What are you? Yes, of course, I know you’re a human, unless you are a Google robot scanning my blog to find something search-worthy. I mean, what are you to other people? Are you a friend? A customer? A lover? A pain in the ass? An entertainer?
I am a drama magnet. I’d rather be a spectator. I could be in a room filled with hundreds of people, and drama will find me. It’s at the point now where my friends expect it, wait for it, and laugh at it when it happens. There must be some psychological profile I fit. Strangers must relate to me as a child relates to a parent when the child wants recognition.
Last night, while holding a skinny pirate, I was suddenly approached by a strange (in many ways) woman. Rarely, am I recognized out and about by people who know the author, not the person. No, normally, in cases like these, it’s someone who has had a relationship with me. While greeting the subject, I scroll through the possibilities, eliminating the most precarious ones, including sexual misadventures. I was confident I never felt this woman from the inside … yet. She was lovely. I was flattered. I should have known better.
“How are you?”
“Fine. And you?”
“OK, I guess. My husband is over there at the bar flirting with those girls, so I thought I’d come over and say hi.”
“Someone told you I’m a divorce attorney?”
“No. I just think you’re cute.”
“Why, thank you. How long have you been married?”
“Almost thirty years.”
“Jesus. Sorry. Does he do this often?”
“Yep, all the time.”
“Have you asked him to stop?”
“Ready for some unsolicited advice?”
“Have some pride, and kick his ass to the curb. Then come see me, and I’ll show you how a gentleman behaves.”
Naturally, her husband caught wind of her straying off-leash. He approached smiling as if nothing were amiss. My Terminator brain kicked in and presented a multiple-choice question to my logic:
- He’s going to punch me.
- This is yet another SoCal freaky fetish this couple does to spice up their sex life.
- He’s about to lie his ass off.
I put down my pirate, just in case. (Alcohol abuse is sad.) I also covered my nuts in case he set his sights on my package. (I throw baseballs. This is a normal reaction when strange things are coming toward you.) Then, I smiled.
“Hey, honey. I used to work with Susan over there. Haven’t seen her in years. Who’s this guy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Some cute guy I just met.”
This is where I skedaddle from the marital bliss I once enjoyed, by lisping away.
“Oh, hey, hanthome. I’m Bruth. I love your thirt. Is that Gucci?”
He smiled and dragged his wife away, trying to dig himself out of another rut, while his wife raised an eyebrow. My buddy stood next to me amazed once again by how silliness seems to find me.