Only the Lonely and Idiomatically Impaired

I’ve already broken the first rule in the Handbook of Making Friends After Relocation (HOMFAR). Took less than 48 hours, which must be a HOMFAR record. My crime was simple yet personally devastating: I turned down an invitation.

Everyone knows that if you want to avoid seclusion and decay in a new city, you never, ever refuse social propositions. To put it tritely: beggars can’t be choosers. (If you think that idiomatic phrasing is bad, read further. It gets a lot worse.)

This rule goes for all invitations. Particulars such as date, time, location, and legality aren’t important. Squirrel hunting in the briar? Well, sure! Detailing your uncle‘s motorhome? Count me in! Shooting up behind McDonald’s? Swell! Should I bring my own needle?

The good news -- after a few weeks of friendship prostitution, you can scale back. By this time, it’s likely you’ll have at least one “starter friend.” Or you’ll have a nice drug habit to take your mind off of the loneliness.

When my cell phone rang at 9:30 last night, I decided to ignore it. I was already in my pajamas, tuned into my favorite “Sex and the City” episode (that one where Charlotte gets crabs in the Hamptons). After the credits rolled, though, curiosity won (over laziness, I guess), and I checked the message. Adrian a.k.a. Mrs. Luc’s daughter and sometime caretaker.

“Just wanted to pass along a message from Karen. She says she’s been trying to get in touch with you about a party. You might give her a call, if you’re not busy.”

Busy? No, I’m not busy, unless your busyness threshold is low enough to qualify “breathing” and “blogging.” Party with Karen! My pulse revived. My forlorn little mind buzzed with scenes from Beaches (before the cancer) and Thelma and Louise (before the double suicide). Karen -- a fellow 20-something who interns for Adrian -- would be the wind beneath my wings, saving me from a dive bomb into reclusion. Did you ever know that you, Karen, are my hero?

I didn’t wait to call Karen’s number. I’d programmed her “digits” into my phone several days ago, when Adrian gave them to me. “I just know you two adorable single gals will get along!” Adrian chirped. Even Mrs. Luc seemed optimistic.

“Karen? Um, hey. This is Jesse? Adrian gave me your message? About getting in touch?”

Not a promising conversation opener. HOMFAR would deduct points for insecurity, uncertainty, and general shakiness. I held my breath while Karen paused.

“Message?”

“Uh, yeah. Shesaidyouwantedmynumber…..somethingaboutaparty.” Now I went into verbal overdrive, hoping to abort Mission: Friendship as soon as possible. Obviously, we were missing a few crucial bits of machinery. Like, the engine, and wheels, and such.

“Oh! Hey! I have your number.”

I didn’t really know what to make of this information, so I waited for a cue, either from Karen or God. Did this mean that she was about to call me, before Adrian stepped in? Or had she filed my number “In case of severe social deprivation”?

Hallelujah, she continued. “I’m so glad you called! A bunch of us are getting together at this club on Napoleon tonight. Major drink specials. You have to come!”

The italicized parts of this exclamation didn’t stand out for me. What I heard was: “bunch of us,” “Napoleon,” and “tonight.”

See, Mission: Friendship wasn’t doomed, right? That’s good. However, I could see three potentially fatal flaws:

1. “bunch of us” -- “Bunch” usually means “more than two.” And “us” is a plural pronoun.” So, the Thelma and Louise fantasy needed tweaking. How much tweaking, I wasn’t sure. A “bunch” of bananas….three or four. A “bunch” of termites….twenty or thirty, at least. Bananas or termites? It didn’t seem like an appropriate question.

2. “Napoleon” -- Napoleon Street is….well, I’m not quite certain where it is. But I know it’s not close to my apartment. As I may have mentioned previously, “sense of direction” is not my sixth sense. Sometimes I get lost in the supermarket. Wasn’t I just at Aisle 7? My internal compass is guaranteed to fall apart after 8 p.m. The nighttime is the right time for many things, but not for putting me on the road in a strange city.

3. “Tonight” -- As Karen enthused about 10-cent beers, I glanced at my watch. 10:05. 10:06. Tick tick tick. Okay, I’m not one of those anemic partiers who collapses at midnight, but this was a “school night.” I had my first university orientation session today: 9 a.m. ‘til 3 p.m. Yesterday I intended to be asleep by 11 at the latest. I’d drug myself with Tylenol PM, if necessary. My “best forward foot” might not be a 100% confident foot or a psychology-whiz foot, but I didn’t want it to be a sleepy or hungover foot. (Again, apologies for the idiom. Just wait.)

“Awwww, I’d love to go, Karen,” I said in my best “apologetic-yet-very-cool-and- definitely-worth-getting-to-know” voice. “But I’m already in my pajamas.”

“That’s okay!” Karen announced, before I could segue into “Have fun, and we’ll get together soon.”

“I probably won’t get out there until 11 or so. You have plenty of time to change.”

So, now I’m sending the mixed messages. “Um, I really wish I could. I really appreciate the invitation. Really.”

“So, come on! There should be lots of other single people there. Not that I’m trying to pressure you or anything.”

Here’s what I’ve discovered about the “not….or anything” phrase: it‘s always intended to work in reverse. Classic example: “I’m not trying to be mean or anything, but…” A line like this always ends in a mean statement. “I’m not trying to be mean or anything, but he smells worse than dog diarrhea.” Of course you’re trying to be mean. If you were trying to be nice, you wouldn’t have said anything at all. Would you? Would you?

“I really wish I could go….” I started. What now? “Um, I really wish I could go, but….”

And here’s where it comes. The dreaded idiomatic phrase. The dumbest idiomatic phrase in the dictionary of phrases and quotations. Worse than “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” Worse than “You are what you eat” or “You can’t take it with you.”

“But…..I want to make sure all of my ducks are in a line for tomorrow.”

Pardon my idiomatic French, but: what the fuck? All my ducks are in a line? That isn’t even the right idiom. Ducks come in a row, not a line. And what does that mean, anyway? Why are the ducks in a row? They’re ducks, not ducklings. They don’t need to walk in a row. Makes them easier to shoot.

Karen didn’t say anything to this. How could she? Behind her silence was realization. Shazam. Eureka. I am dealing with Emily Dickinson-meets-Stephen Hawking. Abort! Abort!

The rest of our conversation lasted maybe 25 seconds. “Have fun and we’ll get together soon! Well, bye!”

I immediately called my mother, sobbing. Because when you utter an idiom only a mother could love, you have to call your mother.

“M-o-o-m….I….*snort*….I just ruined…..*sniffle*….ruined things with Ka-uh-Kar-ennnnnnnnn.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad, dear.”

“I won’t make annnnny friendssss *snort snuffle* I’ll just be ‘That Weird Girlllll….’”

“You’ll make friends,” Mom sighed. “I mean, not everyone will think you’re weird.”

You can fool some of the people some of the time….

Oh okay, I’ll stop. There’s a happy ending to this long tale o’ woe: today I met two incoming psych Ph.D.ers, and I invited them to dinner at my place Monday night. I’m going to cook the least weird food possible. Nothing with tofu. Definitely no duck.