The Greatest Show On Earth

I finally have to admit it.

I have a few too many plates in the air.

I really can't do everything.

I am waving the white towel. Pardon its appearance. I am a little behind on the laundry.

We've already established that my life is a whirlwind of torch juggling acrobatic trapeze acts. And don’t worry. This is not going to be some running diatribe where I whine about being a single parent. This is a life I raised my hand and jumped the line and volunteered for. You won’t catch me lamenting “if only there was a man about the house.” No way, no how.

It is more that because I am divorced and have shared custody of my two little darlings – and they live one week with me then go to live with Lars for a week – what I spend my time doing, or getting accomplished, or where I go is not determined by what I feel like doing when. It is dictated by who is with me when, who needs to be present when something is done (such as the right head for a hair cut…) and my sense of what is fair to torture the kids with (summer clothes shopping for them) vs. what can be more easily accomplished and with fewer complaints by doing it when they are with Lars (Mammogram, for instance.)

And there are lots of things – things planned by other people with their own separate and distinct litanies of scheduling demands – that I simply have to skip. With such limited time to spend with the kids, it would not seem right to get a sitter and race out the door to the annual beer swilling canoe trip.

So my nights without the kids tend to be jammed with social events and errands and obligations that are distinctly kid-hostile or just for my own entertainment (and to distract me from the fact that it is bizarre and unnatural for any mother to have to go without seeing her cubs for so much as a day) Seeing Scott falls into the more selfish category. I make an effort in that department.

Therefore, by my own hand, I turn my life into that of a trick seal most days.

One week recently, I had a hat trick. One day of rest (and laundry and mail and bill paying) after a weekend at Scott’s, I had a Tuesday outing with my cousin. One where we’d sip wine for two hours and diligently assemble 12 amazing meals each to be carted out in coolers and prepared with the greatest of ease at a later date. The genius ladies of A Dinner Afare (http://www.dinnerafare.com/) have already done the shopping and placed the ingredients conveniently nearby with all the right measuring tools and containers and instructions to follow later while your children are fighting about hotly divisive YouTube videos and you have 10 minutes to get dinner down their gullets and whip them out the door to scout meetings.

On Thursday, I have my sister’s CAbi demo (http://www.cabicanary.com/) Fabulous clothes brought to you to touch and feel and try on and order – all to be delivered to your home. Like catalogue shopping without the guesswork and disappointment. And of course more wine drinking.

And on the day in between, I make plans to see Scott. He’ll come west to my house for the evening. We’ll have dinner at the pub and plan something with the kids for the weekend. And maybe we’ll drink more wine. If there is any left.

Busy week but not unusual or insane.

Or so I thought.

My Midnight Confession

And so, for the next hour or so, as I packed lunches and dug out Easter decorations, and folded laundry and completed all manner of other household chores. Abby and I texted. Shared our experiences. Talked about our decisions. Opened our hearts.



It was the best thing I could have done for both of us to have reached out to her.



She’d made peace with herself about her decisions. Had no regrets. Didn’t care what others thought.


Good girl. Me either.



She could go to her father’s family’s house, even be around her father and feel completely at ease with her decisions and situation.



I think it helps that she is in college and has a great excuse not to prolong her stay…”Oh Gosh! Look at the time! Better hit the books! Got a study group meeting in half an hour in the Starbucks near school. Endoplasmic reticulum await me!” Should anyone turn up the heat, she can turn on the jets.



I wondered if having been in touch with me would be a game changer with J. and his family. It was a while before she took a seat at his mother’s table. Endora had judged her very harshly as well. So much as put it in writing. In her graduation card, no less. (And there was a part of me that was both horrified and relieved at that. Horrified that she’d be willing to create that vivid and heinous a memory for a young person. Relieved that my mother is not the only one to actually stoop so low. A double edged sword for sure.)



There is another part of me that wondered if the self-righteous, outspoken teenager that I’d known would give up the tapes and mention our texts at Easter dinner. Probably not. She’d be roasted right along side the ham for having crossed the picket line. But just in case there was a conflict brewing and she wanted to nail a coffin or two shut, make some zinging parting comments before getting into her car, I gave her the ammo.



I made sure she knew that her father had caused me beaucoup trouble and caused his own demise with me. And that I’d be wading out of the pile of #$(*&%^$ for months to come because of his nonsense. That no matter what anyone believes, he had himself to blame. I also let her know that my children are doing wonderfully and ask about her often, Moira too, (carefully omitting the names of the troublemakers they would sooner be dipped in shit than see again). That my job is interesting and I am enjoying loads of success (Take that career cafeteria lady, Sheila!) and I have fallen truly, madly, deeply in love with a wonderful man who has made my dreams come true. Pinch me! Life is so grand, no cement dress fashioned by her father or his miserable collection of woeful misfits could ever bring me down.



She sent me a half dozen cutesy happy emoticons and told me that I deserved every happiness.



I told her that she did too, and I was confident her star was rising.



She said she’d been in my neighborhood recently with a friend and remembered such good times in my house.



I told her she’s welcome any time. The friend too. Just come to the door.



With studying to do on her end, and a dishwasher to empty on mine, we said goodnight and promised to stay in touch.



And I intend to keep the promise.

Wake Up Call

I got out my phone and began texting with the dexterity of a 14 year old.

I started out brightly.

“Hello, Miss Last Semester of Freshman Year!”

I eliminated the uncertainty that it might be treason to reply.

“I’ve been corresponding with your mother and she suggested I text you.”

Admitted it was late but hopefully better than never.

“I’d been meaning to, but wasn’t sure I should…”

And then came completely clean before she could recover from shock and reply even once.

Admitted I’d harshly judged her.
Had had a change of heart not long after.
Have learned a lot in a year.
Have come to not only understand her decision but have come to realize how brave and how important it was.
Told her I admired her strength and believed in her.
Gave her an out – she might feel less pressure to respond – I signed off with a squeeze for her sister and love from my two kids.

I had very low expectations.

Thursday night. College dorm. Heavy topic. Correspondent of iffy loyalties.

I’d ignore me too.

I began my evening lunch-packing-backpack-rummaging routine. I’d said my piece. I’d take peace in that.

So when my phone jingled its little call bell I’d already dismissed the chances of hearing from Abby. Even if she were compelled to respond, it was a lot to digest. I might sleep on it. Particularly if I’d already gone to the kegger down the hall.

I thought the text would be from Scott.

But it was Abby.

She was overjoyed to hear from me. And in a rapid fire text style similar to the one I’d just employed, set about airing her feelings too. How she’d struggled with her decision. That she’d known it was the right thing for her to do, but she was torn knowing that she’d hurt people. Including me. Felt guilty about putting herself first.

It all sounded so familiar. My divorce from Lars. My leaving J.

The doors were wide open. I would have a very grown up conversation with this young lady.

And In Between There Are The Doors

I’ll admit that I felt pretty relieved to have shared what I’d needed to share. It was liberating. I may not be able to do a single thing about any of it, but Sandy certainly could. She could take matters into her own hands. Place it in the hands of others. Deal with it as she saw fit. Keep a watchful eye out for signs of trouble. Leverage the info in some personally meaningful way. Raise the black flag and slit some throats. Whatever the game plan, she was calling the plays.


I was happy to simply be on the sidelines.


But that is not where the story ends. No, there is more.


She thanked me. For the information – and for the support I’d provided to the girls for the last few years.


Very nice. I was touched she’d noticed. Or maybe she’d been told. Whatever. It was nice to be appreciated, even in hindsight.


But there was more still.


She thanked me for the peace of mind she’d been able to enjoy knowing I was around the girls, when she’d known with the insight and clarity that only a former spouse can have, that J. was just barely keeping the trailer level on a good day. She appreciated the stability. Said she’d prayed for me.


Even if only for her girls’ sake, there is nothing wrong with a few prayers. Who knows what they might have done for me?


It was a big gesture. And quite unexpected.


And then the topic turned to Abby. How she was sorry we’d lost touch when she flew the cuckoo’s nest. That she felt badly that I was upset with her.


I came clean.


This was quite a Come to Jesus.


I told Sandy that to be truthful, I’d have to say that I had very harshly judged Abby for her actions. But with what I’d come to learn shortly thereafter, and the things I’d come to realize even recently, that I applauded her decision. Admired her bravery. Viewed her decision as being very similar to some of my own. And that I’d had a change of heart months ago.


She suggested I text Abby.


I wouldn’t say as much, but I wasn’t sure. There has been a lot of water over that dam.


What kind of reaction would that get? She’s a self-righteous rising college sophomore – I might get a return text more in the style of my mother. Filled with “Well let me just tell you..."s and sprinkled with a few “And another thing...”s. And finished off with a “Don’t let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya” or something similar and equally as catchy.


And then one night, I decided that the door, opened ever so slightly by Sandy, would only remain open so long.


And my soul wouldn’t withstand the weight of one more lost opportunity.

Is Your Refrigerator Running?

I have to admit, I was a little nervous.

I had no idea what reaction to expect. What I know of Sandy I know from J. Clearly a biased opinion. I realized I do not know her at all. I can be certain of nothing. But what I had gleaned in the last few years was that whatever good, bad or indifferent things she is, she is no shrinking violet. She could tell me to mind my own business. She could lash out at the intrusion. She could tell me to go f*** myself and mean it.

I considered letting the whole thing go.

But I struggled with my conscience.

The whole situation reminded me of a time in my career when I has been investigating a harassment complaint. I’d spoken to the accused before and was about to have a second discussion – one that began with “You were instructed not to have any contact or interaction with Miss Whatshername that is not expressly required in the course of performing your job duties. So why were you seated in the passenger seat of her car last night when she left the office?”

But he’d been prepared. Since the first complaint, he’d been keeping a diary. A diary that would surely demonstrate that she was harassing him! Brilliant!

And of course, it was filled with the lunatic ramblings of an unbalanced man who was clearly unable to control his bizarre preoccupation with the chippy in the C-suite.

And of course I deftly confiscated the book under the pretense of giving it “a thorough read.”

And at the time, my labor attorney partner on the investigation was a little wishy-washy. There is nothing more annoying. I escalated it to my boss. I firmly believed Bad Ronald had to go. (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071186/plotsummary)

And my boss, fearless to the end but deadpan in her delivery, simply told our lawyer “We’re gonna have a hard time explaining to this girl’s parents when they’ve just come from identifying her body at the morgue that we had this diary and just stuck it in a drawer.”

Touche. Bad Ronald was shown the door.

And to me, my boss said, “Nice work. It was clear that we could not do nothing.”

And now, in this situation, it was clear to me that I could not do nothing.

I reached out.

I waited for my hand to get slapped.

And was surprised to find it grasped and held. Rather warmly.

And what followed was an enlightening, reaffirming, validating interaction. Without defensiveness. Without malice. Without the need to say “I told you so.”

Clean House

It is sad, at least to me, when you realize a ship like that has sailed. An opportunity has been lost. It feels like one more link in a chain the likes of the one schlepped around by Jacob Marley in the hereafter. This is how regrets are born.

But in a year of so many hurts and losses, this was just one more turd on the pile. One more carcass on the heap. I put it in perspective and accepted it for what it was.

More recently, I have been much more motivated to sweep away all the lingering evidence that J. was ever in my life at all. Shrink him like the wart he is. Finish unfinished business. Sever connections. Remove contact information. Return or discard belongings and such.

J. however has done his darndest to prolong the process. Not cooperated. Made excuses. Obstructed. Insisted on alternatives. Forced me to make some pretty menacing ultimatums.

But I owe it to myself to be done with him. Enjoy some finality. A door slammed shut and locked tight for good so I can fling other doors wide open ad enjoy every moment without the burdens and encumbrances and obstacles J. has become so famous for.

And I owe it to Scott. It is unfair for me to expect him to be comfortable in my home if there are ghosts of J. floating around (and surely they’d be smoking). I may not even see them anymore, but it’s for sure he would. And frankly, he was kind enough to do similarly for me. There is absolutely no lingering evidence of the former Mrs. in his home. He even repainted the whole house! I am not sure how I’d feel if there was any indication that she was there. He’s spared me the experience of learning that.

But J. seems to think, however naively, that all of this effort is a waste. That I will come to my senses and return to him (I have come to my senses…that is why your shit is in a box on your mother’s steps, moron!) And he uses some of the more stubborn issues to try to jump up and down and wave his scrawny little arms in my face.

But I will not be deterred. I can be exceptionally tenacious. I will soon enjoy the day when I never voluntarily or involuntarily devote so much as a speck of gray matter to J. or any of his pathetic little sycophant family members.

And then one day recently, when I’d set aside a little time to check one more annoyance off the list of so many, I had occasion to speak to one of J’s so-called friends. This friend – whose loyalty is nebulous at best – confided some pretty condemning information about J. Information that is so troubling, that I felt morally bound not to keep it confidential.

I thought for a moment. I thought for a day.

I composed my thoughts. I slept on them.

And then I contacted Sandy.

Daddy's Little Girl

And there was something else. Something I'd not covered in the blog. Well, not exactly. I did kind of nail Sandy for it.

It was something centered on J.'s oldest daughter, Abby, who I just adored. Something she'd done, a decision she'd made, in cahoots with her mother, who has a flair for melodrama. At the time I did not understand the motivation, and had judged all the players harshly. (I am hardly ever in favor of drama, so they had a poor starting position.)

My blog had focused on Sandy's sinister role in the matter. It was not insignificant...and at the time, she seemed to be the brains behind the whole thing anyway (God knows her immediate family couldn't scrape together so much as one hemisphere). And from my point of view, it was just one more way she lashed out indiscriminately at J. and everyone around him. It was her usual MO. Go big or go home.

And Abby was a young girl at the time. I am not an aspiring Glenn Beck. I was not about to criticize her openly. So her mother took the beating for them both. We are all responsible for our kids, like it or not. Part of the job.

But it was J.'s darkest hour and I was heartbroken for him.

And now, a year later, though I can still honestly say that I would not have played my hand the same way Sandy and Abby had, I have a new appreciation for what transpired if not complete support for the method.

Abby, in the end, dropped nearly completely from J's life. Left his home, kept her distance, limited his access, ceased all communication. Had a police escort and a posse of her mother's family members help her retrieve her cheerleading uniform and Uggs and hoodie collection and yearbook from his home. Went off to college without seeing him. I'd never know why. And J. said he hadn't a clue either. He'd asked his younger daughter, Moira for any intel she could provide and she was just as much in the dark.

At least that is what he'd said.

In the same situation I would want to know why my child made a decision like that. I thought Abby owed her father at least that much respect.

And we'd been close. Very close. There was a part of me that wondered why she hadn't confided in me.

And now I think maybe she didn't owe either of us anything. And she'd been wise to understand that I'd have been biased, though I would hope that I wouldn't have been. You never know. Caring for someone, as I now well know, makes you do some pretty hare-brained things.

With all the warts that have come out in the last year, I can empathize with Abby. Empathize with her mother. Had it been me I would have taken a shot at a face to face discussion as a first choice over all the drama, but the scene they staged, in a public place, in retrospect, seems almost necessary. Witnesses. Limited opportunity for violence. A clean getaway. A little lead time to execute a well thought out plan. No wiggle room. Like Michael in the restaurant in Brooklyn with the gun and the cannoli.

Don't misunderstand. This is not a recent revelation. I had a change of heart long before now. It was simply that shortly thereafter, I had my own font of shit to deal with with J. and his nonsense. I no longer cared who else he dumped all over. Every girl for herself. I was wading through my own cess pool of J. matter. Get your own life boat.

But by the time I had figured out what had been mirage and what had been genuine landscape, she was long gone.

And then so was I.

The Other Woman

I remember my friend and colleague Lorelei making a profound statement once.

We were sitting in my office eating lunch. J. at the time was still keeping up appearances and by all accounts seemed to be a great guy. However temporarily. Lorelei's boyfriend, Ned, seemed to be a great guy in many of the same ways. We were remarking on their similarities. How well we suspected they'd get along. How we should plan to go to dinner.

And then she brought up one difference between them that would make a difference to her.

Ned had never been married.

She was clear that this was not a moral statement. She was my hippy-dippy friend with offbeat ideals.

She said she could never accept someone's throw away spouse.

J. was Sandy's throw away spouse. Yesterday's news. Tomorrow's fish and chips paper. Rejected. Replaced. Recycled. Repurposed.

At the time, like an ass, I defended my choice. J. may have been the one to get the heave ho in a Dear John Post-It note on the kitchen counter, but Sandy was a nut case. Right? And besides, I'd known him forever. Our parents were friends for decades. I knew his character.

I know. So much for that.

But J. and I were together for the worst parts of our divorces. Heard each other's horror stories and injustices. Like when I wouldn't let Lars drive the kids home from his friend's house drunk and he ended up slurring a bunch of filthy names at me and slamming the door in my face in front of the kids. And the friend. And the friend's kid. And probably half a dozen totally flabbergasted neighbors. Or Sandy netting out the cost of a Catholic grade school gym uniform from J.'s child support payment, and selling the house without telling him (He didn't think that For Sale sign was a little suspicious?)

And as they inched toward dissolution, he spoke of her preoccupation with money, her willingness to humiliate him, her overreaction to seemingly little things, her extreme self interest. Her family's open disdain for him. Her feeling that his family would side with her.

Out of context, and with a little embellishment in the right places, and a little omission here and there, yep, Sandy had really meted out some hateful crap. (On the other hand, my Lars stories needed no tweaking. Right off the shelf they said it all.)

But in the context of the last year, a lot of Sandy stories seemed less outlandish. Less motivated by hate and more motivated by desperation and an unwillingness to be taken advantage of.

I felt as though I was walking in her shoes (however wide.)

I was beginning to see how she could justify all the things she'd done.

I was actually starting to applaud her.

What a Difference a Year Makes needs edits

I have been writing my blog for over a year. I am very proud of what I’ve written, even though I’d have to go into Witness Protection if I ever endeavored to have it published. And as I look back, as I do occasionally, either to marvel at my epically fictional life or to remind myself of what names I used to protect the innocent (and to not get sued by the overly sensitive) I reflect on all that has happened and all that has changed. And changed me.

A year ago, this blog was started when an affront to me, and to J. and to my children had offended me to the point that I had to make a choice. I made a private decision that would ultimately offend J.’s family and create a nearly unfathomable chasm blown more widely open still by his idiot sister Sheila’s insistence that I change my mind so she could sleep at night.

It seemed to matter so much at the time. J’s family seemed so callous in their casual disregard for him.

And now I disregard him. Completely.

A year ago, J. and I had been quietly planning to be married. Who cared if the best date turned out to be the one that stands out in America’s hearts and minds as the most catastrophic day in our history?

And about this time, I began to have doubts. Very serious doubts. Which turned into very grave convictions. Which turned into returned dresses, and rescinded venue reservations, and canceled invitation orders. (The lady who returned my deposit on the hall wrote a lovely note to me. I know she was jonesing for me to spill it. I should call her to go out for a cocktail.) Even without J.’s acknowledgment, all bets were off. No one should go strutting down the aisle when they can’t shake a nagging feeling of dread.

A year later I am sweeping out the last few rancid little crumbs of my life with J. Returning possessions, paying debts, disposing of mementos, pictures, other crap. Washing that man right out of my hair. Leaving on a jet plane. Walking like an Egyptian.

There are certain pieces of jewelry going to consignment shops and eBay or getting sold for scrap. The pieces hold no special significance now, and to the contrary, only serve to remind me of precious time lost. Bad investments. Poor returns. Even Lars’s gifts of atonement didn’t make my skin crawl like this.

I am happy to be packing the last bitter little memories into a box and shipping them off to God-Only-Knows-Where.

And again, a year later, by contrast, I am blissfully happy and hopeful with Scott. I admire so much about him. We are in step with one another. He’s a doer. He makes things happen. He is active and fit and enjoys things like surfing and snowboarding and boating (more than TV and smoking and napping) He adores me without smothering me. He has no festering inferiority complex for me to constantly try to avoid inflaming by doing something egregious like wearing a hot pair of jeans (in fact Scott loves those jeans…) He respects me. Appreciates me. Honors me.

Pinch me.

And in this reflective season of Lent, when we all take stock and are humbled somewhat, I have begun to see a lot of the last year or two in a new light.

Where J. and his shortcomings are now more harshly visible in a stark, unforgiving light, some of the other events of the year have taken a new shape as well.

And I think I have some atoning to do.

That's What Friends Are For

And just as they had in high school, all the girls who wanted Scott's attention, but couldn't get it on their own began to come around trying to get a little inadvertent attention that might come their way via the attention he'd pay to me. They wanted to Friend the Girlfriend. Like maybe someday he'd dump me and there'd be a run-off election they'd have a shot at winning.

Thirty years and no one has realized how stupid a plan this is?

One girl who Scott had known since kindergarten and who had recently divorced was the most aggressive. (If after 40 years it has never once occurred to him to kiss you, it is unlikely that he'll be inspired to do so now...)

But being from a small town where people flock back like homing pigeons when it is time to raise their own families, she knows exactly who I am and exactly where I live. I live on the street she grew up on, where her mother still lives and her brother the wino still freeloads. I know who the brother is - he recognized me first - amazingly through a haze of alcohol. He knew we'd gone to high school together. I didn't think he'd attended much. He knew who my sister was. He harrassed me about my hedges (Hello, you just walked home from a lengthy nap at the bus depot - I am not feeling too guilty about my hedge situation.)

The girl - she "just wants to be buds." She is soooooo happy for her oldest, dearest, most favorite friend, Scott, who she loves to pieces. Gag. (And again, if it hadn't occurred to us before to be best pals...)

She apologized profusely for her awful brother. Said she'd stop by my house some time when visiting her mother (What for? To deliver a bundt cake with a bomb in it?) She'd invite us for dinner - throw a party - have us for drinks!

Honestly. I could not pick this woman out of a lineup.

But she paled in comparison to one or two others, the best being the girl who Scott tells me he didn't even know in high school but who had glommed onto a couple of the cool kids at the reunion. (Where a half dozen randy women offered to let Scott "crash" in their rooms.) She'd clearly invented some memories about what great friends they are.

She felt compelled to write a 10,000 word essay on why we should be FBFs, and that she is not a stalker (usually if you have to explain that...) and that she is going to throw a big party and Scott and I are the first people on her guest list (I am sorry, I am busy that weekend. Every weekend. For the next 4 or 5 years)

Ignore.
Ignore.
Ignore.

And while most guys would probably sit back and enjoy the meowing and clawing and Beatlemania chaos, my Scott was mortified.

For me.

For putting me in a position to feel like I had to protect what is mine from predators. To have to deal with some clearly boundary-less women. For being the source of competition and unwanted attention.

But I was OK. Even if Scott felt it was not so OK. At the end of the day, I get to kiss Scott goodnight, and they don't.

All worth it.

'Cause Ya Gotta Have Friends!

It was as though everyone waited for Scott to post something and then raced to be the first to respond. It’s like the girl in high school that laughs the loudest every time her crush tells a joke, however dumb.

For instance he put something out there about M&Ms one day, and suddenly everyone was commenting how M&Ms were their all time favorite candy, and how they are so mouthwateringly delicious, and mmmmmmmm and mmmmmmm.

Oh my God M&Ms are really not meant to be suggestive.

I told him he should comment that he stepped in goose poop and see how many people fire off replies about their own similar experiences, how coincidental? or that they'd had a dream that he’d do that, or offer little tricks to remove goose poop from the treads of one’s shoes, or offer overly sincere condolences.

It was hilarious.

In January, after 9 or 10 snow storms since we’d begun to date, Scott began looking for a new truck so he could effortlessly make the 90 mile trek to my house despite Old Man Winter’s lovely little jests. A big manly truck would make 90 miles in heavy snow seem like a walk in the park. He looked high and low for just the right one.

And one day, unexpectedly, he posted a status which seemed to be designed to suggest to me he'd met with success. His post simply read “Bring on the snow!”

I knew he’d be driving that night to my house in a brand new truck no matter the weather. Yay me!

But before I could respond, there were The Girls…all flapping about how much they too love the snow and how much they have been enjoying its picturesque beauty, and how much fun all the accumulation has been, and how much it has improved their ski experiences this season, you still ski, don’t you, Scott? and completely misunderstanding the point of his message and grasping at straws to align themselves with him.

So I chimed in. “Sounds like someone got a new toy! Have fun!”

To which some pain in the ass joked “Too much information, Liza!”

What kind of toy did she think I was talking about?

So I replied, “A new pick up truck is TMI? Looks like the snow has made someone frigid.”

I felt kind of bad smacking her down when I found out she is a minister’s wife. But not too bad. She’s better off learning early not to start a war of words with the Master.

I am not sure what quality these overly attentive gals must have noticed in my exchanges with Scott – maybe our messages vaguely suggested the existence of private jokes or understanding, or maybe it was that I wasn’t clucking about the hen yard trying to get his attention (because hello, I had it) or maybe that he responded to me routinely and favorably, and to them, not so much – but the cat was peeking its head out of the proverbial bag for sure.

And then, just as in high school, the Friend Requests came pouring in.

I Knew You When

The week before Scott Friend Requested me, he had been to his high school class reunion. I haven't been to a single one of mine. And until then, neither had he. But I can understand his change of heart at the time.

He was getting divorced. Time to join the living. Circulate. Make connections. You never know what connection will lead to a more meaningful connection. It is the very premise of networking. And the purpose of social networking.

I remember the first year of my divorce proceeding/journey to the Bowels of Hell. I ran into an old high school acquaintance - again, at church - someone really ought to think about this - and remember being so dismayed when he'd asked why I had not been at the reunion that had just passed. It would have been so nice to go where everybody knows your name, yet is bound to be a little more interesting than they were as teenagers.

I can just imagine how Scott's had been: The class hottie shows up - still looking great - handsome, fit, as darling as ever - and OMG he's single! Let the games begin!

A few drinks later and everyone is swearing they'll stay in touch. Swearing they'll get together. Everyone is adding contact information to smart phones and Friending one another on Facebook. Some of the women no doubt were plotting clandestine cups of coffee or cocktails with Scott now that their husbands were bald and uninteresting or they are finally divorced from the guy who left them for a chippy at the office the minute they put on a few pounds. Some, no doubt were promising he'd not get away a second time.

And then one day not long after they've all had their last dance to Donna Summer's "Last Dance" Scott posts a picture of himself when he was about 15. Tan. Justin Bieber hair. Sitting on a minibike looking cool. Adorable. The caption he wrote reads, "100 years ago."

And immediately all the cyber stalking ladies from high school are flapping.

"That's exactly how I remember you!"
"Look at you- just as cute as I remember you always were!"
"I remember you riding by my house on that bike!"

Followed by a dozen comments where each of them tries to lay claim to him and prove that they knew him longer. Knew him better. Discovered him first. Was his BFF.

So I comment" I have to say the 100 years hasn't hurt you any. On the contrary..."

And then someone has to insinuate that I've called him old and call me out on it.

A moron says what?

And then all of them, good friends that they are, come running to his rescue - defending him- asserting that they are great friends, and have been for life (for LIFE, I tell ya!) Like I am a big meanie and they are his true friends, defending him to the end, because darn it, they care.

It is hilarious.

So I comment again. "He was cute then, but I am a big fan of this year's model." As in "You may have known him when, but I know him NOW. Ya dig?"

And everyone engages in more territorial posturing (Who is this girl? She's not even in our class! No fair!)

And Scott quiets them all by saying, "I just gotta love that Liza."

And clutch the pearls, everyone is aghast.

And They'll Tell Two Friends, And So On, And So On...

To be truthful, I was the first to be ham-handed. (The visual for that term has always made me chuckle a little.)

Scott has a friend named Bob who is as hapless and life-weary as anyone I've ever known. His life makes my life look sedate and uneventful.

But he's one of those guys who went to high school with us and was kind of a character. He was in my sister's graduating class and his sister was my lab partner in Chemistry - so I'd know him to see him and would not hesitate to say hello. His family had a summer home near Scott's family's summer home when they were kids. So they were friends. And FBFs as well, though unbeknownst to me.

One night, early on in our relationship, Scott and I were trying to make plans to see each other. Ninety miles makes you do some planning. One particular night was off the table because Scott had plans to see a hockey game. Bob had tickets and he'd invited him to go a few weeks back.

"I'm not really all that interested in going," Scott had said. "But I'd feel bad backing out on Bob now. They are really expensive seats and I doubt he has anyone else to go with."

We made our plans...and avoided game night.

Scott and I exchanged a few texts during the game - on trips to the mens' room, trips to the concession stand, breaks in the game.

And then late in the game, he posted to FB. "Great game. It's 3rd period. The guy to one side of me just asked me who we are playing. And the guy on the other side of me is asleep."

I commented, "Which one is Bob?"

And Bob, reading my comment immediately (I guess no one was paying attention to the action on the ice) and commented,"Watch it, Liza."

Oops.

I joked back, "Good to see you're awake and alert and oriented, Bob! LOL"

I was hoping he was LOL-ing.

So I would have to learn to have an awareness of who might be FBFs with whom, evidently. Like looking around the room before making a snarky comment about so-and-so's unfortunate choice of skirt size.

And then Scott's girls sent me Friend Requests a few days later. I did not know what to do. (Again.) I was a little taken aback at first. I am not sure why. I am FBFs with Charlotte's boys. It's not like there aren't a few young people getting regular status updates on my amusing life.

I asked Scott if he was comfortable with his girls and me being FBFs.

He was of course, so I accepted. What would it say to them if I hadn't?

And then I found out that they are (of course) FBFs with their mother, Scott's first wife.

Yikes.

And she and I have the same employer. Double yikes.

But even then, I was not feeling overexposed.

That would come later - when the frequency and nature of Scott's posts and mine would hint that we were more than FBFs.

Whenever I Call You Friend

So I have embarked on a new relationship. A new relationship that began with Facebook and stands to be complicated by Facebook.

This fact, like the relationship itself, is new territory for me. And frankly, I am like Lewis and Clark. Without Sacagawea. Maybe even without Clark.

Scott and I are Facebook Friends. FBFs. Which is not to be confused with BFFs. That is how it all began, you may recall.

And as FBFs, we can see each other's posts. That is sort of the point. Before you accept someone's Friend Request, consider whether you want them reading your posts. And word to the wise, don't Facebook Friend anyone you currently work with...it will lead to nothing good, believe me. Consider the nitwit who called out sick from work and then posted her status as "Shopping "til I Drop," or something similar. Evidently she wound up with all the time in the world to shop when she returned to the office the next day.

And some people will actually use FB to spy on you. Live vicariously through you. Start a nasty little thread of gossip about you. Interfere with your life because they can (and their lives are not worth paying any attention to.) J.'s only reasons for opening a profile on FB and friending me me were suspicious and untoward. He wanted to know how and with whom I was corresponding. And wanted insight into the secret life he had convinced himself I was leading. Like it would give him a clue about why we were falling apart. He didn't need FB for that. He needed a mirror. A little introspection (and a little time on the psychiatrist couch) would have done more for him than any voyeuristic FB activities. Loser.

Seeing each of your friends' posts, and they yours, is sort of the fun of it. I can float a post that mildly and innocently suggests that I had a super dreamy date the night before (like the one I posted about some mornings just inspiring a girl to sing show tunes) and thereby send a smoke signal into the air for my friends who know my code to interpret. And chances are my less informed Great Aunt Lulu won't really get it. She'll just think I woke up with Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair on the brain since I sat at home dateless with a tub of Ben and Jerry's and a DVD of South Pacific the night before.

And I can send a thinly veiled love note to Scott that says something meaningful to him, And is understood by my friends, but not to the extent that is speaks to Scott.

For someone who really enjoys the written word, who loves a good double entendre, who loves plays on words, this is loads of fun.

For the slow-witted who might have a view of your posts over another's shoulder, it might take on a different tone. A different tack. One where they are inspired to make ham-handed, crude or even slapstick replies that are not only pathetic but frankly, unwelcome.

And here is where it gets tricky.

Scott has FBFs. I have FBFs. And for a time, there was no overlap at all. But when he would post something, and I would comment, often with my typical wit, and with a comment that would be made with a wink and a nod to him, his FBFs would be able to see it, and feel compelled to comment, too.

But not necessarily to just his post. Often, to my comment.

And some of the comments were sort of offensive. And a little...well...territorial.

Oh How Happy Yoooouuuuu Have Made Me

Happy Anniversary to my sister Charlotte and her husband, Jack. My super heroes have been married to one another for 24 years. Talk about a feat of strength and endurance. Twenty-four years is a long time for anyone, even super heroes.

Being related to Charlotte and Jack is like having Wonder Woman and Superman in the family. It is no wonder they found each other attractive all those years ago. Surrounded by mere mortals, surely she would have noticed and admired his dapper red cape. And naturally, he would have dug her indestrictable Amazonium, bullet-deflecting bracelets. And maybe her bustier.

I marvel at them. No pun intended.

Now, I am not naive. I know that no one knows what baggage anyone else is carrying around in their invisible Fendi purse. But truly, from my superbox first row seats, things look darn extraordinary. And not just when compared to the shit storms that my last two long term relationships turned out to be.

J. and I barely cleared 24 months let alone 24 years before I felt like I was tip-toeing and tap dancing across a minefield every time I held his hand.

And Lars. I wish I'd had the clarity and moxie to move out to Splitsville 24 months earlier than I had, when Lars and I had logged only half of the years Charlotte and Jack have at this point.

I am sure there is a whole lot more effort and work and purposeful, thoughtful elbow grease that goes into all this wedded bliss than meets the eye. More counting to ten, more holding one's tongue, more smiling through the pain, more sucking it up, more forfeiting and more doing what they don't care to do than anyone outside their home sees. There would have to be. Humans who don't have the benefit of being clones will always have interests that compete or conflict at some point or on some level. It is all in how you handle those instances that matters.

But they do make it all seem effortless. And maybe by now it is more so than it was 20 years ago. I am sure they have had their nasty little bumps in the road. They have made their sacrifices and have had their battles and have given into compromises like everyone else.

I think the difference is, they have each reaped the fruits of their labors and both genuinely appreciate what the other has given, and adds to the equation every day.

They enjoy each other.
Take pride in each other.
Appreciate each other.
Consider each other.
Adore each other.
Respect each other.
They both contribute of themselves.

And so, for these reasons, and countless others, they stand out noticeably to me, and in especially sharp, hi-def contrast to my recent past relationships of note:

- No one gets stuck doing everything- all the laundry, all the cleaning, all the home maintenance, all the grocery shopping, all the cooking, all the carting kids hither and yon, all the organizing, all the thinking. While the other does all the lounging about the palace never leaving the comfort of his highness's royal ass groove on his royal couch.

- No one gets humiliated in public, or in private by the other. Most notably, no one is criticized openly at a dinner party with one's friends. No one is disrespected and denigrated at her professional social engagement in front of her very important business partner boss. And no one has their lovely elementary school graduation reception memories singed around the edges with the delivery of an overly-loud, unnecessary comment disclosing way too much information about a very private, sensitive personal matter.

-No one does all the earning while the other does all the freeloading. And scheming to spend the other's money on his own idiotic agenda.

-And no one spends countless hours sleuthing, and spying and calling and texting and trying to figure out who the other is catting around secretively with because surely she must be cheating. She must be. I know she is. I don't know how I know that, I just know it.

And those are just the bare minimum basics. Charlotte and Jack have so much more. The cake and the icing on it. The candles too. Good for them.

So congratulations, Charlotte and Jack. Cheers to you and to all that you are to each other, and to those who love you.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

We were laughing.

We were on our second glasses of wine.

I was realizing that every time I went to say something I wanted to touch his arm. Had he been wearing a tie, I'd have adjusted it. If a hair wandered out of place, I'd have brushed it away from his eyes (those eyes!). Hallmarks of attraction, all of them.

I suggested we leave for the bistro I'd suggested. A little more wine in the privacy of my kitchen and I couldn't be trusted not to climb on his person without ever leaving the house. What kind of date is that????

He helps me with my coat. (Points) Holds the door. Locks it behind me with my keys. (More points) and then escorts me to my side of his (confirmed not to be a rental) zippy little luxury sports car. Opens the door and helps me in (it is toboggan height from the ground and I am in heels with two glasses of chardonnay under the hood). Puts on the seat warmers. I decide there is no longer any need to count points. We are already off the charts. He could have a spitting, swearing case of Tourettes and a flesh eating disease and he'd not go into deficit spending.

I was suddenly very glad I'd chosen the bistro we were going to. A fun atmosphere and a dining/bar area that compelled people to socialize. But more importantly, romantic, European wine cellar decor, and a huge roaring fireplace with leather sofas and chairs around it. If we weren't fascinated by each other, chances are there would be people I knew to wave in. If we were captivated by one another, the fire would certainly enhance the mood.

We arrive. He parks. Pulls into the parking space in reverse. (Scratch a few points...my parking lot pet peeve. We'll work on that. Hardly a material issue.)

We walk in and by divine intervention, the sofas facing the fire are unoccupied. The Patron Saint of First Dates has thrown me a bone.

A glass of wine and we are scooching closer on the sofa.

An appetizer later we are holding hands.

And now, 4 months later, we still are.

Don't Cry for Me, Argentina

So I am dressed and date ready, and frankly a little apprehensive. As Madonna would sing, I am dressed up to the nines, and at sixes and sevens. Don't cry for me, Argentina.

Is this a mistake? I am supposed to meet shiny new people, not go into the wayback machine to reevaluate people with whom it didn't work out all that swimmingly before. Am I completely crazy to be doing this? Of course I am. I am my own worst nightmare. And I have the goods to prove it.

Oh right. We are stepping out under the guise of friendship and having a friendly little bitch-fest about our recent dumpees. Not a date. No risk. No harm, no foul. No expectations. No dreaming of rising off into the sunset. We are going out to have a few laughs. And more than likely, I will provide them, however unintentionally.

As Scott rounded the corner to find my nearly impossible to find if you haven't been there before house, he called to see if I was awake and alive. I replied that of course I was, the secret cup of iced coffee now coursing through my veins, and I would open the front door and put on the porch light so he'd know which house is mine. (I am not kidding, delivery people, trash men and service people, paperboys, the fire department, most notably, have driven laps upon laps around the block looking for my house with two addresses. Scott would be no different.)

I see the lights from his car coming around the corner as I open the front door. He pulls up in front. Zippy little luxury sports car. A good start, but I am figuring myself to be the worst judge of all things male lately so we'll put a tentative check in the inoffensive column. Not quite a Win. Points for not showing up in something that looks like it was driven off the set of Sanford and Son. But lets not assume it isn't a rental.

And then he steps around the car. And even in the shadows, his silhouette is familiar. The gait recognizable. Same Scott. And as he steps into the light from my porch light I can see his smile. The very one that used to get me every time in high school.

I swing open the door and can't help from stepping out onto the porch to greet him with a kiss (he was always a kiss-hello-er) and not being able to suppress a wide smile and remarking "Well look at us all grown up!"

He gave me a hug and a kiss that said "Great to see you after all these years," and we were instantly first date nervous and shy and smiling like a couple of dorky teenagers.

Maybe this could be a date. Should be a date? Did he think it was a date? OMG I am a hazard to my own self.

I make a mental note that he neither smells like Altoids or the horror they were invented to try to keep from anihilating all living creatures in its path. In fact he smells delicious. Great start.

He remarks that my house is beautiful and very Christmassy. (More points. Now miles ahead of Casey and he just stepped across the threshold.)

He'd brought two bottles of wine. Chardonnay. You could practically hear the pinball dinging away racking up the bonus points.

We step into the kitchen to open one of the bottles. He is dressed very nicely and looks very handsome. No need to take him somewhere dark where he won't be noticed. Glad I churned out the hype with my attire, even if my motivation at first was to give him nothing but admirable scores to report back the people I know that he still talks to, like Lynda Spumoni, with her big fake smile on Facebook, who would surely be asking if I had ever outgrown the training bra or had ballooned up when I'd had the kids. A beyotch to the end. (I am still in high school in my heart of hearts, dontcha know...)

We began to talk about the usual things - what our kids are like, their interests, how they are like us or not like us, how we got into our careers and what about us makes us good at them. Little updates on people we both used to know...including Lynda Spumoni, my sister Charlotte and her family and how they figure into every day life, his sister Gillian and how she is the matriarch since his mother passed away. I made him laugh. He made me laugh. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Exactly ten minutes had passed and I was completely at ease and it had nothing to do with the (outstanding) chardonnay he'd brought. I realized that I had had absolutely nothing to worry about. Nothing.

We were the Liza and Scott of 30 years ago flashed forward as though we'd kept pace with one another all along. Divergent paths that wound up at the same point. We were essentially the same people, a little weathered, a little wiser, a lot more mature, but at our hearts, the same.

This was going to be a fun evening. Don't cry for me, Argentina. The truth is I never left you.

A Race to the Finish

And I am a little bit nervous.

In my last foray into this situation - Casey, another blast from the past - I had spent a good bit of time on the phone before our actual ill-fated date. And I'd liked him. But to be truthful, he'd not thrilled me on the phone. There wasn't anything glaring and heinous about our conversations per se; he wasn't unpleasant to talk to. But something didn't click. I did enjoy talking with him. I just wasn't dropping everything to make time to chat. That should have told me something.

So was it telling me something about Scott? To be truthful, we didn't have a lot to talk about. We really barely knew each other, and let's face it, who wants to rehash 30 year old high school camp fire stories.

But we didn't have anything current in common. So it felt awkward. I was beginning to think I could not trust my judgment. (Thank you J. and Casey for taking a woman with the confidence of a Presidential candidate and turning me into a self-doubting nerveen.)

But the day of the date finally arrived, and I had tons to do around the house and for Christmas (custody scheduling once again dictating what weekends I could devote to what holiday preparation.) I ran around like a chicken without a head for most of the day and at about 4 o'clock when I should have been taking a hot shower to make myself fabulous, I needed a nap.

Old people should not be allowed to date.

Scott and I hadn't really nailed down a time - which was odd because he had a 90 mile drive. He could be in his car right now while I am trying to decide whether to put on PJs and crash or put on a pot of coffee and plow through.

I text him. I tell him I need some Zs and ask if 7 is too late to come calling. I was thinking I'd make sure the house was presentable, take an hour nap, and then begin the transformation from Mall-weary to runway ready.

He texts back that it is not too late.

Good. Perfect.

Then not so perfect.

He asks if I still want to go out.

Uh-oh. He has reservations too. I am not warming the cockles of his heart on the phone with my witty banter either? I am a little taken aback.

If I wanted an out, this was it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I text, "Of course I do. Why do you ask?"

He replied that I was at the end of a long day (long week, long relationship, long life, no diff...).

I replied that I am still game - he was the one with the 2 hour driving commitment.

So we were on...and my head is on the pillow nearly at once.

But I am a little nervous that we are about to embark on what we'd both consider a big date mistake. A lot can happen in 30 years.

A lot of really horrible things can happen in 30 years. Fat, baldness, bad habits, ill-advised fashion preferences, socially unacceptable attitudes, and yes, weird speech patterns, a stupid sense of humor and atrocious oral hygiene, thank you Casey.

But I awake an hour later feeling remarkably refreshed and rejuvenated. Downed a cup of iced coffee and jumped into the shower to begin the metamorphosis for the Big Date.

That's a 10-4 Good Buddy, Over and Out

So our plan was to stop texting and start talking.

I am the one with the life more burdened by obligations, so I said I’d call him. On Thursday. During the football playoff game. I’d surely be planted on the sofa with a beer by kickoff. That we could count on. I could make this commitment.

And of course that was the night I returned from a particularly aggravating trip to the grocery store to find that my cable service had gone out without explanation. And my internet. And my phone.

And I spent the better part of the next hour screeching obscenities and insults at the inept customer service people and technicians who were as capable as say, Mr. Magoo, at diagnosing the problems, and who had me plugging and unplugging, connecting and reconnecting and disconnecting, checking and rechecking all manner of things while they ran their little troubleshooting tests.

The thing that really sent me sailing over the edge of reason and well into the pit of indiscriminate language, besides the fact that I was missing my beloved team playing in a game that was critical to the playoffs, was that while I would be on hold, some cheerful voice would encourage me to tune in (to the TV that was not getting service) and scroll to channel whatever to select from a menu of channels (all completely frivolous, and hello, not available to me at the moment) so I can pay even more per month for more channels than anyone could ever possibly watch, that were at best, unreliable if there was a poof of wind, a droplet of rain, a flake of snow, or even just a bad weather forecast.

And so, it was later than I’d expected when I emailed Scott from my phone for his number (again) so I could call him on my cell. And I was crankier than I expected when I had to explain what was happening, and even more self conscious about my phone voice (now ragged from the lengthy stretch of screeching). He’d probably think it was my mother calling. (Yooooo Hoooo!)

But there we were on the phone. Catching up on the details. Or maybe verifying them? Him giving me game updates. We knew each other's statuses. (Divorced) And children (two each). And where we are living (not far from where we were living the last time we bumped into each other), and dug into the good stuff.

Common friends, jobs, family stuff, parents, ways in which our former spouses reach out and stir the pot even post divorce. He was just crossing the finish line with his divorce, and I could feel that he was walking the same path I had when I was racing around the last turn in mine. So unpleasant. So lonely a place. Nothing anyone can do for you but distract you.

Maybe I was the distraction. Fair enough. I could distract with the best of them.

We planned to meet for drinks and spend time distracting each other from the laundry list of disasters life frisbeed our way every day. Not the coming Saturday but the next when his girls were with their mother.

Perfect. And in the mean time, we’d keep talking. And texting.

And figuring out if the new Liza and Scott even remotely resembled the old Liza and Scott from 30 years ago.

Who’s Your Pal?

So yes, I reluctantly admit it. Scott found me on Facebook. Like a teenager. I’d been home from my rock star trip with my gal pals for a few weeks, had gotten a new smart phone, and had downloaded FB to it so I would not have to take a number to use my own laptop at home to stay in touch. And FB at work is strictly forbidden, natch. (I can see why – it is the cyber equivalent of yakking all day in the break room.) And for a few weeks, I’d gotten sporadic messages from Alejandro. Just enough to keep me from forgetting his name entirely. Some were encouraging, though marginally so. Most were about football. (What?) But it was the holidays and I was enjoying the attention when I got it. So an FB message was something I looked forward to. Searched for clues in. Was intrigued by. It was nice to entertain the idea of getting to know someone brand spanking new who was too far away and too self respecting to smother me. And who didn’t have breath you could use to remove your bathtub ring. And one night as I plugged in my (battery hostile) phone so I could charge and get on my treadmill to pre-emptively whack off a few pounds in advance of the Cookie Overeating season, it was Alejandro who I thought was messaging me. It was not. It was Scott sending me a Friend Request Message. The modern day version of getting out your Rolodex and calling the last number you had on file for someone. Only better. And when I saw it, I thought “How NICE! After all this time! Of course I’ll be his friend.” And accepted the request, plugged in the little battery draining thing and ran on the treadmill until my iPod battery died at about 2.2 miles (or roughly 3.5 Fudge Crunchies) And all the while, I wondered about Scott. Last I’d known he been married. And had two girls. Where was he living? What did he do? How many kids did he end up with and did he have a boy just like himself? I tried to remember the last time I’d seen him. It may have been at a Christmas party. I might have been pregnant. Or maybe his wife was. I don’t know. A long time ago. I got off the treadmill, all rubbery and drenched in sweat (yes, after only 2.2 miles!) and returned to my phone. Nothing new on FB – but 2 emails from Scott! And thus began a familiar dance – sometime graceful, sometimes not. The dance that is poking around for intel on someone you think you might like without giving away too much. You ask a question that might lead to oversharing information – the information that you are actually looking for. You say something – and then feel the need to clarify – but not sound like you are clarifying. Exhausting. And worse, it was by email. Painfully edited, written and re-written emails that probably did more to confuse anyone than not. But we exchanged facts…facts not readily available on Facebook. Like our statuses…since when you are not 20 it is no one’s GD business how complicated my love life is. Or whether I have one, thank you very much. We made plans to talk on the phone. Exchanged numbers. After all these years, I would hear his voice.

Who's Your Buddy?

So when J. flaked and seemed to take leave of all of his senses, Charlotte came to the rescue. Superhero cape flying behind her, and without my having to ask, she protected me in ways I would not have thought to protect myself. Trusting boob that I am. She spoke to her husband and sons about giving J. a Facebook kiss-off as well. Of course her sons had lots of questions, and a number of (not so off-base) comments – but they all went un-responded to. My brother-in-law got the full Monty. The ugly. The profane. The indiscreet. The rubber room eligibility criteria. I informed the one or two remaining friends in common that I was having a few concerns about J. following our highly dramatic breakup. I described a few troubling instances that made my blood run cold. A few defining breaches of trust. I stopped short however of asking them to unfriend him. Some people don’t like to be asked to pick a side after a divorce. I get that. I was not going to tread on that path. The proof will eventually show in the pudding. Rancid though it may be. I decided I’d just be overly judicious with what I posted to their walls or posts, since he’d be able to see them. I’d cross my fingers about what they’d post on my comments, since that would open up the comment for him to view. Don’t get me wrong – I wasn’t about to cyber-bash him. That is not the gate I swing on. My mother taught me better than that. Okay maybe it wasn’t my mother. But someone taught me better than that. Could have been Brownie Scouts. Could have been Beyonce. Doesn’t matter. I know better. And besides, I’d be a fool to make a public FB statement that I’ve come to view him as a free-loading nut who has famously failed to manage even the simplest aspects of his life with any competence. Wouldn’t that just confirm that I have been a fool? Even though we all know that I have been, I am going to go out and make a proclamation??? No, I just intend to minimize the exposure. Not post to April’s wall that “Hey, looking forward to spending Valentine’s Day with Scott!” I’d come home to find my house burned to the ground. I blocked IMs from him and his family. Sent email traffic from same to spam. Now if I could just pick up may house and move it to an undisclosed address. So FB will not be a real problem if I am mindful of the exposure. I am anyway. God knows I wouldn’t want some potential employer to get the wrong idea about anything I’ve said. Use a little common sense. Set some boundaries. But evidently those same girls who instantly wanted to be my friend in high school the minute I went on my first date with Scott have no such concerns. And no such boundaries. As I am quickly finding out with a rash of friend requests from people whose names I sort of recognize but with whom I have never been friends. And therein lies the problem with Facebook. There is no discretion among the indiscreet.