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I Don't Have to Leave Home...

I'm back to kvetching again. The big joke running here is that I never have to leave home for drama to park itself on my doorstep. I guess the reclusive almost totally deaf author bit really piques people's curiosity, accounting for strange visits. I never have to go online to pick up men - they seem to materialize in front of my door without any effort whatsoever on my part. Literally.

In a very small village, I meet fuckable men who visit from out of town. That's how I met my ex-boyfriend, the rare time I left the house. It took only two seconds before the guy ran over to me and the rest was history. At least he courted me. That's before my rare deafness shifted and worsened.

Dating, now, is a difficult matter for me. I loved dating. Those intimate dinners, movies, theatre, conversations to see whether we bond or not. Today, I can barely tolerate any sound due to my neurological deafness which means I don't venture out that much. To make matters worse, my ability to understand what people say has considerably digressed this past summer. Something I can no longer cover up with lip reading. It's noticeable now. Not even smiling or nodding can disguise the fact that I'm deaf as a haddock. It does render comic moments in the few, fleeting conversations I attempt. To people who don't know me, they find my responses off the wall and shake their heads, Yep, she's eccentric. Sadly, what I have is incurable, untreatable and permanent.

I'm okay with it. Listening's over-rated. It frees me from getting emotionally involved with the few men I interact with. Hell, it frees them up postcoital: they love to disclose their innermost feelings and thoughts believing I only catch a few words. Even so, I wish they would not tell me this stuff from their psyche. It's rather alarming. Sometimes it scares the shit outta me. What they don't understand is that in a closed, quiet room with no sound other than their voices, I can hear. For a limited time as it's quite an effort to focus over my tinnitus. Although that fails when other sounds are present. Or when I get tired of listening to the plumbing of their souls that's best left with a shrink.

Did I happen to mention that listening's over-rated?

Which leads me to a recent encounter with my dedicated FedEx driver. To the avid follower(s) of my blog, you know that I swam naked twice with the FedEx driver and slept with him once. It was mutually agreed this was a one-shot deal. Since then, I saw him three times: he u-turned at The Bake House when he saw my 15 year old jalopy with the three duct-taped bandaids on the bumper in the parking lot, he almost collided into me head first on the local highway and last week delivered a package and left. It wasn't awkward at all. I felt confident that he moved on as I did.

Well.

I should've learned from a one-night stand that continued intermittently over 7 years that men don't agree to the one-shot deal. That's kinda common in my life. The penultimate one led to a four year on and off relationship which ended with him setting my house on fire. You'd think at this age I learned something?

Nope.

Saturday late afternoon I decided to hole up in my bedroom to take a power nap. I spent the morning with my girlfriend who took me to the supermarket and I did the typical exasperating Home Depot run where no employee knew where anything was located. The auditory overload exhausted me. Armed with my Macbook Air 11" (I'm too in love with this product and stated several times that the only way it would leave my side is when I'm dead, having to pry it from my cold, clutched fingers), I slid under a down quilt on top of the bed covers and shut my eyes. Almost immediately, I heard a sound that didn't stop.

I don't have the ability to discern sounds should I even hear them; I don't know what they are or their location. I've mono hearing now with one 'good' ear and my sonar is gone. Should I close my eyes and hear a noise, I'd have no idea what the noise is or where it came from. That's quite maddening. After certain incidents this past year, such as when my rear tire blew up while speeding on the highway and I didn't hear it, I decided to compile two lists earlier this summer of the things I can't differentiate. Sort of a safety check list so I don't die of unnatural causes. These sound the same to me as per group:

Group One of Strange Noises that Sound Alike
Running tap water (faucet and bath. For some reason, I hear music from the shower whether in it or not which is funny as I don't understand music anymore as it's mostly discordant sounds. Go figure.)
Wind
Cooking/burning/boiling
Rain
Waves lapping against shore (I live on a lake)
Leaves (rustling in trees, leaves on the ground)
Papers moving (turning pages in books, magazines, newspapers)
Fire (in fireplaces, bonfires, burning leaves, house going up in flames, meat in the grill)
Heaters (baseboard, Edenpure, waterheater)

Group Two of Strange Noises that Sound Alike
Knocking/pounding at the door
Footsteps
Hammering of any kind (construction work done across the lake, doors shutting, windows shutting, cavorting deer, maniacs breaking down the door of my house)
Explosions (fireworks, town trucks backfiring, left rear tire exploding, birds kamikazying into my windows, Hasidim boat renters who slam into my dock, a customary summertime experience)
Anything that can drop (iphone, laptop, pictures off walls, inexplicable thuds, trees, branches on the roof, acorns on the roof)

That kinda sums it up for now until I finish composing the other groups. What a great learning experience. The noise that woke me up fell into Group Two of Strange Noises that Sound Alike. Figuring it may be a life-threatening sound, I got up from bed and walked around the house snooping to make sure that nothing fell off the walls or that a tree didn't fall on the kitchen. Still, that hammering noise continued. I went to the front door and no one was there. Tired of walking around, poking my nose all over the place, I shouted, "Is anyone there?"

I didn't hear a response. As if. I then decided to check the little-used back door. Lo and behold, it was my dedicated FedEx driver. Embarrassed, I didn't want to ask how long he spent knocking. Instead, I asked, "I got a package?"

He hemmed and hawed. "Well, no."

I rolled my eyes and opened the door to let him in. "What's going on?" and headed back to my bedroom with him in tow. I sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed and he sat across from me on the chair. He couldn't meet my eyes. "Listen, I'm not precisely in a good mood. I got a spate of bad news that I'm trying to digest." It's true. A lot of stuff recently occurred and once I sort it out I may blog about it. It ain't good.

He said, "Well, I'm still working, but I thought..."

"I thought that was a one-shot deal," I said. "I'm perfectly okay with it. You don't have to, you know..." Now the awkwardness kicked in. Then I figured, hey, ten minutes may distract me for a while. "Okay," I said.

It took him nearly a nanosecond to strip down. With a giant smirk on his face. I sat cross-legged on the bed watching him. Standing naked in front of me, he stared back. Then I got up and stripped off my clothes. This time it wasn't fun. For me. He still had that giant smirk on his face. At one point, I put my hand over his face and said, "Stop smirking." He laughed.

After he washed up (that got to me: his familiarity with my house, my bathroom, my towels, my body), I was already dressed. "I thought that was a one-shot deal," I said while he got dressed. "Is this gonna be an on-going thing with you?"

"Well..." he said while avoiding my gaze. "It depends upon my emotions."

Heavens to Mergatroyd! After the second time, I knew that once was enough: I was already bored. There wasn't anything of substance, no emotional or intellectual connection. For me. To make this a recurring habit just didn't warm the cockles of my heart. I saw the future and it didn't bode well. I've been down this road before. Which makes me wonder about myself. I never learn. It's my reckless nature.

When I was 22, my next-door neighbor at the time, in her late 80's said to me numerous times, "You see an old lady in front of you. But inside, I'm still a young woman."

She had a point. Similar to her, I'm still a young woman inside. A giddy, reckless young woman. Sooner or later I have to come to terms that I'm three years shy of 60. Futzing around with guys 30 years' younger than me comes with a price. They don't understand that for me, it's only futzing around. I watch them sink into emotional dependency, fanned by the flames of my kindness and politeness. Mom did teach me to be kind. I have no vested interest in them. Hell, I have no interest outside of bed. Which only inflames them further. It's a vicious cycle with which I'm all too familiar. And I step into it because I'm reckless. Yes, I should know better.

Besides, I receive from time to time FedEx packages. I want to receive them intact.


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This blog and its posts are a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.































1 comment:

Mary Paddock said...

I have to tell you. This is one of those entries that makes me laugh and hurt for the writer all at the same time. You've made a connection with this reader, if that helps at all. You rock, Maura.

Just this side of sixty? Somehow I didn't see that coming. I don't know why not. I am just three years shy of fifty (wow, that looks strange in print) and am hip to the body and mind being two different ages.