A Bare Cement Day

I read Patricia Cornwell books while I eat dinner. It’s a horrible habit to read while eating. She writes about a forensic pathologist’s adventures. It's not uncommon for me to be forking some slimy salmon into my pie-hole while reading about decimated brains. I tend to gain weight when I do the eat-while-reading thing

A friend, (the same friend who gave me a large dish of chocolate ice cream after an Applebee's 550 calorie dinner), brought  the Cornwell books for me to read while I recovered from foot surgery. My tastes are more akin to American Pastoral, The Book of Ruth, House of Sand and Fog, or The Poisonwood Bible. I’m not necessarily into scary murders. Now I’m hooked on the damned things. So I eat even while I read.

I also eat to fill voids in my life. Lately though, I’ve lost weight hopping around because I couldn‘t put my foot down. [See the Hop-to-It Diet.] I've also developed some healthier habits because I’ve been away from work. Now that I’m back at work, there’s candy and donuts everywhere. They actually had a donut sale today to raise money for the HEART ASSOCIATION.

But that’s not why I’ve hit cement today.

I received a “Dear John”(Joan?) letter of sorts from a really nice guy to whom I’ve been writing. We’ve met twice.

I have this belief: You can find a man in the gutter soaked to his skin in piss, without a dime to his name. He kicks dogs, has no job, and has no known relatives. I contend that this man has a bigger ego than most of the women I know. Why? Because he has a penis and the extra "ego chromosomes"that come with it. (I really don’t know if they’re related or not. It's just a guess.) Most women only have a few ego chromosomes. I didn’t even have them when I was hot. And I was hot my friends. Can I get a witness?

So my theory, based on years of observing attractive women with total schlocks who are not necessarily rich, is that women tend to be happy with anyone who will pour them a cup of coffee or put the damned seat down. This pisses me off.

So, getting back to the dumping...  I’d met this nice, intelligent man and enjoyed writing to him. He could SPELL. He had wit. He didn’t cower and run screaming when he met me and saw that I no longer have a neck, but rather, folds of skin commonly referred to as “wattle”. I think Saturday Night Live even made fun of us “wattle necks.” I know they made fun of people who say “babe” all the time and people with fat butts and WASPS, aliens, and harbingers of doom like Debbie Downer.(No relation, I SWEAR.) I didn’t run from him either, even though I tend to like big, tall men because they make me feel petite. This guy was  short.

I also liked that his insecurity was as bad as mine. This is an unusual trait for a man. *Please see my theory of penises and ego chromosomes.* But I think I got a little too personal with my do-it-yourself-psychology. See, although I suffer from depression as a legitimate malady, I take my medication and blend in pretty well. The last  couple conversations I had with this man, who says he doesn’t suffer from depression,  made me feel like Pollyanna! (Google Pollyanna if you'd don't have a clue who she is.Knowledge is power.)

I was a little worried about him. I felt bad that HE felt bad. I think my words were poorly chosen in an attempt to bolster his self esteem. His email response was pretty much a dismissal. I was fired from the potential girlfriend position to which I wasn't even sure I'd been applying.

But that’s ok. You see, he is not  fond of cats. He’s allergic to them. Isn’t everyone? (I am!) It’s not that he HATES cats per se.  He says cats make him nervous. I understand nervous. I feel the same way about the Tea Party and Sarah Palin. I certainly wouldn't want to date anyone in the tea party or who had a little Sarah Palin running around peeing all over the furniture.

This brings us to Lester.  Lester has had my back for a couple years now. I really couldn’t live without him even though he’s a total bastard. [See Lester and Home Décor.] He trills sonatas to me, pats my face lovingly with his little littered fingers, and follows me everywhere. He waits until I come through the door every evening to greet me with multiple head butts and kisses on the mouth. No side-to-side air kisses for him.He goes to get his toy when I tell him to go get his toy.   He gets as close as he can to me when I cry. He worries. He’s a sentinel at my side until the dark times pass.  He gets me.

He also knows how to push my buttons to piss me off. He’s not above the occasional vindictive bite. But he always brings me love.  And it is intentional…not accidental. He makes me laugh until I almost pee. That’s not an easy thing to do.(The laughing, not the peeing. The peeing is easy.) I rarely laugh. He doesn’t even notice that I don’t have a neck. He gives his devotion freely and without judgement. He isn’t in the least bit mercenary about it. In other words, he doesn’t always do it for the food.

So what if his cat ego is bigger than an Airbus 380? His ego remained intact even after they lopped off his balls.   He won’t leave me. He’s in it for a lifetime. I intend to honor that commitment.

So notice to men, even if they're only mildly interested-  Must Love Cats.