My Flock

Posted on Tuesday 28 October 2008

They are beloved, my flock. They hover on a daily basis, swooping in tandem one minute, alone the next. They are the sweetest of the sweet, the nicest of the nice. Believe me, I know how lucky I am to have such a flock. I kiss and tell each one of them.

Some days, however, a flock member acts out in a way that makes me glad that I am taking my time getting to know him. Taking a long, long time. Remember the multiple-month rule? Right, think longer than that.

Because, it seems, the flock is getting to know my living room couch quite well when they imbibe too much and end up here. Despite this, they still flock.

This past weekend, for example, RG Son came into town for a quick, all-too-short visit. I spent many moments explaining to several Hard Rock Improv comedians, multiple front desk security personnel and assorted bartenders that this boy was my son. MY SON! Okay? Okay.

Enter the former professional athlete flock member. We usually see each other on Sunday evenings, watch football at the beach bar, place a bad bet, and kiss goodnight. RG Son met him. RG Son liked him. Former professional athlete flock member liked RG Son. All good. Except that this past Sunday’s plans remained a bit vague after RG Son was safely deposited on a flight back to Cinci.

“What r u up to?” came the first text at 3 p.m.

“At home. U?” I answered.

And so it continued, and so it went, for hours–circular texting, if there is such a thing. In desperation, I finally called him twice and texted one last time, “R U getting any of my messages?” because his repeated texts all asked the same thing, as did my answers to his repeatedly asked question. No response.

At 9 p.m., I gathered the pup, put on sweats and a T-shirt (yes, it’s almost “cold” here right now), and congratulated myself on going to bed without having smoked a cigarette in two days or having drunk more than a single glass of wine.

Which was when the former professional athlete flock member called. Thoroughly trashed.

“Can I come over and watch the Series with you?” he asked, sounding just cute enough to say yes to.

“Where are you?” I asked, wondering how long I could stall him so I could put on jeans and a real shirt as well as makeup.

“At the valet,” he laughed.

Crap.

“I’ll be right down,” I laughed, sounding cheery but not meaning it so much. Sleep at 9 p.m. had sounded oddly wonderful before he had called. This should tell you where I am with my flock right now. Love ’em, but also love my alone time.

The second I met him in the lobby, right in front of the assorted security personnel to whom I had explained away my son as my son all weekend, the former professional athlete flock member decided this was as good a place as any to give me a huge kiss, as if we are…you know. Except we are not. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And he was drunker than I realized. Great!

I spent the next two hours watching Philly win another game in the Series I secretly don’t care about, but about which I tell the former professional athlete (Rays fan) and my Philly guy who is resurfacing tomorrow (duh, Phillies fan) that I do. All this as I got annoyed fending off the former professional athlete flock member’s advances and then texted my Monday night bartender/football watching/professional drummer/multiple ear piercings cool flock member that I am making chili for Monday night’s football game.

Sunday night ended with me tossing a blanket and pillow at the former athlete flock member and showing him the sofa as I shut my bedroom door behind me and the pup. He was fine with this because he was that done. I was not at all fine with this, but I figured it was better than sending his sorry drunk behind away in his car. I even told him this. Because that’s how I am with my flock members–brutally honest.

On a wing and a beer, they flock. On a prayer, nothing will change with my flock. Even as I know it will, even as each flock member makes me smile about what could come next. If only I would let it happen, which I am not ready to do.

One of these days, one flock member will swoop too close and tell me I have to choose. May that be many, many days away from now. Until then, there’s the sofa.

2 Comments for 'My Flock'

  1.  
    October 28, 2008 | 7:00 pm
     

    Let’s hope you never have to tell any of them to flock off…

  2.  
    October 29, 2008 | 4:17 pm
     

    You always have the option of answering the phone call with ‘pup and I are going for a walk then going to bed. Maybe next week’.

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