flowers of apology & dogged lies
Thank you all for your concern. It's nice to know that in a pinch I could email any of you to call 911.
Which is a good thing to know, because the saga continues. . . .
The next night Robin and JD knocked on my door bearing flowers, apologies and excuses: Robin is on medication and really shouldn't have been drinking, but it was his birthday and so, you know. . . .
Yes, I do. And Fred does. And so do the police, the neighborhood and now, the blogosphere. We all know.
The flowers are pretty, but as predicted, they have outlived the peace, because the very next Monday there was a repeat of the yellingbangingslammingscreaming, though this time at 2 a.m. and thankfully, not on my door, which is the only reason I didn't repeat my call the police.
When I saw JD the next night, I asked if Robin had celebrated another birthday.
What?
The yellingbangingslammingscreaming?
Huh? Oh! No, that was me and my friends.
Mm-hmm. (Me, purse-lipped and eyebrow raised.) As it turned out -- Can you believe it? -- dogs chased JD and his friends down the street as they were coming home from the bar. Dogs! Big, mean, dogs, with snarly mouths and wicked teeth and generally unpleasant dispositions. Robin wasn't even with them.
A few hours later, I saw Robin, beaten and scabbed up like he'd run into a brick wall with his face, which is precisely what he said he'd done (highly possible, possibly doubtful), and he apologized again -- not for the ruckus after the run from the dogs (because, of course, the dogs don't exist anywhere but in JD's convoluted fabric of lies which he thinks I actually believe, not that Robin was there anyway), but for the demons that haunt him and cause him to drink and then subsequently stumble face-first into walls thereafter to be followed by the yellingbangingslamingscreaming -- a feeble exercise in exorcism. He just can't help it. But this last bout was a sign from God, he said. He can't drink, he said. He knows that now.
Apparently, everyday is a birthday for Robin.
And apparently, God's being free and easy with the signs, but as with all things God, the meaning is left wide open to interpretation.
I see the signs, too. And my signs say to meet with a real estate agent. This week.
\Ope\, v. t & i.
To open.
Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know What rainbows teach and sunsets show? [Poetic] -- Emerson.
Jill! Jill! Ope! Ope the door! [Inebriated] -- Robin.
(dictionary.com)
Which is a good thing to know, because the saga continues. . . .
The next night Robin and JD knocked on my door bearing flowers, apologies and excuses: Robin is on medication and really shouldn't have been drinking, but it was his birthday and so, you know. . . .
Yes, I do. And Fred does. And so do the police, the neighborhood and now, the blogosphere. We all know.
The flowers are pretty, but as predicted, they have outlived the peace, because the very next Monday there was a repeat of the yellingbangingslammingscreaming, though this time at 2 a.m. and thankfully, not on my door, which is the only reason I didn't repeat my call the police.
When I saw JD the next night, I asked if Robin had celebrated another birthday.
What?
The yellingbangingslammingscreaming?
Huh? Oh! No, that was me and my friends.
Mm-hmm. (Me, purse-lipped and eyebrow raised.) As it turned out -- Can you believe it? -- dogs chased JD and his friends down the street as they were coming home from the bar. Dogs! Big, mean, dogs, with snarly mouths and wicked teeth and generally unpleasant dispositions. Robin wasn't even with them.
A few hours later, I saw Robin, beaten and scabbed up like he'd run into a brick wall with his face, which is precisely what he said he'd done (highly possible, possibly doubtful), and he apologized again -- not for the ruckus after the run from the dogs (because, of course, the dogs don't exist anywhere but in JD's convoluted fabric of lies which he thinks I actually believe, not that Robin was there anyway), but for the demons that haunt him and cause him to drink and then subsequently stumble face-first into walls thereafter to be followed by the yellingbangingslamingscreaming -- a feeble exercise in exorcism. He just can't help it. But this last bout was a sign from God, he said. He can't drink, he said. He knows that now.
Apparently, everyday is a birthday for Robin.
And apparently, God's being free and easy with the signs, but as with all things God, the meaning is left wide open to interpretation.
I see the signs, too. And my signs say to meet with a real estate agent. This week.
\Ope\, v. t & i.
To open.
Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know What rainbows teach and sunsets show? [Poetic] -- Emerson.
Jill! Jill! Ope! Ope the door! [Inebriated] -- Robin.
(dictionary.com)
posted by jill at 4/01/2006 04:08:00 PM
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