SHORT TAKES AND SUCH: Of Being a Thirtysomething Senior Citizen in a College Town, Amateur Boxing, & Sweet Hitchhikers

“You're young, you're drunk, you're in bed, you have knives; shit happens..."

- Angelina Jolie (1975- ),
Actress and Adopter of Orphans

* * * *

"If I can't dance, it's not my revolution."

- Emma Goldman (1869-1940),
Anarchist and Feminist

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- He's a regular Killer Diller, walking the streets towards sexual oblivion at three a.m., a cackling buffoon of a bottle blonde in six-inch heels leaning into him to avoid slipping on the High Street ice.

Killer and blonde were, as is often the norm for the local undergrad population, overdressed for a night out in a town where the "nightclub" hot spots tend to resemble the mail-order-bride filled discotheques in some former Soviet republics.

And, being a college town with not a whole hell of a lot to do after dark, well, they were beyond hammered. At that all-too-common, black-out-and-horny point, the benchmark where responsible, consensual sex becomes merely a quick couple of grinds, a squirt or two, and a convenient amnesiac hangover a few hours later.

Like I said.

The norm in this here college town when the undergrads are the only creatures of the night making anything but sweet music.

I myself have been struggling to get a female friend to my pick-up. Not, well, because either of us were drunk and horny.

No, we were simply done for the night. And she needed a ride home. Her car died a few months back, and her new puppy was eagerly awaiting his late night piss in the snow.

We were supposed to be heading to a party afterwards but...

As we pass Killer and his red meat, I can't help but laugh. The blonde's got what looks to be piss running down the back of her leg - homegirl's so drunk, she's just letting it rip and asking Killer if he really thinks she's the sexiest thing alive.

As one gets older, wiser, more mature, one learns when "one more drink" partying often leads to nothing but a head over a toilet, or a dick in the wrong vagina, or worse.

Like "pissing yourself in designer, cunt-cutting leggings and being dragged home by a Neanderthal looking motherfucker" worse.

- MORE -

With a devastatingly fast left hook, the 175 pounder's nose burst like an overripe tomato.

Headgear, even top-of-the-line amateur gear, offers little defense against a natural murderer, a butcher of cordoned battle.

Trust me. Had my eye split open, had geysers full of red life pour from my own nose in the bouts - headgear ain't nothing but putting a quilt over a steak and waiting for the meat tenderizer.

The other fighter, a kid from a Catholic university down in Cincy, pure raw glistening ebony, could barely find a neutral corner - even he seemed to be surprised by the blow.

Crimson drops beget purple dots on the canvas. The referee began the count. The bell rang the end to the first round not a moment too soon for the Ketchup Kid.

Saturday night was fight night on the Local U. campus. And the local amateur boxing club managed to pull in a half dozen other collegiate boxing clubs for a tournament.

Murderers. Tomato cans. Killers. Bleeders and white-knuckled gloves and Everlast mouth guards galore.

Glorious! Hosanna in the Highest!

"I can't believe you'd go watch boxing over going to the Charter Day Ball," she said in a text, "I mean, you can afford $50 for a ticket...I could've found you a date..."

There were a few hundred of us, spectators to the Higher Education carnage, willing to pay a donation of five whole dollars to watch a good dozen fights that night.

"Boxing is so stupid... how can you watch that shit?"

Yes, boxing isn't a sport of civilized men these days. No, Americans have no stomach for anything but corporate-owned mixed martial arts and television wrestling.

We are CIVILIZED these days, CULTURED, SOPHISTICATES! That's why we clamor over celebrity gossip, reality television, and let talk show hosts pick the president!

- MORE -

"So, tell me," the lovely Czech hitchhiker began, green eyes aglow in the natural dusk light of the apartment, "You are... really from Virginia? Originally?"

"Yeah," the other woman said, lighting a cigarette, "[The Italian Ex-Fling] said you grew up a cowboy or... is it... country bumpkin?"

Two young European women, the Czech included, and their Afro-French traveling companion were crashing with me for what was supposed to be a night and a day - my apartment ended up turning into a bit of a hostel for foreigners for almost two days and two nights, due to winter weather.

We sat around in a circle as freezing rain fell on top of the snow outside one Sunday evening, smoking cigarette after cigarette. It was six at night, a few days after getting over the flu, and I was doing my best to be a good host - giving tips on roads and cities to avoid, offering insight on the places to eat, things to see...

I'm not going to lie. It was lust at first sight, on my end, in terms of the Czech.

As annoying as it was to have a bunch of twenty-something European hippie-ish strangers squatting in the ol' Fortress of Motherfucking Solitude, I admit to being smitten with the ex-fling's flatmate - didn't help matters that she liked to shower with the bathroom door open and wasn't fond of bras in my nipply-cold apartment.

Hey, it's been a while, dammit - and ain't no crime in, ya know, looking. Alas, she brought her boyfriend with her on their North American walkabout.

"Yep. Grew up on a farm three hours south of Washington, DC."

"Really?" The Afro-Franc chimed in, "We haven't been there yet but we're hoping to see Monticello. It's in Charlottes...town?"

"CharlottesVILLE. Beautiful fucking place. Jefferson, for all his faults, was really a fucking badass-"

Suddenly, the Czech sat up in her sleeping bag and started laughing.

"________ warned me you had a toilet mouth. Very American."

"Bad American?" I was flirting. "Or good American?"

"No," she seemed to be flirting back. "Very, just, I'd say more fun than I expected. You talk like a teenager..."

We talked for a good six hours straight, she and I, long after her traveling companions fell asleep.

And I think, yes, I laid it on a bit thick. And she was flirting right back. Czech women, for the record, are some of the most dangerously fascinating women I've encountered to date.

Dammit.

Or do piče, to be more precise.

Why did couldn't she have left the boyfriend back in Europe?

- # # # -

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: On Being One of Those Guys

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I'm one of those guys. I readily admit it.

Not that I really give a shit. Hell, it's my life and, well, I'll do with it what I please. I'm not much for doing things the proper way, anyway.

It's much more entertaining, actually, to be a complete and utter fuck-up.

* * * *

I fall in and out of love six or seven times a day, 365 days a year, seven days a week.

I can pass a woman on the sidewalk and fall madly for her in under 10 seconds, breaking myself free in under five. I can make eye contact, debate asking someone out, plan a seduction in my head, and then call the whole thing off without ever saying a single friggin' word.

There's that cashier at the Wally World, the one with the nice smile. She's probably no older than 22, probably a completely shallow girl with a mean-ass boyfriend, a closet full of skeletons and assault weapons under the bed.

But, well, she has this enchanting smile, this slightly asymmetrical way of acknowledging a man - her subtlety could melt the Devil's pitchfork.

I'll think about her as I drive home, wonder what's behind that smile, what's really underneath that blue department store apron, and... completely forget about her by the time I'm putting the frozen veggie burritos and the sugar-free cranberry juice cocktail into the fridge.

And then there's that skinny little thing I seem to always pass on the sidewalk as I stroll home after work.

It's the green eyes and the way her eyeshadow glistens in the sunlight, the way her bangs just cover that left eye slightly. She looks down every time I make eye contact, and, instantly, I begin wondering what her bedroom smells like, what kinds of things we may have in common, whether or not she could tolerate my obscure musical tastes.

And then I pass her, get to the door of my apartment, and forget the whole thing, only to be reminded of it the following workday.

And those are just the ones I remember.

Yup.

I'm one of those guys.

And it's not pretty.

* * * *

A server down at one of the ol' local watering holes grinned this impish grin as I closed out my tab.

She'd been observing my behavior as I sat at this table, surrounded by a group of unemployed aspiring high school teachers, all heavily intoxicated women, in Oxford Fucking Ohio for a statewide job fair at the Local U.

Every time she'd pass by, the server would shoot me the most curious looks as I tried to be polite to this one woman, a short brunette from Akron, who'd asked me to join the post-interview party.

At one point, the server even came over, bumped my shoulder with her hip, and made some reference to the fact that I'm often seen around Oxford in a cowboy hat. The intoxicated brunette then proceeded to ask me if this was true, if I was an actual cowboy, if I owned a horse, or if I'd ever been to a rodeo.

Annoying to no fucking end.

After the group left, I sat back down at the bar, went back to watching Jeopardy! and chatting away with some of the other regulars. When I got up to pay, my Cuervo - to - blood ratio thoroughly satisfied for the evening, I asked the server why she'd been shooting me the bizarre looks all night.

"I just dig your style. Very smooth."

"I have a style?"

"C'mon. Every guy has a style. Yours is just more entertaining. And that chick was totally into you."

I remember wandering down the alley, towards High Street, smiling probably the dumbest smile imaginable, my mind full of such strange, stupid thoughts.

"I have a style! And it's smooth! Holy fucking shit, dude!"

It's amazing how one remembers such things, even after several shots and about a half-dozen mixed drinks. And it hadn't even occurred to me to get that aspiring teacher's phone number, much less ask her name.

Yup. One of those guys.

Dense as a brick on the surface of Jupiter, as clueless and mysterious as the Bermuda Fucking Triangle.

* * * *

The Italian backpacker and I were sitting upright, naked and cross-legged, in the middle of the bed.

As she flipped through old copies of Esquire, asking me questions about George Clooney's personal life, about my opinion of America's Oxycontin epidemic and the Iraq War, I studied the mechanical and architectural renderings of my library renovation project, scribbling notes about camera placement, smoke detectors, and anticipated shelving problems.

Despite the lust and raw passion, I still had meetings to attend and deadlines to meet that week. My ultimate employer, the Ohio Taxpayer, wouldn't accept well, gee, I was in the middle of a damned tryst as an excuse for further delays, and my immediate supervisors probably wouldn't, either.

I was trying to balance way too many things at one time, on very little sleep. I had no desire to quit my job or give up on playing that Ugly American fling. Every afternoon I brought my work home with me, had sex with a wonderful woman, studied blueprints, and then fell asleep in between Southern European flesh and rolls of cold, heartless paper. My work - play - work routine apparently annoyed my free-spirited house guest.

Rather than just say something, she stretched out across the blueprints, back arched and yawning, and sprawled her nude body across my paperwork like some spoiled house cat.

In six hours, I was to attend an important meeting, to use those same blueprints, to pitch a security plan, one to help insure that my institution's patrons and collections would have some level of systematic protection.

And there was a naked body crinkling the broadsheets, covering the new private research rooms with breasts, scrunching up the main corridors with elbows and ribs.

She was, in the end, just being a 19-year-old on holiday, in some strange guy's house in some strange country, looking for attention. And I was just being, well, a guy.

At first, I protested. And then she did that swirling finger thing on my cheek. I tried to resist, to be serious, to be professional and responsible...

Quite embarrassing. And even then, well, I was too old for that shit.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Who am I kidding?

You know, I still don't care that there's some guy in Europe, some race car jockey, who may read this one day, put a "nice librarian I met in Ohio" story together with a relationship's ending a few months later, and want to blow my damned head off.

Hell, if he'd known how to read blueprints, had suffered through grad school, and had really neat old black-and-white movies in his villa, they may very well have stayed together...

* * * *

Yep.

I'm one of those guys.

And from what I've been told, only an idiot would ever expect me to grow out of it.

Any idiot, of course, includes myself.

- # # # -

AT HOME WITH THE ZENFO PRO: A Photographic Journey into Madness

The ZenFo Pro tests out his new used digital camera (left).

Note the gray tee shirt, as this indicates that the day this photo was taken was not a regular work day. The ZenFo Pro wears black tee shirts to work.

Just another guy, really.

* * * *

The paintings (above, right) are works done by the ZenFo Pro.

Live Oak, at far right, was painted using only fingers, cigarette butts, automotive primer, and the breasts of two former lovers, including the Italian Backpacker Fling last year. (Feel free to read Part 1 and Part 2 of that sordid affair.)

Err...

You know, turning a piece of plywood into a work of art using women's breasts does sound kinda hot, now that I think about it...

* * * *

The guitar, a 3/4 size acoustic (center, bottom), has been in my grubby little hands since my punk days. Paid $50 for the sucker in a pawn shop.

I've been picking on it quite a bit lately, channeling my inner Patrik Fitzgerald (samples at artist MySpace page) and butchering numerous classic punk songs.

What can I say?

I'm one strange dude.

* * * *

NOTE - Post partly inspired by the much missed Mizzy B and her groovy Bohemian influences on this blog, memories of Shayna's Half-Nekkid contributions prior to pregnancy, the Well-Dressed Librarian's classy at-home interview, and, of course, poor Steph taking one for the Swingin' Friends team in terms of free expression of sexual faux-pas.

- # # # -

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: HOUSEMATE TROUBLESAll Good Things...

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Okay, it's Friday. Thank God. Rough week. Many people may not be aware of this fact, but I do have a day job. And my little tryst was not scheduled into my day planner.

No, I didn't do anything immature, like take days off from work just to spend more time with my house guest. So I had to find a balance. I made a decision to sacrifice sleep instead - more on that later.

The bizarre post title? A combination of an obscure indie hip-hop song title (Housemate Troubles, MC Paul Barman) and the title of the final episode of Star Trek - The Next Generation.

Yeah. I'm a complete and total dork.

I can't stop making fun of myself lately. Stupid things. Of course, realizing that you can finally let go of a Holiday Inn's worth of cheap baggage leaves a lot of spare room for humor.

This is the final post on the subject. I don't want to leave another open-ended storyline in my life, because the whole fling thing didn't end that way.



BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 9:
Never Second-Guess Your Decision-Making Until After the decision's Been Made...

Monday night. About 3 a.m. We finally got to bed at two. Went for a really cold walk through Uptown Oxford.

I'm completely exhausted and yet I can't sleep. My alarm clock is going to go off in less than three hours, and I'm staring at the ceiling.

We finally got to bed at two. That sounds so bizarre. Too bizarre.

That's why I'm still awake, staring at the ceiling.

In less than three hours, I'm going to reach across another human being, probably kiss her on the cheek, and fight the urge to just stay in bed, despite having a shitload of work waiting on two separate desks in my office.

What the hell am I doing? Thinking such silly things? You know this is a fling. Why are you so damned uncomfortable? Are you uncomfortable because, well, you're just too damned comfortable?

With nothing to fill my brain, I make up a silly checklist to go through, to make sure all my bases have been covered.

You're not in love. Check. You're not even close to falling for your guest. Despite feeling like an ass for admitting it, check. Have you been honest and open and are you enjoying yourself? Definite check.

Are you using this girl for something...?

Long pause.

Fuck. That's not good.

I don't know. I don't think so. Am I? Am I too comfortable because I'm using somebody to somehow make me feel better? To build up some bullshit image of myself, like I did way back in the late 1990s? Was this all some part of subconscious, sinister plan? Did I make up my mind to pursue this when I was bandaging up her shin, wrapping her ankle when I knew it wasn't sprained?

Was I doing something that is completely and utterly against who I'm trying to one day become?

I had no clue I was actually verbalizing my thoughts until I rolled over and found somebody staring at me.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Shit.

"Do I look stupid?" She was not happy, didn't bother to whisper.

"Do I look like a doll or a toy?"

This was not the sort of outburst I was expecting.

"Why do you not just ask me what you want to ask?"

Without even thinking, I just blurted out something I've wanted to ask every woman who I've ever been involved with since I was 17.

What could anybody see...in me?

UI guess that was really what I wanted to ask. Now I'm really embarrassed. I look like a complete chickenshit.

Her answer?

Why not you?

She told me she liked how I made her feel. She told me she had had a boyfriend back in Florence and she didn't feel the least bit guilty because she was a woman and she was no man's property.

She said she made up her mind about what was going to happen while we were having dinner after I'd picked her up.

And if I was too selfish to think that she was here because she wasn't getting anything in return, then maybe I was using her. She said she could care less and said something about me sounding like a kid.

What the flying fuck? How dare you come into my house, climb into my goddamned bed, and call me selfish!

How the fuck can a woman be...so infuriatingly...right.

I guess she thought I was in awe or something, because P. stuck out her tongue, rolled over and went back to sleep.

Out like a light in under a minute. How are some people able to do that, anyway?

What she said, in its own jolting way, made me realize for the first time that I understood the how,what, where, when, and who that had gone into every single fling, romance, etc.

But I'd never bothered to ask the right why questions.

Why the fuck have you always treated these kinds of things like its one-sided, good or bad? Like you're the only one involved? That maybe the bullshit you build up is just that and if you just asked why more often, you might have some tangible answers.

Why have I never, ever been willing to look at myself as an attractive, decent guy, or admit the possibility that maybe every woman in the world sees me different and no two see me as the same and that I'm not always the only one with the answers to why?

I'd like to think I did what any rational man would do upon such a realization.

I rolled over and I fucking cried.

And then I fell asleep. And I felt just peachy after that.


BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 10:
There's Always a Place to Find Some Shelter ...

Monday...

Late for work. Had to run out and buy more Sanka and some baquette. (I've never seen a woman eat a whole loaf in one sitting).

Get to work. Have someone point out that I have a strange bruise on my wrist. Realize, instantly, that it looks like a hicky. Yes, a hicky. Roll sleeves down and hope nobody notices.

What am doing? Reverting back to middle school?

Go home for lunch. Don't actually eat anything. Too busy with other things. Two people ask me why I'm wearing a different shirt when I return. Explain that I had a wardrobe malfunction.

Tuesday...

Again, another day with only three hours of sleep. Had been forced, the night before, to play chess and defend my countrymen and women from accusations that everyone in the U.S. is simply exploiting the Developing World, that we're all evil and the bane of Italians.

My defense reminds me that I promised a guy a post. Bed by 2, back up by 5 a.m. Write post. Go back to bed. Rediscover, to my dismay, that I'm still ticklish.

Completely caffeinate myself to continue work. Dump a large coffee all over the carpet in the middle of a rather serious meeting.

Wednesday...

Early to work. 6:30 early. No major SNAFUs, so I'm able to leave on time to make the two-hour drive up to the Indy airport.

Find out another connecting flight has been cancelled. P. can either fly as far as JFK or spend the night in Indianapolis.

Go out to a late dinner with her friend, to whom she proceeds to explain every detail of our little whatever you want to call it. Forgot how open some cultures are with these kinds of things.

P. and I get a hotel roommate the suggestion of her friend. You figure it out. Sometimes, wealthy flings come in handy, especially at hotels that do take traveler's cheques.

I come within one simple "send" button click of e-mailing in my letter of resignation, leaving everything, and going to fucking Italy (passport was in my glove box.) Realize that's probably the most insane thing I've ever come close to doing.

Say goodbye. Not good at goodbyes, especially ones where I know its permanent.

She and I discuss a distance thing. Not an option. Probably best if its a permanent goodbye. If things were different...ages, places in life, etc. If we cross paths again, maybe in a few years, things could be different or, then again, maybe not.

So I made things simple.

I made damned sure that she didn't have to wait for me to kiss her back. In fact, I'm pretty sure that had to be the hottest kiss an Italian woman has received from a librarian since goddamned Cassanova walked the earth.

It was that good. I know, because time stopped. It's pretty easy to tell when one hits that special moment when a kiss is not just a kiss, the room spins a bit, and you'd be completely oblivious if the world ended that very moment.

I know it was that good because she completely forgot how to speak English. Italian for that matter. I'm not sure she was even thinking, just making sounds come out of her mouth.

I'd almost forgotten that I could do that. And that's the completely pathetic part.

Why?

Why not me?

And if you think I'm being arrogant or simply a braggart, you're probably right. If this somehow makes people look down on me, so be it.

Reading people's comments on the last few posts has really been a bit of an eye-opener for me; there's no way to express my gratitude (even to the poster who I had to delete.) It'll probably be a while before I post something this...er..lengthy, but I just had to get this off my chest. Lord, I guess I had to get a lot off my chest.

LOL...I'm so sleep-deprived, I'm rambling. Hope this comes out coherent.

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: More Broken Rules[Why I Don't Take in Strays...CON'T]

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Its been a while since I've felt the need to get hammered before I post to the Zenformation Professional.

Six pints of Labatt Blue, two shots of something called a Razmatazz, courtesy of some sorority girl who I guess thought I was cute or something.

I realized a long time ago, back when I was a broadcaster, that once one reveals a tad too much information on a public medium, such as a blog, one must anticipate and accept the ramifications of such a disclosure.

But I'm going to finish my last post, nonetheless. If there are librarians who think I'm being too unprofessional, fine. If there are local readers waiting for me to disclose the intimate details of my sex life, well, you're going to be disappointed - read between the lines, and you might figure something out. And if you're somebody who thinks this blog is somehow representative of my colleagues, the official position of my employer, or the like, you are a complete and utter dumbass.

This is, above all, a place to document my thoughts. If you think this was somehow intended to be a "Aren't Librarians Swell?" blog, well, you're in the wrong place.

I appreciate every reader. If I link to your blog, I can honestly say you are probably a thousand times the blogger I am. I encourage all readers to check out the so-much-more-badass blogs listed in the left-hand sidebar.

A special thanks to Beth (nonblogger ex who not only posted but had the balls to remind me of who I once was), Chris (Ms. Monkeythong, who continues to amaze with her nonlibrary librarian wisdom) and Liz (Library Tavern, thank you so much for being honest and calling me on some of my own bullshit.)

Now that I'm liquored up, I think I can continue ...



BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 6:
Never Have a Fling with Someone You Have Nothing in Common With...

Ever have one of those moments where you realize that you're so full of shit that you can't contain it any longer?

Worse still, have you ever had one of those moments when somebody refuses to put up with your shit and time almost stops? One of those moments when you have to choose betweeen completely letting go of your inhabitions and continuing on along the same dismal path?

Okay...maybe it's just me.

It hasn't been that long since I've kissed someone. It has, however, been a long time (eight months) since I kissed someone back without worrying about what the neighbors might think, work issues, or anything else, for that matter.

No self-conscious garbage. No time.

I had spent the last three years of my life trying to buy into the theory that being a professional information cowboy required me to draw a line in the sand dividing personal and professional life, separating work from play like a cataloger carves up a book into Library of Congress subject headings.

My professional life (I spend an average of 50-60 hours a week at work) had been sucking my personal life dry. A place like Oxford, a tiny town where having a personal life can sometimes spark rumors, simply amplifies things internally to near hysteria.

I can't blame everything on my career choice; personal baggage as contributed more than its share to my forgetting what it's like to get caught up in a moment. While I've had several healthy romantic relationships in my life, I've packed away tons of luggage carrying all sorts of things - I am proud to say I'm a survivor of domestic violence, in which I came this close to being murdered, I've been involved with women I had no business dating in the first place, etc.

I've also carried around a lot of guilt, for years, about some of the violence and using of women I've done in the past. While I've tried to take the high road and get over it, I've always ended up building my own freeway to guilt-ridden martyrdom.

Combine it all, and you get one hell of a messed-up stew.

Did I care about any of that while I'm kissing someone back?

No. For the first time in a long while, the answer was a blunt no.

The only thing that was going through my mind at the time? Well, passion sometimes needs to bitchslap the living shit out of the human mind...at least in my case.

I will only share these few observations...

Remember to breathe, but it is incredibly sexy when two people fall on the floor out of breath. (Bruising optional.)

Remember to giggle occassionally.

Don't ever worry about having to buy new shower curtains or glue a leg back onto a coffee table. If it's broke, fix it later.

This sort of stuff is supposed to be enjoyable.


BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 7:
Always Remember that Freedom Has a Price...

Johnny Cash had it all wrong.

Watching a Sunday Morning coming down is absolutely wonderful, but why go to sleep on a Saturday night?

It's amazing how a guy can go from complete bachelorhood to being a completely domesticated bastard in under 48 hours.

I had to make two trips to the grocery store. One to buy pasta, which I don't normally eat, but, hell, somebody's dad was picking up the tab for some really nice wholegrain angel hair and scallops.

Living on my own for as long as I have, one learns to appreciate someone else who's willing to cook.

One thing that sucks...drinking Sanka. One would think someone from Europe would have a better taste in coffee.

I won't even try to spell what my Florentine guest prepared. No clue. But it was really tasty.

Saturday, post-um-kiss, ended up blurring into Sunday. I may have slept three hours. Sunday, we drove out to Hueston Woods State Park and went hiking...in a cold rain. And it was fun.

I did laundry while she stayed at my place, attempting to clean my house (hint - if you're someone who grew up with a housekeeper cleaning everything, yeah, there's no faking it.)

While folding underwear at the laundrymat, the Dick Cheney chest pains came back. PTSD is a bitch sometimes, but other times it serves as a reminder that nothing lasts forever.

My Italian houseguest was heading back home in 28 hours and I probably wouldn't see or hear from her again after she got picked up by her friend from Indy.

Stupid fucking Conscience.

Dude, you don't really believe that guy's picture in that locket she keeps playing with is really her brother, do you? How many women have you known that keep a picture of their brother around their neck? Most reliable red flag in the book. Don't you dare fall into the trap of believing that your acceptance of a fling excludes somebody else from thinking this is a quick fling, too. Grow some balls and trust your gut again.

I kept folding laundry. Not dodging the thought process, I allowed myself to breathe a bit, to let my hormones and neurons duke it out.

I don't think I've done that...ever...as an adult.


BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 8:
When Being a Gentleman Fails, There's Always the Asshole Option

I used to think I was the master at hiding what I was really feeling. I have always been a go-to guy when someone needed a level head or a calm-sounding voice.

Professionally, at least. I've always worked best under pressure and I try to never let anything get in the way with getting the job done or having fun in the process. I took that approach as a journalist, a librarian, and just about every other job I've worked since I was 14 years old.

A colleague once warned me that, in librarianship, it's best to not burn bridges. My philosophy has always been old bridges are meant to be blown up and rebuilt with something stronger.

I'm not Melvil Dewey or Marian the Librarian. I'm William Fucking Holden from the Wild Bunch.

That used to be my philosophy in my personal life as well. But somewhere along the way, I was burned. Correction - I got hit with napalm.

One of my firebombings was a very public affair, and an editor (maybe editors) went to bat for me to keep my being a victim of domestic violence and the fact that my then-fiancee was sitting in a county jail for aggrevated battery from being included in a daily news budget. One firebombing involved a very public break-up while in graduate school from a fellow student - who was engaged to someone else at the time. That required eight weeks of therapy just to keep getting up and going to class and to not worry about whether or not other students or faculty were judging me.

I've been run through the ringer, and my little personal worldview has been completely broken ever since. Did I ever stop and fix it? No. Of course not. That would require having some guts; anybody who's been a survivor of domestic violence will tell you that that is the hardest thing to recover.

I've never been willing to accept the fact that in order for me to have a personal life, to express passion freely, I can't have fun and be in control all of the time.

(By the way, if you're local, reading this, and need shelter from an abusive relationship, I don't care if the governor is sitting in my office; if you need help, stop by, and we'll see what resources we can find to help.)

So...to continue my little adventure...

I'm driving back to my house and I stop off for some coffee on a Sunday afternoon. My chickenshit instinct is to simply wait until my houseguest is gone; avoid the thought that she's probably got some kickass boyfriend back in Florence, a guy who's probably some European playboy, a guy who looks a bit like Colin Ferrell.

I call up one friend and ask for advice. Notice I have 12 unchecked voicemails on my cell. Ignore all of them (sorry to anybody who's called in the last two weeks.) This friend gets pissed; no solace. She tells me to quit being a goddamned chickenshit, to quit taking on somebody else's baggage, and to quit being so Don Quixote.

Have I really been chasing windmills?

Fuck.

Do I really give a flying rat's ass if she has a boyfriend back home? We're not talking lifelong commitment here. Does it really bother me that she comes from a wealthy family, or that she's 19? Does any of it matter, or am I just making up reasons to feel guilty, to put myself back in some box, to punish myself for something that's really not my business?

I drive back to my house. She's sprawled out on the floor, wrapped up in the Mexican throw, watching my new Battlestar Galactica Season 2.0 DVDs (with the English subtitles on). She tells me I'm such a nerd but that's completely okay. One of her Monday red-eyes was cancelled. She bit my ear and asked if she could stay through Tuesday.

It finally occurs to me that, for one brief period in my personal life, I'm William Fucking Holden again. I have by far the hottest woman in Oxford Fucking Ohio laying on my floor, hair in pigtails, fresh and sweaty from an afternoon jog, who smells, tastes, and definitely feels like a woman.

Fuck you, Colin Ferrell lookalike! If you are her boyfriend, you're probably not very good at it, else your girlfriend would not be wearing my lucky tee shirt, crashing in my house, and pulling stray hairs out of my back. So some people might not approve. So her Race Car Daddy would probably have me killed if he ever found out. So she's way too young and there's no way this will last past when she leaves.

What's the point of living life if you can't do something stupid every once and a while. That's the point of a mindless, completely insane fling.

While we're laying on the floor, trying to figure out the shapes in my textured ceiling, she tells me a few Miami students cat-called her way while she was jogging by what I'm assuming was a frat house.

In a very fake tone, she asked me why American boys were so stupid.

Fuck if I know. I can't figure out why I'm so stupid half the time. Thank goodness for the post-graduate education...and the ability to cut through one's own bullshit.

---

NOTE - I held off on posting this until Friday morning to give myself time to edit a bit.

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL:This is Why I Don't Take In Strays...

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Okay, I should be old enough to know better. I may be even breaking my own rules posting this. I know I have local readers of this blog who may want to start some kind of rumor.

Oh well. Fuck it.

I should be wiser and better at decision-making, but, sadly, I'm not as bright as I should be when it comes to taking in strays.



BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 1:
Do Not Pick Up Hitchhikers...

I ran into a female hitchhiker over the weekend just outside of Cincinnati. Scratch that - I almost ran over a cross-country backpacker this weekend.

First, I normally don't pick up hitchhikers. For one, being a guy and picking up a hitchhiker opens the door for a lot of trouble beyond simply getting robbed or killed. But, well, this Italian woman was very, very lost (she was headed the wrong way, away from Indianapolis and towards Kentucky), very cold, and she had jumped for the ditch and scuffed up her leg dodging my pick-up.

Yeah...I know. Very stupid. But am I supposed to leave an 19 year-old European on the side of the road at 10 at night after almost putting her in the hospital? In the frigging rain? On a stretch of U.S. 27 about as welcoming as a redneck episode of the Twilight Zone? Besides, Indianapolis is only two hours away from where I live, and I live in the right direction...

What is it, by the way, that leads European tourists to believe that it's somehow safe to backpack alone across the Midwest? Don't they have B-Horror/serial killer flicks in Italy?!? There are cities where I won't go out alone.

When she offered to buy dinner and top off my gas tank, I figured I was safe from at least getting carjacked. I agreed to take her as far as Oxford. Once there, the plan was to drop her off at a hotel and she'd get a friend in Indianapolis to drive down and give her a ride to the airport.

Well, that was the plan, at least. We had a little too much fun at this Applebees. Even the wait staff's flair was annoyed. We talked for three hours. This woman had hitchhiked...er...backpacked all through Florida, up the Appalachians, through West Virginia, and had developed a Florentine/Hillbilly accent.

We swapped stories about rattlesnakes (we both had the critters narrowly miss our ankles and dig into the same boot heel), I explained that venison meat does not come from a cow, and she described her "let-them-think-you-have-crabs" trick for keeping unwanted hands off her body.

By the time we go back to Oxford, we couldn't find a single hotel that would take her traveler's checks. Or at least one that was open that would take her traveler's check - Miami students were still on break, thus negating any need for overpriced parent/alumni suites.




BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 2:
If You Do Pick Up Hitchers, Don't Take Them Home

She said it would be okay for me to just leave her on a street corner by a closed filling station. It was about three in the morning. Without even thinking, I offered her a place to crash.

Great idea, dumbass. You already opened up the door to all kinds of possible criminal accusations. Why not be a little more stupid and open yourself up to robbery in the same night?

She took me up on the offer and promised she wouldn't be any trouble. And then she said I was the first American friend she'd made during her month-long holiday.

Then, I had to stop mid-sentence while explaining that she'd be welcome to stay as long as she liked. I was starting to experience shortness of breath, Dick Cheney style.

Nope. Not a heart attack. I was starting to panic. There was this little voice in the back of my head starting to question my reasoning for making that offer. Was I being a nice guy? Or...was I making a pass at her?

My conscience can be a complete bastard sometimes.

Dude, you're making yourself look like Hannibal fucking Lector. Yeah, she noticed how you were admiring her legs while bandaging up her shin. Stevie Wonder would've noticed. She also noticed how you kept making eye contact while your eyes were supposed to be on the road. Stupid typical guy. Did you forget she's like a DECADE younger than you are and HITCHHIKING back to an airport to fly back to ITALY to get ready for UNIVERSITY?

Stupid, stupid, stupid. I am too much of an idiot. The fact that I have a penis makes me more of an dumbass sometimes.

She noticed I was drifting in and out of our conversation. She thought I was too tired and she was boring me. I pulled myself out of Lala Land long enough to make noises that sounded like "I'll have to clean up before you come in. House is a wreck."

She thought that was funny. I was sure I was ready for a defibrillator.




BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 3:
If Rule Nos. 1 and 2 Fail...You're Probably in Deep Shit

So she spent the night at my house, this strange foreign woman who I'd literally picked up on the side of the road.

For about 30 seconds I debated whether or not to take the 20-inch hunting knife off my living room wall. I debated whether or not to hide the silver Ethiopian Orthodox cross a friend had given me, or the wooden idol from Nigeria, or the Japanese vases...

While I'm debating what to hide to prevent theft or, well, a slit throat in the middle of the night, she lets me know that there are indeed low-budget psychokiller movies in Florence.

"You're not a serial killer or something?"

Fuck. Damn you, Conscience. Damn you to fucking hell. One part of me was relieved that she thought enough about her personal safety, the other completely shattered because, well...

Then she laughed and asked if I was dangerous.

Long...awkward...silence.

Then she laughed again.

Before I could say anything, she asked if she could use my shower. While she was in the bath, I finished revising the ol' ZenFo Pro template.

Too tired to fall asleep, I popped in a DVD, pulled the cushions off the couch, and crashed on the floor. My "roommate" hollered from the bathroom something about borrowing a dirty work shirt she'd found on the bathroom floor. I was too far past the "almost dozing" stage to comprehend much - I'd been awake for 27 hours straight (9 hours at work) by the time the sun was peeking through the blinds...


BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 4:
Think Before You Act

I'm going to tread carefully here, so please forgive me if this sounds a bit cryptic...

Waking up next to a stranger is an artform. It becomes postmodern art when one has to figure out why, exactly, one is waking up next to a stranger in the first place.

My guest had unbundled and unzipped her sleeping bag. I guess she thought I looked cold, so she covered me with it. She then climbed under the sleeping bag.

The shirt she was wearing? A small polo. She's my height - roughly 5'8, 5'9. That's it. I would've lent her some boxers.

This is really awkward. My hand is in a really awkward place. Her hand is in a very sensitive spot, especially first thing in the morning. She's breathing in my ear and probably has no clue the amount of control I'm having to exhibit.

What happened here?

Did I miss something?

My chest starts doing that Dick Cheney impersonation again. Like some old Warner Brothers cartoon, I feel as though I'm debating with a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.

I look on the walls. Knife still there. Antiques still on the shelves. The only things out of place are the two people on the floor.

I think that's vague enough so I'm not breaking my own rules here.




BROKEN ZENFO PRO RULE NO. 5:
Ignore the Tourists

I haven't seen anybody sleep that long in a very long time. I can't sleep in past noon anymore, so I got up, took a quick shower, and got out of the house.

I went grocery shopping and hung out at a local coffee shop checking e-mail and testing the new template. I'm pretty sure I looked like something similar to a crazed homeless man; one part of me was still trying to figure out whether or not this woman was playing me for something, one part was in that mode of trying to figure exactly what signals I'd missed, and another part was worried that I'd return home to a robbed apartment.

Fucking A. This is why I gave up on dating or any kind of romantic stuff. I make lousy choices and I don't like having to deal with being a dumbass because of bad choices.

I get back to my house expecting for all my valuables to be gone. I find a girl on the floor looking at my high school yearbooks, laughing hysterially at the profanity-laced comments. She tells me that her gee-whiz neato satellite phone her dad bought her for the trip (race car drivers apparently know how to get their children useful ICT) needs to charge, so she needed to borrow my cell to call her friend in Indianapolis.

I don't have a gift for languages, so whatever she was saying on the phone was just noise to me. But she did ask me, in English, if she'd be able to stay until Monday morning and offered to provide me with some rent money. I declined the money but agreed to let her stay for a few more days.

I did recognize the tone of an argument. With the Italian language, it's difficult to figure out when, exactly, an argument is really an argument. I didn't think the argument could possibly be about me until she smiled at me and winked.

When she got off the phone, she kissed me. Yeah, I can't read signals to save my life.

My Conscience finally gave up on me.

You're a grown-up. She's a grown-up. How stupid do you have to be to not realize that this gal is, for some strange reason, probably attracted to you? And you know that for some reason you're attracted to her. It's a fling - get the fuck off your high horse, will ya? How many excuses are you going to make? You know, somewhere deep down, that you are not the paranoid guy afraid of ANY intimacy? Fuck the bullshit, dude.

Holy hell, I think she's trying to steal something. At least she doesn't think I'm a serial killer.

I'll write more later...looks like I've written a novel since five this morning and I've got to get ready for work.