Tag Archives: zoey

The blathering idiot and falling

Love hurts

Love hurts

“Do you hurt yourself when you fall out of love?” Xenia asked.

The blathering idiot didn’t have an answer when she asked him a week ago, and he didn’t have an answer now.
It had always been the woman who fell out of love with him or maybe had gotten fed up with him, had her fill, and walked away, saying she had fallen out of love with him.

He did wonder now if Xenia asking was because she had heard something Zoey, Xenia’s mother. Had said.
Was Zoey falling out of love with him?

If so, what was he supposed to do? In the past – though there were not many of them, there were a few – the woman had announced it after the fall had taken place, saying things like: “It’s not you, it’s me.” Or, “I think we should spend some time apart.” This type of announcement usually came after they had already been apart a month.
In other words, the fall had already taken place and his heart’s shins were the ones getting barked.

“I hear that when you fall in love, that can hurt too,” Xenia said. “Has that happened to you?”

They were sitting in an ice cream parlor, the leaves already falling, but the temperature staying up. At least it felt that way to him. She had come back to the subject she had started talking about last week, just before he took her back to Zoey. He liked spending time with Xenia. She usually didn’t judge him, or at least didn’t judge him too harshly.

He had to think about that, too. Had he fallen in love with Zoey or had they just sort of got along well enough to stay in each other’s company – at least some of the time?

The blathering idiot felt a sudden desire – a pang really – to call Zoey and say with as much force as he could muster, “I love you!” Blurt it out even before she said hello.

Yes, that’s what he would do. He wouldn’t think about it anymore: he’d just do it.

Right now.

He’d just do it: right now. In person!

He bolted up from the chair, knocking it over. “Come on.”

Xenia had not finished her sundae. She brought a spoon full of sundae up to her mouth, and said in a muffled voice: “Where?”

“You’ll see,” he said.

They walked west and as they got closer to the house Xenia lived in, she said, “It’s too early to take me home. Mom’s still studying.”

“This will only take a minute.”

“No,” Xenia said. “You don’t understand. Mom’s studying.”

The blathering idiot stopped outside the gate at the end of the sidewalk that led up to Zoey’s house.

He paused and looked at Xenia. She was frowning and he thought he saw some sweat on her forehead.

“Is she … ah … studying with somebody?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what exactly?”

Xenia looked away for a moment, then looked back at the blathering idiot.

“She … ah … told me not to tell you this.” Xenia shifted from one foot to the other. “But she’s sleeping.”

“Sleeping?”

“But you were asking me about falling in love and falling out of love.”

“Oh, that. That’s ’cause I sleep in a bunk bed and I keep falling out and hurting myself. I told Mom it’s because I keep having bad dreams. Mom says she can’t wait until I’m old enough to fall in love. Then, she says, I’ll really have bad dreams and hurt myself.”

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The blathering idiot and politics, part 2, mascot

Lydia walked up the blathering idiot and said, “We have a problem.”

The blathering idiot had been sitting quietly in a folding chair outside the small conference room in the storefront headquarters of the Pro-Accordion Party. Lydia had told him that his being selected the new PAP candidate was just a formality.

The simple formality had been going on for over two hours now, behind closed doors, with voices raised and what sounded like fists pounded every now and then.

The door was finally back open and Lydia was now standing and then sitting beside him, telling him there was a problem. This did not sound good for him going back this evening and impressing Zoey with his new-found status as candidate for high office, the highest office in the land, in fact.

“It’s like this,” Lydia said. “I didn’t anticipate that there would be a faction of the Pro-Accordion Party that believes we need to hold another nominating convention and nominate our new candidate that way.”

While he could understand the faction’s desires in this area, he also felt disappointed. I guess that showed on his face, because Lydia placed a hand on his arm as if cheer him up.

“The fight … I mean … discussion is not over yet.”

He nodded. He wasn’t sure if there was something he was meant to agree with.

“There is one thing you could do that would help and also bolster your chances of being the next candidate.”

“Name it.”

“We need a mascot,” she said.

“A what?”

“The other parties have mascots. One of them has a donkey. The other an elephant. We need an animal mascot. Other third parties that have tried to break into the election world have failed because they don’t have a mascot, an animal that people can readily identify with.”

“And if I find one—”

“Then I’m sure you will be the new candidate for the Pro-Accordion Party.”

The blathering idiot immediately headed out to find a mascot. But first he had to go to play golf. He had promised Xenia, Zoey’s daughter, a round, and since golf seemed to be a game the winners of the election were expected to play, he took it as a sign that he was destined for this highest office because he had, two weeks ago, scheduled this event. Or, rather, Xenia had scheduled it with him.

#

Sir Goony Golf

One of the holes at Sir Goony’s Go Karts and Minigolf. The snake is not the mascot.

Sir Goony’s Go Karts & Minigolf: Now Open Daily was bracketed by Prodigal Son Primary Care on one side and Exodus Chiropractic on the other. It was a slopping landscape of grass, concrete, fake grass, and fiberglass: rocket ship, Humpty Dumpty lokk-a-like, giant ape, and a very big, yellow, polka-dotted snake that arced above ground in a couple of different spots.

“So,” Xenia asked, “can this animal be dead or does it have to be alive?”

The question, coming suddenly, caused the blathering idiot to hit his ball too hard and it bounced around inside the small blue shelter, but did not go into the cup.

After thinking about a minute more, he said, “I don’t think they’ll be parading a live version animal around the campaign trail.”

He walked inside the structure and scrawled on the wall were the words: “Rich Folk Ain’t Bad if U Cook Them Right.”

Rich folk ain't bad

Rich folk just can’t catch a break, except maybe in the kitchen. These missionaries of wealth and just like the missionaries of old who might have been eaten by the cannibals. But like the cannibals, the poor gotta eat somethin’.

“Well done,” he said to no one in particular.

Xenia stared at him for a moment, then moved up to take her shot.

At the next hole, the blathering idiot dropped his pencil. It rolled into the grass and as he bent over his shirt hiked up and his pants slumped down. He quickly straightened up and did his best to make sure Xenia didn’t see his red heart underwear.

She looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you ready for the tough campaign question?”

The question startled him again and he messed up his shot. The shot bolted into the fiberglass cave and ricocheted off the bumpy walls and one stalagmite. He had yet to break par on any of his holes. He hoped the tough question wouldn’t be about his golf game.

He turned and looked at this ten year old who was sometimes his ally in getting along with her mother and sometimes his general tormentor.

“And what question is that?”

“Do you wear boxers or briefs?”

“No.”

“Yes. Mom said that question was asked of guy who ran for this office.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

Zoey, Xenia’s mother, was not above a little bit of humor, but somehow this felt like a real, true question.

“And what did he say?” the blathering idiot asked.

Xenia shrugged her shoulders. “Mom didn’t say. I wasn’t supposed to be listening to the conversation anyways.”

The blathering idiot sighed.

“So, what would you say?”

The blathering idiot messed up his second attempt to get the ball in the hole in the cave. The hole was up a slight mound, like a big ant hill. Since it was a small cave and open at both ends, there was enough light. He never remembered seeing a hole like this on TV when they played golf.

He walked back out of the cave, past Xenia, but did not answer her question. What was next to his body was nobody’s business, up to and including even if he was going without any. Something he rarely did. This campaigning might be harder than he thought.

“You’re turn,” Xenia said.

It was then, as the blathering idiot came out of his deep thinking, and was pivoting to head back into the cave that he spied the mascot for the Pro-Accordion Party. It was standing right there beside, big eyes, sort of a cryptic smile on its face, and it even, already, had a red, white, and blue striped hat on its head.

(To be continued, more or less.)

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The blathering idiot and Internet dating

The blathering idiot and Zoey had decided to see other people. Well, Zoey had announced she was going to see other people. The blathering idiot saw other people every day, but that was not what Zoey meant. Reluctantly, he tried getting dates. Less than reluctantly, the women refused, some politely, some derisively, some laughing so hard they had tears streaming down their cheeks and nothing else to say. And those that did say something polite usually said that it was not about him, but about her.

Eventually, the blathering idiot turned to dating web sites such as “Oui, Hook U Up,” or OHUUP for short. Their tag line was: “We put the We back in Oui.”

For several weeks he logged in, and talked with several women, exchanging e-mails, photos, even details of things liked and things he wanted to do and try. But he was not able to get a date. At the last minute, they would have a reason why they couldn’t meet, even for coffee or a soda.

But they did keep suggesting he sign up for the Platinum Oui for a Week Club, guaranteed to get him Oui more attention.

He didn’t have the extra money for the POW Club.

He was feeling down, wondering what he was doing wrong, when he ran across Xenia at the downtown library. She was there with some of her friends and somebody other than her mother Zoey watching over them.

She asked how he was. He told her.

“Mom’s meeting some guy she met online.”

The blathering idiot nodded.

“Though I think she really misses you.”

In some ways, he missed Xenia more than Zoey.

“I think those web sites are bogus.”

He nodded.

“I have a friend whose dad tried several of them. He told my mom he was about to fly over to Russia to meet one he had chatted with online. But he began to wonder and after chatting with a few other women from the same site realized he had been talking to some sort of computer program.”

“Really?”

Xenia nodded.

“Said he was embarrassed to admit it, but didn’t want her making the same mistake. Said he thought about reporting them, but then looked at ‘that legal stuff’ he called it on the site and it said something about using staff members and bots to enhance customer satisfaction.”

The blathering idiot and internet dating

Some things are a (key) stoke of luck and some things are a (key) stroke of genius, and then some things are a (key) stroke too far.

When the blathering idiot got back to his computer, he logged into the web site, found his inbox had sixteen “oui notes” waiting for him.

Instead of reading them, he pulled up that “legal stuff” and though it was dull and at times difficult reading, he did find a section that read:

“OHUUP may, in its sole discretion, cause or allow you to be contacted by one or more Super Oui Profiles (“SOP”, “SOPs”) as a part of its “SOP” feature. A SOP may represent a person employed by OHUUP or an affiliate of OHUUP or an automated digital actor created by OHUUP. Nothing contained in an SOP is intended to describe or resemble any real person, and is included on the Website only for the personal enjoyment or entertainment of Users.

“Furthermore, SOPs are used to enhance your online experience, by (for example) stimulating communications with other Users, by introducing you to new or existing features of the Service, or by encouraging active participation on the Website. SOPs may also be used to monitor User activities and communications to ensure compliance with these Terms. In the event that the User responds to a communication from a SOP, the User may, but is not guaranteed to, receive one or more additional communications from such SOPs. Any communication between you and a SOP is for your personal enjoyment or entertainment….”

There was more, but he had read enough.

Another oui note showed up. And another. He glanced at them. Then he realized there must be some mistake. Something was amiss, or not really a miss. Somehow, he was mistakenly getting some woman’s “oui notes.” In this case, the blathering idiot decided, it was a not a bot her, but a bot him.

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The blathering idiot and poetry

The blathering idiot knew April was poetry month and he thought he could impress his on again, off again girl friend Zoey with a poem or two. But the month was running out and he had not yet thought of anything poetic to write, though he had taken the time to study some about poetry making.

Additionally, after the restaurant fiasco where he had waited and waited and waited for an employee to come and wash his hands because the sign in the rest room clearly said: Employees must wash hands, and this caused him to leave Zoey’s young daughter Xenia sitting by herself for over 30 minutes, which she then reported to her mother, well, his relationship with Zoey had cooled once again.

So, this was his chance, though a part of him was beginning to wonder why he should care.

He started with something at least a little familiar:

Roses are red and violets are blue
Your eyes are weird and you are, too.

The blathering idiot was proud to have gotten three rhymes in two lines, but the more he looked at the couplet, the more he realized Zoey would not appreciate his poetic efforts at assonance. At least that what he thought it was called. She would probably say he was just being one.

He then tried something that incorporated the month:

The month of poetry is about to end
The rains of April have been real thin.
A new month stands about to begin.
May nouns, verbs & rain come again.

Blatheriing Idiot as poet

Once upon a poem dreary....

There wasn’t anything about Zoey or love or stuff like that in that poem. He tried several more, and then several more after that. He tried haikus. He tried sonnets. He tried free verse and blank verse and some things to which he was adverse. Finally, in desperation, he tried limericks. First one. Then a second. And finally, he came up with one that wasn’t quite what he had in mind, but it did capture his mood, and might express to Zoey how he felt since she wasn’t talking to him much since the restaurant incident:

There once was a man from Nantucket
Who went on a dinner date and got stuck with it.
Not the bill, I say,
though that, too, came his way,
but the knife in his heart and the luck of it.

He read it and reread it and re-reread it, and then finally decided to put it in an envelope and mail it to her. He wasn’t from Nantucket – wherever that was – but she knew that. And while it didn’t directly mention love, love was there. And while Zoey wasn’t mentioned directly, she was in there, too.

He could only hope it wouldn’t give her too many ideas.

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The blathering idiot and cornucopia’s delight

“Why don’t we have pet names for each other?” Zoey asked.

The blathering idiot’s on again, off again girl friend appeared very concerned with the answer to this question. Unfortunately, he did not have one: answer or pet name. He did know that Valentine’s Day was coming, and being short of cash, he proposed this idea: “What if we give each other pet names for Valentine’s Day?”

Zoey nodded, then added, “But I think we should make it a little more sporting. We each come up with a pet name for the other person and whoever comes up with the best one, gets to pick his or her own pet name, which the other one has to use in public.”

“No matter what?” he asked.

“No matter what.”

The blathering idiot felt acid pour into his stomach and forgot to ask who would be the judge.

It was 48 hours to Valentine’s Day and the blathering idiot had no idea how to begin. Where did people get “pet names” anyway? Didn’t they just make them up?

The blathering idiot tried making up a pet name. He filled up pages and pages of names he scratched down and then scratched out. But the ones he liked best: indigo eyes and violet lips would have forced him to get a new girl friend and he didn’t think that’s what Valentine’s Day was about.

Cornucopia's delight

Terms of endearment

He pulled a dictionary off the library reference shelf, and frantically rifled through it, scanning and flipping pages as fast as he could. It was less than a day to V-Day and he felt the acid in his stomach was about to eat through his brain. Somehow, cornucopia’s delight, while different, was a little hard to say regularly.

Xenia, Zoey’s daughter, was at the library, and seeing the blathering idiot in such a lather, she took pity on him. She walked up to him and told she would give him the same list she had given her mother, a list she had printed off the Internet.

The list was in three columns, the first column with the names; the second column saying if was a female “term of endearment,” a male one, or both; the third column was for comment and usually had the word “caution” or words “explicitly suggestive” beside the terms that could be a problem. There were seven pages of these terms. The blathering idiot had no idea there were so many pet names (terms of endearment).

He immediately eliminated the terms cuddly wuddly, cutesy chick, cutesy pie, cutie pie (Did there really have to be two such ugly terms so closely related?), and cutie patootie. Anything that sounded like it might even remotely be referring to a body part would get him trouble.

He also eliminated sugar plum, sugar pie (What is it with pie?) sugar lips, sugar britches, sugar bun, and sugar booger because they all mentioned sugar, and Zoey had been complaining lately of being fat. Plus, to the blathering idiot, there was no way to make booger sound good.

Anything with baby in the phrase was also eliminated because she sometimes referred to Xenia as “her little baby,” which irritated Xenia no end. Of course, those terms with baby in them were the first ones Xenia suggested.

The blathering idiot also eliminated terms with flowers in them, especially buttercup, since it had both butter and was a flower. Zoey already had Xenia, and that was the only flower name she wanted in her life, unless they came in a bouquet.

The night before he was to meet with Zoey to decide who had the better “pet name,” the blathering idiot couldn’t sleep. He walked around his house saying all sorts of names out loud.

“Cherub?”

No. He wasn’t sure what that was, which probably meant he’d be in for it even before he got in to it.

“Bunny?”

No.

“Honey bunny?”

Definitely not.

“Love muffin?”

While he would love a muffin right about now, it being one of his favorite foods, it was still a food, and she knew muffins were one of his favorite foods, so he knew she’d be wondering if he was seeing her or a pumpkin chocolate chip muffin every time he said it. And truth be told, it was sometimes easier to picture himself with a muffin than with her.

Several hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, his voice hoarse and his thoughts a watercolor blur, he collapsed into a chair, the terms of endearment on the desk table beside him.

The next evening, dressed in a shirt, tie, and dress pants, he met Zoey at the appointed time in the appointed restaurant.

He wasn’t quite sure who should speak first, and he guessed neither did she.

Finally, she said, “Who should go first?”

The blathering idiot quickly took a sip of water, but then decided to get it over with. He first started off explaining everything he had gone through to get to his conclusion, but long before he was near his conclusion, Zoey was drumming her fingers on the table.

Finally, she said, “What did you decide?”

The blathering idiot quickly took another sip of water.

Unable to think of anything – he’d even left the list at home – he blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Cornucopia’s delight.”

Except it didn’t come out quite that way. Instead it came out “Corn and peas deli.”

Stunned for a moment, Zoey then laughed and laughed and laughed, but in short order told him that if he didn’t take their relationship any more seriously than that, she never wanted to see him again.

Just then a tray of muffins came by the table, and the blathering idiot decided he’d think about those for a while.

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