bumper crop

Yep, here I am, holed up in my room with the dogs for the fourth night in a row. I've admitted defeat. The fucking bats can have the house till they're done with it, I'll just stay here from dusk till dawn every night, emerging only to pee (which I have to freaking do every 30 minutes or so), fishing net in hand, creeping hunched over in case a bat flies around the corner at me.

At first I thought I'd try sleeping on the couch with the lights on (bats are nocturnal--they hate light, right?), the A/C cranked up (they hate cold too, right?) and avoiding the upstairs, which is logically where flying creatures should be. That didn't work. That experiment ended with me on the front porch in my p.j.'s at midnight, front door wide open waiting for a bat to find its escape route, dogs seizing their chance at freedom and running the neighborhood.

Back in the day, I'd just come home after tossing back a few bottles of liquid courage and chase the fuckers down, fishing net in one hand, oven mitt on the other. Notsomuch now. So here we are in the Batfree Cave, waiting for the damn bat babies to get their flying sense about them and successfully find their way from my belfry to the great outdoors. I broke down Monday and called the Bat Man (not to be confused with Batman), who'll be coming out to batproof my house for a mere 2 gazillion dollars. Worth every fucking penny.

Oh, and thanks be to The Man for making this outrageous expenditure financially feasible.

oh yeah, I still got it goin' on

Last week I met Deputy Joe for a few drinks at the friendly neighborhood tavern.

I hadn't talked to him since December, ever since I changed his entry on my phone to "Asshole" to remind me why it is not a good idea to stop by his house when I'm drunk and it's 2 a.m. (Because he has a girlfriend he's never bothered to mention.)

Since being un-deputized in the November election, Asshole Joe has been unemployed. He just started a new job and wanted to get together "to get my input on it."

Translated: "Let's get drunk, talk business and politics, then get naked."

He's my kind of guy, really.

He's also the first MIF* who'd learn my B.I.G. news. This is not, incidentally, a topic covered in popular maternity literature, unfortunately. I was trying to decide at exactly what point I'd tell him, when he beat me to it approximately 3 minutes after we sat down at the bar.

"Why aren't you drinking? Are you OK? Are you sure? Everything's alright medically? Are you pregnant?"

First of all, I love that people are that concerned about my health when they notice I'm not drinking.

Anyway, he took the news well (probably because there was no chance the twins are his). So well, in fact, that we ended up making out by the dumpster. Pretty sure if I'd asked, he'd have stopped by my house on the way home.

Unfortunately, I'm sober these days, and therefore could think of all the reasons why that would have been a really, really bad idea. (it was late, we both had to work, the girlfriend issue, and call me old-fashioned, but does it seem a little weird to anyone else to have sex while knocked up, with someone other than the father? Maybe it's just me.)

He just sent me a text saying we need to hang out again soon. WTF?


*Man I've Fu....um, Found in my bed in the morning