I’ll call you.

“I’ll call you.” I’ve heard this many times, usually at the close of a nice evening with a gentleman. Sometimes it means, “I’ll be calling you later tonight to make sure you got home safely.” Other times, it means a phone call a few days afterward. Sometimes it means, “I’m never going to call you again.”

Derivatives have similar meanings. After a few dates, one guy closed a phone conversation by saying, “I’ll talk to you soon.” Soon can mean a lot of things, I guess. Considering that the history of the earth stretches back millions of years, I guess two years is just a tiny speck of time. From that perspective, two years could qualify as “soon.” Of course, those were the last words I ever heard from him. Another guy closed a good-enough first date with, “Maybe I’ll call you sometime.” At least he was honest, since that leaves open the possibility that he’ll never call. He never did, and that’s really fine with me.

“I’ll call you,” the gorgeous man said as he was walking away. I beamed. “Yeah!” Now THIS is how first dates should go!, I thought to myself, basking in the warmth of the sunshine and the sweet embrace I’d just received. A lunch full of conversation about musical tastes, social justice, and a common appreciation for a sense of adventure. After all, we were meeting for lunch because the gorgeous man caught my eye from across a bookstore, and I was so intrigued that I inquired about him to the cashier who’d been chatting with him. He didn’t see me before he walked out of the bookstore, but I wrote my name and number on a piece of paper and gave it to the cashier, certain that the gorgeous man would never use it. But I thought, hey, what’s the worst that could happen? I compliment a total stranger and it makes him smile? Everybody wins! To my great surprise, she did pass along my number, and he did call. E-mails were exchanged, photos sent, and out of this was produced a pleasant lunch date. He mentioned somewhere along the way that he’d been playing the guitar for eleven years, which is equal to half his life. Hmm. He threw out some great ideas for fun things to do—touring the local wineries west of Austin, musical acts around town. He seemed like a lot of fun. “I’ll call you.” That was two months ago. The phone’s been silent. He’s probably busy graduating from college. It’s easy to tell myself I’m not missing out on much.

I could probably attend a winery tour by myself—what’s not to love about sipping wine with strangers? I also don’t mind catching live music on my own: a large, anonymous event where it’s easy to simply be a face in the crowd, enjoying the music. Attractive ideas, yes—but the more I consider, I recognize it would take an awful lot of energy. Smiling, I say to myself with confidence, “I’ll call you.” I know full well I never will.

The Walenta Household.

I received a piece of mail addressed to “The Walenta Household.” This came to my apartment, where I live alone, where I have been living alone since I moved in almost a year and a half ago. Mindy Montford and her campaign, who sent this postcard, may not know this. She’s running for some kind of political office in Austin. I don’t know what office, but I’ll probably vote for her based on this: she and her campaign regard me as a household. (You can see how sophisticated is my selection process for candidates for public office.)

I never thought of myself as a household before. Maybe it’s because I haven’t done my taxes yet and haven’t been asked to make a decision like that. Or maybe it’s because I’m still a student, essentially being supported by my mother, even though she lives in another house in a different town. Maybe I never thought a household could be just one person. The word household conjures up an image of a house overrun with kids, a couple of overworked parents, living in a free-standing structure that has a yard. That’s not my life. My household is an apartment, and it's very quiet. I go to sleep when I want, wake up when I want, and eat when I want. I can take my time getting ready in the morning because I don’t have to share my bathroom with anybody. I listen to music of my own choosing, and no one says anything about it. (Except, sometimes, my upstairs neighbor: “What WAS that this morning? Tribal drumming?!” I don’t listen to tribal drumming, but I do have a surprisingly powerful bass speaker, and as my friend Chris says, “Every song has bass when you’ve got this much power!”)

My house is quiet when I want quiet, although it’s also quiet even when I don’t want it. I almost never argue with or pick fights with myself. I rarely get on my own nerves. I guess, as households go, this one isn’t bad at all. I think I’ll take it.

“The Walenta Household.” As head of this household, I’m going to decree the mandatory presence of fresh flowers every week, multiple lamps for indirect lighting, and ice cream for dinner, monthly at minimum. No phone calls after 10 PM unless it’s an emergency (or previously negotiated). Done.

I’m going to like it here.