fuzzbean.net

In the "If I weren't living it, I'd think I were making it up" category, or "Why I'm surprised more people don't think I'm a pathological liar."

So a few days ago a friend from LA emailed me. He was in Indianapolis, flying through Chicago on his way back to LA. He had a four-hour layover. Would I, he said, like to meet him at the airport and get breakfast at a nearby restaurant?

Why yes, said I. My god, yes. Please, let me talk to someone who isn't descended directly from mouth-breathing meat-packers, or at the least someone descended far enough to move to a decent city. I would love to go to breakfast with you.

And I proceeded to look for a decent restaurant that would be open and happy to serve people at the very indecent hour of 7 am. I located two within reasonable distance, chose one, and wrote out directions.

And then I told my grandmother. My dear old granny, I have a friend who is flying in who has a layover; I will be going to the airport to meet him and then go out for breakfast, then take him back to the airport, then come home.

Third-degree was followed by protestations. How do you know this person? Are they safe? Isn't it a bit odd to have a four-hour layover? Why do they want to see you? How are you going to be able to do all that in time? Won't he miss his flight? How will you meet him? There's thousands of people at O'Hare, you can't possibly find him in the crowd. I don't think it's feasible, to pick someone up and take them to breakfast and be back in four hours.

Reason after reason after reason.

Eventually I had to go very hard with her. This was a perfectly safe, normal thing I was doing; if we were back too late for him to catch his flight he'd just take the next one; yes, I knew him and he was substantially unlikely to rape and murder me; and above all, the correct response when I say I want to go out is, "Okay, when will you be back? Have fun."

If you love me, let me go.

She did the same thing when I said I had located a hiking group to go out with. And while I understand that she worries, and that there are certain things I must not do (Come home smelling like alcohol. Be out past 10p.<--not a typo.), this is really not okay. She says she wants me to go out and meet young people (and god forbid I be the old maid of the family (I've got three years before that happens, at least)--but really, shouldn't I be breeding by now? Or at least, in grad school for that all-important M.R.S.?) but when it comes down to me actually going out there's always a good reason that I'm probably going to be raped, murdered, skinned, dismembered, and eaten. Not necessarily in that order.

And in the end it turned out to be all irrelevant anyway.

Last night I was working on my computer when the light in my room started to dim. Dim, brighten, dim dim, brighten, dim dim dim dim, brighten, dim dim black. Me being me I figured it was just an issue with the light itself; I would have to stand on my bed the next morning and change it out but meanwhile there was laundry to fold and sleep to get in order to be up at the unholy hour of 5.30a.

Nope.

Turns out that the electricity was out on the whole left side of the house. Just the left side, as if the house had had a stroke. None of the breakers were tripped in the basement, and apparently it had happened before (again, on the left side). But in any case, there was twitching and fretting from the aged one. I went around and unplugged anything on that side, turned off the lights and AC, etc. It was 6a, so it's not like we would have been able to get a call in an electrician right away. But there was a sufficiency of twitching and fretting that it probably would have been a bad idea for me to leave. Not to mention my visions of an electrical fire starting and her dying trying to carry out all her china teacups and then good luck to me trying to go home for Christmas ever again.

(Which makes me think: I haven't seen any fire extinguishers in this house. There are certainly none in my bedroom or in the kitchen. This situation needs to be remedied, and soon. This house is 50 years old and full of wood.)

(Which makes me think: 50 years old...shit, that probably means it's full of lead paint and asbestos insulation. I'm going to die stupid of lung cancer.)

(Which makes me think: No, love, if you're going to get lung cancer it'll be from the nine months you spent breathing tar fumes on the third story of Baton Rouge High. Suck on THAT for a while.)

Called friend, left message. Hoped desperately that he hadn't been forced to check his cell phone. (If you listen to music on airplanes, the terrorists will have won!) Called again 15 minutes later, explained. He was very understanding but I'm still bummed. I was looking forward to a non-fretty conversation.

We're busy trying to call an electrician to come out. Grammy was supposed to go to her day program today but someone forgot to alert the bus to pick her up. Instead she's home, alternately fretting and sleeping. She will go tomorrow. With a bit of luck (hah!), I will be able to handle both the electrician and the cable guy in her absence. (DP, anyone?)

I had a mug of tea and four gingermen for breakfast.

At least it's only the power on half the house, which means I can still use my computer without worrying too much about the battery running out.