Do you want to shave my legs? My roommate’s girlfriend was questioning me from across the room. She came out of the bathroom totally naked. My roommate was at work. I was stoned so my judgement was thrown off. Her smile, and what I knew of her past, led me to believe she wanted to make whoopie.
It was 1982, sex, drugs and rock and roll were a big part of my life then. My roommate was a crack head. This attractive girl would run up the street and get it for him. She was fearless. That afternoon she taught me things you don’t learn in school. I was 24 and nearly a virgin. Twenty minutes passed and I was as wiped out as if I had wrestled a bear. There are events from my past that I wish I could forget, but this is not one of them.
The cycle of life and death continues all around me. The leaves fall and cover the grass that my father worked so hard for decades to maintain. Everybody who lives in this old house has to deal with the leaves falling down. It’s tempting to leave them there, but then the grass will die, and by March, the yard will be a brown muddy mess.
Although I don’t like the fall and winter, this year I am looking forward to sharing Thanksgiving with my roommate. We will see how many vegetarian dishes go well with gravy.
I used to have to keep a close eye on my dog, Louie. Whenever he got out without his leash on, he’d run out of sight and wouldn’t come back. I’d have to grab some treats and drive after him, and there’s something I hate about driving at a crawl down the street yelling “Louuuuuuie” over and over.
Then my new roommate moved in with her dog Daisy. Since Daisy moved in, I don’t have to worry about Louie straying too far from home anymore. He stays right by her side.
It’s good to know that the roommate situation has worked out for the both of us.
My niece/web editor asks me almost everyday, how’s the writing going, got anything good to post?
But, I haven’t felt like writing lately–I sit and stare at my pens and tablets, and then I go see what my new roommate is up to.
From going vegetarian, I’ve lost so much weight that my scale doesn’t know what to say. When I step on, it used to tell me “One at a time, please,” but now it asks, “Stephen? Is that you?” I never thought I would miss its fat jokes.
What do you do to keep writing when you don’t feel like you have anything good to say? How do you get back into writing when you’ve gotten out of your routine?
We have been painting, moving furniture, and going to coffee cafes where my old friend–now roommate likes to sip frozen coffee and work on her cross stich. She is particular about how to paint and her taste is different from mine. She has tons of little knick-knacky stuff which must have come from yard sales. She loves yard sales. She is here to help me, so I just sort of shake my head and swallow my tongue. She is a breath of fresh air, and my dog Louie is happy to have some good company as well.
I am sorry to say that making whoopie has not been a part of my life for far too long. My new roommate, a former girlfriend from twenty years back is over sixty, but she has retained her girlish figure.
I am no spring chicken either.
At the suggestion of a friend, I am going to offer her a massage with hot oils.
As they say, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I am ready to get back in the saddle again.