I am such a fucking idiot.
Our plasma-screen TV arrived today. It was large enough and heavy enough that it required two Polish men with admirable muscle mass and tone to bring it into the house and attach it to the wall. One of them was older and gruff in a sort of gone-to-seed-but-still-fit kind of way, and the other was in his twenties, bright and pleasant and totally hot. They installed the TV, the bright and pleasant one explained the remote control to me in fairly good English, I gave them a cash tip, and they left.
Seconds later, the doorbell rang. When I went to answer it, there stood the bright and pleasant and totally hot Polish man, holding something electric in his hands. “I forgot to install part of TV,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “You mind I come in and finish up?”
“No problem,” I said, and went back to writing whatever it was I’d been trying to write while he went upstairs and installed the part. He came back downstairs and, as he left, called out, “Thank you! I sorry about that!”
Without looking up, I called back, “No problem!”
Seconds later, the doorbell rang again. He looked even more sheepish this time. “I have problem,” he said, and seemed not to know quite how to continue. After a short awkward silence, he said, “Battery in my truck dead,” and looked at me with pleading eyes. I frowned in concern. He said, “You have car maybe, help jump start engine?”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I don’t have a car.”
We stood there for another moment or two, silent, at which point he smiled again. “Okay, I figure something else out,” he said, and went back out into the street, at which point I closed the door and went back to writing.
Obviously this is what happens when you get old: you become unable to understand a shriekingly obvious communication from a hot delivery worker that he and his partner want to have sex with you.
I’d just go eat rat poison now, but at my age I worry about whether or not I can chew.
Poor Faustus. But it’s just as well: everyone knows that Polish delivery workers are horse-hung tops who fuck like jackhammers for hours on end. You’d have been smiling continuously for two weeks. And when your angst is gone, what have you got left?
On the bright side, though, it gave you something to blog about that you don’t have to hide from the fiancé.
Call hot Polish back and tell him something’s wrong with some thingamajig in the telly!
this means you are too old to be gay now. you should stop having sex althogether.
YOU are definitely getting old. Depends?
He might have considered you damaged goods anyway if you can’t work your mouth.
Or they wanted to hit you over the head, steal your new tv, steal your car, and go on an East Coast crime spree a la Andrew Cunanan. Think about it — your quick reply probably saved the life of some huge celebrity…like Barry Manilow or Chita Rivera. The world owes you an enormous debt of thanks.
And, since I am, ahem, a year older than you, I suggest you cease with the “old” talk before I fly to New York, beat you to death with a cabbage, make some cabbage borscht with the murder weapon, and put the moves on your hunky husband.
OH MY GOD, the same thing happened to me last week.
Except instead of two Polish guys it was latinos, and instead of installing an HD TV, I was watching the scene on mine.
“he who hesitates is lost”
AND what would e.s. have to say about this?
“I am such a fucking idiot.”
Oh sweetie, don’t be so hard on yourself. You are just oblivious. It’s sweet. As for what E.S. may or may not have to say, if I were him, I would be having a good laugh right about now.
“I am such a fucking idiot.”
Oh hon, don’t be so hard on yourself. You are just oblivious. It’s sweet. As for what E.S. may or may not have to say, if I were him, I would be having a good laugh right about now.
Many years ago, back in NYC, my sofa was delivered by a GIANT red-headed Israeli with the most amazing arms in the history of the universe. He asked if he could use my bathroom and he peed with the door open. I was flummoxed; I thought that was gross and tacky but to this day I wondered if that wasn’t some kind of invitation.
Also I seriously wondered whether the guy who installed my cable here in Portland was sending signals. But I’m prone to be naive that way. I don’t respond well to subtlety. I’m better in situations like my downstairs neighbor in New York who took some of my furniture when I moved out and then rather boldly offered to “repay” me. (I accepted.)
I recently came across your blog and really enjoy reading it! Thank you for sharing!
Ahhhh yes…. a tattoo-covered man once delivered a microwave and was clearly intrigued at the idea of delivering other packages to two horny lesbians …. I think we’d be braver now.
you’d think we’d have come up with a good clear hand signal by now for such situations.
though in your defense, the delivery guy should have taken off his shirt, wiped his sweaty brow, and asked if you had anything refreshing….
Golly! All I can say is, a) “But y’are, Blanche, y’are” and b) I have done it myself; even now I occasionally remember the boy in Hatchard’s and kick myself.
Don’t kid yourself.
I think those are the same guys who delivered our TV! The older guy just waited in the truck, but the young guy was amazing in bed (and on the living room floor, the kitchen table and a few other places). He managed to take us both on, and he still wore us out! 😉