Of Fires and Fools

I’m standing in the front office, staring outdoors.

Something is off, and I can’t put my finger on what it is. It’s nearly eleven o’clock in the morning, but outside it looks like late afternoon. Like the sun is setting, only it’s setting in the east, not the west.

Then I know.

Somewhere, a fire is burning.

I go outside and survey the sky. Sure enough, in the general vicinity of my neighborhood, I see a dull-brown haze instead of clouds. Can’t smell smoke yet. Must be blowing in the wrong direction.

I turn my TV on. Breaking news. Evacuations are underway. Fire is bearing down on a housing community.

Mine?

Nope, Anaheim. Seventy miles away.

False alarm.

In other news…

So, I meet this guy Saturday night. Nice enough guy. Sexy even, in a Simon Cowell kinda way. Only trouble is, he’s not from here. As in, he’s from Israel, I think, and I understand him about 40% of the time. Still…like I say, he’s rather sexy.

We chat, we drink…and when it’s time for me to go home, I let him walk me to my car.

In the morning, I wake up and my first thought is: Crap, I didn’t give him my phone number, did I? ‘Cuz I’m really not interested. I rerun our conversation in my mind and sigh with relief. No, I assure myself. Even though he pestered me for it, I didn’t give in.

Later that afternoon, I show up at the Sagebrush Cantina where I meet about ten friends to do the Superbowl thing. We’re sitting at a round table for ten, right in front of the big screen TV. Much hoopin’ and hollerin’ is going on.

After awhile, I get an eerie feeling like I’m being watched.

I glance over and see a guy who looks a lot like Simon Cowell leaning against a wall.

Crap. Now I vaguely remember using the old “well, I’ll be at such-and-such a place tomorrow,” thinking he’ll never find me in the crowd.

I decide to keep my eyes averted, hoping he’ll give up and go away. Besides, there are a ton of other single women just ripe for the picking.

Minutes later, my friend Sandy comes back from the bathroom with an odd smile on her face. “Do you know someone named, Niel?” she asks. "He asked me to give you a message."

Crap.

There’s really no way out of this.

I walk over and say hi. Between the Superbowl buzz and his accent, I have to ask him to repeat himself over and over. It’s so embarrassing.

We go inside to get drinks, then I detour him to a second table of friends. At least at this one he won’t have to sit next to my old boyfriend. He asks what we’re doing later, after the game.

Excuse me? We?

I’ll be home alone watching Desperate Housewives, I say.

Blah, blah, blah…he tries to talk me into something…I’m not sure what because of the whole language barrier. All I want is for him to leave.

I even give him my phone number, saying: “Hey, not today. But call me sometime.”

To my relief, he announces he’s gotta go. Something about a friend’s house for fourth quarter. Or maybe it was about a lobotomy. Like I say, he was hard to understand.

I walk him to his car and wish him well.

So far, he hasn’t called. Thank God some things don’t have to be said to be understood. I guess the brush-off is part of the male/female universal language.