The Space/Time Continuum

"Mee-yaah..." Consuela whines, "move your feet!" She shoves my feet aside as I try to write at my desk.

I think she fails to recognize that this is a dictatorship; not a democracy. She's trying to swiffer under my desk. Her fat little 4'8" frame is squirming underneath me while she annoyingly hums some native Argentinian folk-song from her homeland. It's amazing. I can spend 23 hours and 45 minutes a day away from my desk, but the minute I want to sit here and get some work done she decides to act some-what productive. "Act" being the opperative word. She's not fooling me. I see those mildew stains in the bathtub. The laundry is piled up. Dirty dishes overflow in the sink.

A quick half-assed swiffer of the 8 square feet of floor space under my desk isn't going to counteract all the things she hasn't done today; like bring in the paper, or bang out the mats on the balcony...

"There's nothing in the fridge," I hint -- trying to motivate her to perhaps go and get some groceries; but she does what Consuela does best: pretends not to hear me. She's shuffling around behind me. Eventually the sound of her dollar store slippers dragging against my floor ceases. Like clockwork -- 20 seconds later the wailing cry of betrayed Latina women crescendo into a full-on scream; the telenovella dishes out another dose of Consuela's favourite past-time...

Sigh. If only I could write in Spanish. I'd have a dream career of writing sappy telenovellas while sipping an espresso from some romantic Barcelonian cafe and entertaining the hearts of millions. My Spanish lover would be reading some poetry book while massaging my foot with one of his hands. Every once in a while just to make the stomachs of passer-byes turn to a full level of nausea --he would kiss my toes. Revolting; but fantastic none-the-less.

But I'm not in Barcelona. I'm in my apartment on a Saturday morning trying to pound out some more pages before the inspiration is fully lost.

"Turn down that damn television!" I screech at Consuela, just to reminder her how much I love her. The closest I've ever come to watching a telenovella was about ten minutes of an Italian dubbed version of "Sex and the City". It was ridiculous:

Charlotte: "Carrie, quando la problemo pour la bastardo de Big?"

Carrie: "Me no comprendo. Mio heart c'est la trasho de la bastardo de la Monsieur Big".

Charlotte: "Cordnutto! Bastardo! Mio Carrie. Quando! Quando!"

OK. So obviously I can't speak Italian.

Poor Carrie. I remember when I first caught "Sex and the City"; I was 22. I naively thought, how sad that those women in their thirties couldn't get it together and make a relationship work...

Be very careful what statements you throw out to the Universe. For now, I am that 32 year old woman that I pitied ten years ago. Relationships are hard. Really hard. Especially when you keep choosing the wrong people. Even more so when you fall victim to your feelings; like Carrie did with Big, over and over and over and over....you get it.

The other day I was at a barbecue. The kids outnumbered the adults 4 to 1. I sat beside a woman who had three kids. So...we start chatting. She finds out I'm single; takes me under her wing and begins to tell me how she didn't meet her husband until she was 34, and they took their time having kids, and now at 41 she has three under five...so "You have LOTS of time", she says thunderously with a big smile on her face.

"I'm not worried", I tell her.

"NO, seriously. You have lots of time" She repeated. The volume was starting to mask the voice of The Lord in The Ten Commandments. Should I climb Mt. Sinai and bring back some tablets? Just who exactly was she convincing? I looked around in case she was speaking to more than one of us. But it was just me. Me and my lots of time.

OK...

I started deconstructing my non-verbal behaviour in case there was just a hint of Desperate or Pathetic hanging off of me that I was unaware of. I couldn't think of anything. I wasn't dying to hold anyone's baby. I pretty much ran in the other direction when little grubby children came at me with worms.

Was I really giving off an "I wanna join your mommy club vibe"? Or was I just that pathetic single person that everyone wants to see partnered up so that I have the option to join one day if I so choose?

I wasn't sure. So I smiled, and repeated, "I'm not in any rush!" Charleston Heston stand aside. I used my really loud voice; well, as loud as it could be through my fake smile. It's hard to increase your volume when your jaw is clenched.

But she vollied it back to me like any woman on a mission; eager to convince me of a better understanding -- one that I will (in her mind) appreciate when I get there:

You have LOTS of time.

Good to know, I acquiesce. Resistance was futile. For the reality is; it does take me a little...ok...a lot longer to learn some lessons, I suppose.

I revel in my new-found liberated space/time continuum. I have lots of time I thought as I sucked back the rest of my wine in an effort to ease the conversation that was (apparently) NEVER going to end because time, as she so eloquently kept reminding me, was of no consequence.