“Hey Delta Dawn — what’s that flower you’ve got on?”
(Soz. This damn song is stuck in my head. And misery enjoys company.)
So what a difference a day makes, eh? Last night I was complaining of suffering from male PMS — “manstruation,” if you will. I was planning a Night In, complete with a pizza all to myself, a warm cat for a dreary and cold rainy evening, a pulpy, common novel whose title I cannot divulge for I have Humility, and much, much Chivas thanks to Mz. Patz from back Philly way.
Badjuju had an assignation with a Cute Boy. I believe we refer to him in this house as “#2,” not because he’s poopy, but because it’s best to keep accurate records of these things.
Melusine was off to Club Slut ostensibly in search of her Cute Boy. Read their respective diaries soon for updates on their lascivious exploits.
While your Marquis was going to lie about the house and mope pulchritudinously for no one’s benefit.
Then all of a sudden, and as Marcia Brady would have it, “something suddenly came up!” and I found myself skittling on down to the warehouse district for an impromptu evening of sin with a stranger.
(Yesterday, I was musing that I should like to become a male prostitute. I fear I’m not very good at it though. I forgot to get paid. On the contrary — I almost left without my wallet. Hmmph! Sign me up for Ho School!)
It’s about 11am Saturday morning and I’ve just returned through freezing, grim rain and potholes mimicking swimming pools in the road.
The black light in the porch fixture and the red foyer lights were still on. The heat is off and the house is frigid. Things seem to be exactly as I remember them when I left last night, untouched, unmolested.
What I’m saying is that I think I’m the first person home this morning. I think my house was empty last night. Unless the ladies arose early for cakes and pies at the caff, which is doubtful after a raucous Friday night, I think that we have become a House of Slut.
We've never offically closed the House Naming Vote, you know. At last count, it was a tie from all you lovely people who voted to name our house. 50/50 for “Manse du Boit” vs. “Château Bimbeaux.” Like this whole Bush/Gore thing, we’ve been hesitant to announce a winner, so close is the voting.
If my suspicions about the vacancies in this house last night prove true, I should think that would count as 25 electoral votes for the latter choice, “Château Bimbeaux,” wouldn’t you agree?
(If you haven’t voted, please do so now.)
Anyway, I am amused, if not exhausted. House of Slut. Château Bimbeaux. Ça c’est l'amoure! And so mote it be.
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