“I’ll call you.” Is there any lie that is spoken more often in the world? Maybe “I love you,” but that could be the bitter side of me talking. Am I bitter? You’d better believe it, but not because of the recent brush-off. I think I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up a bit.
First, the garage light was installed successfully, and no free sample of electro-shock therapy was experienced. (Many thanks to Steve for help.) My garage is now lit slightly better than before. So slightly that I think I may buy another one to put up when I run an electric outlet out there. (Who builds a garage and doesn’t put a single electrical outlet in it? Where do you plug in your boombox???) The weight bench has not been fully assembled yet, though, primarily because it’s big and awkward and I may need an extra set of hands to hold it together while I put some bolts in place. I’ll be sure to fill you in once the garage has been completed, though. (As if you can’t wait.)
Second, I called the stranger. She sounded friendly enough, and young. It’s not that I have an inherent problem with someone being 21 years old, but that age group and my age group tend to have different lines of thought. This was slightly evident in our conversation. At the end of the call, she said she’d call me later and we’d pick up where we left off. I don’t expect that call to come, which is okay, but it’s something that grates on me when someone promises to call, or agrees to see you again, and then breaks off contact.
Why is it so hard to say “I’m not really interested” to someone? I can understand the basic nature of not wanting to hurt someone’s feelings, but if you don’t call then you’re just delaying the hurt, which I think is worse. I suppose it’s more of a desire not to be present when the feelings are hurt. Anyway, I don’t expect her to call. The beauty of being a pessimist is that when you’re right, you’re right, and when you’re wrong, you’re happy about it.
Packing lunches still proves to be a challenge. First, I actually have to PREPARE food. Heaven forbid I make a sandwich when I can just as easily microwave some soup or pop some popcorn. I’m the type of cook that messes up crock-pot recipes. A sandwich is pretty much the limit of my abilities. (Don’t get me wrong, I would love to be able to cook. But at present, I really don’t enjoy eating anything I’ve cooked myself.)
Then, I have to prepare this lunch the night before. I am not a morning person. At all. Like, people at work don’t even bother coming by my desk before noon because they fear me. I have two alarm clocks, because the first one can be “snoozed” without bringing me completely out of sleep. Getting out of bed is a chore. I sometimes nap in the shower. I hardly ever remember dressing or driving to work. Adding a step in there would just be too difficult. So I would have to make my sandwich the evening before, and I get too scatterbrained at night to accomplish this most nights.
And then I have to refrigerate this meal, lest it go sour. This means making a sandwich, storing it in the fridge, and then remembering to take it out the next morning. (See the bit about mornings and me.) The few times I actually remember to make the sandwich have resulted in a very soggy sandwich being eaten for dinner the next night.
It’s just too easy to drive over to El Monterrey, order a Numero Cinco and Tea, and eat at a place where almost all of the wait staff know me and stop by to say hello. (Jesus, that sounds so very sad when I say it like that. I’m a regular at El Monterrey. Hi, my name is Stuckey, and I’m a Mexican Food addict.)
Finally, to recap the toy-truck session I mentioned needing in my previous post… the green Matchbox car smashed into the black Matchbox truck with such a tremendous force that a little plastic tire on the green car popped off. It went somewhere behind my desk, and I’ve written it off as Forever Lost. The black truck shows little to no damage, but the driver wouldn’t stop complaining about his neck pain. I suspect an impending lawsuit against the driver of the green car, who sustained no injury. When the Matchbox police car arrived on the scene, the two drivers were in a heated argument. The patrolman was forced to separate the drivers physically, and got the stories from each without the input of the other. The ticket faults the driver of the green car, and the court date for the traffic ticket is set for November 18. The Matchbox tow truck arrived on the scene shortly after and hauled the green car to a mechanic. He was courteous enough to drive the driver of the green car home, though.
(This is what happens when Matchbox Cars meet the Real World.)