Take Two

This is the same post I published yesterday, but I ran out of the house so fast last night that I didn't bother with proofreading or editing. Proofreading and editing are Very Important. I never should have published it as it was. I'm sorry, folks. It's better now. Do you forgive me?

I got back to Maine last night, and have been doing a fat lot of nothing ever since. Went and got Mom's car out of hock with Dad. Shot some pool. Did not vacuum as soon as I stepped foot in the door like I swore I would (actually, I swore I'd do it before I stepped foot out the door, but that didn't happen, either). Forgot to set my alarm. Slept till 6:45. Worked out. Walked. Showered. Twice. The shower, that is, not the walk. And then got positively flattened by the heat. Napped on top of the covers under the ceiling fan for three hours until the Census Man came to the door and sent the dog into conniptions...

Anyway, I'll get back on schedule tomorrow, but to avoid actually doing anything productive for a little while longer, I'd like to present a pair of unrelated stories from my last lazy 24 hours. I'll alternate italics and plain text, so you can tell where one ends and one begins...

On my way out for my walk this afternoon, I heard a rustling in the trees which turned out to be a pair of cows meandering in the woods. Holsteins. Just a couple houses down the road. Maybe they've been there all along, but I walk the same route every day and never noticed them before. She rustled, I looked, she mooed at me, I laughed out loud. Even at the time I wondered why that struck me funny, but when she mooed at me I couldn't help but laugh.

Then, when I had almost reached the same spot on my way back home, a man in a red pickup truck pulled over to the side of the road and hailed me. "This is going to sound strange," he said, "but have you by any chance seen a pair of cows?" 

"Yes!" I said, glad that I could actually be of help. "They were in the woods just down the road about an hour ago!" 

"No," he said, "that's where they live. But there are supposed to be four, and two of them went through the fence this afternoon." 

Whoops.

I like to think the two I saw were the rogue ones. I like to think they saw me walking by and heard me laugh and got inspired. I hope they have all sorts of radical experiences, maybe get themselves all kinds of laid, and never-ever-ever wind up caught. Even if that means they have to stampede themselves off the edge of the goddamn Grand Canyon.

But still, I do like to be of help in any small way when I can, so I took his number and said if I saw them, I'd call. I didn't get his name. His number's listed in my cell phone under "Cows." That also makes me laugh out loud, so I think I'll leave it there. Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever...

On a whim I went out last night at 10:00, but I forgot to bring my pool game, so after about an hour I put my cue away and bellied up. Five minutes later, just like clockwork, yet another real-live biker took the stool to the left of me, introduced himself, and asked me what I ride. I said I didn't, and somehow we wound up talking about music for a while. I had to do some very embarrassed backtracking when he said "Metallica" and I said "Yes," and he thought I meant the band. Which, ick. But I couldn't very well explain what I really meant, which was: "Metallica, naturally. Because you, my friend, are a cliche." Which isn't very nice of me, I know. I blame James Taylor...

When my beer was empty he offered to buy me one and I explained my policy against accepting drinks from men in bars. He seemed surprised. Not offended, exactly, but surprised. I can't be the only girl who does this, can I? I think Miss Manners would agree that it's the right and reasonable thing to do. Even so, is everyone else out there taking advantage of drunken generosity, even when the man in question makes you hurl? Not that this guy did or anything -- as cliches go, he was pretty standard-class -- but even if he were the hottest thing on two American-made wheels, I still wouldn't let him buy my beer.

Anyway, he was so taken aback I actually apologized and suggested that, in lieu of the frosty beverage, he might answer a question that's been nagging at me for a while.

"Why," I asked, "do people up here -- bikers, especially -- keep asking, and assuming, that I ride?"

And do you know what he said?

"Because you're hot."

Well, never mind the brain freeze I got trying to figure out an appropriate response to that answer. And never mind how inappropriate it is that I'd be immodest enough to repeat it here (wherever she is, Miss Manners is having an attack of the vapors right about now). Because all of that aside, you have to admit there's something inherently flawed in his logic. The dormouse might think it makes a certain sense, but my Philosophy of Language professor would be sharpening his pen. Because if you spelled it out, the Q.E.D. would go something like this:

I'm hot. (Let's just assume it's true for the sake of argument, and keep the tittering in the peanut gallery to a minimum, okay?)

That means I must be a biker.

Therefore all bikers must be hot.

Yes, well, but those aren't all the bikers, are they? I'm still feeling distinctly unfulfilled.

I should have just accepted the damn beer.