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Seething Cakes of Hatred

Making pancakes, as I learned at AP's birthday bash at the beach this weekend, is an unbelievably tedious chore. I don't know why I...

Monday, February 09, 2004

The Anti-Me

Have you ever met the antithesis of yourself? I am not referring to your polar opposite or someone whose personality strongly contrasts with your own. I am talking about the person you know you could never date. Actually, even the occupying the same room as this person for more than thirty seconds would require you to be heavily medicated. Everything about them makes you crazy. For me, this person is Josh.

Josh lives in a sterile apartment with four pieces of immaculate furniture and absolutely no clutter. The first (and only) time I visited him, he stopped me at the door and asked me to remove my shoes. Obligingly, I removed my shoes and asked him if mattered that I had been walking barefoot in the mud before I arrived at his apartment. The look of horror on his face as he bent over to examine my feet was highly entertaining. To me. Not him.

I then asked Josh where I could throw away a gum wrapper I had in my hand. He replied, "I don't keep trash in the apartment."

Incredulously, I asked, "You don't keep trash in the - - wait. So, you don't have a trash can under the sink or something?"

"No. I take trash outside and put it in the dumpster," Josh explained. "Sometimes I will gather three or four pieces of garbage and make one trip. You may set your gum wrapper on the kitchen counter until you leave. Then, if you don't mind, I may have a couple items for you to take down to the dumpster when you go," he told me.

So, I set a goal for myself to give Josh a heart attack before I left his home. I tried to force myself to get a nosebleed. I wished desperately for some saltine crackers I could munch as he showed me around. I couldn't wait to get into his bathroom and close my eyes as I urinated.

As the hospital - er - apartment tour continued, I kept thinking of that John Travolta movie, The Boy in the Plastic Bubble.. I know that I would never survive in such a spotless environment. The closest I ever came to living in a plastic bubble was the seven years I spent with M.

My poor ex-boyfriend. I am sure his patience was pushed to the limit sometimes. He had to put up with quite a bit of nonsense from me. I liked to scare him. I told him I gave away some of his deceased mother's crystal to one of my friends who was admiring it. (I didn't). I told him his car was missing from the driveway one morning. (It wasn't).

One Sunday morning we were having a conversation in our dining room. I was holding a cup of coffee and chatting with him when he suddenly stopped me.

"What is that," he asked, pointing to the dining room wall. "Is that coffee?"

I noticed several drops of brown liquid dripping down the dining room wall. Sort of near...well, exactly next to where I was standing.

"It wasn't me," I said, knowing I was far too clever for him. M. had no response other than to shake his head and mutter, "how do you get coffee on a wall?"

But M. accepted my mischief as part of the joy of having me in his life. Josh would never be able to tolerate me. I left Josh's apartment as quickly as possible, making sure to take with me three or four pieces of garbage for the dumpster. I vowed that if I ever had the chance to visit Josh again, I would make sure to bring a Venti Starbucks coffee (and a serious hand tremor).

The last time I had any contact with Josh was when I rented his beach house for a weekend. He claimed the beach house was furnished with a "fully-equipped" kitchen. Apparently, "fully-equipped" does not include silverware. Don't most people bring their own silver service when they rent a beach house for the weekend? Thankfully, there was a coffee maker and coffee filters, but, I had to stir my coffee with my toothbrush.

True to his claims, Josh had furnished the beach house with lots of beautiful antique furniture. The precious furniture was left to Josh by his dear deceased grandmother. So precious was this furniture, that Josh couldn't bear the thought of anyone but his dear deceased grandmother using it. So he posted signs in the house that read, "Do Not Sit In This Rocker" and "Do Not Use This Vanity Table". This was worse than the plastic bubble.

Josh and I will probably never see each other again. We are simply NOT made for each other. I probably won't be invited back to the beach house either. No, I didn't spill any coffee on the wall, but I couldn't resist the temptation to post a sign on the front door as I left.

"Welcome to my beach house. Grab a toothbrush and stop looking in my dead grandma's mirror. "

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