Damn You, Gently Falling Raindrop....DAMN YOU!

Karma fucks me up regularly. It's like my life is a quasisadistic Zen master, so enlightened that he's past right and wrong, and also telepathic, and I'm forever getting the intellectual kendo stick.

Naming people on a blog is always difficult, and this one prefers to be monikered. So, for reasons that will make sense to the BUSTies, I'll refer to him as the Artist. Anyhow, his car has gotten fixed before mine, so he's coming to pick me up.

A few weeks ago, I very unnecessarily worried the Boss by not calling. The Artist can't call, because he is moving 60 miles in a week, has cut off his land line and, quite honestly, hates cell phones. Self help crap tells me that if a man usually doesn't call you he is Just Not That Into You. Mine just hasn't really liked phones since he stopped dealing drugs, because no matter how many times he changes his phone number, whenever he goes within 20 miles of his hometown the rumors that he's doing it again start to spread.

All the Artist does these days is drink Evan Williams whiskey and lemonade. He calls me from work, or I call him there.

We had talked at closing time. He was supposed to be here already, but cautioned me with wry experience not to worry, that his crazy Nana was taking him to pick the car up and that there was a good chance he'd be delayed.

Worry can become a paranoia of its own, is what the Nigerian doctor said to me when I asked him about my problem. If you automatically assume every person who is ever late is dead, and every person you can't get ahold of has decided they hate you in the hours between ten p.m. and noon, if you're always worried about what was said and done while you are out of the room...time for a rationality check.

Problem is, the rational filmstrip plays over the audio for the paranoid little voice, and what results is not joyful detachment, I will tell you that.

"He isn't coming."
"Yes, he is."
"Mm-mm-nope!"
"Why do you say that, as a matter of intellectual curiosity, since he IS coming?"
"Because he's going out on a daaaaate!"
"Yeah, he probably is. After I go to work, which is none of your business, you troll, so go somewhere else. I'm trying to think over here."
"I think."
"Prove it."
"I think he's not coming."
"(snort)"
"He hasn't called to say he is."
"He said so last night."
"That was last night."
"I'm not going to argue with you...what is that sound?"
"MIDI noises. Your purse has been infested by an evil robot."
"What are you talking about? Why are you still talking? Why do you turn me into Heather Chandler? Gaaaaah."
"Your purse is making MIDI noises and they aren't going to go away. Please make them stop."
"It's a little red game controller with yellow buttons."
"See? Evil robot child."
"Shut up. I picked that up in Richard's car last night by accident -- oh fuck, what does the kitten have?"

Not very Zen.

So I was looking at my child-Ganesh, having ascertained that the kitten had dragged a bottle of tylenol with a child-proof cap onto the linoleum, thinking about the not-calling/worrying karma from the Boss, and the cell phone decides to ring, and it's the Artist telling me he's at his Nana's, that he'll be here in plenty of time because they're leaving now and the dealership is on the way to my house.

And the kendo-wielding sensei that is my dharma sits back with a satisfied smile and refuses to tell me anything at all but what I already know. Damn you, Paranoid Self, for always getting us in trouble with the sensei.