Fleas on a Hot Tar Roof

The last time a car pulled into my drive that had been on a trek from Corpus to B-ham, it dropped off fleas full of a kitten—Puff the Magic Dragonslayer.  This time, the car emptied out my brother.  He had flown to our hometown to pick up his old Honda.

He is carrying three terminal illnesses, but we are all grateful because he’s been dealing with death since 1985.  Even the doctors at the U of Alabama hospital are in awe of his longevity.  I don’t know how many people know, but U of Alabama is curing people with AIDS.  I don’t care much for Roll Tiders, as they beat my Longhorns and then the Tigers, but I bow down to the care and respect that this hospital offers people with AIDS.  Unfortunately, my bro has three other problems.

After we watch Kathleen Madigan on Netflix and I enjoy his laughter, I start my nightly rituals.  I have to go to bed early because I have to get up early because I have to leave early so we can go to NOLA tomorrow.  I’m not sure what we’re going to do in the Quarter because he can’t walk for very long, but we are going to go. 

                “I haven’t been there since before Katrina,” he says.
                “I don’t think the streets smell any better,” I think.

On the way back from the curb where I drop off my Monday night package, I check the mail.  My belly gets flustered when I turn toward the mailbox.  I hate pulling down the metal lip because of the 5 quibillion rejection letters that I’ve received from stupid agents and publishers.  But on Mondays, I pick up the load because I feel sorry for the postman who will need space for the buy-my-stuff flyers that he’ll pack into the box on Tuesday. They should better group flyers.  Each house should get a post card that allows them to choose the groupings you’d most likely purchase. If a family truly needs a pizza coupon from every vendor in the 5 mile radius, every single week, marketers might want to throw in offers for beer and a gym membership.  They would have trouble prying coupons out of the Whole Foods guys for my package, but I could use more beer-and-burrito combo coupons!

               

I open the box and see a letter from my Ex’s Next.  I hate it when she sends their mail.  Her handwriting is stupid.  She must know that it bugs me, but she’s twentysomething and that's what you have to expect.  Anyhoo, whatever is inside is thick, and I think money!; but, it’s just thick paper stock with my Social Security Card. 

“I can’t believe you had something so sensitive, so important,” I think.  And then, I remember that Ex had something that was so much more sensitive and important than my identity.

This is supposed to be a blog about lesbian dating and here's my point. How many lesbians do you know who never date because they backfill before they have an opening?  I’ve known a lot.  No one teaches us how to date, so we do what we want. What's wrong with that? Nothing; not really anything because most of us don't procreate, so we don't have dependents to consider and when there's a break, there are rarely lawyers. Leaving something for something is almost uneventful. But, to the lesbian who doesn't take time to clear closets, her Next gets the clutter. Between Ex#1 and Ex#2, I went in a a second date with a girl who I should have never gone on a first date with. About 15 minutes after the waitress brought the chips and salsa, I thought, "Wow. I thought you brought a lot of baggage to the first date, but now I realize that was just your carry-on." She hadn't even started.

There's the lazy susan effect. In small stagnant communities, we all start trading girlfriends. The wheel spins and whoever lands in front is next.  That’s crazy.  This dynamic reminds me of a conversation that I had with Mic-Monk.  I had to explain the “natural boundaries” between men and women couples.  Lesbians don't have them because we get the same secondary messages from society.  I wouldn’t want to get too many topics going at once, so we’ll save that conversation for later.  

When #1 and I broke up, a work buddy (a smart lesbian who had entered Recovery (it seems like that word deserves a capital ‘R’)) gave me good advice.

                “Ok.  All you need to do now is make it through the next four seasons.”

                “Huh?
                “You gotta go four full seasons. You gotta do the holidays alone and your birthday at least.”

                “Holidays alone?  What? Why would I do something like that?”

                “That's what you have to do before you find someone else.”

She was smart and she was right, but she was sober and had a ton more support groups.  It was Christmas, so that goal was 1.1 years away.  Still, I gave it the best try that I could.

Two weeks later, I dated the former almost-girlfriend who left me in the French Quarter (see blog entry #1).  Look how well that worked out!  Then, I did my time while I put myself to bed alone.  I made it six months before I met #2.  In that time, I bought my first house all by myself.  I learned a lot about what an anxious ball of nerves I can be and I developed some strengths that helped me build confidence.  Unfortunately, I had a really good job that allowed me to make a lot of money and I got to learn different lessons after that like how to not be so overly confident that you’re an insensitive ass.

With Ex #3, I’ve been alone for nine months.  It’s been rough and it's been good. When I’m ready, when I’ve sold this house and all of my hopes for #3 evaporate from my routines, I’ll stand in front of the tabla rasa and paint the season’s colors with a new someone. 

After dinner, my brother wanted to stop for fresh bread.  He talked about the last time he was in Paris.  He talked about next year when he’ll go to Paris.  I said, “I can go with you.”  And, tomorrow, I come home from work, get on the roof with the roofer and his brother-in-law and check whether the tar patch will hold before the next big storm, and then my brother and I will go to Vieux Carre and talk of France.