Natalie is coming to town in a few days and called tonight to see if she could stay with me.  Of course I agreed.  I don’t get to see Natalie much and she’s always stays here anyway.

 

“OK, I’ll be getting in on Wednesday, so we have Wednesday and Thursday nights and I’ll probably stay Friday night as well.”

 

There was an ominous pause. 

 

“But on Friday night, you and I are going out.  I mean it this time.  There’s no fucking way I’m going to spend another weekend in Toronto and NOT go out.”

 

“But I just fixed the place up!” I bleated.

 

“We’re going out on Friday night,” she said through gritted teeth.  “We… are… going… out.”

 

“Out?  Why go out?  I’ve got everything that we need here – an ample supply of canned goods, survivalist periodicals, TV – what more could you ask for?”

 

“We’re going out,” she repeated implacably.

 

“Why?”

 

“Because you’re a fucking recluse.”

 

“I’m a writer…” I began huffily.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, wake up and smell the coffee!” she interrupted impatiently.   “You’re a frigging agoraphobic with a couple of cats.  That you talk to.” 

 

In fairness, she may be on to something.  I have no objection to going out – I’d like to find a nice pub with a fireplace and soft armchairs – we’re looking into collaborating on another venture and we have a business plan to create.   But I don’t think I’ll get far with that suggestion -- I’d settle for going to see a band or Kill Bill 2.

 

But with Natalie in this mood, I think I’m pretty much screwed.  The woman enthusiastically frequents local Disco Nights, for the love of God!  

 

Instead of the quiet night out I’d prefer, I predict that I will be spending my evening in some loud and cavernous club, risking my hearing and my dignity in the company of drunken yuppie alpha males and a shower of women dressed like Sheela Na Gigs

 

God help me.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

 

May 8, 2004

 

Well, Natalie has come and gone and she never managed to drag me out of the house after all. 

 

Thanks to a series of grand mal seizures I had the day before she arrived (prompted no doubt by the threat of exposure to the Bee Gees), every muscle in my body was pulled, my tongue was shredded and I was under the influence of a stupefying dose of anti-convulsive medication.  I could barely walk, much less do something as abhorrent as The Hustle.

 

Not one to dwell on her disappointments, Natalie got roaringly drunk.  This would not have been a problem (and was in fact initially quite amusing) but for the fact that fairly early on in the evening, she felt compelled to tell me what was wrong with my life.  All well meaning and mostly coherent, granted – but dire predictions of an eventual lonely death followed by the consumption of my corpse by the thousands of feral cats I am destined to own was a trifle depressing.

 

This was followed by her proclamation that I am the original Misanthrope and if I don’t watch it, I will be shunned as an eccentric curmudgeon albeit, apparently, with a truly impressive rack.

 

(I feel compelled to point out that it has been my experience that impressive racks by their very nature tend to attract admirers who are usually quite willing to overlook any peculiarities of personality.)

 

That notwithstanding, it’s apparently Time I Got a Man, something I am even beginning to hear from my mother.  According to Natalie, I am Hot Stuff and any number of men would be quite willing to complicate my life for me. Apparently baffled by my continued indifference to the world of dating, she even ever-so-gently suggested that I might want to give women a try.  (Thanks anyway.)

After reading this to Natalie, she hastened to say “I’m not saying you need to go out and get a boyfriend. God forbid. I pity the next man who crosses your path.   But for love of God and all things holy, go out and get your ticket punched before I’m forced to kill you.”

 

This is getting tiresome.

 

Did Dorothy Parker have to endure this sort of harassment?  Why does everyone think I’m a freak because I prefer solitude?  Am I odd because I find it more rewarding to linger over Shakespeare or write than stand around at some bar being lied to by a succession of losers who think my ears reside in my chest? 

 

So let’s get this straight: unless and until Gord Downie comes knocking, I’ll be fine on my own.  Got it?

 

Natalie accuses me of being a “sexual bulimic” and even though I counter with “well, it beats being a slapper”, she is not convinced.

 

Neither is my mother, which is really weirding me out.  When your ultra Catholic mother tells you in so many words that it’s about time you went out and got laid, it certainly gives you pause for thought.

 

Is the Pope my last refuge?

 

Only time will tell.

 

Till next time,

 

Morrigan