Caution: Lewdness afoot.

Project PANDORA: The Interpreter, Act III
There's no way to compose this post without giving away the ending; if I "buried the lead" 'twould be to no useful purpose. I kicked The Interpreter to the curb on Thursday, 10 May. (Operation AXIOM reminds us that 10 May was a very busy day on multiple years during the Second World War [1939-1945], & invites all & sundry to further investigate that auspicious date.) Those who occasionally spy my FaceSpace page might well have guessed as much. I hold out hope that our intercourse is at an end, though I fear 'tis a forlorn hope.

Our story so far:

Wayback Machine: The Interpreter, Act I

Wayback Machine: The Interpreter, Act II

Now, on with Act III. The first sign of trouble with The Interpreter came during my wonderful sojourn in Salem, Oregon, in mid-April. Innocently, & perhaps naïvely, I sent her a text message asking how many dates we had been on. My purpose in this was not to spark a conversation about the status of our budding relationship, merely to conduct a bit of housekeeping or accounting; I wanted to know if the lunches we'd had counted as dates, for record keeping in my journal (currently in its eighth volume). She replied that she didn't think we were dating, that she didn't know what we were doing; she took pains to emphasize that she liked me, but she also liked another fellow, to whom we shall refer as my rival. (This is not because the mention of my rival's given name fills my heart with dread or jealousy or some such silliness, but because that given name is repellant: Rayce. I'm not going to pollute further The Secret Base with his parents' idiocy, thus the euphemism "my rival.") I took care to seem unfazed in my replies, while in reality I was nonplussed. It took me some minutes to puzzle out why I found this so unsettling. I did not bother me in the least that The Interpreter was romantically interested in another bloke; we'd not had any definitional conversation, which meant our relationship was rightly to be regarded as non-exclusive. What bothered me was that we were non-exclusive & yet The Interpreter had been so eager & willing to screw. This is not boastfulness on my part, dear readers, but we'd have screwed a few days earlier if I'd been game. I know my sexual mores are out-of-sync with the times, but this was beyond the pale, even striving to be as broadminded as possible. What kind of a person would screw someone she wasn't even dating? Would screw someone with whom she wasn't even willing to be in an exclusive relationship? With what manner of trollop had I become entangled? These developments necessitated too complicated a discourse for text messaging; so, we tabled any further discussion for after my return to sacred Michigan.

It occurred to me that the whole kerfuffle might be no more than a matter of semantics. I'd asked how many dates we'd been on, The Interpreter replied that we were not dating. Accepting that going on dates & dating are synonymous in her mind, a sentiment with which I disagree, she & I might have very different notions of what defines "dating." We are a society of vagueness, or half-measures & confusion & everywhere—everywhere!—nebulousness. What does "dating" then mean? My theory is that to her going on dates is synonymous with dating, which is synonymous with being exclusive boyflesh & girlflesh, something we were emphatically not. On an episode of Psych from last season, a femme fatale drew the distinction 'twixt "seeing" a fellow & "dating" him; she was "dating" a fellow only if they'd screwed. That doesn't resolve anything in my case, since The Interpreter had all but begged me to screw her & I'd declined the invitation; so, if anything I'd be "seeing" her while she'd be trying to "date" me. Still, I'm always happy to mention Psych.

I returned from Oregon on a Monday, & saw (since these rendezvous were apparently not dates) The Interpreter on the following Wednesday & Friday. I slept over at her place on Wednesday night, the first night I'd ever spent in a paramour's bed. It was a miserable night's sleep; we stayed up into the wee hours fooling around, & she had to wake up for work damnably early. On top of that, her pillows were rubbish. Still & all, it was fun fooling around with her & I was glad to get to get to kiss her & touch her in the morrow. I motored home & ate breakfast, not fully waking up 'til I took a shower, my habitual morning restorative. The following Friday was the annoying evening that saw The Interpreter go three sheets to the wind & fall asleep several hours before midnight. (Wayback Machine, second paragraph.) We had fun together & Wednesday night had done a great deal to smooth what feathers had been ruffled in the Oregon text-message debacle, but Friday brought all those ill feeling back to the fore. A gulf had been created that no serious effort would be made to bridge. In the week that followed I was not actively avoiding her, but neither did I make an extraordinary effort to make time to see her. In one of our frequent text confabs, she mentioned that she was hanging out with my rival; I replied playfully that I wasn't the jealous type, but that I still intended to win her from him. She replied back that she had absolutely no romantic feeling towards my rival, that he was nothing other than a friend. This is quite other than what she'd told me while I was in Oregon. There were inconsistencies, inconsistencies that were immediately translated into suspicions, suspicions of I'm not quite sure what, but something untoward. I have a nasty, suspicious mind, & once roused my suspicions are not easily lulled.

We met up again on Friday, a week after the night she'd passed out, & once again she wished to get drinks at Churchill's. For a while we were joined by one of her staff coworkers on campus, a girl I also know, & that girl's ex-con boyflesh. As before, we sat at the bar, which I found highly confusing. The Interpreter liked talking to the bartenders, & the waitresses as they came to the bar to place their orders. I found this puzzling, but decided not to find it irksome; I certainly have my idiosyncrasies, this fondness for the companionship of strangers was one of hers. After the coworker & her ex-con boyflesh had departed, one of the waitresses asked The Interpreter & I if we were dating. The waitress specifically asked if we were dating. The Interpreter & I replied at the same time, but not in unison. She said, "Yes;" I said, "No." Of course I said, "No," The Interpreter had specifically told me we were not dating. Why then did she say, "Yes"? Not wishing to share a discussion of that question with the waitress, the bartenders, & any other Tim, Dick, or Harry who might happen up to the bar, I held me tongue; The Interpreter made no mention of the incongruity.

Perhaps chastened by the previous Friday, The Interpreter limited what she drank; we soon departed her favorite watering hole, bound for her apartment. She changed out of her work clothes & we repaired to a ribs joint for a late dinner. As we sat in the lobby waiting for a table for two to open up & I surveyed a menu, having never before been inside this particular establishment, The Interpreter nuzzled up to my shoulder & I put an arm around hers. There we sat, perfectly contented, until I asked, without any forethought or strategic planning, if she'd like to be my girlflesh. (Verbally, I used the more conventional word "girlfriend.") Mayhap I was egged on by her "Yes" to the waitress's question? Eh, whatever, I've no regrets. I've squandered too many opportunities thinking myself into paralysis. A gung-ho, leap-without-looking bravado is the essence of Project PANDORA. Go for broke! The question was out there, the die was cast. With a heavy sigh, nuzzling even further into my chest, The Interpreter said no. The differences between us were too great (I'm a Catholic, she's a heathen; I'm a prude, she's a slut) for us to have a permanent future together; therefore we couldn't be boyflesh & girlflesh. Without missing a beat, I asked her if she wanted to keep doing what we were doing, & she gratefully & hastily acceded. Periodically throughout dinner she's ask me if "it" was O.K., & I'd smile & reassure her that all was well. (All wasn't well, of course, but what profit would there be in broadcasting advanced warning of my forming intentions?) Once again, at least a portion of the difficulty confronting us appeared to be semantic. Her stated reason that we couldn't be boyflesh & girlflesh is that we weren't ever going to be married; to my mind, at least, boyflesh/girlflesh is not even remotely synonymous with betrothal, much less matrimony. Of course, an alternate explanation also sprang to mind: even if the pre-marriage nonsense was a ruse, she might well regard boyflesh/girlflesh status as being exclusive, which I do also, & she didn't want to be trapped in an exclusive relationship in which there'd be no screwing. Whilst I disagree with the expressed immorality, I can certainly respect that attitude. However, that attitude is not the reason she cited, & I could only scoff at the absurdity of her stated reason. I spent the night in her bed, & thoroughly enjoyed the parts of her body to which I'd permit myself access, but deep in the recesses of my mind the decision had been made to kick her to the curb. All the rest was Hamlet, the Purgatory betwixt deciding to act & acting.

I saw her briefly the following Tuesday, May Day, between when she got out of work & I had my evening Knights of Columbus meeting. We were not to see each other the following weekend. I was going to the reopened Flint Local 432 on Friday, when she had plans in Lansing, & I'd be in verdammt Ohio on Saturday & Sunday, though with the pleasant compensation of getting to see Where's Teddy? & The Cupcake. I saw her a week later, again on Tuesday, when we met at the cinema to see The Avengers. I held her in my arms throughout, & she raised the armrest 'twixt our seats to that we could snuggle closer, but my attention was on the silver screen & Earth's Mightiest Heroes. We sucked face in the parking lot afterward, more restrained in the bright sunshine than we'd been in the pouring rain that night we'd met, & as we embraced she told me that she'd gone to Lansing the previous weekend for a date. She & the fellow had gone to a hard rock club & had a good time. I had no claim to her, she was very explicitly not my girlflesh, I had absolutely no objection to her dating another fellow; however, I also felt myself under no obligation to discuss her dating another fellow in-between kisses. Nor, for that matter, to listen to her talking about another fellow at all. I played my cards close to the vest & did everything I could not to betray my discomfort. We parted amiably with plans to see each other again that Thursday.

I made the decision to end the affair when next I saw her. I had no interest in being "friends with benefits" with her; I had no interest in being with a girl who didn't want to be with me. Maybe that's small-minded & parochial of me, but so be it. Like Popeye, "I yam what I yam." I entered her basement apartment as I had no many times before, & when she hugged me I stopped her short of a hello kiss & said, "I have some bad news. Being friends with benefits doesn't work for me." Her reply revealed everything one need know about her. She said, "That's not bad news." Being with me meant less than nothing to her, so little that the end of our affair didn't even rate as bad news. I admit I was a little stung by this, but also profoundly, profoundly repulsed. She'd been so eager to screw me, & yet had no emotional attachment to me whatsoever. She was ever more debased a trollop than I'd feared. She asked if it was still permitted to hug me; 'twas. We hugged, & I departed. Promptly upon returning home, I "de-friended" her on the FaceSpace, & looked forward to never again seeing her. She had her chance, she didn't want any part of it, & that was that. I've long believed that persons who date should not be friends afterward, & though we'd apparently not shared any romantic feelings at all we'd had enough physical interplay that I was satisfied we should not attempt to be friends. She sent me several text messages in the following weeks, & I replied as basic courtesy demands, but did nothing to encourage conversation. I hoped that in time she'd take the hint & leave me in peace.

Four weeks later, my pal & History Club chum Red Patten entered a tater tot-eating contest at a chain public house, the only local public house with any sort of pub quiz. I accepted his invitation to cheer him on during the tot eating & to then join his team for the pub quiz. (I'd been looking for a local pub quiz, theretofore without any success.) Alas, no sooner had I arrived then I spied The Interpreter amongst Red Patten's supporters. Oy. There was an interminable delay before the deciding round of the tater tot-eating contest, & The Interpreter found ample opportunity to pick me off from the herd. She asked why I'd de-friended her on the FaceSpace; she was genuinely hurt. Without apology I informed her that we'd never been friends; that what I'd felt toward her was desire, not friendship; & I explained my opposition to former couples trying to reestablish friendship. She was shocked & not a little upset by my ruthless attitude. I apologize for nothing. Red Patten won the tater tot-eating contest & was unofficially declared, by us, not the public house, "King Tot," a lame premeditated play on King Tut. The pub quiz was a grave disappointment, as will be detailed in a forthcoming "Project MERCATOR" post; to no one's surprise, The Interpreter was less than useless on the pub quiz. At the end of the evening, The Interpreter stole my hat—the straw Trilby Mark III—& fled the public house.

At a deliberately slow pace, I followed her to the parking lot & cornered her at her motorcar. There, she played a childish game of refusing to return my Trilby, jumping about & holding it out of my reach. She stood very close to me, almost as if she wanted me to kiss her. All I wanted was my property restored, & to be on my way. She asked again why I'd de-friended her on the FaceSpace & explained that this had been very hurtful to her. I did my best not to roll my eyes, for I didn't think doing so would help me retrieve my hat. In the end, she eventually exhausted her petulance, but I still had to agree to "re-friend" her on the FaceSpace before she'd give me back my hat. I could have taken it from her by force, but there were innumerable ways in which that could have very swiftly gone sideways. I got my hat back & was true to my word. In the weeks since, she's left several witless comments on my FaceSpace page, & I've not visited hers. She seems to have gotten out of her system what she needed to get out, & I've not received any further text messages from her, thank goodness. I'll not make any waves for the next several months, & quietly de-friend her again in the fall of the winter, & hope thereafter never again to have anything to do with her.

Do I regret my time with The Interpreter? Nope. Project PANDORA needs data, & she provided data in spades.

Next time on "Project PANDORA": Interweb dating.

Atlanticism
The great question of the 20th Century rears its ugly head once again: What in Himmel is wrong with the Germans? Nip the tip-link. Parents aren't allowed to circumcise their male Kinder? Even if their religion requires them to do so? And we are expected to believe that this just incidentally affects principally Germany's Muslim & Jewish population? The Second World War ended sixty-seven years ago, & I'd love to be able to put an end once & for all to comparisons betwixt modern Germany & the Nazi Reich, but then something like this comes along. When the German state singles out an ethnic-religious group for discrimination & dissociation, & polls show a majority of Germans support that discrimination & dissociation, the parallels to Nazi Germany are appropriate, inevitable, & terrifying. The Chancellory has issued a statement insisting that a legal means must be found for Jews & Muslims to continue circumcising their children, so they aren't quite prepared to require the wearing of yellow stars (& yellow crescents?) in public: Weimar-link. Nevertheless, these shameful events serve as a reminder that Germany simply cannot be trusted to behave as a responsible actor on the international stage; we can never relax our watch on the Germans, for given a few years of bad enough economic news & they might just embrace Nazism as a means of national salvation.

The dark bastard wonders, Should we have implemented the Morgenthau Plan after all?

He's Dead, Jim
I've been getting plenty of sleep, perhaps too much sleep, & imbibing great volumes of orange juice; the dreadful sick is in retreat, & I am racked by only the occasional cough. I am reluctant to make plans with Jojo, who has been agitating for such since Wednesday, for fear that I am yet contagious. Soon, though, I will be fully restored to healthy & once again footloose & fancy free.

Operation ÖSTERREICH | Project GLOWWORM
My improved diet (less snacking & more—lots & lots more—fruits & vegetables) & my daily constitutional/Crim preparations (Objective SCHWEDEN) appear to be paying dividends. I'm in the midst of transitioning 'twixt belt notches; unlike past transitions, though, this is not from the zero (base) notch to plus-one or from plus-one to the zero notch, but from zero to minus-one. In the case of two of my belts, minus-one is the last notch, meaning I'll have to punch additional holes in some of my belts if this progress continues. Here's hoping there is lots of hole-punching in my foreseeable future.

The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Glenn Miller, "American Patrol" from Glenn Miller's 50 Finest (T.L.A.M.)