Yesterday was full of adventure. You know about "the rat." I don't think it was. I think what I was hearing was the armadillo trying to get under the deck. That's what I think since I haven't heard anything since then in the attic. Since when? Remember I ended yesterday's post with the armadillo? Well, I can't tell you everything that happened next. No, I just can't. It would upset you and you might not like me any more. I'll summarize leaving out the objectionable parts. I went outside to "scare" the armadillo. I sent a projectile at it as it waddled down the path behind my house. Apparently, the armadillo didn't like that. It stopped for a second as I sent another "projectile" at it, then turned around and started toward me. More projectiles, but the armadillo was apparently mad. It ran at me and I tried to do a little hat dance to avoid it, but I can't dance anymore and almost toppled. There was madness in those beady little eyes. This fucker was a killer. Killer Armadillo! I grabbed the kitchen door and managed to get inside before the creature got hold of me. My heart was pounding. Nobody would believe this.
But here are a few facts about armadillos. The live up to 20 years. They are rarely out during the day and can carry rabies and are a major transmitter of leprosy. They will burrow under a house, even damaging concrete foundations. Now here's a surprising fact. They can run up to 30 mph and can jump as high as 4 feet. Armadillos always have four identical offspring, and you may remember that I was once chased by three siblings after I had netted the fourth, and on that occasion, as I ran and jumped trying to avoid them, I was witness to their ability to jump, too. I also learned that they had a terrible, hair raising scream. I'm telling you, these fuckers are monsters with which I am apparently plagued. They have good memories. I'll have to keep my doors closed or I'm sure they will come sometime and kill me in my sleep.
I'm just wondering if yesterday's monster didn't have rabies.
As the armadillo walked to the other end of the deck, I stepped out and sent "projectiles" at it once again. But I was scared and jumped back into the house, door closed. I have read that they can give you a terrible bite.
It took a bit to settle down after that. Then I was hungry. I guess the adrenaline dump had consumed all my glycogen, and I hadn't really eaten dinner the night before. Now you are familiar with my search for a normal breakfast in a groovy place in this town. All one can get is a foo-foo breakfast like apricot omelettes with fig and feta. . . etc. Unless you like Denny's or The Waffle House. Maybe at three a.m., but no, not a a beautiful Saturday morning. One village over, though, I remembered that a new place had opened up. I decided to give it a try.
What a treat! It was a big, busy place with plenty of outdoor seating, but I was able to slip in right away to sit at the bar in front of the kitchen. I watched the food coming out on big plates, the biggest you will see, and they were full of food piled high and wide. They had every kind of omelette you could ask for, and waffles loaded with berries and fruit. Giant biscuits. It was making my head spin.
"What can I get you, darling?"
I liked the place already. My waitress, like all the waitresses here, was a real character.
"Three eggs, over medium, bacon, home fries, and toast. Can I get that?"
"You can get whatever you want, hun. What kind of toast?"
The fellow next to me got a big breakfast sandwich on one of the giant biscuits. It looked great. The waitress sat a cup in front of me.
I looked around. There was Blanche. I'm making up the name. She was classic, tan makeup, eyebrows pencilled on thick in a high arch, bright blue eyeshadow, and a nose stud. She wore a tight outfit intended to show her aging figure. I was betting she chewed gum when she went out at nights. Another waitress, a Black woman north of two hundred pounds, had yellow dye in the bottom portion of her hair and wore big hoop earrings that said "100% Bitch." My waitress was a sweet Puerto Rican girl with tats all up and down her arms. God I loved this place.
Blanche sat my breakfast plate before me and gave me that "do you think I'm hot" grin. I grinned back.
"Do you need anything else?" she mewed.
"I'll let you know," I laughed.
I've always wondered how a restaurant can fuck up breakfast. It is the easiest thing to make. But this place didn't. I looked at the food. I could not have done better. The home fries were chunky and not greasy. The bacon was perfect, neither too crisp nor limp, and there was enough of it for a major cardiac event. The toast was crunchy and buttered. The eggs were big and hardy.
"Nobody leaves here hungry, do they?" I said to my waitress.
"Ha! I don't think so. We try to make everybody happy."
There was one drawback, however. The check. They were very proud of their food, you could tell. Think what a breakfast out would cost. Then double it. But hell. . . I want to go back this morning. They have a version of heuvos rancheros that I'm dying to try, even at that price.
The night before, I had been getting cocktail pics from two friends, my museum friend who left the factory and moved to the family home she inherited in the midwest and the girl who won't ask me out. It turned out, she was visiting and the two of them were at a "speakeasy." I'm sure you have them in your town, too. They are everywhere now, places where you need to know the password (swordfish) or to be able to find the secret hidden door down some back alleyway or narrow passage. It's something that I don't really understand just as I don't understand adults dressing up for Halloween, but I'm what they used to call a fuddy-duddy or a curmudgeon I guess. A spoil sport. No fun.
But they were at one, my friends, and having fun. Indeed, Halloween is my museum buddy's favorite holiday. She grew up a Goth, I believe, and listened to Marylin Manson. You know how fucked up kids can be. The woman who won't ask me out, newly divorced after many years of marriage, is exploring the world--one of the Ph.D.s Gone Wild! She is very pretty. God knows what pleasures and troubles she will find.
Sooo. . . I sent them pics of my breakfast. Turns out they know the restaurant.
"You've never eaten there?"
So did some others. This is the second one they've opened, the other up in the Factory Town where most of the factory workers live. Everyone, it seems, loves the place.
Selavy. I'm late to the party.
When I got home, I was sleepy. I'd been up too late the night before, and after the big breakfast. . . I just crawled back into bed.
When I woke up, I got ready to visit my mother. When arrived, a neighbor couple was with her. They always stop and talk when they are walking their dog. Most of the neighbors do. Everyone is sweet to my mother. She says it was because I threw here the big 90th Birthday Party. I said hello and kibitzed for a minute. I didn't tell them about the Killer Armadillo, but I did tell them about breakfast. Turns out, my mother's 89 year old neighbor had invited her to go to breakfast with her and her daughter that morning, but my mother said her back was hurting too much and so she didn't go. But. . . I'm not making this up. . . they had gone to the very same place where I had eaten.
"Oh, ma. . . you should have gone. The place is great."
After the neighbors left, another fellow came up with his dog. Same routine. I told him about the breakfast place, too.
"Really. My wife and I will go tomorrow morning. We like to get out early for Sunday breakfast."
I didn't tell him about the armadillo, either. But when he was gone, I did tell my mom. She laughed and laughed. Her big brave boy. . . .
I'm going to skip ahead, going to skip the part about meeting a former coworker, one of the other floor bosses from the factory, and the hideous conversation I had with him. I had gone to get an Amy's frozen dinner. Breakfast had been big and I really didn't want to cook.
When I got home, because of the doofus I had run into at the grocers long-assed tale, it was almost sunset. I made a cocktail and headed to the deck. The cats joined me. The weather has been picture perfect this week, and the night was spreading out a gorgeous purple before me. And you know what happens when the deep purple falls over sleepy garden walls. . . you get melancholy. I do, anyway. And as I sat there with my good cocktail with only the cats for company, I thought about all the people I love who were not thinking about me. What was wrong with me, I wondered, that I live so much alone. I don't have to. I really don't. Just then, however, my phone pinged.
I was stunned.
"That's unreal. I was just thinking you didn't."
"of course you were. 🙄"
And that was it. The line went dead. Nothing more. Just the dial tone.
I could have had a dinner date that Saturday night, and not with one of the gymroids but with a real live girl. Woman. But I didn't ask as is my m.o. Hell. . . I could have had Blanche for the evening, I am sure. O.K. I'm not sure. I'm being figurative, not literal. Rather, however, I chose to sit alone with my shriveled little soul. I know why, at least in part. I think I would feel guilty going out and not being as lonely as my mother. She cannot go out, and I often feel a deep guilt for not moving in there and keeping her company. I do. People should not be left alone. But I don't, and so, perhaps, I impose the same conditions on myself.
Maybe. Or maybe it is something else. Maybe it is genetic. Maybe it is my love of the moon. Or maybe it is fear. Maybe I've just been burned enough times already. Maybe those scars are worse than the ones from being run over.
Or most likely. . . I just don't feel I am bringing enough to the table any longer.
I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Every woman who has left has moved up in life. I can't blame them, really. It is like a job. There comes a time when you have to leave the company once you've maxed out and want more.
"With your talent, baby. . . you could make a killing!"
They made a killing.
It's O.K. I'm no hater. I'm a lover. And, you know. . . life is an adventure.
Rats, Cats, and Armadillos.