Sign reads "May you find Paradise to be all its name implies."
Thanks for joining me on the verge of Paradise, as this chapter of my life unfolds. If you're new to Life by Chocolate, or just madly trying to catch up with your blog reading (Can we ever truly catch up?), this non-fictional autobiographical story begins here. My last Paradise post is this one. While I strive for accuracy regarding place and time, I alter names as I see fit. This does not include Nora Profit, Mimi or Mojo the cat. Those names are perfectly right and perfectly real.
One of my greatest strengths is not discretion. So, when asked about my writing, I gratuitously catapult into flavorful detail of my celibacy series; Mr. Cemetery, the Pigeons! Guy, and all. I'm beginning to re-think this tactic, for a number of reasons.
First, there's Andrew. We met at last week's poetry reading in Paradise. I ran into him again this weekend at Peet's. As my luck would have it, Andrew asked what type of writing I'm doing. I, well, told him.
"Do you like dancing?" Note: this was him immediate response.
"I love dancing." Note: this was my indiscreet (i.e., stupid) answer.
As I left Peet's, I felt his eyes follow me to my car.
Damnit. The rude man is having a party--a full-blown rave, in fact--in my head. "What is wrong with you, girlfriend? Had you switched teams like I suggested, you wouldn't be in this mess!"
So Andrew is awaiting my appearance at his ballroom dance class, since I said I'd check it out sometime. He's probably looking at his watch right now, feeling jilted and perplexed as to why I haven't yet arrived.
Crap. Okay, rude man, you are right. I know. I know. Just give me a little more time. I have needs. We've discussed this. Remember?
Second, I gave a doctor the low-down on my celibacy series. What could I do? The guy asked. One can't lie to a doctor. Two days later, he called to ask me out for dinner sometime. He closed the conversation with the words every woman wants to hear when she's being courted: "I'll have to find a lousy place to take you, given your dating disasters."
Crap. Crap. Crap. Okay, obnoxious man, hand me the bat. I'll give this pinch hitting thing a whirl. Before I stepped up to the plate, though, I was indiscreet again.
His name is Matthew. I met Matthew on plentyoffish. I didn't add him to my celibacy series, because he writes in complete sentences. The fodder's just not there. In fact, we had a nice telephone conversation on Sunday. I elaborated on my stuck-in-the-mud-on-a-date story; this one involves being stranded overnight in the middle of the desert in Kenny's four-wheel drive. We had no cell-phones. It was cold. I thought I'd die. Kenny offered no comfort except an old Oreo cookie. In the end, we made it out okay. I broke up with him only after I arrived home safely.
Matthew was thrilled to hear it. "So the bar's set pretty low, huh?"
"You got that right." I responded with an exhuberant dose of indiscretion. "It's below sea level. Bring me a stale Oreo cookie, and you're the man!"
Oy. Crap. I know, I know, rude man. I know you're right. Hand me that bat, before I'm indiscreet again. Hurry!