ON THE PLUS SIDE, SHE DOESN'T SMELL MUCH

People have often asked me why I still live with the woman who ceased being the object of my affections over four years ago. There are several reasons: I have recovered; as I knew I would, what with being a resilient old cooz and all, and I am in the market again, though sneeringly cynical about my chances, seeing as seemingly the only women interested in me are older and have so many screws loose they rattle when they walk. Additionally, you don't give up on an apartment mate and darn good friend whom you trust around your crap; it would be irresponsible, and heartless to the crap.

I'm used to her habits and there is nothing about her presence that grates;
I hope that it's the same for her regarding being around me.
Besides, I like it here. We've been in the same apartment building for over twenty years; that's longer than I've lived anywhere else.
This is home.

Foremost of all, though, is the stream of consciousness commentary.


FOOT WEAR

"Here are these young springy virile shoes and you're already giving them that old dead turtle look, it's disgraceful, 'cause they're rather handsome even though you have big-ass clodhopping feet, like they need to be de-loused or something -- you CAN powder just the insides, you know -- people will think you wallow in cornstarch, or that you never dust."

This pursuant the new leathery things I bought last week. Yes, a small and totally insignificant quantity of the foot-powder I used did adhere to the outside. If anyone asks, I work in a post-office as a mail sorter, and have escaped the Center for Disease Control quarantine.
No, my feet are NOT big; they're normal sized.
Hers are creepily small.

I have since then wiped the shoes.

CAKE

"I don't mind OTHER people experimenting with a Ouija board and getting totally freaked out, "oh my gawd, this spirit has the same spelling errors as Aunt Martha! It's her, and she wants cake!"
Yeah, 'cause the craving for cake outlasts decomposition."

This pursuant some remark on television about communicating with the dearly departed. She finds communicating with the living hard enough as it is, the dead are entirely on their own.
I'm inclined to agree.

FOOD

"I've realized that I actually don't know how to cook; I just heat up stuff and hope it doesn't kill me. Just plop it on a plate and find out if it tastes all right. I'm still alive. Let's all praise the god of food poisoning."

She's actually a good cook. I'm probably a much better one than her, because I'm a serious food slut, and have obsessively studied several thousand recipes and articles over the years. But except for one or at most two rather strange offerings, I cannot remember any fear or trepidation, and she made some truly excellent meals.

I've lost weight since then though, largely because there is no imperative to have just a little bit more. My appetite has changed, too.
I am strictly an odd-hour eater now.
Casual about meals.


The other day I ate a plate of rice-stick noodles with miscellaneous porky bits, baby mustard green, and Thai red curry paste, which I had prepared for myself. It would have been utterly divine, except she was watching a television show about women who commit gruesome murder at the time, and cheering on the perpetratrices. It's part of that liberated woman thing, female empowerment and payback and all that. Her flow of bloodthirsty and inappropriate remarks was infinitely entertaining, while also being quite utterly stomach turning.

The dinner-theatre was better than the meal.
I should've added more hot-sauce.


She seldom complains about my tobacco.
Her smell just isn't very acute.
Works for me.




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