It Happens Every Time

Beers. Limes. Chips. Salsa. Hummus. Crackers. All the stuff Kate carries around in her Mary Poppins purse on a good day.

We have flagged down our favorite waitress and promise to move to her section as soon as we've polished off these last few beers, peed and applied lipstick.

Julia --- which we pronounce "Juuuuuuuuulia" has been our wing man waitress for three or four summers now. She hooks us up. She is a font of social intel. She knows all the bands, where the cute men are hanging out these days, and which girls are trouble. There are always girls who are trouble. Sometimes we are them. It depends on who is with us.

I finish my beer and decide to get a long sleeve shirt (perfectly coordinated with the bikini and shorts and tank, by the way, from the room. While I'm in there I'll pee, run a little gloss through my hair, put on a fun hat, and tweak the makeup. I will magically look like a casual beach babe from Bay Watch in under a minute.

I return to the gals and Jill is ready to get a table. She always looks like a babe from Bay Watch even after hours in the sweltering heat, so she is ready to go. I am instantly glad I reapplied moisturizer. Jill is glowing. She is a perfect wing man. She tells me Juuuuulia said that the band is fantastic and to get a table near the stage. That way we'll see everyone and everyone will see us. We love Juuuulia's logic.

Jill and I find a table that easily seats six and people around us seethe as we have derrieres for only 2 seats but claim they are taken when descended upon by large, flat-footed women with knocked knees and sturdy bathing suits who simply wanted to take a load off. Literally.

Kate drops by the table on the way to drop her stuff in the room and place her hat and wallet in front of one of the empty seats. At that very moment, Jill remarks about a couple of cute guys who may or may not be looking our way. Kate looks at them and says, "Liza, two of those guys are the ones we ran into on the way to my car. We said we'd find them. I think they found us first."

Juuuulia swings past with a drink order for another table and says as if she had overheard. "Yes, girls, those guys are checking you out. Surprise, surprise."

Moments later. Joy comes to the table looking fab. Then Kate comes back looking fresh and gorgeous. Juuuuulia comes and takes our drink order. And as she leaves, an envoy from the Pack of Guys comes over. He is sort of disheveled and cool looking. Like a trouble maker with a great sense of humor and a college degree. I am a total sucker for the type.

He sits in one of the few remaining chairs and makes a half assed introduction. Then he leans in and gestures for us to do the same. He needs to whisper something.

We are too cool to act that intrigued. At most, we shift a butt cheek. Lean on an elbow. Jill and I don't even bother. She is smoking and I am taking a first sip of something Juuuuulia told me to try.

"I am with a bunch of buddies on a guys weekend and we were wondering if you ladies knew where we could score some pot."

Joy is the first to become hysterical laughing. And she shrills, "You looked at all of these people at this bar and you figured that we would be your best bet for scoring pot? Are you INSANE?"

We are all laughing now. The ridiculousness of the notion gets funnier and funnier moment by moment. We are all parents. Some of us are teachers. Some of us are seeking jobs and will be subject to drug testing. Most of us have not even considered the idea in over 30 years if at all.

And as if on cue, the rest of his buddies descend on the table, all having found random chairs not occupied by butts at other tables. We make for a rambunctious group.

And suddenly the see-and-be-seen table has become the life of the party at the poolside beach bar on Girls Weekend.

As it should be.

Getting The Party Started

We are on our third beer by the time I get to the Big Bang.

I regale my flabbergasted girlfriends with the fact that Scott responded to my text with a nebulous one about being unhappy with his job and his house and his life and his kids and all manner of midlife crisis drivel. I told him that he should talk to me if he was feeling upset, not shut me out. Unless I was part of what made him unhappy with his job and his house and his life and his kids, in which case, he needed to just tell me.

Not the kind of text you blow off. Definitely the kind of text you respond to by picking up the phone and calling the other person. If you are a man, that is.

But evidently, there was no such man on the other end of the phone.

He'd ignored me the rest of Sunday. He'd ignored me on Monday. He'd let the phone go to voicemail on Tuesday and again on Wednesday. Being a girl of very little brain when it comes to men who are of very little character, it had taken me a few days to realize that he was indeed dumping me "like that." On Thursday, I'd composed a text and an identical email. I'd called again, and when his voicemail answered, I'd sent both.

Penny is practically hyperventilating. So am I.

I'd told him I was not looking for drama, I'd just needed to get my clothes, shoes, makeup, jewelry etc from his house without incident and offered to come on the weekend. He need not be there. Just leave the key to my house on the dresser. I'd be gone inside of 10 minutes. Privately I swear that I will not burn his house down, let all the dogs out, turn on all the faucets and plug the sinks, or anything a typical woman scorned would think to do.

He, like a complete asswipe, had offered an alternative solution. No need to do all that driving, he'd be happy to get my things back to me.

And a few days later he did. Mailed them. In a big box. No note. Just a pile of crap in a big box with lots and lots of tape.

And that was how my 50 year old boyfriend who I'd known since the age of 15 decided to end our relationship. Even though we'd talked about getting a ring for Christmas. One day I have a partner and a life ahead of me, the next I have diddly. And not even an explanation.

I take a bow. Story over. Except for all of the aftermath, which I'll tell in dribs and drabs as the weekend wears on. For hilarious dramatic effect.

I weave in the Craig storyline. It culminates with yesterday's bad date. I have held center stage for an hour. I am tired of the sound of my own voice.

Where the Hell is Kate with the 30 pack of bad beer in the collapsible cooler? Our waitress will never be able to keep up with the volume!

And these next few hours are the thing that I love most about Girls Weekend.

We reconnect. We catch up on each other's families, jobs, joys and mayhem. And no matter what the story, somehow, among these friends, these comrades so rare, it all seems manageable. In most cases, it even seems funny. There was absolutely nothing amusing about Scott's abrupt and cruel disappearance from my life and the lives of my children. It was distinctly un-funny. But when re-telling the tale a few months later, with the benefits that only distance, time and perspective can provide, it seems like sitcom television.

Kate finally arrives. She is way behind on the beer intake. Joy orders her one and I offer to help her bring in her bags from the car once she is done. It is not entirely selfless to offer to carry in her entire wardrobe. Among the bags will be the collapsible cooler filled with beer. Once it is on deck, we'll pull our chairs closer and into a circle around the cooler, break out the snacks we've brought and the fun will begin in earnest.

Kate downs the beer like a true Dairy State gal and we head to the car to retrieve her stuff. On our way across the street we encounter two men carrying a cooler of their own. Tall. Handsome. In the right age bracket.

The taller is the first to speak. "Leaving already? The fun is just starting."

"I know, we started it," Kate says laughing.

"Oh I think we did," says the other man.

"I guess we'll never know for sure unless we come find you," I say.

Yes, the fun is just beginning.

The Not Too Calm After The Storm

I wasn't quite sure what to do.

There was a part of me that had absolutely needed to know what was going on. Was he safe or was he clinging to the rafters as storm water filled the house? Were the dogs and the girls safe or paddling to safety on inner tubes? Was the house still standing or laying in pieces in various sections of the neighborhood? Had the boat drifted from its spot to sail away on its own like a ghost ship? What about the shore house? It is ten steps from the beach. What was happening to the home Scott's parents had dreamed of buying only to buy it and learn that they both were terminally ill? So much emotion attached to that place. Was it still a towering 4 story Victorian or a pile of sticks?

But clearly Scott had not wanted to have to deal with a thousand questions from a curious mate. Maybe because his decision to stay in the house had been a colossally stupid one and he was afraid I'd say I'd told him so? (I wouldn't have but he'd know I thought so.) Maybe he'd been overwhelmed by the destruction all around him and knowing I was safe gave him the freedom to have another top priority for a moment?

Whatever the reason, he just dropped out of touch.

And stayed out of touch.

As I learned from Facebook that he was alive and well (and cleaning up the 4th street beach with his daughters) and that his house had only lost a few shingles (which Mr. Handy Man Negrey could easily replace himself) I called him a time or two, as I always had, on the way to work (finally after 3 days off as "non-essential personnel.") Our calls had been uncharacteristically brief. He'd seemed distracted. I guess I could understand that.

But when Friday had finally come and it had been his turn to come to my house, I'd been worried. We'd reached a fork in the road. Would he join me and the kids on the weekend like he had every other week for two years or would he have better things to do? The grown up in me knew it had been unrealistic to expect him to come to see me when there was so much work to do, if not at his own home then around the neighborhood. I had not asked for an answer directly for fear that he'd confirm that he was not coming. I really had not wanted to hear those words. After so much fear and worry, I needed to be near him.

We'd spoken as I'd driven home from work that evening. I had been stuck in traffic and he had just put dinner in the oven. He was going to take a hot shower and drop one of the girls off somewhere. He'd asked that I give him a call when my kids had settled down for the night. Completely normal. Except that when I'd called he'd not answered.

And there had been no call the next morning. No "be there in ten minutes, get the coffee going" text. He'd never arrived. I'd never heard a word. Even as I'd wrung my hands and tried to be cheerful, dark thoughts had begun to weave a choking web in my head.

Evening had come and Pat had gone to a dance. I remember that I'd fallen asleep on the floor in front of the fireplace. Hil had been watching a movie. When Pat had come through the door afterwards, I'd awakened and had cheerfully asked all about his first high school dance.

And I had had another question. This one for Scott. And I'd finally sent him a text "Are you upset with me about something?" Send.

And wait.

Penny's mouth is hanging open with disbelief. And the story is just getting started.

Back In Time

Could she really not know?

When she first asks if I am "still seeing that guy with the boat" I think she is referring to Craig. I answer that question (as nebulously as the relationship) and then realize that she is talking about Scott. The horror story is now 9 months old. Where has she been? Where have I been?

Rewind.

I take a deep breath. She needs to hear this, if only to make her feel less crappy about having been dumped on Valentine's Day via text by someone she'd been dating for 4 years. I tell her from the beginning, and Joy interjects little tidbits.

I tell her that everything had been fine, right up until the moment he'd vanished.

The weekend had been fun if not frantic with the approaching hurricane. Scott had even made some calls to see if he could buy me a generator. We had laughed. We had had fun. We'd shopped. We'd prepared. It was not a typical weekend, but a weekend of things you'd typically do with and for your partner in the same situation and when you are in a relationship for two years. No signs of trouble.

"Even when you said goodbye?" Penny asks. "There was no clue?"

"No signs that anything was amiss," I say.

"She'd just put a chicken in the oven for them to eat later!" Joy interjects. Yes, it had been blissfully normal and routine and wonderful.

"Even the last kiss, the last moments in bed? Nothing?" Jill asks. I repeat that there was nothing. And I am the type that goes looking for clues everywhere - especially after that little episode when I caught him Facebook cruising. Flirting with the slutty UPS girl and the Drill Team Ho. No one ever completely relaxes after something like that. No clues at all. Everything had been normal and untroubled.

And then I relive the horror of the next few days. Worrying about the hurricane and my house and the cats and what would happen to me. The scariness of being alone. Worrying about what would happen to Scott and the girls. He had been adamantly refusing to go inland. I had invited him to my house; had implored him to get off the coast. He'd refused, even as the governor had read the residents the riot act on TV, his jowly face flapping in the high winds.

And then the storm had hit, and I had miraculously survived without incident. Never lost electricity. Never got a drop of water in the basement. No trees came crashing down on my house or flying through the windows like javelins.

I had tried to remain calm by staying connected to friends on Facebook the entire time. Craig had checked in on me a few times. He's on the water in another state and I could tell he was trying to cope with the some pretty scary possibilities, but was checking in on me as well. My childhood friend in Virginia checked in on me repeatedly, even as the storm blew up the coast and passed over her on the way. People were looking out for me and I looked out for them. It made the world feel less big and scary for all of us, I think.

I could not say the same for Scott. He hadn't seemed to be able to worry about anyone but himself, even as he voluntarily put himself and his family more or less in harm's way. I gave him a pass, sort of. He had been an idiot to stay and take risks with his family, but if worry consumed him once the roads had closed, then I guess I couldn't blame him for not having enough worry for both of us.

When I had awoken to find the worst of the storm was over and was nothing short of amazed that my little night light was still lit and had remained lit, I had been so relieved and overjoyed. I was safe and so were the cats. I had put out a smoke signal on Facebook that I was OK and asked about all of my friends in the storm's path. And then it was time to look in on Scott.

I had texted him "You awake?"

"No."

Decidedly unfriendly. You are obviously awake enough to reply, and therefore alive, so why be such a piss ant? If your phone is in your hand and functioning, you are obviously not up to your neck in storm water and it is unlikely that your house has floated off its foundation. So save your cranky attitude for someone who doesn't give a shit if you blew off the map.

I had checked in on him a few hours later. I could see on the news that his part of the state, and in some cases, his very neighborhood, was being throttled by the storm. Three, maybe four texts. He'd never answered. Not once.

I had started to worry. But not about me, and not about us, which in hindsight would have been appropriate, given what was surely afoot in those moments. I was worried about him. The kind of worry you have when you think your life might be changing forever.

And it was about to. Just not in the way I'd worried about.

T.G.I.G.W.

With the Bad Date behind me and Girls Weekend in front of me and a glass of wine in me, I am content to just move forward with Life. I say goodnight to Charlotte (Griff is long gone) and hit the road. Tomorrow begins a 4 day weekend of pure fun and I need my beauty sleep.

I come home and first spend a little quality time with the cats. My little furry companions that the kids tell me meow incessantly for 10 minutes every time I leave the house. I suppose it happens all the time. No one is usually there to hear it. I wonder what they do when I leave for a whole weekend? It makes me sad to think about it. So I make up for it by giving them treats and scratching their little baby heads and saying little unintelligible things with my lips protruding like a duck.

I also go through and carefully check that every stone has been artfully turned in the Packing The Suitcase Department.

I have a different bikini for each day. That means four. What if we run into the same people two days in a row? Can. Not. Repeat.

I have a pool "outfit" that coordinates with each bikini. These pieces are chosen so that they look like I just threw them on but they are really very carefully selected not to clash with the bathing suit, to look really hip and casual, and to flatter all that there is to flatter and conceal the more unworthy parts. And to look like I made no such effort at doing so.

I have flip flops or sandals to go with each. Natch. Come on. What would you do?

I have a casual and a dressy outfit for each night. Right down to the shoes. You never know where we'll feel like hanging. I don't want to be stuck in a a Lilly Pulitzer dress at the dive bar or wearing Daisy Dukes at the shoreline equivalent of the Ritz Carlton. Must have CHOICES.

I have every accoutrement and notion known to man to make sure I am shaven, buffed, toned and moisturized to perfection and the hair is frizz-free and fabulous. The full arsenal of makeup products has been replenished and packed.

I have carefully selected and coordinated every piece of jewelry to go with every variation of outfit. I will be jingle-jangle-jingling and highly polished all weekend. It's a lot of jewelry.

My suitcase easily weighs more than the average second grader.

But in the morning, I take a 5 mile walk, shower, perfect my appearance, don bikini No. 1 and the coordinating poolside ensemble, and sling the overstuffed suitcase into my car. I am on the road in record time and will be poolside in time for lunch.

Ninety minutes later, I am practically hyperventilating as I circle the block like a vulture. Parking places are a rare delicacy at this hour of the day and I am having a hard time being this close and not being part of the fun yet.

Joy texts me. She wants to know my ETA and should they wait for me for lunch. I tell her I am at the same Longitude and Latitude as she is but sans parking space. And like magic, a space opens before me like a little gift from heaven. I text her that I will join them in only as many minutes as it takes me to flip and flop with my beach bag in hand to the table.

I walk through the lobby moments later and continue to the pool deck where the outdoor tables are set for the optimal tanning/dining experience. Joy, Jill and Penny have just taken a seat and at once are on their feet to greet me with hugs and kisses and the usual compliments laced with smart assed comments.

And again, like magic, the waitress appears at the table with a round of beers. The girls have taken the liberty of ordering one for me. Friends so rare.

We toast and take our first sips. Time to catch up. Jack and the Date from Hell will be the first to be rehashed and raked over the hot coals.

But wait. It's been a long time since I've seen Penny. She asks if I am still seeing Scott.

What? Oh Pretty Penny, do I have a story for you! And now that I have reached a point of complete indifference, I will dish all the most hilarious details that go along with the horror story. I will be center stage for a while. Better order a second round now.

Let the weekend begin!

The Man Behind The Curtain

Charlotte and I laugh our heads off (and so does Griff) at the detailed descriptions of every painful nuance of my date. We eat some sushi that the boys brought home and laugh so hard that wasabi nearly comes out of my nose. Pretty. No wonder I'm single.

Charlotte is kind enough not to say that she told me so, even though we both know that she did. More than once.

The truth of the matter is really very simple. I am an intuitive person. I am led by my impressions and feelings and subtle things that simply can not be articulated in a few blurbs about one's self in an online profile. There is no mathematical, reasoned, scientific magic bullet to matchmaking. It is not a science. It is an art. So it doesn't really matter so much what you look like (unless that's all I know about you and you are a freakish reality show loser type in the few photos you've chosen of yourself for public advertising), or what you say about yourself. Or whether or not we like the same hobbies or how many kids you have or even where you live. What matters is how I feel when I'm with you and that makes eHarmony inherently flawed.

Sure there is something predictable about some of what makes people good matches for one another. Religion and politics can be touchstones for predicting tension or alignment --- if one or both parties have passion about one or both topics. So the card-carrying, protest-attending Atheist will probably match poorly with the Southern Bible-thumping Baptist. And the Fox News junkie will probably come to blows with the Mother Jones subscriber. But if one of you has strong beliefs in one area and the other of you is just middle of the roading it, you might not completely agitate one another if the other more meaningful things add up. I know plenty of couples who have enjoyed years of happy married life canceling out each others votes election after election.

But by and large, it is those things that can not be stated that are going to make ones toes curl. Or one's eyes roll.

You can tell me that you are not jealous, but if I see you raise your eyebrow ever so slightly when I mention that I am going to go out and throw back a few beers with an old college chum who happens to be male and who coincidentally took me to my sorority formal nearly 30 years ago, then you can re-label yourself jealous.

You can tell me that you are not a TV junkie, but if you can rattle off the entire 7-day prime time lineup on all the major networks without missing a beat and know the names of all the actors and actresses and all the current plot arcs, well, I will not be surprised when I find a big old ass groove in your sofa.

And you can declare yourself Father of the Year, but if your kids eat frozen dinners on the 4 nights a week they are with you, and you've never once packed a lunch, and you are a lame, flip-flopping disciplinarian, and you consider the movie theater a form of day care, then I suggest you take that trophy out of the case. It is nothing but a doorstop.

And by contrast, it is rarely going to be something you put in print that gives me butterflies. It is going to be something you do. A gesture. A kindness. The way you look at me. Something you remember that I said. The tone you take with the wait staff. The way you reach for my arm before we step off the curb. The way you keep up with my wit. Your wit on its own. Your interest in meeting my friends. The way you speak of your own friends. The way you look right at me when I am speaking. The way I feel like I've been struck by lightening the first time you touch my hand.

These are things that can not be predicted by a few simple statements about preferences. Most people have no idea what they really like. They have no idea what matters to them. They have no effin clue what is going to make them truly happy. They won't know until they have found it.

So all of the profile information and self description and question answering on eHarmony only has value if you really know yourself and really describe yourself genuinely. But for most of us, myself included, it is an impression you are trying to create. (Often with the help of your friends!) It is not real. It is window dressing.

The man behind the curtain is what I need to see. And that can't be done online.

Two Minute Warning

His face was as white and expressionless as if I had just said, "I've murdered my parents and their bodies are in Hefty Cinch Sacks in the trunk of my car. Wanna see?"

OK, so you don't like cats. I guess the wedding is off, eh? Because really, there was soooo much potential here to begin with.

Moments later, (and the last few nachos and blobs of artichoke dip later, natch) he excuses himself for the men's room. I text Charlotte.

I am fine. He's fine. Not fine. Just OK but not putting chloroform over my face and dragging me to the trunk of his car."

He comes back. I watch him walk toward me as long as I can without visibly gagging. He's one of those short men who buffs up to compensate for the fact that their God-given physique was more 70 pound weakling, not 007. He even puffs up his chest and holds his arms out as if his triceps prevent them from dangling at his sides along the seam of his Toughskins.

My turn. I hop off of my bar stool and head for the ladies room. I run into the 2 couples leaving as I meander through the maze that leads to the Ladies Room. I am sure the drunk and disorderly frequently puke on the way. Between the distance and the inadequate signage, it would be easy to understand how a girl might stagger into the kitchen with her bladder near bursting.

"Heyhowzitgoing?" says one of the guys.

"No need to do THAT again," I say.

Both guys laugh. "Oh, man. Harsh. But he did look like a dweeb, just sayin'" says the other one. I am sure they've found this fascinating. Especially when positioned side by side with their dates.

I return to the bar stool but do not intend to take a seat. It really should be time to close the books on this account. I have made the effort though to run a comb through my (still fabulous) hair and freshen my lipstick. God only knows why. It's not like I want to attract him. I should have taken a Sharpee and blackened out a tooth instead.

As I arrive I see that he's obtained the check, paid it and is folding the receipt to put in the wallet he has to jam in the pocket of his too tight jeans.
From the Boys 8-16 department.

It is a weird gesture to assume that the "date" is over. I feel a little like I am getting the bum's rush, even though I think he has so few redeeming qualities I could easily write them down on a gum wrapper.

Never missing a beat, or a step, I don't even stop at the bar stool and instead simply smile and say, "Ready to scram?" and without waiting for a reply, walk toward the door assuming he'll follow and not caring if he does or doesn't.

He walks to my car and makes some kind of comment about it. It is a big behemoth off-roading cruiser with huge wheels, suicide doors, all kinds of navigational gadgets and a 6 speed stick shift. I think he was expecting something dainty and girly like a convertible Audi. Further proof that he's just an ass.

"I'm parked down there'" he says, gesturing to some spot I don't even bother glancing toward. What? Did he need a ride???

I don't comment and after an awkward moment or two he says, "So how do we end this thing?"

"Not soon enough" I think as I extend my hand to shake his and tell him to have a nice weekend. He makes some stupid comment about my pending weekend with the girls, as if to indicate that I'd made weekend plans that didn't include him before I'd even met him. Like I was supposed to reserve the entire calendar on the off chance that he was something I would not typically find writhing under a rock.

"A girl's gotta have SOMETHING fun to look forward to," I say, hoping he is just ever so slightly insulted but knowing he's too pompous to be.

I get into the car and squeal my big manly wheels doing a questionably legal u-turn and shifting to speed off noticeably. I immediately dial Charlotte who is at home with Griffin.

"Well THAT was a complete waste of perfume!"

"Where are you? Are you OK?"

"I am fine! I just left. It's over. Nevaaahh gonna happen!"

"Tell me everything! Was it awful?"

"Open a bottle of wine. I am on my way!"

Dog Dates

This is the first part of the conversation where he actually demonstrates that he has a pulse. Until this point he's just been a miserable, snarky, wholly unattractive man with a flat affect. The dudes with the Jameson's and the oxygen tank are having more fun than me and at least one of them is actively dying.

The dog was an adorable boxer. He shows me a picture on his phone. He talks about what a great companion she has been. What a personality (someone has to have one) and what loyalty. He's so animated and jubilant at this discussion that he waves down the bartender and orders us some appetizers. Nice to see has some passion about something but a little disappointing that it is his dog and not his job or some fascinating hobby or favorite past time. Hell, it could be a charity that he supports. Gushing about your dog is not unlike gushing about your children. Of course you love them. Tell me something I don't know.

We are still talking about the dog when the appetizers arrive. I am a little surprised that there is so much he has to say about the pooch but relieved to not have to carry the entire conversation myself, and especially relieved that we have not turned the conversation to the topic of my employment "situation."
Talk about a buzz kill. I can't imagine having to explain my current lack of meaningful work to a drone whose only redeeming quality to date appears to be his pet. He'd feel superior. I'd hate that.

I ask him if he has any other pets (I can't imagine that there is much more ground to cover with the boxer. It's not like he can go on gushing about the dog going to law school or anything). He looks at me like I'm nuts.

I must look baffled because he makes a snarky face and says he doesn't have the dog anymore.

So we were just taking for 40 minutes about his imaginary pet? Is this like Sigmund the Sea Monster?

He continues, with an attitude that suggests that I missed a critical part of the conversation (maybe when I was mesmerized by something more interesting like the beverage coaster) that the dog is dead.

Steve Martin is in my head saying "Well excuuuuuuuuuse meeee!"

"Oh, I didn't realize that from what you were saying," I say, fighting the urge to add "you asshole" to the end of the sentence.

Moving right along. While he stuffs another nacho into his mouth and chews with his jagged little teeth, I ask him how long ago the dog died and if he's ready to get another one.

He sucks a little bit of jalapeno from his teeth with his tongue and says, "Yes and no. I thought I was ready, but now that I've not had a dog for a few months, I think I kind of like the "no dog" lifestyle."

"I totally get that," I say. "I'd love to have a dog, but I am not home enough, nor are my kids, to give a dog the attention it would need. And I am not home reliably enough to maintain a regular walking/feeding/run in the yard schedule."

"Yeah, that's what I mean. You have a whole lot more freedom to do things sort of spontaneously when you don't have a dog."

"That's why I have a cat," I say. Carefully refraining from mentioning that I have more than one so as to not sound like the crazy cat lady. "They can take care of themselves for a few days." And then I joke "And I think they'd prefer that I not be there all the time!"

His face loses all tension. His affect returns to flat. All the animation is gone. He looks directly at me and says "I don't like cats at all."

Deal broken. Time to end the date.

False Advertising

Jack is not as advertised.

He resembles his profile pictures. Marginally. If you squint and look at them in very dim lighting. Loosely at best. The person in the pictures could have been his son. His taller, more smiley, much better looking son.

His hair is thinner in person. And grayer.

He's shorter. Much.

He's as muscular as he looked but I probably still outweigh him if I leave my shoes on.

He's not smiley. At all. His features are harsh and frowny and he has Bitchy Resting Face Syndrome.

I fretted over what to wear. He obviously did not.

He sits on the bar stool next to me. I immediately wish my bar companions were back at my side. Even the screechy one.

However, we have an easy time making conversation. We don't know each other at all so there is lots of ground to cover. I don't even know his last name.

And after about ten minutes I know I am not even interested enough to know his last name. With each new thing I learn, the picture gets a little more dismal.

For all his spouting off about adventure and being adventurous, he has barely left the safety of his own back yard. He grew up in the city, went to college around the corner from his family's row home and lives only about 15 minutes from there now. And the bar we're in? Walking distance from his house.

His career in "Bio Pharma?" He's a Lab Tech. He works for a Bio Pharm company but he's in research...and not in lab research. His big project currently is calling people on the phone from a list of people who are prescribed their latest drug and asking if they read the insert about the side effects before washing down the tablets with a Dixie cup full of water. Zzzz.

His place "at the shore?" A one bedroom condo on the mainland across the bridge over troubled waters from the actual shore. Definitely not a beach house.

And it does not ever improve from there.

He's snarky. Not funny snarky, mean snarky. Not an ounce of cleverness. Just an asshole.

He's never been married. I should have picked up my purse and fled at the mere mention of that fact. No one who is at all sane gets to be 52 without getting married. The closest he came was a live in girlfriend that lasted less time than a football season. I would love to know who ran out on whom but I am guessing that it was she who walloped him over the head with a cast iron skillet in a rage and fled the dwelling with nothing more than the clothes on her back.

He is one of seven children. He has nothing nice to say about 5 of his sibs and the best thing about his youngest sister is her dog.

Oh. He has a dog.

This is the most endearing part of the conversation. I lean in. If there is something redeeming about this man, this might be it. I should pay attention.

Bellying Up To The Bar

At the appointed hour, I dry my hair for the first time in weeks, carefully apply makeup, don the outfit of choice and get into my car with the A/C blasting. Humidity is not my friend. No one needs to go on a first date looking like Roseanne Rosannadanna.

I have no idea where I'm going but Siri does, and she guides me to the destination in that tinny little nasally voice of hers. Siri needs a nasal passage ablation.

I find a Miracle Parking Space, on the street, 10 feet from the establishment so my walk up the sooty, hot, humid street is short if not sweet. Maybe the white jeans were a bad idea. Maybe the date was a bad idea. Maybe the whole eHarmony thing was a bad idea.

Must. Not. Think. Those. Thoughts.

I walk into the pub and find a bar stool not far from the door so I can see and be seen.

There are two handsome, talkative young men seated to my left. There is a pair of older gentlemen around the corner of the bar to my right. One has an oxygen tank and nasal prongs and is trying to move his gear out of the way with every sip of Jameson's. His friend is just garden-variety decrepit. A fine crowd.

I order a beer. Jack sends me a text. He's stuck in traffic. I tell him I am at the bar with a beverage and not to worry.

And I wait. And I wait some more. I am trying to be dainty about the beer but I've guzzled more than half. Pretty.

The door swings open with the jingling of bells and I look to see if it is Jack.

It is not. It is two young girls, frazzled from traffic, joining the two young men, and pissed that they are late.

One is less apologetic. Blames the men.

"This isn't the main bar! You said you'd be in the main bar! WE were in the main bar." Her vice is going to sound like my mother's one day. I should tell her date. Run don't walk. This is the threshold of Hell.

The guy argues back, sounding less pissed than I would have. "This looks like a main bar to me. What other bars are there?"

The bartender chimes in, uninvited. "There's the Princeton bar, the Yale bar, the Penn bar...The Penn bar is the biggest. People call that the main bar."

Girlfriend with the grating voice smirks in satisfaction.

"Well you're here now," reasons the much too calm boyfriend. If it were me there would have been bloodshed by now.

But I begin to panic. It's been a while since Jack sent his "stuck in traffic" text. What if I am in the wrong bar? What if he thinks I've left?

I interrupt the two couples. The guys have ordered the girls a couple of medicinal pints for their nerves.

"Excuse me," I say to the guy nearest me. Both of them turn and smile. The girls look a little skeptical. Maybe they should be less bitchy. "I overheard your conversation. I am meeting a complete stranger here in a few minutes. In "the main bar." I am not sure I am in the right place. If I were your sister, what would your advice be?"

In unison the guys both blurt out, "Stay right where you are!"

I must look shocked because the one nearest me goes on the explain. "Don't you dare go traipsing around the place with your beer looking for him." He points to the mirror behind the bar. "Look at you. He'll find you. Trust me."

Kindness from strangers. Always so warming to the soul.

"You want us to stay and be your wing men?" he jokes. Miserable girlfriend with the brainwave-scrambling voice just about chokes.

I thank them and wave them off just as the doorbells ring again and in walks Jack.

The guys smile and move to a table with the girls. Jack sits down.

Not smiling.

To Go Or Not To Go

With each and every sentence I dig a deeper hole with my nail lady.

I tell her about Girls Weekend first and she is giggling at the idea that all of us will be yukking it up away from all of our children and spouses. You can tell she thinks we are all headed for trouble - and that she is somewhat envious.

When I tell her about my eHarmony date, her giggling ceases and desists at once. Her brows furrow. She is making a little squeaky clucking disapproving noise. And buffing the shit out of my thumb nail while she's at it.

"That's trouble," she says. Or something that sounds like that. English is her second language. And she is a C- student, tops.

I tell her she should change her name from Joyce to Charlotte and ask her why it's trouble. Hasn't she ever gone on a date with a stranger?

She looks at me like I am a complete nut. I am not sure why. I wonder if I've just failed to grasp some otherwise widely known tenet of her culture. I shake my head and tell her all the things eHarmony says about itself. I sing the little jingle from the commercial and wish that one would come on the giant flat screen hovering above the drying machines. How pathetic am I? Even my nail technician thinks I am a moron.

She tells me I don't know this man. He doesn't know my family or my friends. He just wrote a lot of lies on the computer to get me to like him. In her heavily accented rant, she may have even called me a fool.

I ask her how it would be different if I'd met him at a bar after work and he'd asked me for a date. I'd know less about him than I do now.

It's amazing how far she could arch that one eyebrow in sarcastic disbelief.

Thankfully, she does not have the linguistic bandwidth to carry on a full blown argument about any of this. She finishes my fingernails in a pretty pale shade of shell pink and walks me to the drying machines. One for my toes, one for my hands, and a word of caution for my head. She looks me dead in the face and says "Be CAREFUL!"

I page through a Cosmo while my nails dry. Wedged between the fashion and the beauty tips are 3 stories, one each about a date rape, a near abduction, and a woman who saved a restaurant full of people from certain death and maiming by attacking their assailant with bleach. Even my horoscope was bleak.

There is a ping pong game going on in my head. Thoughts for and thoughts against this date:

Maybe I should cancel.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I could stand him up and block him on eHarmony. I'd vanish. Painless.

No pain, no gain.

What if he's endlessly boring, or a total asshole, or a complete buffoon and I am stuck there for hours until I can make a discreet and inoffensive excuse to leave?

What if he is hilarious and charming and smart and adorable and mad for me all at once and I miss it because I let my nail technician convince me that I am a fool?

I decide I am going.

I establish a secret trouble word with Charlotte. One text or one conversation cheerfully mentioning the otherwise benign word and the place will be crawling with police in a matter of minutes.

Cover me, Charlotte. I am going in.

Primp and Prep

Charlotte is sure I am making plans to meet and ax murderer and wants to get a nearby table with her son Griffin on the evening of my date with Jack.

I am sure I won't need the assistance, but it would be a hoot to see any poor soul's face the moment my very tall, very athletic, very deep-voiced nephew stepped in to assist with my date's removal from his bar stool and eventual face plant on the sidewalk.

Still, Jack seems really nice and easy going, so I am sure there will be no need for any wingman assignments being pressed into duty. Besides, I always buddy up to the bartender. This one will know that I am on a date with a stranger and know to look for signs of trouble.

Charlotte wants to know what I am wearing.

A g-string and a tube top, Char.

Seriously, I have to think long and hard about this. I want to look pretty and appealing, but do no want any desperate displays of skin and cleavage. I would pick a summer dress but none of them seem appropriate for a early evening pub meeting. It's not a cotillion and it's not a dinner date and it is not a high end establishment. It is drinks in a fun chain pub in an industrial town. I don't need to break out the Hyannis-wear and pearls. We won't be bumping into the Kennedys.

I raid Hil's closet (which sends Charlotte sailing over the edge for a brief moment.) I raid my 14 year old's closet because she has raided mine and all of my fun, hip clothes are now hanging next to her Uggs and Abercrombie.

I find a pretty peach top with some interesting detail - sleeveless and cropped to come just to the belt loops of my white skinny jeans. I have the perfect sandals. Flat and metallic, and easy to run in if I have to make a dash for the door. It is pretty, sexy, conservative and flatters me. I may have to recycle this outfit for other casual summer occasions.

My Girls Weekend at the beach begins Friday morning. I can not wait to see how this date goes. I will either have lots of good news or lots of advice to ask for from my gal pals. I am hoping for the former but it is a complete crap shoot.

I usually end up in relationships with people that I have known for a long time. I can't even remember the last time I went out with a complete stranger. By the time I'd gone on any sort of romantic date, I'd known the person for months, years sometimes. Decades in some cases (for all the good it did me in determining Scott's character). Maybe Charlotte is right. Maybe I am meeting an ax murderer and am blissfully unaware and not even nervous because no one gets nervous about a date when all of their dates have been with people they've known for a long time.

It is clear that I have no idea what I am doing.

Maybe I am really just so desperate for companionship that I would do something hare-brained. I wonder if those kooks who start writing letters to Federal Prison inmates and eventually marry them and maintain a life of solitude except for conjugal visits start out on eHarmony? Is this a gateway to other really bad social crisis decisions?

I decide to go through with it anyway. Every relationship starts somewhere, right?

Sure, Liza. Whatever you tell yourself..

In advance of the date, and in preparation for Girls Weekend, I decide to go a day early for my pedicure and eyebrow wax. While I am at it, I decide to get a mani, too. May as well put my best hand forward as well as my foot. The technician is elated. I never get manicures. She asks what the occasion is.

I tell her. Her elation all but evaporates.

Not a good sign.

The Dance

Evidently, in the world of eHarmony, an unassisted, independently composed e-mail is fraught with the potential for catastrophy, so they ask you to sign your life away before you can read it. They assume no responsibility for stalkers who may hunt you down on your employer's premises, or scrawl a nasty note on your car with a bar of Ivory Soap when things don't bloom and grow as expected, but they do want you to be forwarned that there are some very real risks to corresponding with a stranger, and take the liberty of enlightening you about protecting your privacy.

It is infuriating in its simplicity. It is like Dating 101 for the Impaired. It is all very cheery and they remain convinced that true love lies just around the corner, they just want you to pick a corner in a familiar, well-lit neighborhood before you go traipsing off all excited and dizzy with the possiblities.

I check that I am fully aware of the risks and dangers of talking to strangers (and hitchhiking, and running with scissors, and swimming within 20 minutes of having eaten, and putting a fork in an electrical socket). I am granted permission to proceed by the man behind the curtain.

I read Jack's email. He continues to sound very nice. Funny. Charming but not in a slick way. Appealing.

I write back. Use a little humor and charm myself.

It is admittedly weird. I know how pen pals must feel. Openly sharing with a perfect stranger.

We are both tap dancing around meeting. Jack wants to skip the phone call and go right for the date. He says since we both think there needs to be chemistry right out of the starting gate, we should dispense with the phone calls and just meet. See if my chemicals like his chemicals. Sounds gross.

No phone call? I am skeptical. He either sounds like Elmer Fudd on the phone or his voice never changed and he Peter Bradys when he speaks. But who am I kidding? I have been known to sound like I ate a box of tacks for breakfast. I have Estelle to thank for that, I am sure. So if we meet before we speak maybe there's a chance he'll be so overwhelmed with my rare beauty and not notice my voice could splinter wood. Fat chance.

We narrow our availability down to two days. I have way more than two days available but I don't want to seem like I have no social life to speak of. Eventually we pick one. I don't care. It's a week night. If I don't have a date I'll probably just mow my lawn.

We narrow it down to two locations. Both are pubs owned by the same guy and both are the same distance from my house. I just have never been to the second one. He'll have home turf advantage.

We establish a time. We're meeting at 6 pm, and I have deftly avoided having to tell him that I am not working.

Now for the outfit.

And the pedicure.

And the eyebrow wax.

And the secret code word that will tell Charlotte that if she does not call 911 at once, I will be featured on a milk carton.

Dating, new millenium style.

Show Us What's Behind Door #3, Carol Merrill

I guess Jack likes my responses and is convinced I am not a boring, sedentary sloth tipping the scales at 300 pounds, so he moves things to the next step.

The Must Haves and the Can't Stands.

He can't stand laziness. He can't stand someone overweight. He can't stand someone who chronically worries. He can't stand someone with a victim mentality. Can't stand someone who watches an inordinate amount of television.

Me either. But I have bigger fish to fry and lots of them. You can only pick 10. I have about 40 Can't Stands and only about 6 Must Haves.

His Must Haves are fairly predictable. Must have chemistry. Must have humor. Must have intellectual curiosity similar to my own. Must have a sense of financial responsibility.

I get all that but I have a philosophical argument with them being on the list at all.

Chemistry? Really? You want to spend more than an elevator ride with someone with whom you have no chemistry???? Who would NOT have that on their list besides those who are emotionally dead or unavailable?

Humor? Sweet bearded Jesus, strike me dead rather than suggest I am a perfect match for someone who is utterly without humor. I will nail myself to the cross, thank you.

Intellectual curiosity similar to my own? Safe to say I want neither an intellectual snob who will grimace when I struggle to name the first 3 elements of the Periodic Table in a game of Trivial Pursuit, nor a Neanderthal who will complain about all of my "Big Words."

Financial responsibility? Yes to Financial Responsibility. If you have a better than average chance of living in a dumpster within the next 5 years then there is no reason for us to meet. Save your date money for the rent. You can not afford to by me even one beer.

I whittle down my list of Can't Stands to 10 and try to get the most mileage out of them. I'd love to say that I can't stand someone who is a bigot. And I would like to check that I can't stand someone who is intollerant. I check instead that I can't stand someone who is mean spirited, figuring that covers a wide variety of assholes who are less than charitable toward various races, religions, sexual preferences and garden variety differences.

There are a variety of ways to say that I can't stand someone with chemical dependency of some kind. I choose the one with the broadest amount of coverage. Between Lars and his pills and J. and his closet alcoholism, I need an addict like I need a second set of boobs.

I try to cover as much acreage as possible at this stage so if the herd should be thinned it is apparent.

My bigger issue is the Must Haves. Fidelity. Honesty. Communication. These are so basic I feel like I am missing an opportunity to tell Santa what my dream house looks like by asking for the basic model. But by not checking Fidelity and Honesty and Communication what on Earth would I be saying I am signing up for?

Eventually my patience dwindles to a microgram and I just hit the send key.

And remarkably, Jack responds.

We are in a whole new stratosphere now. EHarmony email.

Lord love us and save us.

Hold The Fat, Please

Red flag or green light?

So far, Jack is adding up nicely on paper. His pictures and his profile make him seem fun and easy going. He seems energetic and up for fun, but not a maniac. His smile looks like one that comes easily to his face.

All this in opposition to a lazy couch potato with hang ups and a brooding personality. There is a reason those people are single. They should commit to staying so.

But there is something that bothers me about one or two of his questions.

One of them asks specifically about the most adventurous thing I've done this year.

Besides joining a ridiculous dating website? Does there have to be more than one?

Not an unfair question but sort of a buzzkill. I have noted that Jack has no children. I am wondering if his sense of adventure is such that he will be annoyed by the fact that I have a home life and children that I am committed to nurturing, and can't just randomly drop everything to go jump out of an airplane because it's a nice day to do so. Adventurous? What kind of adventure are we talking about? Hang gliding or an impulsive jewelry purchase?

And there was a question or two that seemed to want to suggest that my physical appearance would be of high significance. Pictures aside, he's looking for some assurances that I will hit the gym immeidately if the holiday festivities pack on an unsightly muffin top. That I will meticulously crunch my abs to six pack perfection. A veiled waving of the No Fat Chicks flag.

And I wonder if that is in and of itself a problem.

Happy to have the honesty...but a little concerned about it as a prerequisite. "I solemnly swear that I will adhere to a POW-style starvation diet and log countless miles on the stationary bicycle and wear a fat burning suit and will not object to an occassional finger-down-my-throat-induced vomitting episode in the event of a brownie eating binge at the first sign of a weight gain in excess of 2 pounds that can not be reasonably explained away by normal cyclical bloating."

Not that I have any concerns about my body. With all the endless walking I've done, the little bit of flab that was no more than a nuisance to jam into a pair of low rise jeans has gone the way of the dodo bird. No body issues at all. But why does he have to ask?

Scott, as you know, turned out to be a lot different than the saint I'd thought he was, but on more than one occassion he'd told me (as I lamented that I needed to spend a little after-the-gluttonous-weekend time on the treadmill) that it did not matter to him if I was 300 pounds, he loved me for who I am not what I looked like. (And then quickly adding, lest I clobber him with the skillet that I've just sprayed with low-fat cooking spray to make a low-carb omelet, that I am the most beautiful girl in the world.)

So...value the honesty in putting it out there that he will not tolerate a lazy, bonbon-eating couch potato or flambe him for being a judgey, picayune asswipe who is probably not in a position himself to judge? Jack better show up looking like David Beckham after all this.

I spend some time churning about whether or not to answer, and if so how.

In the end I reply. Let's see if he does.

What's My Line?

Patience is a virtue for which I was always a C- student.

The fax is too slow. I can talk faster. Should have made a phone call.
Waiting for the Keurig to make a cup of coffee is infuriating.
FedEx needs to get those planes landed just a little more efficiently. It has been 25 hours and my package is still not here from Singapore.
Indecisive people should be denied drivers licenses. The timid, too.

But just when I am ready to give up on eHarmony and all the losers who subscribe, and take the app off of my phone so I do not have to be reminded that the world is brimming with all manner of bottom feeding Neanderthals, Jack replies.

And he replies in a good way. He's funny. He is light-hearted. He has a good attitude. I get up off the bench and get in the game.

Again the ball is in my court. A court I have no experience playing on. I may as well have a bag over my head.

But eHarmony idiot-proofs the whole thing, so even a novice like myself can navigate. The fact that they idiot-proof it should tell me something. Even they anticipated a preponderance of idiots on their site.

eHarmony sends an encouraging little note pushing me to the next step. "You and Jack are on the same page! Keep the momentum going. Send him 5 open ended questions.

And again, since research shows us that people are abysmally poor judges of themselves and other people, they provide a bunch of questions that are designed to help you figure out who is a prince and who is a frog before you waste a lot of time getting all dolled up and going on a bunch of dates only to find out on the third one that he's a slacker in a dead end job, still lives with his mother (who insists on calling him "Mama's Little Boo Boo Bear") and takes cabs everywhere because his Yugo was repossessed.

So I pick my questions. The relate to family and extended family and what holidays look like so you can get a sense of how he values those relationships. They ask about habits so you can tell the overly committed sportsman from the slothful couch potato. They ask about what the person might have observed in other successful couples that contribute to their success, so you can tell if obedience and subservience are the recurring theme or if he's a traditionalist, or if he is the type that considers his partner his equal.

He's quick to respond and all of his answers are appealing. He is close to his brothers and his parents are still married and live nearby. They are healthy and involved grandparents, though Jack has no kids himself. He loves to spend weekends at the beach and on the water. He also has a motorcycle and likes to take long drives in beautiful places. He values the same kinds of things in relationships that I do, and doesn't seem high strung.

His turn to ask me questions. I wait. They arrive and I open them.

Red flag? Maybe.

E- Harangue

My crisis averted, or at least delayed, I can focus on other things.

I need to get my yard in shape again. The week away has left it looking more Grey Gardens than Garden of Eden.

I need to get back to walking longer distances. The week of vacation capped by a weekend of beer and bar food with Terry has left me with a slab of flab on my abs. Not. Pretty.

I need to jump start my love life.

Yes, I'd heard from Craig and yes, he'd been exactly the kind of mate I'd wanted all day. And even for quite some time afterwards. But his reliability bugged me. Or rather his lack thereof. I never know what to expect. Who's going to put their feet on the floor today? The sweet, attentive, flirtatious, funny, can't-wait-to-see-you Craig, or the absentee, one-word-answer, delayed response, don't-know-quite-what-to-think Craig? It's like dating identical twin brothers, only one is wicked and the other is a dreamboat. Dating Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde would be less confusing.

I look at my Eharmony account. Terry's tweaks are good, but I am still netting in a lot of Capital L Losers.

Guys who are exactly my height. My socks would make me taller.

Guys who say they are in a particular job or industry whose education makes it seem like they would have to be making up a cover story so they do not have to admit to being a cashier at Walmart.

Guys who only drink on special occasions. (WHAT???)

Guys who fall into categories that I specifically requested not be matched to me. For instance, guys who live on the opposite coast or men who are technically Old Men.

And guys whose profiles add up to nothing more than a wholly unappealing pile of single manhood with nary a redeeming quality to speak of.

I go back to the profile of the guy who I sent a smile to, Jack. Seems like a winner. Why had he not smiled back?

So I decide to take the first step. I send him the first 5 questions.

Eharmony is all about getting to know people by narrowing down the ick factor. A guy could craft an amazing profile, but if his "chat" tells you he is a clingy, jealous nag, then forget it. Or if he hints that women should be perfectly coiffed and wearing heels and hosiery at all times, he will find himself in the "no" pile faster than you can say Beautymist Pantyhose.

The first 5 questions are questions with prescribed answers to choose from, with an option to write in your own answer if you are a little bit outside of the box or need to explain something.

I select my five. They pertain to such things as:

How you might behave at a party you've been taken to by your date and where you know no one.
Given all the freedom in the world to choose, on a Saturday night you'd most prefer to do what?
Which of the following places would be your first choice for a getaway vacation with your mate?

Send.

I wait a whole day and find that I can no longer stand it. I find myself unable to resist the urge to check eHarmony. I have not gotten an email saying that Jack has replied, but I am not sure that I would. I click on my "Corresponding With" button. I can see that Jack has looked at my profile.

I can see that he looked at my profile the day I'd sent the questions. Nearly 27 hours ago!

And yet, he has yet to check the little boxes next to his answers and reply.

Miffed. I am miffed. I extend myself and he ignores me. Nothing like getting blown off for your question selection. Jeez. Wait 'til he finds out I'm unemployed.

I hate this already.

A Fool And His Money

While I throw back my much desired IPA in record time, Lars calls Randee. Then evidently Randee calls Deb. And once Deb's ears stop bleeding, she calls me.

"Well, she never misses out on an opportunity to castigate YOU!" she says.

I am well aware of that, but it still bothers me. Why I should even spend one shredded nerve ending worrying about what some lonely, miserable, home permed lawyer with no friends and a voice that could split an atom thinks or says about me is beyond me. But I do. And I hate that there is someone out there with such an unfair, undeserved opinion of me that there is nothing I can do anything about. Lars' description of me when he was so fragile that he had to turn the world against me or go to pieces will live on in perpetuity. Thank God it is a small audience. I never see his worthless friends. They can think what they want. I got the last laugh going over the wall and into a happy (and very colorful)life. Anyone I care about knows at least that much.

I ask Deb how her conversation went, the volume and weapons-grade voice notwithstanding. Deb says she wrote a brief while Randee was ranting and when she stopped to refuel, she very reasonably launched into her argument.

Miraculously, she secured a win!

The order against me will be withdrawn.

The arrears will be forfeited and forgiven. Never again will they be assigned to me.

We will reschedule the hearing and go to a conference, the hopes for which will be a complete and total agreement on numbers. The only wild card is whether or not I have landed a job by the time the date rolls around.

I raise my concern about that last part. Randee seems preoccupied with my getting a job. Ya know, her client has made a habit of sponging off of me and he shouldn't have to worry about where his next gadget or toy comes from just because of my little old job elimination. I have a feeling she is going to keep postponing the hearings until I get a job - simply because she wants to prevent Lars from having to ever part with a penny.

Mark my words, I tell her. But thank you for a big unexpected win. And before the sun set, too!

Deb is excited as well, and chuckling a little. She says Randee knows she has Lars eating out of the palm of her hand. I ask her why she thinks that, even though I think it, too. I think my lawyer is very clever, I want her to opine a little on his blind trust and catastrophic stupidity.

She says that when it was no longer in any way reasonable for Randee to push for the hearing and subsequent hearings and conferences etc and therefore piling up the billable hours she could scorch Lars with, she punted.

I ask how.

She says Randee then insisted on writing the precipe about the agreement, and submitting the continuance. Hours of writing. Deb would not have billed me, but Randee was adding up the shekels as she spoke. She also used her mistrust and disdain for me to parlay another billable: Deb promised that the children would be able to leave on vacation as agreed, but Randee insisted that I can not be trusted. She wanted to write a custody stipulation (Cha-ching!) and have me sign it before she would do any of the things she committed to. More writing, more faxing, more signing, more filing. All billed to Lars because he wouldn't just go to the courthouse with me.

What Lars and I could have accomplished by taking a short drive to the courthouse would now cost him $1000. And yet, he manages to still put all of his trust and faith in his abrasive lawyer rather than trust the mother of his children, whose only transgression was to be unhappy enough to want a divorce.

So be it. A fool and his money are soon parted.

The More Things Change, The More They Piss Me Off

So Lars calls Randee.

I call Deb.

The beer goes down. I refrain from opening another. It is tempting but I have work to do and a temper to keep in check.

When I talk to Deb, she is really pleased that Lars and I have agreed on something. To have agreed on anything is a miracle. We do not naturally agree on anything. Never have. It's not as though I'd say "black" and he'd say "white." It is more often I'd say "black" and he'd say "five."

Deb is very hopeful. She must be very jaded by her life as a matrimonial/criminal lawyer. I am sure she sees many a marriage nearly end in divorce but instead end in a bludgeoning. For Lars and I to have agreed on something so fraught with potential for rancor and acerbity is quite an unusual accomplishment. I should buy a lottery ticket. The stars will never align so beautifully again.

Deb says that while I am on a hot streak I should get Lars to take care of things privately. Neither one of us needs a bunch of outrageous legal fees. We can go to the courthouse ourselves and go on record with what we agree to. He can withdraw his order, forfeit the arears and agree to pay me support. We can discuss an amount on the way. I could be agreeable. Any amount would be better than nothing. Found money.

Her enthusiasm is catching. I decide to call Lars and tell him how we can make this work for both of us. I am sure he'd love to hear how he can avoid Randee's contemptible legal fees.

I dial his cell number and wait while he struggles to depress the touch screen adequately with his Gumby hands.

I try to sound as fair and collegial as possible. It is a challenge. He brings out the piss and vinegar in me just by breathing.

I tell him what Deb had advised us to do. As a couple, not as her client and her client's was-band. I tell him the advantages. I tell him that he'd avoid the legal fees. I tell him we are really in control, not the court system. They just jump in an wreak havoc when the parties can't decide. The puppeteers take hold when the puppets aren't in sync.

I tell him again. The second time more slowly. I think this is a game he plays. Randee filibusters when she needs time to think (her mouth and brain being completely disconnected from one another helps) but Lars asks me to repeat things. Simple things. I could say, "My dog has fleas," and he'd need me to review the material.

After the third time around the horn, he finally understands what I am saying. "We go with our Drivers Licenses so the court lady with the beard knows that I am me and you are you instead of me being me and you being my boyfriend who has agreed to help me cheat you, see?" I have to break it down in the most demonstrative ways.

He says he needs to talk to Randee about that.

"You're going to call her? Why? She'll just send you a bill."

"None of this makes sense, Liza. It can't be as simple as you say."

"It really is simple, Lars. It only gets complicated if we disagree. And in this case we don't. Let's just go do it. It will take an hour. And cost $10 to file. I'll spring for it."

He says he'd like to call her anyway. And defends her billing practices while he's at it. Tells me that she doesn't always call him back so she does not have to charge him. Her clever excuse for crappy customer service.

I stifle a laugh and tell him she doesn't have to charge him. It's her choice. She's in business for herself. She can bill or not bill as she sees fit. She doesn't HAVE to do anything.How does he not know that?

And I tell him to be prepared. She is going to advise him againsts my plan from Deb. Anything that limits her involvement, diminishes his dependence on her, or reduces her capability to bill for everything between Point A and Point B she will convince him is the Devil's handiwork. And we all know I am the Devil's handmaiden.

But he's under her "I-have-a-law-degree-and-you-don't" spell. I tell him to do what he wants, but he heard it from me first.

I hang up the phone.

And I crack open that second beer.

Talking Turkey

I calmly explain that I went to the courthouse to file for support from him.

And I wait for the sound of an atomic explosion.

Nothing.

Lars tells me that he expected me to do that. He wants me to do what I have to do to be able to provide for Hil and Pat. He has no desire to see me struggle. It makes sense for me to get help from him.

I look at my phone to make sure I've dialed correctly. Clearly the man I divorced under the most acrimonious of circumstances has been abducted by aliens and replaced with a Muppet.

I tell him that I really had no choice. Randee had not withdrawn the order of support against me, and I was going to be hauled off to the pokey if I did not cough up a pile of cash in short order. I'd gotten a lawyer. She'd advised me to file.

Again, he says he understands that part. What he doesn't understand is what happened after THAT.

I told him about the court date and how the overlapping claims we had against one another needed to be sorted out, and we'd called Randee to cancel the hearing so we could engage in a thoughtful discussion about how to settle things. He'd owe me money, I'd owe him money, yadda yadda yadda, let the payroll deductions begin.

He said he'd had no idea. He'd not heard from her.

I tell him in no uncertain terms that she came out swinging on his behalf and made some outrageous accusations and put forth some ridiculous demands.

He's intrigued and asks for an example. I hate when men ask for examples. It always seems like they think you are lying. And if I were, bonehead, don't you think I'd lie about the damn example, too?

I tell him that she screeched in a voice that can be heard in Deep Space that I'd lied to the court and had hidden my earnings from everyone. EVERYONE! (Because everyone knows I am a reclusive millionaire and live my modest little life because money is such a burden...)

He replied that he always knew how much I made. I'd told him myself. He didn't need more money from me. He knew how to get it if he did, but he really wasn't interested in that. He could be earning more money himself. He's turned down better opportunities. He just doesn't need the extra responsibility and commitments. The money is fine. More money generally means more of a trade off. He'd rather maintain the status quo than work weekends, or take call, or have to carry a beeper like a little electronic leash.

I almost faint with disbelief. I am certain my children's father has been replaced by a pod person.

I also tell him that Randee insists that I pay him all the arrears. And has neglectfully let them rack up long after she said she'd withdraw the order.

He says he considers us all square because I paid his lawyers fees from that disastrous day in court.

I tell him Randee seems to have let all those recollections fly out the back of her little Toni Home Permed head. She was on her horse and riding, and therefore, I felt like I needed to leverage the trip to get him to call off his pit bull. I have no burning desire to interfere with his travel plans. The kids are looking forward to the trip. I just needed to get his attention so he'd get hers. I also remind him that she needs to act on HIS wishes, not some deep seeded preoccupation with winning. Once again, she caused a problem between him and me, and for no reasons but her own.

He said he'd call her. I call my lawyer with an update.

And I open a much needed beer. A new beer called Alimony Pale Ale. Because there is no such thing as Child Support Pale Ale, and if there were, it would be laced with hemlock.

The Loud Leading the Moronic

"We had an agreement," he texts with his ape-like thumbs.

"Yes we did. And no one seems to be living up to it but me. So forget it."

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

How convenient. A selective memory. Like that never happens with Lars.

I ask him if he has any idea what happened that day. His inquiry confirming that I was not welshing on our agreement was uncannily well timed. He puts the screws to me, and then goes into a flop sweat knowing that he may have just awakened the dormant she-wolf. And always in writing so he can forward it to Randee. How very clever!

He says he is clueless.

Well, shit, Lars, you've been clueless for decades. Thanks for the update.

I think for a moment. I read back through texts from Craig and Terry and Ted. All telling me to be brave. Be my most fierce and fearless version of myself. Win my own battle.

I pick up the phone. Game time. I pace the living room as the phone rings. It takes 4 rings. He either can't accurately strike the right spot on the touchscreen with those sausage-shaped fingers of his or he's wondering if he should answer and have a conversation with me - you know, without REPRESENTATION.

I use the moments to try to slow my breathing, which sounds like I have been running for my life (and maybe I have been). He answers.

I launch into the explanation, starting with why I think he may just have to pucker up and kiss my ass before I do him any favors with his travel plans.

He says he has plane tickets.

I tell him the kids say they are driving to Tennessee, not flying. I know every detail.

He says it's a surprise. How convenient. I'll need to see the reservations. Please produce them or he's SOL.

He asks what I am so mad about. Nothing has changed with the child support. What am I so mad about today??? I can practically hear the beads of sweat running down his big rounded forehead.

Can he really not know?

I ask him if he'd talked to Randee today.

No. He tells me she never calls him because then she'd have to bill him.

My God, the stupid are entertaining.

"Well, since she hasn't given you the courtesy of asking your actual opinion before she opined on your behalf, let me fill you in on the details of Mizz Randee's Show of Shows."

I am calm enough to sit. Here we go.

Running In Place

We get to the liaison's office. She greets my lawyer warmly. Always a good sign. I am in with the in crowd.

She also does not have a face like Sasquatch, so I can focus. Another bonus.

She is responsible for assigning judges and court dates and all manner of things for the judicial robe wearing set. Deb talks to her about our little sitch. Gives her the details in a humorous little thumbnail sketch. A master. The liaison already has a questionable opinion of Randee. She wants to work with us. Yay me. A friend in a high place.

Deb also asks that we not be scheduled, if possible, with that asshole who was so mean to me the last time. The liaison gives her a wink.

I can almost feel myself starting to breathe normally again. Maybe I won't actually have turned blue by the end of this thing.

The liaison sees no reason to proceed with one hearing that is going to be undone weeks later in another conference and hearing. It is a waste of the court's time and resources. She wants to continue the first hearing and add it to the docket with the second. We have a better chance of settling if all the numbers are thrown in a pile at once.

And then the fun begins.

We call Randee. On speaker so all the office occupants can hear. Randee is blissfully unaware that she has an audience. Upon picking up the phone, she is on her horse and riding once again. In that famously abrasive, seizure-inducing voice of hers. Decibels above conversational tone. She is trying to be heard in the cheap seats.

She is so completely outrageous that another court employee comes to close the door. But the liaison is so amused and amazed by the inflammatory, nonsensical filibustering that she quietly waves the employee in for the entertainment value.

And then of course, while the hamster on the wheel in her head is trying to figure out how to get a win for Lars and how to turn the whole mess into a cash cow for herself, she fills up the air time with malevolent, baleful comments about me. My abysmal record as a wife and mother. Character flaws. Transgressions.

None of it was accurate in the slightest. But the strangers before me would have no way to know that. The liaison looked at me apologetically and then away. It was not nearly as funny now that it had turned malicious.

Turning blue and in a flopsweat of shame, I look at the floor. Deb pats my hand and winks at me when I look up.

She smiles and delivers a show stopping comment intended to get Randee off balance in her Payless wedges. (She has to be at the top of the Judicial Systems Worst Dressed list). Deb has been thoughtfully composing a reasoned argument while Randee rambled on with no end in sight.

In the split second of silence, she interjects a description of the liaison's plan and how it benefits all parties, including Lars. How about that?

And then Randee added some levity quite by accident by accusing Deb of just wanting what's best for her client.

Ooh. Good one, Randee.

The court employees stifle their chuckles while Deb calmly answers that that is her job. Duh.

But in the end, Randee will not agree to the continuance and the aligning of court dates. Of course not. The more she appears in court, the more she gets to bill Lars, the poor sucker. She is going for the big win. I am going to have to pay him - evidently with my good looks.

I am shaking. I am insulted. I am worn to the core. I get in my car and drive.

On the way home, Lars sends me a text confirming that he can pick up the kids a few days early to leave on their trip.

No more Mrs. Nice Guy.

I pull over and reply.

That depends on what happens in court on Thursday. Send.

Face Off

I was right to be nervous. Nothing about this process makes any sense at all. This is why lawyers get to bill you whatever astronomical figure they can pull out of their asses to save YOUR ass. It simply can not be saved without them. If I had it all to do over again...

My lawyer, Deb, is a gem. She is funny and quick minded. Snarky and observant about people. We are two peas in a pod. A pod brimming with sarcasm. We spend a few minutes in the room (dungeon) of the courthouse where paperwork gets filed. The woman at the desk has a beard. Yes, a beard. And it isn't that she doesn't know she has a beard and therefore has not found a salon willing to wax-on-wax-off that thing. There is evidence that she has shaved. Just not recently. I am so distracted that I almost don't hear what she is saying.

I had filed the first petition. I should be able to withdraw it. She has to look at the file. I notice as she walks past that she also has a mustache and sideburns. Jo Jo the Dog Faced Boy. She and her unfortunate facial vegetation return to the window. She says I can't withdraw the petition without Lars' consent.

Like I am going to get THAT. He won't do anything without his lawyer Randee's approval. She has convinced him that he's an idiot, that only she can make competent decisions, and that without her, I would lead him to the gates of Hell and give him a shove because I am a wicked, evil, incendiary bitch on wheels. (She comes by her opinion honestly; it's not like Lars made me out to be Mother Theresa when we were going through our divorce). She has Lars by the short and curlies. He will spend a fortune getting advice to do exactly what I propose because she will spend countless billable hours thinking out loud to him and talking in circles, in a voice that could curdle milk, eventually arriving at my original proposal. Only she's put her grubby little mitts on it and has found a way to make it Liza-proof by writing a bunch of precipes and stipulations that I have to sign and she gets to bill for. It's brilliant actually.

So we walk away from the hairy-faced lady and step into the stairwell to call Randee. Deb calmly tells her the situation and what we'd like. Pauses for a moment to take a breath and then jerks the phone away from her head as Randee launches into her tirade. Deb's eyes widen in professional disbelief. She puts the phone on speaker so I can fully hear the details of the bombastic rant. In fact most of the county employees can hear it as it echos up the metal stairway.

It is one long breathless harangue - not about anything of import. No, what Randee does to buy a little time to think before she provides an actual response (and thumbs through her book of statutes and codes and such)is rail against me. ME! Name-calling, character assassination, hauling out every well-noted shortcoming I have according to Lars. It is brutal. It is humiliating. It is loud and inflammatory. I want to rip the phone from Randee's hand and go all Estelle on her. I learned how to rant at the right hand of the Master. Step into the ring with me, Randee. I will bury you.

So simply put, she didn't agree to withdrawing the petition. She insists that I owe Lars a bunch of arrears and I was cheating the system by not telling anyone what I was earning (when I was earning) because telling Lars isn't good enough. Telling Lars is like telling a railroad tie.

Deb manages to squeeze in a sentence noting that as promised, I had paid Lars' legal bill from Randee in exchange for the arrears. And that she was supposed to withdraw the order if I had not begun to work by LAST MONTH. So it was really Randee fumbling the proverbial ball.

That mere suggestion going over like a fart in church, Deb terminates the discussion and we ascend the stairs. The court liaison may be a little more amenable. Deb knows her. She wields a lot of power. And she will not be cowed by Randee and her demonic personal presentation.

Once again, the click of my heels on the stairs of the courthouse. And another pang of angst.

The Opening Bell

The morning comes, as reliably as ever, and it is a crisp, sunny, humidity-free day. Thank God. If I have to make some kind of effort with my hair before leaving the house, I would prefer a better than one in a million chance of not looking like a cat toy when I'm finished.

I reacquaint myself with my makeup bag. I've worn little more than sunscreen, lip gloss and mascara for weeks. It has been a nice little vacation from the usual spackling and painting required. Sun and fresh air have transformed me.

I have to find an outfit that does not include running shoes or a jog bra. Or shorts and flip flops. Or a bathingsuit. I open my closet door for the first time in a long time. It feels like I just opened a tomb. Whose clothes are these?

I begin to try on crisp summer outfits that suggest that I am not a deadbeat without also suggesting that I have money to burn. That never goes over well in a support situation, and you never know who you need to talk with. You have to walk the fine line between "living in your car under the overpass" and "snooty well-heeled bitch." It takes a little effort.

I find that most of my pants have become too big (all that walking having turned me into a bean pole) and I struggle to find something that does not make me look like a heroin addict. I settle on a cool pair of white jeans and a 3/4 sleeve pink, brown and white patterned shirt with gold buttons. It is the perfect combination of casual but pulled together. I am grateful that both pieces fit. I had already assembled two large piles on the floor next to the closet: One for the tailor and one for charity. I close the closet on a bunch of clanking empty hangers.

I jam my feet into sandals, grab my purse, pour a cup of coffee and take a deep breath before heading out the door. Before I do, I take a photo of my right thumb, which at the moment is adorned with my father's gold ring. A thick band of gold that used to bear initials, but is so old the initials have rubbed off. It had been in his jewelry box when he'd died. I always wondered whose it was before it was his. His father's? His beloved grandfather's? I used it as a talisman. I channeled his strength when I wore it. I posted the photo to Facebook. "Wearing Dad's ring, as I always do when the stakes are high."

The reaction was immediate. Most of my friends wished me good luck thinking I was interviewing.

Including Craig.

He'd ignored the question about being mean, but evidently had decided not to be so anymore.

He sent me a text asking if I was interviewing. I told him that I was not, that I was filing for child support, and that frankly, I was a nervous wreck.

He asked if I had a lawyer. I told him I had hired one on Friday. He seemed relieved and pleased. Almost proud.

He asked why I was nervous. I told him what I expected from Lars. How exposed I felt. How worried I was about his reaction. How even though the law was the law and proceedings were just proceedings and I had a fully capable and willing lawyer that I really liked to fight my fight with her words not mine, I was afraid. I dreaded how he'd react, how he'd make me feel. How he'd scare me. This is the Lars I knew so well, whose reactions I can predict. Who sheds the tame, refined exterior and becomes a streety thug when threatened.

He asked if I had the kids. If I had a place to stay. Did I think he'd hurt me.

No, yes, and I have no idea. I have not really poked the bear like this in a long, long time. I had no idea how far he'd go sailing over the edge of reason, just that he would.

I filed. I endured the humiliating intake session with someone who is studying to become a minister who felt compelled to give me snippets of advice straight from God Himself, while she recorded my most personal factoids in her system.

I met with my lawyer. We had a long conversation over a light meal and got to know each other. She laughed at my more comical marital stories. She got herself up to speed on Lars and his lawyer and their usual antics. And then we were off to the courthouse again, to get to the real business of the day - getting in touch with Lars'lawyer and getting the hearing moved off the docket for this week.

And what followed throughout the day, was a vivid reminder of the kinds of people I have in my life. Craig, Terry, Charlotte all were attentive and supportive. Asked for updates. Cheered me on. Craig told me I had to be the toughest version of myself and told me he knew I could do it. I am smarter than most and stronger than I know. I needed to hear that.

But still, as I clicked up the steps to the court liaison's office, a pang of angst rang through my gut. Once we were there, there would be no turning back.

Reality Bites

The next morning is glorious and dew-kissed. The sun is up early and so are we, despite the antics of the prior night.

Terry and I go for a hike and walk all over the mountain again. I am showing her every nook and cranny we could not see last night or could not see well enough by only the moonlight and the twinkling porch lights of the cottages.

She is still enchanted by the place and has decided it is her next home. Wouldn't that be fun?

After our walk we stop for coffee, return to the cottage to shower and drag Mick out to do two things: see the linen store and its workshop space for rent and head to the French pastry place for a decadent breakfast and more coffee.

It is at breakfast that I fully elaborate on the Craig situation. Terry reminds me that I am a prize. I have a magnetism that I am completely unaware of. Let him - or some other man - come to me.

I am not sure she has not mistaken skepticism for magnetism. I feel about as magnetic as a toadstool. And about as beautiful. Who had I thought I was last night depleting the world's reserves of beer all in one night?

But coffee and breakfast work their magic. I feel better with a few carbohydrates and some caffeine coursing through my veins.

Terry and Mick eventually have to leave, as her father has been watching her 13 year old and their 4 year old since the prior morning. The poor man probably needs a nap. Or a good stiff drink. Terry says she'd like to rent a cottage and bring her Dad and the kids back. I tell her to plan something and I'll secure the cottage with Charlotte. She'll be meeting Charlotte the next week when she comes for the Art Show. The world just keeps getting smaller.

I stay behind. Remake the beds. Clean up the dishes and beer glasses and put them away. Place the bottle of wine Terry and Mick brought for Charlotte and Jack next to the gifts I've left for them. And right next to the puzzle.

I am sad once again to leave, and this time it is for real. I have a week of trouble ahead. And no kids, no Craig, no job prospects and nothing to dream about. I drive home without even turning on the radio.

Once at home I set about getting ready for my first outside obligation in months. With no job and only a few face to face interviews in the past months, I am a little out of sorts. I have to think about what to wear. Carry a wallet. Shower. God only knows how I did it all when I worked.

It is more than that that rankles me, though. My house is in disorder. Literally and figuratively.

The cats have managed to give my clean house a "lived in" look while I've been gone for 2 days. The place mats and centerpiece on the dining room table suggest that a game of musical chairs has been played. There are fresh pulls in the area rugs and the dining chairs. The house plants have been chewed beyond recognition. All of Hil's hair notions have been pulled out and chased about the house. Trinket found a piece of packing tape, ate it and hacked it up on the hall rug. (I know it was her because of her penchant for all kinds of tape and postage stamps).

I have burgeoning piles of laundry everywhere I look. I have about 3 crumbs of food in the house. My car needs an oil change.

And then there is Craig. I have not heard from him in 10 days. Maybe he thinks "liking" photos on Facebook is communicating. I don't see it that way, but it least it takes a little of the edge off of what feels like hostility.

And with nothing but what will surely be a poor nights sleep between me and my court filing tomorrow, I am a wreck. It's not that I will run into Lars. But that once he gets the notice, he will be livid. And livid is not a good color on him. He will do everything he can to threaten me and make me feel powerless. The time between the filing and the hearing will be dreadful. It is almost enough to make me not go through with it.

Almost.

As I get into bed, I realize I have no happy thoughts to soothe me.  In the dark, I pick up my phone and send one final text to Craig.

"Why are you being so mean?"

The Power of Mom

An astonishing number of beers and appetizers later, we head for the cottage. And Terry and I take a seat on the porch while Mick heads off to bed. We talk into the wee hours. About her art project, job prospects, kids, holidays, Craig, eHarmony, men in general.

We dive into the unfamiliar waters of my mother having left when I was exactly Hil's age. It is as astonishing a revelation to her as it was to me. This is a girl whose mother died when she was young. We know exactly the power that a mother holds. We also know exactly the influence of a father thrown head first into the deep end of the parenting pool. Sink or swim. Cling to one another. Eventually we all find our sea legs.

Oddly, the most telling story is that one about Hil getting her Period. The monthly curse. Aunt Flo coming to town.

I admit to wishing I could have spent the time with Hil. Watching old movies and eating chocolate and bacon and popcorn to soothe the soul. Everyone needs a little TLC when their ovaries are in an uproar. And the first time is so alarming!

I tell her about the conversation Hil and I had. The prep work we'd done months in advance for this very occasion.

And she tells me about when hers arrived. She was young but her mother was already bedridden with illness. She'd yelped from the hall bathroom. Dad had come running. But when she objected, her mother had come. Crawling. Quite literally. A mother's call to duty.

And by contrast, I'd been in 8th grade. My parents were well on their way to marital ruin. Mom was morbidly depressed. Slept the day away most days. This day was no different. Charlotte and Joe and I had been getting ourselves up and out the door to school on our own for years. But I thought something like this would have compelled her to leave the bed. Propelled her to my side to put a hand on my shoulder and calm my nerves and help me focus on a practical reaction to the arrival of womanhood. I had tiptoed into her darkened room where she slept the sleep of the dead.

"Mom! I got my period, " I'd hissed quietly in a state nearing panic.

"Do you know where everything is?" she mumbled sleepily, never opening her eyes. The lids never even fluttered.

I was sure I could bash her in the head with the potted plant she'd left to die of thirst under the bedroom window.

I stood up straight and said, this time not bothering to whisper, "I'll find everything. The closet is neat as a pin." (The closet, you should know, resembled one you might find in a college dorm room. After a bombing. Complete disarray with things falling out when the door was opened.)

And again, it had been on the bus and in gym class that I'd gotten the motherly advice on what to do, where to go, all the how-tos. My gym teacher had probably thought I was an orphan.

And I wonder what Hil will remember. Will she remember that she called me crying? Will she remember my calming conversation, and my offer to pick her up? Will she remember my advice about chocolate or my confidence that I could save her favorite shorts from the trash bin?

Or will she remember that I was not there? That I was in my car on the way to the cottage seeking solitude? Will she remember that I offered to talk to Lars about our agreement or will she feel that she suffered her parents' separation? One more loss, one more challenge laid at her feet by our failed marriage?

These are the thoughts I have when Lars gets into my head with his criticism of me as a mother. When his claims that I wanted to be a part time mother and did not care about the kids dig deep. In my heart of hearts I know that his feelings of abandonment by me were really dormant feelings that he'd been abandoned by his mother that I had awakened from hibernation. His natural (albeit twisted) instinct was to couch it as my abandoning my children. Asshole.

But I have to believe that in my weakest hour I am still a powerhouse of influence on my children. That my love and my guidance embrace them. That I am their safe place, the home to their hearts, and unshakable, tireless presence. Have. To. Believe.

Only time will tell. And time is in short supply. The day I know for sure is coming like the dawn.