I have a broken heart. Romanski hasn’t called. He hasn’t written or even emailed me. I’ve been mopping around the house…waiting…hoping. If you missed my previous post, Romanski is a handsome Golden Retriever I met on my recent trip. I’ve been in such a funk it was noticeable to the Geezer. It usually takes an anvil to fall on him before he notices such things.
“Sandy, what’s wrong old girl?” he asked.
“Old girl, aren’t you calling the kettle black?” I retorted.
“My aren’t we touchy today. That’s just a term of endearment, Sandy. I’m not really saying you’re old.”
Humans have the weirdest way of communicating. “My friend,” certainly would have been a more appropriate way to address me. We females are sensitive about being called old. Homo sapiens have hundreds of ways of nibbling around the edges of what they want to communicate. In Doganese, Woof is Woof, Arf is Arf, and Grrrr is Grrrr. Why complicate matters? I started to lecture him on the value of concise clear conversation, but I didn’t have the patience to deal with human mental deficiency at the time. Besides, he’s been subjected to so much rhetoric from TV political ads and programs I’m sure his mind is warped and has contracted into a protective shell. One needs a bull-shit deflector to stand anywhere near a television that’s operating these days. I decided to give the old codger a break.
“I know you weren’t trying to offend me, Geezer. I’ve just been a bit upset and disappointed lately,” I said.
“Really? I’m sorry to hear that. I hope it’s nothing I’ve done.”
“No. It’s something you had nothing to do with.”
“Do you mind me asking what it is?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I lied. I really did. It helps to chat about your emotional issues even if you have to do it with a human…male.
“You sure, Sandy? One of the only good things about getting old is that you’ve experienced enough to give good advice. I certainly qualify as old.” The Geezer was using his most fatherly tone.
“I don’t need advice as much as a shoulder to cry on.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Remember when we stopped at the Welcome Station in Tennessee? I met Romanski, remember him?”
“I’m so sorry.” The Geezer had that, ‘oh, that’s how it is,’ look he gets occasionally. I just plain don’t like that look. He noticed I wasn’t impressed and quickly changed his expression. “He hasn’t called?”
“No. Not a word from him in any way. He seemed so sincere when we strolled around the parking lot. He made so many promises. Anything I said I wanted from life, he did too. Romanski looked into my eyes and told me it was one of those one- in-a-thousand love-at-first-sight things. I believed him and poured my heart out to him. Now……..”
“Sandy, don’t feel bad. You’re not the first lady, or for that matter, man, that’s been led astray in a parking lot or just while parked.” The Geezer shook his head sadly. “Those are what I call Parking Lot Lies.”
“Well, at least I wasn’t the first person to be told what they wanted to hear so a scum-bag could try to get what he wanted.”
“Gosh, Geezer, Romanski reminds me of one of those politicians I hear you listening to on TV.”
“That’s exactly right, Sandy! They’re both trying to screw us!”