September 19, 1998
Iron Man

So where were we?

Oh yes. I remember.
When last we left Our Heroine, she was jumping up and down on The Lincoln Bed with irreverent abandon ... whilst *Someone* stood in the doorway, watching in horror. She was issued her walking papers shortly thereafter, and was then left to wonder how she was going to survive her very first Completely Alone Weekend since moving to Oregon, many months earlier.


I must admit that it was odd to wake up Friday morning and not find any of his dour, constipated little e-mails waiting for me in the cyber mailbox. And it was odd to get to the office and not automatically call him, just to say "hello" and gripe about my new bus driver and hint around about a ride home later. Some things just have a sneaky way of becoming habit, whether you want them to or not.  But I still felt that this was absolutely the best thing for both of us. He was driving me crazy with his tidy rigid narrow view of the world ... I was driving him crazy with my "I'll worry about it when I worry about it" attitude. I can't stand the way he neatly pins his monthly bills to the bulletin board, all in a row.  He can't stand my stubborn refusal to balance my checkbook.  ("Seeing the actual numbers depresses me.")  He likes sour cream on his baked potato. I like Skippy Extra Crunchy on mine.

Most of the time we want to kill each other.

It isn't the most dysfunctional relationship I've ever had -- that would be my marriage, actually -- but there's still something vaguely depressing about spending all of your free time with someone who wipes off the passenger seat after you get out of the car.

Anyway. I managed to safely get three-quarters of the way through Friday morning before *Someone* found a reason to knock, knock, knock on The Cone of Silence.

I checked my office e-mail before lunch ... hoping against hope that there would be word from Lorenzo Lamas ... but instead I found the following:

Wow, it's a brisk, rainy day out there think I'll reach into my closet and grab a pair of jeans. What!? No jeans in the closet. Let's see one pair in the laundry hamper (dirty very dirty) and there should be two more pair in the closet. But they are no where to be found. You wouldn't happen to know where I could find a couple of pairs of jeans would you? Since that is the extent of my fashion statement.

Whoops. Minor Memory Lapse Moment. I'd forgotten: the past couple of impromptu *sleepovers* at his apartment had caught me with nothing to wear home the next morning, so I'd dipped into his impeccably organized closet and yanked a pair of Levi's from the hanger. (Yes. You heard me correctly. He HANGS UP HIS LEVI's. On HANGERS. In the CLOSET. As opposed to, say, rolling them up in a little ball and stuffing them under a sofa cushion.) 

And now he wanted them back.

OK fine. I immediately called him at home. "Come and pick me up, and we'll go to my apartment at lunch and get your pants," I told him.

"I'm gonna need my iron and my ironing board back, too," he said happily. Apparently he'd just landed a new job -- which is great news -- but it's going to require him wearing the *professional* clothes again.  Which means he's gonna have to iron occasionally -- which is not-so-great news, since his ironing board has been the centerpiece of my bedroom furniture "ensemble," the last four months.

Oh well.

Conversation during lunch was confined mostly to the fabulous new job ... the location of the fabulous new job ... the job duties of the fabulous new job ... etc. Which was fine, as it meant I wasn't required to actually participate in the proceedings. We got to my apartment and I began hunting for his pants in the mountain range of dirty laundry spread across my bedroom floor. I found one pair right away, still relatively clean, and handed them to him while I looked for the other pair.

Suddenly  --  behind me  --  there it was. The unmistakeable sound of a zipper being unzipped.

("Yay!" I thought. "A nooner!")

("Oh shit!" I thought. "A nooner!")

But when I turned around, there he was in all of his Fruit Of The Loon glory, shrugging out of the natty little Dockers shorts and pulling on the slightly-messy-looking Levi's. "Thought I'd go ahead and change into 'em now," he said cheerfully. "It's gonna rain later."

And then he looked down at the left knee of the slightly-messy-looking Levi's and frowned, scraping at something with his thumbnail.

"Is that spaghetti sauce?" he asked disgustedly.


To Be Continued ...



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