The First Haiku

Since I live alone

When I fall in the bathtub

Who will hear me scream.

This was the first single lady haiku. I was having my bi-annual conversation with my friend Wendy about dying alone. This one was precipitated by the serious fall of another single lady of a certain age. Surprisingly, dying alone is a regular conversation topic for single ladies of the aforementioned “certain age.”

But it’s usually not all that morbid of a discussion. We laugh about the ways we might die: slip and fall in the tub; choking on something we shouldn’t have been eating in the first place; quietly in our sleep, fully clothed and ethereally beautiful (as if). Wendy has cats so there’s often mention of how much they’ll miss her and the shrine (buffet) they will make of her.

There’s a good chance I will die alone. Hell, we all do really. That’s not what we single ladies fear. We fear surviving and being a burden. We fear our families coming to clear our homes and finding out all of our secrets. But luckily, we have each other.

I know that if I break something, my other single lady friends will cart my busted ass around. And if I do die, they will swoop down on my place like the CIA and clear it like I was hoarding state secrets.

And if I fall in the bathtub, and drag my naked, wet ass to the phone…I’ll probably call one of the single ladies before 911. I’m gonna need a robe.

Rent-A-Man

i can’t reach that shelf.

I can’t open this bottle.

Can I borrow him?

I am single. Not married. Not in a relationship. But like most single ladies, I have needs. Like I need someone to hang some curtains in my bedroom. And I need somebody to wash and wax my car (and check that strange noise it’s  making). I need someone to open this delicious bottle of New Zealand Cabernet Sauvignon. I can open the corked ones cuz I have an electronic opener but the NZ wines are screw top. 

That’s the thing though. I need a man for some very discrete tasks. I don’t want one around all the time. Just when I can’t get something to work (do you know what an Allen wrench is for?). The rest of the time, I’m fine.

So maybe I can borrow one. Like my friend, Edna’s husband, Warren, who is great at those things and is retired. Or Pierre, Anne’s husband, who’s a contractor! How handy is that?

But I’d be willing to pay for the service of a husband (not those services, you perv!). I have a box in my car that weighs so much I can’t figure out how I ever got it in there in the first place. For sure I am not getting it back upstairs. So, if I could call 1-800-Rent-a-man, I would. Especially if I can pay in 15 minute increments. And especially when I can’t get that bottle of wine open!

I may never date again

When going on Match,

only real old guys want me.

Sorry, grandpa. Nope.

I have several friends who have met their true loves on dating sites. They have encouraged me to try it too. So…I have. And…yuck. Here’s the main problem with me and dating sites. In my head, I am still 29, maybe 30 years old. I love to listen to new rock music, watch way too much tv, and stay up late.

But the men on Match, and OKCupid, and Our Time are not looking for me. They are looking for a woman who likes jazz, and cooking, and freaking camping and hunting. Well, I think, I don’t do or like any of those things.Then I notice something even more insidious. The men my age (a very youthful 58) are looking for women my daughter’s age–32. 32!

And men looking for women my age are usually 70+. Now I am sure there are lots of fun and interesting 70 year old men, but I doubt very many of them know who Coldplay or Daft Punk are. They all love jazz. It’s like the day they turn 55, they do two things: join AARP and start to like jazz. Even men I know were listening to the Stones the day before, become jazz aficionados on their 55th birthday. And you can’t dance to that.

So, I may never date again. Unless someone wants to fix me up with their young-ish, indie-rock lovin’ friend. Cuz that’d work.

Young lady, you are late again!

Great, it’s only 8.

I look away a minute,

Crap! I’m late again!

I have a very severe tardiness problem. I have had it all my life. Seriously, I am never on time for anything. Even if I try, something invariably goes wrong. For instance, I left 20 minutes early for a 7 minute drive to a meeting. Got a flat tire. But I was only 20 minutes late thanks to a nice passerby who stopped and changed the tire.

I know my tardiness gets on the nerves of others. They think a lot of terrible things about me and my relationship to them. They think that I don’t value them or their time or the activity we have planned. They worry that I have found something better or more interesting to do while they wait and fume. But I want everyone I know who has ever waited for me: it’s not you; it’s me. These are the top five reasons that I am always late:

1. Did you know that if you are not looking at the clock time keeps going forward? Apparently, I do not as I am constantly surprised by the fact that is now much later than the last time I looked. MUCH LATER!
2. To date, no one has invented a teleporter. So I can’t ever get where I’m going instantly.
3. No matter how far it is, I think it’s going to take 10 minutes. RVA to DC? 10 minutes, right?
4. Even if I have actually allowed myself plenty of time to get where I’m going, something is going to go terribly wrong. Last week, I got dressed  and even had time to eat breakfast. And then I knocked the OJ off the counter–nearly full, still open, large bottle of OJ. The rest you can imagine.
5. Sometimes I forget. Nuff said.

So really it’s not you; it’s me. I want to get together. I want to do that thing we’ve planned. I want to start the work day on time (well, that part might be stretching it). But I just can’t seem to get there.

On the other hand, if you’re late, you can count on the fact there will be no judgment from me. Hell, since I’ll be even later, I probably won’t even know about it.

Pets