LEERING OLD CROTCHET

Approximately and precisely fifty two years ago today I was from my mother's womb untimely ripped. Yanked out by Caesarian section 3 weeks premature.

That means two things. The first is that I was a large little f*cker at that time. The second is that I was early. There have been very few other occasions when that has happened. Usually I have been late. even for important appointments. Still trying to catch up, probably.

Fifty two years old.

Antiquated.

No wife kids family.

No girlfriend on the horizon.

Not exactly the very picture of success, what?


My Mom always said that if I ended up with godforbid a native Dutch girl, she would forgive me.
As long as the primitive little bitch had at least two PHDs.
My Dad, on the other hand, simply worried about my finding anyone. Male, female, or outer space alien.
Have to say, his point of view was more realistic.
No less unreal, though.

I am quite single.


Savage Kitten, whom I loved for over twenty years, dropped me somewhat over a year ago.
She's found someone else in the meantime - a very hot, contrary to her own low self-image, woman can do that - whereas I have spent most of the past year-plus wondering what the heck happened.
Not so much operatic, as obsessive, about the whole thing.
Surprised, or startled.
Kinda like Ernie when the Cookie Monster kept stealing his cupcakes.

See his expression at 2:06? Precisely!

Missing a cupcake!

I need a cupcake.

Did I mention that I'm fifty two years old?

She and I are still the best of friends. She's got Aspergers, so she really doesn't have a clue what's going on in my head. And I'm just totally conditioned to keep it all inside (except for this blog, but heck, no nice young things read this anyway), so I tend to do the "oh, that's okay, don't mind me" act till I'm blue in the face.

We're having dinner tonight, her treat.
Aged Harris Ranch beefsteak.
I really do appreciate it.
But. Nevertheless.
Even so. Eh.

Fifty two years old.

Kind of late to start all over again. Even though one of my ancestors married his third wife in his sixties, then had a passel more kids (total: twenty five kids over a three-wife life-span), and kicked off close to ninety.

Fifty two years old.

That was back when Dutchmen were all over New Jersey, and there was no MTV, and stuff like that was still possible.
Snarky Dutch-American of a past-teenage vintage?
Yesh!
Oooh yowza papa!
Quite the catch.
In agricultural eighteenth century New England.
Just say "hello hot mr. Vander Haringmetuitjesuitoudnieuwamsterdam!
Sir!

Fast forward to now.

Fifty two years old.

Sweet jeepars, I need to find me a crazy woman.
Preferably a sparky young miss half my age.
Cause I'm still full of piss and vinegar.
Also kind of Like Ernie (see above).
Just slightly silver at the edges.


Why you sweet young thing! Have I ever told you about the time I single-handedly steered Noah's Ark to a safe port? Shelbyville? We still wore onions on our belt then, as that was the fashion after we defeated Napoleon.
I also landed the very first dirigible.
Like totally stone age, yeah.
Before hip. And hop.
Disco fever.

Cupcake?


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