The cleaning woman at the house I work for is rabidly insane. She has lectured the mom (also her employer) on her ill-placed flower arrangements. She's informed her employer of a previous position cleaning a whorehouse, how she misses the job, especially making the beds, and how she can't believe she got fired. Crazy physically obliged me to befriend her on Facebook, and then told me that she has an account because she enjoys stalking people generations younger than her. She divulged that her thirty-five-year-old son deejays and floods with drugs.
"Drugs are inspirational. I know because I've tried," Crazy has educated me, her arm taking a cleaning break on her paunch while her hair decamped from her hair-tie. Crazy may be derailed and domineering, but through the deranged sentences, good intentions spill through. She set me up on a date.
A week ago, Crazy walked out of the house to see me and the two-year-old in the hot tub. He was tormenting my boobs. One of his favorite hobbies is seizing my jugs and informing me that they're not as big as his mom's. His dad has larger man-pillows than I do.
"Hi Kara," Crazy said, and waved at the two-year-old. He cried.
"Hi, how are you?"
"Great. I partied hard at beach parties all weekend. What did you do?"
Crazy is fifty-three years old.
"I went to Devonport with a friend," I replied. I failed to mention that on Saturday I was so boozy that instead of giving the bartender my debit card, I handed her my California driver's license.
"Okay. Well, I want you to meet people. There's a wonderful man who's about your age. I think he's single. Anyway, I've arranged for you to meet."
"Um. What?" A mute humpback whale could spawn a better response.
The two-year-old shrieked, "You don't have milk. Mummy has milk," as he prodded my cans with his pointer fingers.
"He's in the Navy. He's into soccer and outdoor activities like you are. He's really nice," Crazy continued.
"I really appreciate the thought, but I really do have friends. I have people to do things with," I replied.
"He's taking you to a cricket game. He got tickets. You'll really like him."
The Black Caps cricket game at Auckland's Eden Park stadium sold stubby beers with 3.5% alcohol. The beer ad posters proclaimed, "Go running later!" When I go to a sporting event, I eat hot dogs and drink beer. I want at least 5% beer. And I don't want to go running later. I want to get sauced.
The cricket game had Halloween in the stands. Fans dressed as Chewbaccas, pigs, Mexicans in sombreros and panchos, babies, and the American Air Force. Some men wore only paint. It rained. The paint streamed. One man bulldozed his way through the crowd and to his seat donning a wedding gown and veil. He wore heels. The guy Crazy set me up with informed me that it was the man's bachelor party. To array the groom-to-be in a homeless person's bride outfit is normal. To steal the groom's wallet, keys, clothes, and cell phone while he's in the ensemble is recommended.
Over the game's nine hour endurance, I acquainted myself with the game and the guy. He was over a decade older than me, shorter than me, and expected me to have cricket knowledge. I'm American. I'm more familiar with the Abominable Snowman than I am with baseball's subordinate. After five hours of wickets, overs, bowling, and leg byes, I thought the game was over. It was half-time.
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