangled, broken body and squeal with glee to the sky as you sucked in your last breath." 

    However, from the kitchen, what I heard was the following: "I'm thinking about getting a cat."

    For a moment, my mind spun into a tortured, barren abyss where all logical thought was absolutely impossible.  Cat?  Yellow paint?  Mangled me?  Gwaaaah...  It hurts...  it...  hurts.... 

    Some things are simply not meant to be understood.

 

    Anyway, I nudged the bookcase into a more secure spot, removed the hazards from the stairs, and resumed my once simple task which was now turning into some bizarre version of a heroic, Greek epic.

 

    After clearing away the things which would have made my death look like an accident, the rest of the chore went rather smoothly.  And, once the bookcase was standing tall in the living room, I wiped the sweat from my brow, issued a triumphant, manly sigh, and stepped into the kitchen to see her sitting at the table, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper.  She then looked up and asked, "do you need my help now?" 

    "It's in the living room already," I said.

    "It is?"  She said with surprise.  "Let me see."

 

    At this point, I said I had to go, and I put on my cap and coat and escaped before the inevitable, unavoidable,"I wanted it on this wall.  Why didn't you put it against this wall?  Do you think it looks better on that wall?  You're an idiot!  Idiot!  You are such an idiot."

 

    Oh well... 

 

See ya,

DP