The Cleaning Isn’t The Hard Part, It’s The Danger of Getting My Skull Cracked.

Anyone who has been waiting for a reply from me for more than a year will not be surprised to learn that I’ve never willingly been involved in a long-term committed relationship commonly referred to as friendship dating. I may be selling myself short, but I suspect few people would find someone who fills every waking moment with their own interests and has a tendency to turn dumb and fall down when exposed to sunlight "hittable."

I like my house, I love my yard, I’m not looking to run away--there’s another rub. Mr. Knightly didn’t stay at Hartfield to keep Emma’s cats happy, and even if he did, he sure as hell would not be interested in sleeping in a bed that tilts 30 degrees. Maybe Beldar the Conehead would dig that, but...no.

So it struck me as odd when I was minding my business, finishing up my little comic strip for the day, very happy with the way my life has been going, when I detected things being said not six feet from me that hinted I ought to have been married off by now and also that these women I live with, who ought to know better because it was their insistence that I not work after sundown "in this area," seem to want to go to Costa Rica. Not really, of course, they couldn't even stand a few hours in Montauk, but it was on House Hunters International, the titanomagnetite beach of Costa Rica. Shiny.

They’ve heard that perfect mates can be found online, you see. They’ve just heard this. From a success story. Therefore my years of stories about meeting men who told me they wanted to surprise me by waiting on my porch and would greet me with, "Turn on ur webcam," must be lies.

I rarely bring up that there is someone I’ve been very deeply in, "OMG you’re so amazing," for years. I’m as socially awkward as the strange local man who shuffles around behind me humming off-tune crazy music by the banana displays, so I never even mention it to he-who-I-consider-a-male-muse. Call it pathetic, but I'd rather not hurt someone and it's a lot less dangerous than opening myself to meeting insanely jealous maniacs who will burn my house down rather than help me clean the gutters if I happen to mention I liked Jar-Jar. I am more likely to acquire the skill of cleaning my own gutters.

(Because it's been gnawing at me that someone could read this and miss the sarcasm, I want to point out that I only refer to Mum and Nan as "these women I live with" when they do things totally out of character and make me feel inadequate. It's like the game parents play where kids suddenly have lots of proper names and are the child of the other parent. There's no better women to live with, even if they do apparently want to get rid of me.)

The Cleaning Isn’t The Hard Part, It’s The Danger of Getting My Skull Cracked.