Circle of Friends

I was a very reluctant Facebook member.

I love technology and all the ways it has made my life easier.
Cell phones for me and my kids. No hollering down the street that it is dinner time.
Something on TV for everyone, at any time of day or night. Without having to adjust the antennae or horizontal hold.
Movie tickets purchased in advance on line – so you don’t have to show up and wait in a line 2 hours before the Justin Bieber Director’s Cut starts and endure the shrill overexcitement of the other viewers.
Programmable coffee makers. Enough said.

But for all things social, I am more a traditionalist. I prefer real face to face interaction. Or at a minimum, telephone time.

I’ve mentioned that I am in Human Resources. I hire for a living. An online dating service or something similar is, to me, an inferior way to make some pretty important judgments…and therefore some pretty important distinctions. As in “You get my attention” vs. “You will go in the trash bin.”

It is the equivalent of someone looking good on paper and then walking into your office wearing a live animal on his head. There is no way to tell anything about a person’s chemistry, philosophy, ethics, values, sense of humor, and lets not forget hygiene (thank you Casey, for making that part of my list of hurdles to clear) from a profile on a social website.

But when I got my invitation to my college reunion and called my roommate Jane to ask if she intended to go, she offered me a deal. She’ll go with me, if I open a Facebook account. So, to seal the deal, I opened one while we were on the phone together. As a sign of good faith, even though I never intended to use it at all.

But then Jane began to suggest friends to me. And suggest me to other friends of hers. And suddenly I was somewhat well connected and in touch with people I’d never expected to correspond with again.

And I came to view FB as a big widespread stay at home cocktail party – that no one has to get dressed up for or show up on time to enjoy. You talk to people you want to talk with, and ignore conversations you have no interest in. And have sidebar conversations occasionally so no one overhears your comments, snarky ones especially.

And it is a great place to showcase you clever musings on life, or brag about your kids, or flaunt your exotic vacation (and sometimes inadvertently announce to the entire FB reading world that you are in Barbados and no one is home to stop an intruder if one were inclined to just go help themselves to your jewelry and fine arts collection.)

But it has its drawbacks. My mother’s entire extended family has Friend Requested me…and for a while I accepted. Until I realized that would be like walking into a Fun House with lots of booby traps and trap doors and stopped accepting them. I am sure I have offended lots of Estelle’s kin. I am also sure she has, too, so I am not terribly concerned.

And then there was J. A card carrying Facebook foe for years. Didn’t like the openness of it. The exposure. The accessibility to other adults, evidently.

So when I opened an account, he did moments later and friended me. At the time, no big deal. My brother-in-law and nephews friended him too.

And then I read his profile. All about me.

Weeks later, I had to unfriend him.

Then he put his status as engaged to me. I’d already broken up with him. Not pretty. I nearly choked when our friends at Facebook sent me an email to confirm the engagement. I am sure they thought it odd that we weren’t even friends.

They had no idea how odd.

A Year of Living Dangerously

Today is a landmark day. It is exactly one year ago that I began writing this blog. Five days a week without fail. I leave the weekends to live more life and collect more stories. And continue to be amazed at how the ordinary can seem extraordinary, and how the painful becomes less so when you can share it as though you would over cocktails. It has been a wonderful experience to see my ever eventful life from a position of humor and to spin it at entertainment. Even if I am only confident that Charlotte and I are entertained. It has helped me to see the humor in the harangue. And to let it roll off my back like water off a duck. And it has in many ways spared my friends from having to listen to me rant endlessly about the high drama in my life. Lars’s constant competition to win the Lousiest Parent of the Year trophy. The plethora of nitty gritty annoyances heaped upon me by J.’s consistently moronic family. And his full on inability and unwillingness to deal with them. And the cesspool of trouble I eventually found myself paddling around in when I came to my senses about J. himself. OK – to be truthful, Charlotte still got an earful on a regular basis. And a few screeching emails in a bitchy howler monkey font. In fact, it was a weeklong series of pathetically amusing e-mail diatribes that prompted her to ask me “Why aren’t you blogging?” And when I responded that I am too lazy, she sent me a link to the very blogger website I write on. A superhero always. And one night, when the Big P had cursed me, and when I took the caffeine-loaded version of Pamprin instead of the sedating variety, I was wide awake with a chardonnay and a few thoughts in my head that simply would not go away. And since it was 1 am and too late to call anyone to share my darkly humorous take on the events of the week, I committed to writing my theories and thoughts. And kept doing so. Even I am amazed at how much material one life can produce. And I am living it. And now I wonder, as my life takes a turn down a calm and blissfully happy road, what on Earth will I write about. I recently asked as much of Charlotte. She paused to compose her return email and hit the send button within just a few minutes. She reminded me that I am perimenopausal, divorced from a lunatic, falling in love with a darling man, just escaped from a good-relationship-gone-totally-haywire-with-a-Jekyl-and-Hyde-with-a-completely-disturbed-family-with-no-boundaries, have my mother for my mother and my brother for my brother, work with people for a living, and have hilarious friends with very vivid lives and great story-telling abilities. Bring on Year 2. Thank you for your patronage. It pleases me beyond description to know anyone has read what my heart seeks to write.

Oh for Christ's Teeth

And there is another thing Mom is missing, though not nearly so exciting. At least not for her. It is for me. She’d probably have a cow, so just as well. I began Invisalign treatment last week. I never had braces as a child. Never had anything a typical teenager would have. Whatever everyone else got, I must have gotten in the wrong line. The downside: No boobs until college. Flat as a pancake. No growth spurt until junior year. Short, or as my mother would say, “petite.” No driver’s license until senior year, and my friends would not let me forget that I never did my share of the driving. No job until senior year. Lived on whatever allowance I could get without actually breaking a sweat to help anyone about the house. And then took a humiliating job at a bakery, complete with pink plaid jumper. The upside: Charlotte had a retainer. Joe had full braces, top and bottom. I had nothing but wisdom teeth removed. A walk in the park from a vanity standpoint. Charlotte hated her skin problems. Joe’s skin should have been in CDC archives for World’s Worst Pizza Face. I had no issues. Nary a zit. Charlotte dieted. Joe was a chubbins. I was a toothpick and ate everything at said bakery by the pound. But now, the paybacks have begun. My metabolism came to a grinding halt when I was 31. I can’t exactly polish off the whole cheesecake and still expect to fit in my jeans the next day anymore. Being a brunette, I get to wax where my friends the blondes do not even have to imagine waxing. And it is a fallacy that waxing makes the hair grow back thinner and weaker. No, it does not. And my teeth are shifting. Like my mothers did. And no offense to Mom, I don’t want her teeth. No matter where they go. Not that they were ever perfect, (she was a Depression Era middle child in a family of 11 children so orthodontia was not a possibility much less a priority) but they did go on the move in her 50s. To the point where she just caved and got dentures. I have only her experience to go on and assume my teeth will do similarly. I have no idea what my Dad’s teeth would have done. He had dentures by this age. In fact, he had dentures my entire life…only I didn’t know it. I thought he had beautiful teeth. Truth is he had all of his teeth pulled (for reasons that have never been adequately explained to me) when he was a young man in the Navy. God only knows the story behind that. And better yet, he never told us. It wasn’t until he had surgery when I was in my 30s and Charlotte and I went to visit him post-operatively. The nurse told us to wait a minute. He wasn’t ready for visitors. He wanted to put in his teeth. Say what? We looked at her like she was nuts. “Oh no. There must be some mistake. We are here to see our father.” We said his name and she checked the chart. Yep, right guy. Right room. Right bed. So we visit and make him comfy, check on his pain management, etc. and say goodbye – and I am immediately on the phone to our mother. And that’s when she spilled it. He had dentures when she met him. Good thing we never had to identify his carcass in the morgue. “Nope. Can’t be. Looks like him. Looks like his shorty pajamas. But our Dad has all his own teeth, and they are gorgeous.” Oh, the secrets families keep.

And Then There's Mom

Despite that inauspicious introduction, Mom came to really like Scott.

He was exceptionally handsome.
He had impeccable manners.
He had a great smile.
The dog liked him.
Her friends thought he was the cat’s pajamas.
He may have been the only classmate of mine, male, female, high school or college, that didn’t at some point get chewed up and spit out in little wet crumbs after somehow offending Mom’s hard-to-grasp sensibilities.

Somehow he was the one who charmed the little bellbottomed embroidered pants off of Estelle. Without even trying. He’d have been dead meat if he’d been discovered to have been trying. Only one other person since has warmed her little thorny heart. He’s a dear friend still. We attended each other’s weddings and maintain a lively Facebook friendship.

So the fact that Scott found me on Facebook after 30 years and is as handsome and charming and wonderful as her failing memory would recall for her, despite her general mistrust and disdain for all things internet, she’d be thrilled, in spite of her frostiness toward me of late.

But because she can not bring herself to see our shared culpability in the current feud, and will not extend or accept an olive branch (according to Charlotte, unless the olive branch takes the form of me running on my considerable sword), she is missing the joy of it all.

The companionship I am enjoying with Scott.
The laughter to the point of tears. The fun.
The smiles on the kids faces; their acceptance of him, the friendships between the kids.
The easiness. The respect. The partnership.

In short, Mom is missing out on the wonder it is to watch your child fall in love.

Among other things.

And maybe that is by design.

Mom has told Charlotte that she believes my life is like a bed of roses. Her litmus test for that statement being that I do not call her for help.

I am sorry, this is not algebra homework.

My life, though rich with rewards and full of wonders, is hardly a walk in the park. I have a whack job ex-husband, two kids with genuine troubles to contend with, a taxing job with many demands that test my mettle, and lots of responsibilities.

She has no idea that the tearful calls I do make are to Charlotte. Joy. Kate. And now Scott.

And on some level, Mom knows me well enough to know this. It just may be that she can not sufficiently minimize the challenges I face, and finds it easier to simply pretend they do not exist.

From 5 states away you can do that. Let someone else, or a whole crowd of someone elses make my bed of nails feel like a bed of roses. So that when and if you choose to show up, you can say, “I told you so,” and pretend it’s been rosey all along.

And somehow take some credit for having made it that way.

Whatev.

You and I Travel to the Beat of a Different Drum

I am on the field in formation while my life stands on the precipice of Hell.

Mr. Skitch is yelling at the Drill Team Captain while our Band Front Director, who I swear was the person after whom Courtney Love modeled her persona, barks about flag angles and rifle heights between drags on her Marlboro.

Estelle inches ever closer in the rumbling, vibrating Pontiac.

I am standing on the 40 yard line, left hand in a fist on my hip, right hand above my head at a 45 degree angle with my flag blowing in the breeze.

I am praying to be struck by lightening.

Mom is trying to get my attention.

I have to ignore her. If I let her distract me now, I will be the equipment girl instead of a drill team member in a matter of minutes. I stay focused.

Still Estelle is making a valiant effort at scrambling my brain.

She inches the bomb a little closer to the crowd of band members. I can tell from the way her pink robe is moving that she is rolling down her window (manually, natch.) I cringe. She is going to actually speak.

Without moving my head, but moving only my frantic eyeballs so that I can see her and perhaps place a crippling hex on her with my Carrie White telekinetic powers, I see that she is placing her hand, turquoise butterfly ring and all, up to her face to project a little better.

Oh.
My.
God.

She is going to yell for me! I am certain I could die on the spot.

But no. Estelle can probably surmise that I am ignoring her, insolent little brat that I am, showing absolutely no gratitude for the fact that she trekked all the way back over to our remotely situated little suburban high school with 2,000 students.

She is doing me one better.

And then I hear it.

Shrill and unmistakably my mother.

“Yooooo Hooooooo!” Now she’s sticking the practice flag out the window and waving it a little. Completely exposing an arm of her bathrobe.

“Yooo Hooo! Can you give this to Elizabeth?”

And just whose attention do you think she got? Of course the heads of all the band members snapped around in disbelief, but try to guess who actually responded and approached the car?

It was Scott, of course. Who, amused beyond description, immediately turned around and waved the flag emphatically and repeated “Yooo Hooo Elizabeth!” with a big shit-eating grin on his face and a falsetto voice that would put Barry Gibb to shame.

Mom smiled and waved and 3-point-turned the bomb around to head for home. Mission accomplished. Total humiliation.

It was a banner day. I had my first ever murderous thought.

My Mother the Car

We step outside to get in Mom’s car. A bomb of a car that smells like cigarettes and rusting everywhere. Needs a paint job. Needs an upholsterer. Needs a muffler. Needs to go to the scrap yard. I am pulling the brim of my cowboy hat over my eyes so as not to be recognized in it. My Dad would have a stroke if he knew it was parked at the curb along side his beautifully manicured lawn all weekend. Between the car and the caricature that is my mother, I feel like I am on a movie set and something heinous is about to happen in the plot.

A turn of the key, and the engine literally roars to life with a puff of smoke. And we are bombing to the high school at neck breaking speeds and in total disregard for driving conventions. My fingernails are dug deep into the dashboard.

I manage to convince Mom that she doesn’t have to come all the way around back to the band room parking area. I have to go adjust my uniform anyway and can whip in the side door right into the lavatory if you just swing in over here where you can make a quick lap around the library and be gone before anyone notices!

She sticks the cigarette back into her mouth, now Penelope Pitstop Pink because she applied at the light. She screeches to a stop and I climb out of the wildly vibrating vehicle to dash to the side entrance, head down, collar up, brim still encroaching the bridge of my nose. A clean getaway.

Inspection goes fine. I am uniform perfection and will be marching that day…right behind the adorable Scott in his grand poobah hat and spats with his jazzy silver trumpet. The football field is lined and the team is warming up. So must we. We take to the Junior High field to practice one last time or two.

Always a perfectionist, Mr. Skitch is stopping us every few bars to correct a formation, or a rhythm or some darn thing. We are out on that dewy field for ages before we are dismissed in sections. The woodwinds. The brass. The drum line. All step off the field to hear the rest of our last minute instructions.

When out of the corner of my eye, I see her car. THE car. The burned-out Pontiac I had exited an hour before reeking like a teachers’ lounge. And then I hear it. Incredulously, it is inching its way through the Junior High teachers’ lot toward the crowd of band members.

I am pitting out my ill-fitting uniform.

What I know now, but I did not know then, was that my mother had gone home to find my practice flag, the one you wave around at practice and drag across the field 100 times a week that gets all muddy and grass stained, sitting in the dining room. Thinking I might need it but not knowing for sure, she’d have to bring it to me just in case.

Now remember, this is way before the invention of the cordless phone, much less the widespread prevalence of the cell phone. She’d have no way to take the low road and just ask me.

She’d have one decision to make – forget that she saw it and let me sink or swim in my inspection OR light up another Kent 100 and bomb her way back to the school to give it to me.

And now here she was. God only knows what I was in store for.

Mother May I?

It was early in the school year when Scott and I began our series of 7 or 8 dates in a row. The week following the ass-chewing introduction to my Dad, we had plans again, but this time, it was on my mother’s watch.

My Dad took very little time for himself after he and Mom split. Dated very little, upheld very few after work obligations. I don’t remember thinking it was strange at the time, just a little curious that a good looking fun loving guy like Dad would spend all his time watching TV with my idiot brother. Who knows, maybe it was a matter of money. Such things would never have been openly discussed in our house.

Anyway, the one thing he did put his foot down and insist upon every year was the golf weekend with his buddies from work – a job he loved for 30 years at the newspaper that was delivered to our doorsteps every evening. The tradition continued for many years after the paper closed, and eventually came to include my idiot brother. Glad to see they occasionally got off the couch.

It was the weekend after Labor Day, Pageant weekend at the shore town about an hour and a half from home. Golf, beer, more golf and the pageant festivities unfolding all around them in one of the tackiest, most overblown resort towns known to man.

On this particular weekend, because my brother and I were technically minors, and my mother’s living arrangements at the time were a little unfit for children, my father let his guard down and allowed my mother to come stay in their “former marital residence,” which must have been an act of pure desperation. Given the same option myself in my relationship with Lars, I’d sooner burn the house down than give him a key.

It was like spending the weekend with Lucy and Ethel. Or maybe on the set of Bewitched. Nothing normal. Nothing going as planned. Sleep with your shoes on, the house could go up in flames at any minute.

My mother arrives somewhere hours past the appointed hour leaving my Dad to wonder if she’ll arrive at all. Of course she will, just when she’s done all the things she wants to do. She’s loud. She breaks all our new routines. She asks a lot of questions. She doesn’t wait for answers. She’s exhausting.

On Saturday morning, I am marching in the football game at half time, so I am up early to shower, braid my hair to comply with band front uniformity and to squeeze myself into the made-to-fit uniform that was clearly made to fit someone else. White cowboy boots? Check. White cowboy hat? Check. Bleached white gloves? Check. Game flag, streamers and pompoms? Check. Mom? No check.

Mom is still snoozing away without a care in the world while I panic that I will be tardy and will not be allowed to march. One of the (far inferior) subs will march on my marks and do it all wrong and my whole squad will be pissed. (This is what you worry about in 10th grade, dontcha know)

I manage to nudge her from unconsciousness and get her in an upright seated position while I explain that she needs to drive like a bat out of Hell to the high school so I can stand in line and be inspected with the squad.

She looks at me sarcastically. Inspected?

She claims I am panicking for nothing. We can leave right now.

With her in her nightgown and Oomphies slippers and her hair taking on the appearance of a nest.

8 Simple Rules for Dating My Teenage Daughter

It was not easy to like someone around Mom. Most guys you liked Mom would pick apart like a vulture on a carcass.

Is he kidding with that hair?
Is that what the boys are wearing these days? It makes them all look so stupid.
I just don’t understand why you wouldn't do something about that (mole, chipped tooth, scar)... His parents must be weird.
He walks like he has a pole up his ass. Or a mess in his pants. He doesn’t, does he?
He dated that girl? Instead of you? She has terrible hair. And her legs are going to look like utility poles when she’s about 35. She’s got nothing on you. (Except she has The Guy, Mom, and I am watching TV all weekend with Dad and Joe…)

I could never tell if this had anything to do with my brother or not. It’s anyone’s guess. Mom would criticize anyone who was more loved and adored than her own. And truly convince herself it was justified. It is a miracle I saw the dance floor at any prom at all.

When Scott and I began dating, or would it be more accurate to say, “When Scott and I had our first in a series of 7 or 8 dates,” he began to drive me home from school every day. And from football games, and from band practice, and from anywhere else a crowd gathered. So he was probably a little less nervous finding my house in the dark and coming to the door than if he’d never wandered into my zip code before.

At least at first.

He comes in, greets my Dad with confidence and without appearing to take notice of the sleeping attire. Extends his manly hand to be unceremoniously crushed by Dad.

It was a routine grilling by all accounts. No more painful than any other I’ve blocked from my long term memory in an effort to preserve my sanity for the long haul, except until Dad asked where we were off to.

A party.

A party?! Whose party?

Drew McCarthy’s party.

Where does this kid live? Do you have his number? (The phone book comes out…I am willing myself to die.)

This kid’s parents home?

I suppose so, sir.

Oh God. We’re sirring.

I can assume you won't be drinking?

No sir, of course not. (But girlfriend will be!)

And the torture went on endlessly from there. All that was missing were the bright lights and brass knuckles.

I am not at all clear on how we managed to get out of the house alive, and even more baffled by the fact that I was still allowed to leave with Scott after we could no more produce the McCarthy’s address and telephone number than we could a golden egg. But just before I would have begun hyperventilating, we were sprung from captivity.

And still, that waterboarding-style introduction to Dad could only pale in comparison to the circus act that would be meeting Mom.

The Dating Game

So the funny part is – OK, not so much funny ha-ha but more funny demented and sad, is that Mom is missing all of this.

And before you say “So what? You’re not going to the prom anytime soon, are you?” let me tell you so what.

Mom absolutely adores Scott. Or she did. Remember, we dated in high school.

It was anything but traditional to date under Mom’s nose. She had separated from my Dad when I was just about to turn 14. We pretty much hit the dating scene at the same time – but thankfully went trolling in different play grounds.

My sister, brother and I lived with my Dad (who would have just turned 83 this month. Happy Birthday, Pop!) He was 50 when he and Mom separated. Pretty late to teach an old dog so many new tricks, but he did admirably, even if things weren’t exactly perfect, and even if he did rely a little too much on Charlotte and take advantage of her good will and willingness to help. God knows where we’d have been if he put all his faith in me. Or Joe.

But by hook or by crook (or by some miracle worked by Charlotte) laundry was done, groceries purchased, meals prepared, ball games attended, drivers licenses obtained, and Dad got a quick lesson in the value of hair products, the demand for tampons, and the phone habits of teenagers.

When it came to our dating rituals, Dad was a Traditionalist (except for his penchant for answering the door in his short summer pajamas, in his bare feet, winter and summer, regardless of the weather or who knocked on the door – police, date, Jehovah’s Witness). The guy had to come to the door – and while he made the walk up the driveway, Dad would check out the car from the front window. No aspiring Fonzi’s please, and God forbid you’ve revved your engine before cutting it and climbing out. He’d say “Hello,” in his booming radio voice, making himself as menacing as humanly possible in his cotton shorties. He’d shake the guy’s hand – not unlike Popeye would. (I still remember Charlotte’s date with the football injury to his right hand, sustained on the very game day that coincided with their first date. Hello, Orthopedic Surgeon?) And then he would ask them a few questions to let the guy know who was really in charge and alluding to the Hell there would be to pay if his little girl came home crying.

But it would be all over before you held your breath to the point of unconsciousness and you’d float lightheadedly out the door to down a can of Schlitz your date filched from his old man’s garage fridge as he peeled away from the front of the house in a flop sweat.

Mom meeting your date was an entirely different story.

Nothing traditional here. No routine parent sighting. And nothing that would suggest anything remotely resembling anyone else’s mother. Nothing in common. No opportunity for your date to say anything like “My Mom volunteer’s there, too” or “What a coincidence, my Mom is looking for a doubles partner this season too!” Or “You’re chairing the Band Parents Bake Sale and Car Wash this year? My Mom is on that committee also.” No, there would be no common ground. Mom simply was in a class all her own.

It was just a little tricky to identify what class.

It's a Dog's Life

Scott and his daughter and Charlie come calling at about 11 o'clock.

You can imagine the jangled nerve endings...both in Scott's car (including Charlie's) and in my house.

We find ourselves all in the kitchen at once. My kitchen which is the size of most people's bathrooms.


Everyone says "Hello," and I suggest we give the little tail wagger a little more room to wag by moving into the diningroom.


And here is where the beauty of the moment begins.
We are all on the floor, in a sort of circle, including Scott, who is keeping Charlie contained to the extent that he can be.
My kids are immediately in love with "Char-Char" and my daughter is regaling us with all that she has learned from her The Language of Dogs book, which is guaranteed to make her a dog whisperer.
Charlie is a real sport, licking and snuggling up to each child and giving each of us a way to talk to each other:
My daughter notices his scratching; Scott's daughter explains Charlie's habits.
My son asks what breed Charlie is. Scott answers and asks what kind of dog they have at Lars' house.
I ask Scott's daughter how her cheer competition went, and she tells me it was great, and then Scott has a video of her magnificent tumbling on his phone, which my daughter watches, and ingnites a high pitched conversation that covers cheerleading, nail polish, video games and Justin Bieber before they scramble up the stairs to my daughters room where they endeavor to find more things in common. (like the fact that they are both unbelievable slobs).


That leaves my son to monopolize Charlie without competition and to sit a little longer talking to Scott. Mission accomplished.

Things could not be going better. Scott is on the floor, eye-level with my son and they are having a real, genuine converstation with each other. A conversation that thankfully, bears no resemblance whatsoever to J.'s typical conversations with my son, which focused on three topics ad nauseum:

1) His enduring if not completely smothering love and adoration for me (Bo-ring!)

2) Advice that a boy his age really should not hit his sister (No sh**, Sherlock, and guess what else? The Beatles broke up!)

and 3) Some bizarre esoteric piece of trivia that we are all supposed to be very impressed that he knows, especially my son, who is enormously hard to impress. (The world's largest kazoo ensemble probably wasn't even interesting to they guys playing the kazoos.)

It is entirely natural. A beautiful thing.

And I am racked with guilt.

I spent more than three years committed to a relationship with J., and tortured my children with it for more than half of that time. J., when all the warts at last came out, ultimately turned out to be a fraud, and a taker and an obsessive, controlling nut who constantly decieved me and took advantage of my feelings for him under the auspices of "partnership." And my children knew it almost from the start, but trusted me and wanted my happiness. And I dismissed their quiet complaints that J. blew his nose at the table and skeeved them out, or coughed like a TB patient, or smelled like he'd been smoking, or they just didn't like him. I let it happen.

And now, I am replaying all the warning signs and troubling red flags that should have been heeded and still come back to haunt me, and trying hard to find away to forgive myself; to repent for the kids.

I look at Scott, sharing a belly laugh on the floor with my son because Charlie has cracked the universal male joke and has unleashed a toxic, noxious fart, and my brow begins to unfurrow, my muscles relax.

I may not completely forgive myself, for what I must have put the children through, or for being a stupid, blinded by love fool to have let J. consume my life and much of what comprises it, but I may be able to make amends. To the kids and to myself.

I am at the starting gates of a stretch of life so warm and rich with rewards, so fun and full of laughter, so effortless and easy to live that it makes memories of whatever came before it immaterial and perfunctory. A win for us all...Scott's, mine and ours.

A Boy and His Dog

So my daughter is ready to roll out the red carpet for Scott and his daughter. She may even run down it to greet them in her ball gown.

My son can barely quicken his pulse. Or so it seems. I am sure there is more to it than that.

Loyalty concerns – “I’m not going to like anyone but Dad. I don’t care if he’s Tim Tebow. You can’t make me.”

Anxiety – “What if Scott doesn’t like me? I am not good at math.”

Jealousy – “We’ve kind of liked monopolizing Mom’s attention for the past few months. She can drop everything and drive over to Dad’s to hand deliver my Gameboy to me in her pajamas on a Saturday night if she’s not always off on mini-vacations.”

Disinterest – "Ho hum. Here we go again. And tell me why we have to do this? Must I participate? Yawn."

Meanwhile my girl is puttin’ on the Ritz. I wonder what Scott’s girl is doing?

I call him. I have a suggestion. Remembering when I was first at his house, I suggest that it might be a really great idea to bring one of the dogs. Something to distract us all from the moment and focus all our attentions on something fun. What better than a dog?

“Great idea!! Sure I can. Which one?”

I am not a dog person any more than I am a wine person. I could no more answer this question than I could “Would the Steak Au Poivre be better paired with the 2002 August Briggs Petite Sirah or the 2003 Norman Vineyards The Monster Zin?” Clueless. Eany Meany Miney Moe. All the same to me. You pick.

I say as much.

“Ernie would be the easiest. He won’t run away or jump around. But he sheds a lot. A LOT, " declares Scott, thinking out loud.

I picture my vacuum going up in flames.

“Not Snoop?” I ask. I have seen pictures of him sitting idle while the girls dress him in bathing suits and clothes and sunglasses and hats. Cool as a cucumber. My kind of disposition. Barely breathing.

“No. Snoopy’s bad. The minute you open the door he’ll be down the street chewing on the mailman.”

Good to know.

I guess that leaves Charlie. Neurotic and scratchy. But very cute and loves to be cuddled in your arms like a baby. And small enough to sit on our laps. And to stuff into the breadbox if he’s that bad.

So we agreed that the next morning, Charlie and his bowl and leash would come calling with Scott and his daughter.

Good grief, Charlie Brown.

Mom and Scott, Sittin' in a Tree

So things are great with me and Scott, but beginning to feel a little lopsided.

I’ve spent some time at Scott’s house and with his daughters and pets- but he’s only been to my house when my children are incarcerated with Lars, so he’s not met them.

Time to change that.

So the next weekend I have the kids, we planned to make an introduction. And a lasagna.

What they know so far is limited. They’ve seen a picture. They know we went to high school together. I start to fill the kids in on some details.

Scott’s children – their names, ages and interests.
The situation between Scott and his children’s mother – so they can get a sense of how their lives compare with theirs.
The pets – Not only Charlie, Snoopy and Buddy (who I still call Ernie, and so does everyone else now) but also Snickers the Cat and Thumper the Bunny. Scott sends texts from his phone with pictures.
What Scott’s house is like – where it is and what I know about the town and what there is for them to do there.
What Scott does for a living, what he likes to do for fun, what do we talk about, how much do I like him, does he have any cool video games or systems?

My son is more interested in what Scott can offer him than Scott in general. Hadn’t cared much for J. and doesn’t have a lot of faith that I have picked a winner this time. Thank you for the confidence. I am ready for him to suggest a vetting committee.

My daughter is intrigued.

It is the Friday night before the Saturday that Scott and his youngest daughter are supposed to come. My daughter and I are enjoying a typical mother-daughter ritual. We are playing spa.

She has collected all my discarded makeup and some of her own, a dozen lotions and potions and polishes and hair notions and is giving me the works. Nails, up-do and makeup for a Big Event.

“So Mom…what kind of makeup do you want?” Long pause. “Wedding???????”

“Very funny,” I say. “Cut it out or no tip!”

She giggles, and then while I am a captive audience with my feet in a tub of perfumed water and a mud mask on my face and my hands being lotioned, she says, “ So, tell me, Mom. Did you and Scott have your first kiss yet?”

I smile - or try to with the paralyzing mud mask piled on an inch thick - and tell her, “Yes, sweetie, we have the first kiss out of the way.”

“Soooooooooo….who kissed who??????” she asks very brightly. So cute.

“Oh I am not really sure I remember, sweetie.” Which of course loosley translated means “Mommy had had a little chardonnay, sweetheart, and is still a little hazy about what exactly was happening when one of us planted one on the other. And please stop asking questions like this.”

“MOM!!!!!” she yells, pulling the eye thingies off of my eyes so I have to look at her while she scolds me. “How can you forget that? It’s a very important detail! How do you know who likes who more???!!!”

She is totally disappointed in my girly finesse. I am a cow in a china shop. How could I have botched this? She wants all the gossip and I have forgotten the details!

“Well, Lady Jane, if you must know, it doesn’t matter nearly as much to me as knowing that I like him enough to kiss him in the first place, which is a great place to start. Only kiss people you really like. Otherwise it's yucky."

“And sooooo..... do you think he likes you back?”

“Yes, sweetie, I am pretty sure he does.” I know this because he pushed his meatball across the plate to me with his nose the last time we were out to dinner.

"Well then we need to find some makeup for you for tomorrow! It's a very important day!" And she sets about very earnestly selecting all my beautifying treatments. As far as she's concerned, I'm going to need to be fabulous to get that second kiss.

Where's Waldo?

I am the picture of self-consciousness as we process to communion. Having a little conversation with myself. Hopefully only in my head, though I can’t be sure.

“Do not grimace at the children when they torture each other and do not give anyone a “cease and desist” pinch that makes them drop to their knees on the marble floor.”

“Maintain perfect posture. Chest out, shoulders back, head held high. I learned this in charm school. Or was it Brownie Camp?”

“Smile warmly at the usher like I am a nice person, even though I think he is an idiot and have since high school. And his sister too. A matched set.”

“Keep eyes affixed in a Valium gaze that is entirely out of focus, so no one can be sure where I am looking or if I see them, even if Casey sees me first and begins wildly gesticulating to get my attention as I proceed reverently with folded hands to the altar.
It is the grown up practical version of sticking my head in the sand. If I can’t see you it is sure as shit that you can’t see me. Nope. No you can’t.”

My children are ahead of me in The Line that we Catholics are so fond of. Something I do every week to ensure folded hands, few departures from the course, and minimal pushing and shoving along the way to Our Lord’s Table. (This dinner table should differ from any other?)

We are through one stanza of the hymn when my daughter abruptly whips around and almost whispers, but not quite “There he is!” and makes a gesture meant only for me to see – but we all know how that goes.

I try to ignore her and smile politely but she is walking backwards, insisting that I look up and confirm Casey’s identity.

I gesture that she should turn around at once (hairy eyeball and gritted teeth included).

I hear a chortle from beside me and look up.

Yes, I did.

And in a split second, am in a flop sweat.

There beside me, having observed the whole interaction, was a man who could for darn sure be mistaken for Casey.

But, thank the saints and apostles, is not.

I am so completely relieved, that I laugh in the poor guy’s face.

I am not at all clear – or even concerned for that matter – about what he thinks may have just happened, but he says, “Hello,” and so do I, and we return to our reverent procession, which is a great excuse not to over-explain my daughter’s having made a spectacle of us both.

Another bullet dodged, real or imagined. Amen.

Smelly Cat, Smeeeellllly Cat!

I am not about to “look over there.”

I am seriously considering whether it is too big a risk to yank my daughter’s rabbit fur earflap hat off of her little head and jam it on my own and exit the building incognito.

Probably. I am not known for blending in to begin with. I may as well just send up a flare.

Without looking up at anyone and while pretending to be completely consumed with my daughter instead of the fact that I am pitting out, I whisper back into her ear. “Where exactly? On the other side of the church? In front of us or behind us, or OH GOD, next to us???”

She tells me that she thinks he is on the far side of the church. Across the aisle somewhere imprecise.

I whisper again. “Under the window of St. Anthony of Padua or closer to the one of St. Rita, honey?

“Really, Mom?” she says with a sarcastic shift in the eyebrows that I can tell is there, even with the furry forehead flap reaching down to her eyelids.

I toy with the idea of asking her to describe what he is wearing so I can pick him out more efficiently. My eyesight is not what it used to be; it would take me a few minutes to focus sufficiently enough to distinguish Casey from a kangaroo. He’ll surely catch me staring. Not a good plan.

I decide I will not look around to ascertain the enemy’s position and will instead, for the moment, will myself to be invisible.

What if he sees me first? I am suddenly completely self-conscious and adjusting all of my garments to make sure nothing is inadvertently on the loose.

What, pray tell, is my hair doing right about now?
Do my children look like they were raised by wolves?
Did the harangue that was the journey from house to car to church leave me looking more frowzy than fabulous?
Do I look fat in these pants?
Why on Earth do I care?

And here is where I tune out Father’s introduction of the pimply-faced seminarian who is here to chat up the priesthood and encourage us to encourage our boys to enter the seminary. I want to dwell on a little insight into the female psyche for a moment.

Whether they are good, bad, ugly, or of no consequence, we want to be considered attractive and desirable by all male beings. On all levels. Pretty much everyone. Even those guys who still live with their mothers, or who wear socks with their sandals, or who are drunken meanies, or who have been incarcerated on and off since the Ford Administration, or whose breath could tarnish precious metals.

And so while I am loathe to have to speak to Casey, (for reasons that transcend his atrocious breath) and would feign a seizure to avoid any kind of interaction with him, and don’t want to Friend him on Facebook, and certainly don’t want to date him, if he happens to get a glimpse of me before I run screaming from the building, I don’t want him thinking “Ick! I am glad that didn’t pan out!”

I want him thinking I am the cat’s pajamas.

And I want him thinking "Lucky cat."

Sitting in His Own Pew?

Church – The children who bound out of bed at dawn’s early light somehow need hibernation-quality sleep on Sunday.

It is a feat of superhuman patience and motivational speaking to get my two tweens 1) vertical, 2) appropriately clothed, 3) reasonably groomed, 4) adequately fed, 5) seated in the car, 6) protesting at a minimum.

I am sure it is a familiar scene across the globe. No twelve year old turns a cartwheel on the way into church.

But we are late. Try to conceal your shock.

It’s not really the kids’ fault. I am culpable in some part. I was not exactly bounding out of bed at the crack of dawn either. I was only lured out from beneath the covers by the undeniable scent of the coffee I set to perk automatically at 8.

And as I sipped my jet-fuel strength cup of liquid sanity I so enjoyed the stillness and quiet and solitude of the morning that I hesitated to disturb the peace by waking the kids. And only did so at the last minute, sending them each into a separate and distinct tizzy of their own invention.

Hair problems.
Sock issues.
Insufficient bathroom space.
Outfit changes.
Pleas for clemency.

And I cut as many corners as I could to save a minute here and there to get out of the house on time.

Jewelry in the pockets to be affixed at the red lights.
Wore the hair wavy instead of flat ironing it to Morticia Addams straightness.
Opted for the no-iron outfit, slip on shoes and no hose.
Minimal makeup – just enough to qualify as a human female of adequate will to live.

But we were still late.

We arrive after Father has taken his seat on the altar. My children are still bickering as we take our seats.

All.
The way.
Up front.

And once we are seated and our collective blood pressure has returned to normal, my daughter tugs on my sleeve to get my attention.

I am sure it is to point out something heinous and unforgivable that her brother has done.

If only.

I lean down to encourage her to whisper in my ear rather than make a general pronouncement about God Only Knows What.

She cups her hands around my ear and whispers, “Mom, look over there. I think Casey is here.”

Jesus, Mary and sweet Joseph.

For Auld Lang Syne, My Dear

New Years Eve is a tricky holiday.

I remember really looking forward to it in college. A new outfit, a big party, breakfast at a local diner in the wee hours. Then sleeping in on New Years Day and waking up hoarse, parched and a little fuzzy on the details.

My opinion, not surprisingly, has ebbed and flowed over the years.

The big party scene faded from prominence when all of my friends began pairing off with serious partners and preferring more quiet, intimate gatherings to celebrate the holiday. And then I paired off with Lars and did the same. More so with his friends than mine.

And then the holiday becomes a holiday that you play by ear. If you are invited somewhere, great. If not, no big deal. And when kids come along, it feels better to be home while the world goes nuts one time zone at a time than to leave them with a babysitter. Maybe you’ll stay up to watch the ball drop. Maybe you won’t. And maybe you’ll stomp off to bed at 11:58 when your husband and his friend return from an NFL Playoff game 4 hours after the final buzzer, completely shit-faced, and knock over the Christmas tree trying to plug in the lights that simply must be lit at that hour.

OK – I stayed up on December 31, 1999 just to make sure the Earth didn’t go crashing into the sun. Who didn’t?

And I stayed up as we tiptoed to the finish line of 2009 to let my tweens bang pots and pans so they could trot off to school 2 days later and say that they had. And had hats and blowers and hors d’oeuvres, and Mommy’s boyfriend was asleep on the couch and didn’t really care for all the pot and pan clanging at the appointed hour. Party pooper. That more or less set the stage for his 2010 didn’t it?

And so even though it is, in my estimation, by no means a special holiday, when you have someone special in your life, and that life seems ripe with potential, the idea of New Years seems like a big deal.

But Scott’s plans to whisk me away to the beach for a midnight fireworks show and a long walk on the boardwalk holding hands was not meant to be.

He’d have dinner with family and take his girls to the fireworks, and I would be at home with my kids, listening to Dick Clark slur his words, and watching Ke$ha aspire “to not be a douchebag” as her nationally televised New Years Resolution, and eating far too many crab puffs and baby quiches.

And while all of this would be fun and memorable, it will somehow seem incomplete. Scott will be watching fireworks light up a sky that I don’t see. And me and my kids will jump around and make noise and kiss at midnight.

But one kiss will be left over, unbestowed.

Blood, Sweat and Tears

I am feeling somewhat more humanoid when I arrive at Scott's after my long perilous journey through the bowels of Hell. He greets me warmly and does not seem to notice that my appearance is a little more ragged around the edges than usual. Love is blind for sure.

Scott’s younger daughter has left for the neighbor’s house where comfort food will be comprised of a selection of Doritos, Popcorn and Funions and be accompanied by Xbox 360. So much more fun than dinner with Dad and his new infatuation.

For the rest of us, comfort food takes the form of burgers and fries and pints of beer at a local pub – Scott and I, accompanied by his older daughter and her newly minted boyfriend. They had their first date just days after us.

A double date with a pair of high school juniors. With junior licenses.

Perfect – designated drivers! Small price for them to pay for a free meal.

A giant burger smothered in blue cheese and carmelized onions, a sky-high pile of shoestring fries with some kind of Secret Sauce that seems to be the winningest combination of mayo and Worcestershire sauce ever, and a pint of ice cold IPA, and I am in top form. Aunt Flo is no match. Bring it on, sister!

Scott, who is technically a righty, but does admirably as a southpaw thanks to his mother coaching him in sports and being a southpaw herself, eats with his left hand and keeps his right hand pressed against my lower back the entire time. Even as he is busting on me for being afraid to drive his sports car, and razzing me about something harebrained I did in high school, and describing my uniquely unflattering band uniform while I describe his ridiculous Grand Poobah band hat.

Somehow this pleases me beyond description.

This is a guy who recognizes all the bells and whistles and other winning hallmarks of The Monthly Bill.

And this is a guy who, when realizing that the Curse is upon you, does not put a garland of garlic around his neck and keep his distance while you suffer the vapors and the mood swings and the teeth gnashing episodes and the Katy-bar-the-door consumption of food.

And this is a guy who also, when realizing that the Curse is upon you, does not treat you like a delicate china doll, and offer you tea and a hot water bottle, and dim the lights and talk in hushed tones, maintaining steady upkeep of your Pamprin levels and talking baby talk while you are recovewing fwom da big bad menstruwal whammy to the point where you want to strangle him with the cord to your heating pad.

Life simply goes on, blood, sweat, tears and all.

As awkward a subject as it is at any age for any new couple, Scott is a champion among men. Undaunted. Not inconvenienced. For him your period is your period. Period. Part of who you are. Comes with the package. And the peri-menopause? Well if you want to date in your age bracket, and Scott evidently does, this is par for the course. Even if you find yourself a 25 year old, this will happen to her eventually too. No better time than now to face the music. Consider it the flip side to his eventual hair loss and other nifty features of middle age. We'll still look good to eachother through our reading glasses.

Another pint and I have nearly forgotten the horrors of the day, and am nearly out of the cramp zone. Life is indeed good.

Hello, Has Anyone Seen My Hormones?

I open the windows and huff and puff and take deep cleansing breaths to calm myself. I tune into the classic rock station so there is no chance that I will hear some woeful Sarah McLachlan song or anything about Taylor Swift going back to December. Maybe a little AC/DC would fix what ails me.

Once I am not a whimpering, swirling pool of emotional turmoil, I take a deep breath and call Scott, saying a few sentences out loud before dialing so I know I do not sound barky.

I am reasonably sure I am on the right street, and clear on the remainder of the route, so I can take my mind off the road for the call.

One ringy dingy.

"Hello! Where are you?" Scott asks with enthusiasm.

"Hi there!" I say brightly.

"What's wrong?" he asks.

Damn. There goes my Tony Award.

"Oh nothing. I had to make a stop and got a little turned around but I am back on track and OK now so I'll be there shortly" I say. Maybe a little too fast. Maybe a little too brightly.

"Stop for what? A girly emergency?"

No, he didn't.

Did he?

"Ummmm - well, yes, if you must know. How did you know?"

Oh good. I am dating the Amazing Kreskin.

"Lucky guess. Everyone here is in the same boat. I figured you would be too."

OK, one's Period is admittedly a fact of life. Nothing anyone should feel awkward about. Scott is nearly 50. I am sure he knows I get a Period. It's just that I did not want it to be "dinner conversation" exactly. And considering all the special effects I was experiencing, I was going to have to fess up. And it is a little more exposure than I would have liked. Something I didn't necessarily need to reveal just yet. A side of me I'd prefer to conceal for a bit. Like how I come completely unhinged if anything goes wrong at the airport.

But this, evidently, is a man who's been around women long enough to have learned the ropes. One sibling - a sister. Two teenaged daughters. Two ex-wives. Suddenly I am relieved to realize that me and my jumbo-sized deluxe model Period are not going to dish out anything he's not seen before.

"Well - good guess," I say, trying to act like I am not feeling overexposed. "And I'm not feeling real sporty. I may want to lie low tonight. Take it easy."

"No problem. The girls have already vetoed the original idea that we'd go iceskating. They'd rather go out for comfort food and then come home to watch The Blind Side by the fire on HD. Hey, I got us a bottle of wine! Should I pour you a glass or wait until you get here?"

I am nearly speechless.

"Oh, and don't mind the house when you get here. The girls have been lounging all day with heating pads and quilts and I gave them a pass."

I am smiling to myself. Aunt Flo, though uninvited, is not going to ruin this party after all. My cramps and crankies are going to fit in just fine.

Highway to Hell

The remainder of the ride was hot flash free. No trips to the gates of Hell. No walking on hot coals. No straddling the Equator.

Just cramps.

Cramps that remind you why epidurals were invented in the first place. Cramps that make you wince even though you have a rule against wincing because of the lines it will leave on your face some day. Cramps that are so distracting you miss your exit and are totally lost.

And this is where the hormonal whammy really rears its ugly head. I could not have gone more than a mile out of my way and you would have thought that my lunar space module had just become untethered from the mother ship.

My first reaction was to melt down in all the colors of the rainbow. To me, I was Lewis and Clark without Sacagawea. I have no GPS. I don't even have a map. I have no idea what town I am in. I am not really sure what the name of Scott's town is. I can feel the pit stains forming. I am seconds from calling Scott and sending up a flare when Reason taps me on the shoulder.

I take the next exit and vow to stop at the first convenience store or gas station even if it seems to be owned and operated by the nice folks featured in Deliverance.

But first, I have to try to remember where I am going (Scott's town is near...hmmmm....) and how I normally would get there (the exit by the big, big tree that is next to the billboard about the Casino...) I may actually have to call him.

And then I realize I know where I am! Or more importantly, how not to be there! I see a sign for the medical center I pass on the way to Scott's. The one I only notice because of the traffic mayhem it always causes. And I decide I can follow the blue H signs like a trail of bread crumbs all the way to where I need to be. No call to Scott necessary. No need to admit that I am really an idiot after all. My cover remains unblown for another day. There is time enough for that later.

I am so happy I am filling up with tears.

Oh no! My mascara is in deficit spending as it is!

But I can't stop. I am emotional weapons grade plutonium. Unstable and dangerous. I can barely see. And I nearly miss a blue sign.

Maybe I should call Scott. He may just want to voluntarily offer to be abducted by aliens before I get there.

S*** Shower and Shave

There is no turning back.

But there are two rest stops between mile marker whatever where I am melting the polar ice caps from the interior of my car, and Scott's house.

Two opportunities to assess the damages and bathe like the indigent do in public rest rooms. I have reached a new low. Glad I brought my shades. Glad I am in a foreign zip code.

I stop at the first one. As pleasant an experience as one might expect. Insufficient women's bathroom facilities. Lines of women and whining toddlers as far as the eye can see and sound can travel. No opportunity for a little privacy. Or a leisurely zshzsh. Or a little basic environmental cleanliness. And it is as hot as the Congo.

After what seems like a dog's life (Jeopardy theme playing in my head all the while) I am granted entrance to a stall. Size of a broom closet. Fetid. Brimming with germs and bacteria of superhuman strength. No place to hang my purse.

Is this a test?

But necessity is the mother of all invention, so I get to inventing. I unbuckle my pants and prepare to pee. I loop the straps of my purse over my head and leave it to dangle from my scrawny neck and rest against my chest. I summon what remains of my leg strength and my limited ability to remain upright so that I can hover above the Petri dish of a toilet bowl to pee. I am sure this will end in disaster.

And then I have a Camp Fire girls stroke of genius. I recall that my Mary Poppins sized fake fur purse, which is currently testing the tensile strength of the tendons in my neck, is the current home to a trial sized bottle of body lotion that belongs to my daughter, a job fair giveaway bottle of hand sanitizer, and a moist towelette packet, courtesy of the germophobe Middle School nurse. I feel like the passengers of the S.S. Minnow when they found the trunk of Ginger's dresses.

I am sure the alcohol content of the sanitizing products was not optimal for use on one's entire neck and torso but the fact that it lowered my body temperature 10 degrees on contact made it perimenopausal gold. The moist towelette was better than a any gym class shower and gave me a nice citrusy clean, albeit clinical scent that blended nicely with the tutti-fruity lotion from my daughter's extensive collection of girly notions.

Reasonably confident that I could rejoin polite society without attracting attention, or at least the cross-section of humanity currently milling about the filthy tiles of the rest stop lavatory, I removed the purse from my neck and stepped outside to belly up to the sinks and (smeary) mirrors. There, I used a damp paper towel to blot my shiny face and unsmudge the mascara that had run half way down my cheeks a la Ozzie Osborne. A dab of red lipstick to each cheek and a swipe across my lips brought me back to life. A clip in the hair for the remainder of the ride might set the hair straight. It was worth a try. A girl can dream.

I was ready for prime time. At least at a rest stop on the Parkway.

But who was I kidding?

I was no more in date form than I was the Queen of England.

Feelin' Hot! Hot! Hot!

So for about 12 weeks of the year, just so we don't get all cocky about our girlish fabulosity, Aunt Flo comes along to knock us down a peg.

It's not humbling enough to deal with the regular rigors of one's period. The standard features are not a whole lot of fun but with a little practice are manageable. Small price to pay. Like jury duty. Not a bad penance for the right to vote but everyone grimaces when their number is called nonetheless.

But then there are the "upgrades." The bonus tracks. The director's cut scenes. The gifts with purchase.

The bloating. Abs like a skillet one day. Floatation device the next.

The cramping. Not unlike being tasered.

The outrageous hunger pangs. Anything that isn't nailed down is in jeopardy. Particularly if it is made of chocolate. Or could could be mistaken for chocolate.

And the moodiness. I could be crying over a touching commercial for Tire Warehouse one minute and the next, verbally disemboweling the barista at Starbucks for asking if I want "whip" and thereby suggesting that someone of my proportions might want to avoid the "whip." I know that's what she's thinking. Skinny beyotch.

And now at MY AGE, I get these features, only Super Sized (special shout out to both my ovaries - thank you!) - plus one more.

Hot flashes.

Literally cooking from the inside out, I believe myself to be walking on the sun in my gasoline dress. I curse Global Warming. I have fleeting thoughts about Hell. I am sweating like an Olympic Marathoner at the Death Valley Games.

It is the day before New Years. My kids are with Lars and I am driving to Scott's after work, when that harbinger of doom, Aunt Flo, puts her whammy on me.

I am 35 miles into an 80 mile trek. With a sweatball on my nose.

I Enjoy Being a Girl

The new year approaches and my body is doing its darndest to remind me that I am in my “mid-to-late 40s" now. More importantly, making darn sure that I know that I am not in my 20s anymore. And there will be no turning back.

Being a girl can be so much fun.

No. Really.

I am not being facetious. Being a girl is absolutely spot on fabulous – about 40 weeks of the year.

We have such an edge over men.

Let’s start with the clothes. So many styles and variations to choose from. So many fashion icons to emulate - all at one time. Michelle Obama one day. Princess Diana the next. Carrie Bradshaw for this party. The neurotic germophobe teacher from Glee for that brunch. Thakoon here. J. Crew there.

For instance, if you are a girl, you have at least a million completely appropriate choices for your cousin's late afternoon wedding on the Good Ship Lollipop. With all the hemlines and sleeve lengths and waist heights, and necklines - the world is your oyster. There is surely at least a closet full of dresses that will simultaneously compliment your skin tone, show off your legs, flatter your bust, conceal the size of your butt and emphasize your teensy waist. All at an affordable price. And on-line, ready to wear.

If you are a guy, you have exactly one option and it will surely need alterations. You wear a suit. A suit where only the cut, cuff and lapel width has changed appreciably in the last 30 years. Just a suit. No matter who you are or what your physique dictates. A suit. Period. Sorry if you look like an appliance carton in it.

And shoes - girls have a million colors, heel shapes, heights, fabrics and variations of casualness. Sure it can be daunting - but who wouldn't rather be overwhelmed with possibility that bored to death with a shoe selection comprised of exactly 3 pairs of wingtips and/or cap toes, a pair of athletic shoes, something casual and a pair of flip flops. Yawn.

And girls can do anything. No one is going to look down their nose at a a gal with the chutzpa to participate in a typically male dominated activity. Look at Danica Patrick whizzing around in a race car with the big boys. Hillary Clinton knocking on the White House door for the top job. Sally Ride becoming the first American female in space. We applaud them all. Brava, ladies, brava!

But the minute a guy wants to join the majorette squad, look out. Eyes start to roll. People chuckle. Masculinity is called into question.

And let's not even start on a girl's luxury to skip a day of shaving or the ability to cover up a zit or an uneven skin tone with a little concealer. Blessings for sure.

But there is one bummer to being a girl - OK two, but they are related.

We get to conceive and bear all of the children - no sharing. Although it's probably for the best. We clearly are the more responsible parties. You guys would forget what you had cooking and go sky diving.

And in order to do so, we get a Period. The Big P. Aunt Flo. My Friend. The Monthly Bill.

Oh joy. The gift that keeps on giving.

Complicated is the New Black

Scott was perfect.

Adorable. Sweet. Funny. Nice. Socially graceful.
Gainfully employed. Lovely home. Beautiful cars. Boat.
Healthy and active – ice hockey, snowboarding, rollerblading, etc.
Just as attractive as he ever was to me, only now not in a Sweet 16 way. At this age, I value his maturity, his sensitivity, his sense of responsibility, his attentiveness, his values, his self respect and his kindness toward other people. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes.
He’s a really good guy.

And he lives 80 miles away in a neighboring state.

Like I said: Perfect.

Or not.

I am finding that 80 miles is a few too many. Maybe 40 would have done the trick. 40 miles might dissuade you from popping by unannounced to find the doors locked and the lights out because I went to the mall right after work and did some damage in the shoe department at Bloomingdales. 40 miles makes you call first. 40 miles makes you plan ahead.

80 miles just overdoes it. 80 miles is prohibitive. 80 miles makes you make reservations. 80 miles makes you pack a bag and fill up your gas tank. 80 miles is really a long way to go on a lark.

So much for spontaneity.

But 80 miles is apparently not too big a chasm to bridge when there is a will and one’s heart’s desire.

So we decide to work it out. It will take some trust and understanding. And gas money.

What about Fidelity?

Too soon to talk about, but I have a theory about that.

I make no assumptions. I do not ever say “I am seeing you exclusively and expect the same thing from you, so that’s the deal, Neal.” If I want to see you exclusively and forsake all others, even to my own detriment and my own heart’s peril, that is my foolish or not so foolish decision to make and has no impact on your decision to share the same devotion with me.

And my thinking is, if I am not attractive, interesting, intelligent, funny, fun-loving, or whatever enough to hold your attention, and you want the company of other people, that is hardly your fault. That is either my fault for being a drag, or we are not perfectly suited for one another. Not the end of the world. Just be honest about it. No one is going to go running off to boil your bunny a la Fatal Attraction if you see other people. And I am not likely to go standing on my head and whistling show tunes to get your attention, so it will all work itself out eventually.

As for availability, that is tricky. Our custody arrangements do not mesh well. We’ll have to get creative. And I still want time with my friends – the friends who have had the patience of so many saints for decades now. I want my girl time. And I don’t want to feel guilty about taking it. So I explain the perils of clinginess to Scott. He totally gets it. Go out. Have fun. Come home safe and tell him stories. Perfect. And I will give him the same harassment-free space. And no one will text the other 800 times an hour while we are apart. Deal.

And then there is the inconvenience of our careers. Enough said. Life would be so simple if no one had to work.

So what we’ll do is try not to get caught up in routines. Routines set expectations. At some point someone is going to want to break with tradition and a long held routine puts you in a position to disappoint or offend the other person. Someone’s feelings are likely to be hurt. So we’ll keep it fresh. Simple. Every week is new. A new plan. A new adventure. A new experience. Both of us have too many plates in the air to overcommit to anyone or anything else. We’ll plan to see each other when we can. And in the mean time, we’ll live our lives.

And this, will become the new normal. Hopefully love can bloom and grow in the rocky pit of sand we've attempted to plant it in.