I’m closing in on the 10th anniversary of my divorce. Don’t worry; I don’t have a “get bitter” reminder set in Outlook. I had to ask myself how long has it been because yesterday I got hit on. I didn’t realize it until about three hours later. When it did dawn on me, I understood why I’m still single – I don’t know a direct hit even when balls are swinging in my face.
A week ago, I set my dining room ceiling fan on high and walked over to do dishes. About 15 seconds later, I heard a horrible noise and I watched the fan spin out of the ceiling and drop down. It was a Jerry Bruckheimer domestic moment. I could have been whacked, instead I had Palmolive soft hands while the ceiling fan settled a foot above the table, dangling by the extended electrical cord. As a closet tool-time girl, I got on a dining room chair and tried to fix it myself; however, with substandard triceps and a fear of electrocution, I opted to call the manager so the handy man could come and fix it as well as repair the loose, bathroom towel bar.
Our mothers taught us to put clean underwear on before going out in case we’re in an accident. When I know someone is coming into my apartment, I hide the vibrators, I make the bed, I do the dishes, and I clean the bathroom. When I came home the next night, I had a towel rack I could use and a ceiling fan that was not a lethal weapon.
The unit next door is getting flipped, so there are contractors in there doing painting, flooring, etc… Yesterday they were putting the finishing touches on the apartment as I did a few loads of laundry. When I was walking back from the laundry room, a 40-something Italian-looking man came out of the apartment as I had my hand on my door knob.
“Oh, miss. Hi. I’m Dave, the electrician that fixed your ceiling fan,” he said extending his hand out for a shake. “You were lucky you didn’t get hit, weren’t you? I think the fan is alright. It will probably wobble on the third speed, but just watch it and I’ll come back if it is a problem.”
I went into tool-time geek mode and told him how I tried to fix it and how I’d helped install ceiling fans years ago and had never seen anything like it.
My bathroom was the anticipated next topic of conversation. No man leaves that room with out mentioning the three classic, World War II venereal diseases posters I have hanging along with my “Prostitution Free Zone” sign from Richmond, Virginia. My sluts and ducks theme inspires conversation.
“I need to ask you about your bathroom,” he said. I expected him to state how creative and funny I was while I stood there with my clean sheets.
“Where did you get your toilet roll holder? I’d like to get it for the renovated units.”
I explained it was a gift from a girlfriend and it was at least five years old. “I think she got it at TJ Maxx,” I said.
He thanked me and repeated again, if I had any other problems, to make sure I called.
I went into my apartment, dried my hair, threw some makeup on and drove to my teen mentoring writing workshop. About 20 minutes into the drive, I realized, he had NO reason to check on his handy work or inquire about my TP holder. He was using all of that as an excuse to meet me. In my rental history, I’ve never had a cute repair man come by to make sure I was satisfied with the work in my rental unit. Yes, I’m an idiot that was hit on and didn’t even know it.
When my workshop concluded, I sped back hoping to catch Dave working hard. I was going to offer him a beer and retro fit some flirting back into my day. The next door unit was shut and dark. The guys had gone home. When I put my key in my deadbolt, I realized my bottom lock was locked also. I didn’t do that. Had Dave snuck into my apartment to raid my underwear drawer? God I hope so, because I need a few new pairs of sexy panties.
Everything was in its place in my apartment; however, I had no hot water. It was time to make another call…