Displaced

I know I've mentioned before that I've had some trouble getting along with my upstairs neighbor, Betty Off Her Crocker (first blog appearance, I believe, towards the end of this very-long-but-hopefully-still-entertaining post). She's lived here almost two years and we didn't get along for the first year. Finally, something started to give, although I can't remember any more what that was. If vague memory serves, I complimented her outfit or something. Whatever. We finally started talking, haltingly. I still thought she was crazy, so I didn't want to get too close. I mean, I've seen Single White Female.

Fast forward some number of months. Betty has taken up gardening and has, in the past, snapped at me (*cough* theme *cough*) for dumping dead birds outside my window. You know. At 3:00 a.m. When my only goal was to GET IT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT. (Indoor cat owners: Keep them that way. Seriously. George has practically become a serial killer.)

Betty is quite proud of her efforts and the yard really does look nice. Wildflowers and tomatoes and god knows what else. Every time she asks me if I've seen Name of Plant That She Has Cultivated from Seed to Bloom, I have learned to brightly say, "Yes!" and then start spewing compliments. And then run back to my apartment. I was honest a couple times about not paying much attention to the garden -- I leave for work at 7:30 a.m. and I'm not a morning person; I'm sorry I didn't notice your asterium celery rose thistle but I'm doing well to be standing upright -- and her face just fell. So now, no matter what, I say yes. I usually do notice something pretty and just forget to say something, so I'm really only telling little ecru lies.

About three weeks ago, Betty and I decided to have a cookout in the backyard. She secured the food and I just gave her some money, which was awesome. (Grocery stores make me anxious.) I came home to find that she'd put a really pretty tablecloth over my table, placed candles strategically in the grass, wrapped colored lights around a tree, had the coals already going, prepared strawberries and gouda (my favorite cheese) as an appetizer, and bought these white chocolate ice cream bars that were divine (and I'm not a fan of white chocolate). She cooked burgers and veggie skewers and we talked for more than two hours. It was great and about 7/8 a date. (1/8 was claimed by Betty's heterosexuality. Tragic. I hear she was born that way.)

Last Wednesday, we decided to do another cookout. About two days prior, Betty mentioned she'd met a guy she was really into. On Wednesday afternoon, she called me and left a rambling message asking permission to invite the guy -- Chuck -- over that evening. I didn't have a problem with it. I honestly thought she was blowing me off because he'd asked her out on a formal date. I mentioned the change of plans to a couple different friends who both asked me what I thought about being a third wheel. Both times, I replied something along the lines of, "He was the third wheel. It was our evening." (See also: Lesbian mama bear; grr.)

I got the idea that things weren't going to go well when I walked into the backyard on Wednesday night and you couldn't tell anything dinner-related was going to happen. The tree lights were lit and a few candles burning, but no people, no food, no visible fire. I waited outside 10 minutes and then went inside to call Betty. I'd gotten home early and heard her and Chuck thumping around, so I knew she was home. I was afraid she was going to blow me off so they could do the horizontal mambo but she answered the phone and assured me they would be down in five minutes.

Mmhmm.

Five-ish minutes later, I went back outside -- keep in mind that I hate heat, so being outside my igloo makes me irritable -- and saw that some foodstuffs had arrived but there were still no people. At this point, it was going on 9:00 p.m. and as it was a school night, I was starting to get concerned about the time. (Also, I was starving-ass hungry.) It's best that I go to bed around 10:30 p.m. If I go to bed later than that -- at, say, 1:30 a.m. like I did the other night -- it can be pretty hard to function the next day and I need mah brane to be awake so I can write. I am nearly 20 years past the age where cigarettes, a Big Slam of Mountain Dew, and a Snickers can get me through any tough morning. Now I'm whiny if I don't have time to stop and get a latte before work. (I know, right?) This, coupled with the fact that I think I'm going to have to start brushing with a sensitive-tooth toothpaste, makes me feel more than two-boxes-of-candles old. It's like I should be cast in a reprisal of thirtysomething.

Anyway.

The Wonderfuck Twins came downstairs a couple minutes after I arrived. You could tell how much Betty liked Chuck.

Uh oh.

She was flustered and keep forgetting stuff, necessitating several runs up and down the stairs. Like I said, it was hot and she was in a long skirt and 3/4-sleeve blouse -- too much fabric, however gauzy, for a night where it's still 90 at 9:00 p.m. -- and she was tending an open flame, so she kept fanning herself with her skirt. As the evening progressed, the hem -- curiously enough! -- rested higher and higher across her thighs. It didn't get much higher than the average miniskirt, but she came outside looking Pentecostal and was campaigning to be the mayor of hoochietown an hour later.

"I washed my sheets this morning," she whisper-confessed to me when Chuck took care of grabbing a forgotten something from upstairs.

Uh oh.

During Betty's trips inside, I asked Chuck about himself. I found out he was 22 (Hmm. I think I'll plant a red flag right... here.) and that he worked at some technogeek store, which is where he met Betty. She needed a new charger for her phone and had met him and apparently asked him out. She's in her early 30s and knew he was young, but clearly hadn't guessed he was quite so new. When I was able to motion to her that he was 22 (she had asked me to find out), her eyes got uncomfortably wide for a second. I encouraged her to have fun with the situation. I believe my exact words were "Ride that train to its final destination." She just blushed. Okay, sheets washer. Pick an identity.

So we got through dinner -- same burgers and veggies as the first time -- but the energy was different. She was crazy nervous and she and Chuck were pretty much just talking to each other. He was nice enough but all I could smell was game. That said, I am automatically distrustful of boys -- too many painful interactions with them, most of them unrelated to The Gay -- and Betty is an adult, but I still had a feeling that things weren't going to end well.

Nearly everything Chuck said made me feel psychotically old -- like how a Green Day song that came out when I was 30 was something he'd danced to at his prom. I vowed to have a burger and then get inside so that the heterosexual mating dance/live taping of Wild Kingdom could continue without me. I held out long enough for S'Mores (not quite smorey enough considering they were essentially cooked on a piece of foil on the grill, but #fuckitmarshmallows, so whatever) and then got inside.

I'd only been outside an hour.

Chuck and Betty retired upstairs and proceeded to spend the next couple hours apparently dropping their shoes and throwing basketballs around. I have no idea what they were doing but it didn't seem like hookey dookey. I'd heard Betty, uh, entertain a guest once and it sounded different. I mean. I wasn't, like, um, listening or anything. I don't, um, do that. Much.

Whatever they were up to, Betty said it lasted until 6:00 a.m. I wasn't able to connect with her on Thursday to hear about the evening and our schedules didn't mesh during the day on Friday, so I texted her a few times throughout the day to find out when she was going to be around. Total texts: four. One of them was in reply to a text she sent me. One just said "OK." Four texts: not too many for one day.

(This is important.)

The final text I sent, a cheery "When are you going to be home? I want to hear about your date!" resulted in an immediate, angry phone call from Betty.

"Stop texting me!" she snapped. "Every time you do, I think it's him!"

Ohhhhhh nooooo.

"I'll just see you when I get home and I think you can tell what kind of mood I'm in!" And she hung up.

I've rowed this boat before. Long-time readers of this blog might remember The Date, a woman I was head over heels into years ago. I asked her to dinner, we went out, the evening ended with some accidental-on-purpose knee touching... and then she apparently fell off the planet. That all happened five years ago and I'm still crushed. Suffice it to say, I understood that Betty's anger wasn't really directed at me (but she still hurt my feelings).

Betty texted me a couple times after yelling at me (#wtf) and said that Friday was Chuck's day off and he hadn't bothered to call and I felt bad for her but... he's 22. And you put out on your second date. I gotta say that 'surprise' isn't the first emotion I reached for.

I haven't talked to her about the whole shebang (#freudianslip) and I'm not going to bring it up. I hope that the friendship we were building hasn't been dashed; I was starting to really enjoy her company. Even though our cookouts only have a 50% success rate. I'd still like them to continue. I'll just post a No Trespassing sign so we can chase away future pests. Maybe I can just get George to take Chuck down. Today: bunnies. Tomorrow: frat boys. What? It's good to have goals.