A Play in Three Acts

I don't know what sign the stars were in this weekend, but it was a weird confluence of happenings that took place. I'll spare you the suspense and just tell you it has a happy ending.

Act 1
I unexpectedly hung out with PAL Friday night. He called me about a mutual friend's going away party we would go to together. We met up at the local watering hole beforehand. Talk about a sight for sore eyes. He was dishing out just the brand of Irish malarkey I was in need of that evening. He put a warm hand on my shoulder. "That shirt really brings out the color of your eyes." "Your perfume smells wonderful ." "Did you cut your hair? It looks nice." "You have such a beautiful smile." I knew it was just flattery but it was just the ticket.

We had a good time together at the party then went out to hear music and dancing afterwards. He walked me to my car, as I casually brushed his hand off my ass. "Call me when you're done depriving yourself," I said as I got into my car and drove away. I was proud of myself. I took the enjoyment of his company and left behind the usual disappointment when he fails me. I'm learning.

Act 2
It had to be done. Machine Gun Man needed to be dealt with. I locked myself in my bedroom and dialed his number. With my usual forthrightness I told him it was over. The secretiveness about his living arrangements, the distance, etc., were not working for me. I left out the part about his being a freakazoid and not wanting to be seen in public with him.

"I have something I need to tell you," he said. Oh boy. Here it comes. I'm married. I'm an ax murderer. But no ... he hasn't let me see his house because ... he has ROOMMATES. I chortled, "That's IT? You have had me thinking you were married or Jeffrey Dahmer. Tell me, are you married to one of your roommates?" So add lying to the list of offenses, on top of being a freak.

It was all anticlimactic. Another proud moment. I didn't back pedal or mince words. He emailed me this morning after ruminating on our conversation. He is such a good writer. I wish that was good enough.

Act 3
Last Friday, Spaceman had me in a dither. He had sent me such a cryptic email that, as far as I could tell, he was cancelling our date on Sunday so he could dog sit. This is what I read. This is how my girlfriends (who of course I immediately called and read the email) interpreted it.

Now, those of you who are dating know that you usually don't take the gloves off, verbally, for quite some time when you are in a new relationship. This email pissed me off enough that I didn't care if it was the last exchange we had.

I called him, and he was on the golf course with the iPhone. It was unfair to launch into things when he was about to tee off, but that I did. "You are cancelling with me to DOG SIT? That is the LAMEST excuse I have ever heard," I complained.

"But you're a CAT person," he desperately tried to explain in the 60 second break before it was his turn to drive, "you wouldn't understand." This didn't help his cause.

His voice mail message, several hours later, was effusively apologetic. I must've misunderstood. He has awful communication skills. Of course we were still on for Sunday.

Ultimately, the rain on Sunday cancelled our game of golf. But it was a nice night to stay in (with the dog) and watch the Pat's game. He cooked us dinner that evening and brought me coffee in bed the next morning - not a bad means of apologizing.


EPILOGUE

I'm laughing as I type this -- a song is on the radio, "Hooray, Hooray for Tom" - the stars are definitely aligned over Madison this week.