The Magic of First Dates

First dates are a strange animal. Full of excitement. Full of the unknown. And potentially full of angst, levity, disgust, embarrassment, mania or even the desire to possess secret vanishing powers.

My first date since I was married was with Mac.  It was a rollercoaster ride of an evening. I was still living under the same roof (just closer to the roof in the attic, as it was...) and I had to tell Lars I was going out with one of the girls. But one of the girls he barely knew and who I barely spent time with, s he wasn't so likely to bump into her and ask how the Pocketbook Demonstration went.  I am not sure why I felt like I had to sneak around. My lawyer had told me I was free to date my face off since he'd decided to file on his own after I dumped him (so he could tell everyone it was his idea.) and we were O-fficially separated.

Mac was too much for me. Too confident. Too self absorbed. Too much a player. I had been out of the game so long. I had no idea what the rules were. I had no date clothes. I didn't know any of the cool places people went on dates. But the first date was loads of fun and we'd had one or two more...in between last minute cancellations and blow offs and nonsense my just-recently-restarted heart did not need.  At one point he said that he could not date me because I was still Lars' "property," a notion that nearly made me vomit. And then a week later he was calling telling me how fabulous I was. His inconsideration eventually wore on my nerve endings and I stopped even thinking about him.

So of course since then he's asked our common friends constantly if he would be welcome to call me.

My first date with J. was romantic and fun and I felt like the Queen of Everything. We'd met for drinks initially - just as old friends - and decided we were attracted to each other. He did all the right things afterwards. Called the next day. Sent me flowers. Asked for an official date. By then I'd filled my closet with date clothes (mostly because I'd angsted myself to a size 0 and had no choice but to shop)  I wore a fabulous fuscia quilted pink pencil skirt and a black ballet top, fine black fishnets and knee high black heeled boots. We'd sat on a park bench in a beautiful historic square downtown, gone for drinks at a favorite bar, talked long into the night. Made plans for a second date.

We all know how that ended.

And then there was the supremely bad first date that was Casey. Bad jokes. Horrific breath. Uncommonly pathetic dining habits and dinner conversation.  I could not believe I'd wasted an outfit on him.  I would have pulled the fire alarm at the restaurant to get it to end if I could have gotten away with it. Feigned heart failure. Pretended to have amnesia. Anything to terminate the endless hours of sheer torture. 

That was over before it started.

And then there was Scott. Our first date was under the pretense of Let's Catch Up Over a Few Beers. But I treated it like a date. You never know when the tables will turn and it will become a date. The minute he reaches for your hand. The moment you notice how he's looking at you while you are talking.  The protective gestures and compliments that start to materialize. The instant you realize that you don't want the evening to end. For years.

And it had been just like that. And the second date was days later. And the third not long after. And soon, I could not remember when he wasn't in my life or what I was doing before.

I won't rehash the ending of that story.

This date would be a complete Wild Card. I am attracted to him but I know so little about him and he so little about me. Chemistry happens in an instant. What if there isn't any? What if it is only luke warm?  What if he is an ideal date? And if he is ideal, is my heart ready to race again?

But I open the door and there he is. And I can tell right away we are going to be just fine.

It's Show Time, Folks

And then there is karma. I can tell the Earth has shifted on its axis. Disaster upon disaster at work and a host of horrific inconveniences tell me that I am doomed. This date is doomed. Something will go gravely wrong.

I'll like him and he won't like me.
He'll like me and I won't like him.
I'll like him and then he'll do something I positively can't live with like laugh like a hyena.
He'll be sold on me until I laugh and a huge wad of snot flies out of my nose and lands on the face of his Rolex.
Something.

And I know this because the world is hinting at it.

On Monday I get an unsightly zit conveniently on the end of my nose and have to make an emergency trip to CVS to buy every zit zapping product known to man.

I experience epic constipation.

All in one day, I nearly wipe out on an errant pickle in the cafeteria, burn my hand with Hil's curling wand, and get stuck in an elevator between the 6th and 7th floors of my building, for ten minutes, with what could most charitably be described as the Seven Sisters of the All-U-Can-Eat Buffet.

I get a bout with allergies that make me sound like Lisa Loopner, only a little less sexy.

And the day before the date, my children are both sent home from school with fevers and fatigue and a suspicion of the flu, threatening to command my attention the entire next day, when I'd hoped to be able to focus on my fabulosity for a few hours prior to the doomed date.

But the day arrives and the kids are right as rain.  My zit has reduced in size and hue so it could be reasonably mistaken for just another freckle. The constipation has, shall we say, moved along. I have nasal sprayed and allergy pilled myself to the point of toasting my brain, with the added benefit of burning off all my nose hairs.

By 4 pm I am showered, shaved, flat-ironed and fabulous. Just as the doorbell rings.

What Shall I Wear?

The days leading up to the first date are frantic for me.

I go through a whole range of emotions, not unlike the stages of Grief.

Disbelief - This is never going to happen. He's going to cancel.

Rejection - I can tell just by talking to him that this is never going to work out. I hope he cancels.

Paranoia - If I don't find the perfect outfit, I may just cancel.

Grooming - I will never have time to get my eyebrows waxed and touch up my roots and do something with my nails so that I don't look like I work in Agriculture. I should just cancel.

But I plod on with the help of my kids. Odd source of help. They weren't around to help me negotiate these curves when I was dating in my teens and twenties. I wonder how that would have changed things. There is a TV show in there somewhere.

Pat is a champion promoter. Always quick to tell me that I am hilarious. That I am the most beautiful Mom at the Mall. That I need to do something about my roots before I leave the house again.

Hil is the master of image. A fashionista that understands that clothes tell a story. I can ask her advice on any outfit for any occasion. We are both fans of the show What Not To Wear (which when I'd first heard of it I thought was something entirely different. I thought someone had begun a reality TV show about Lars' mother)

So Hil and I plan on a shopping trip. I need to buy the requisite 14 outfits for the date. Prepare for anything. Secure enough options so that I can change my mind every day between now and then.

Her advice to me is to find pieces that make me look fabulous. That flatter all the parts that need flattering. Conceal the flaws. An outfit that says that I am confident. An outfit that looks effortless. An outfit that makes me look my absolute best without screaming that I am trying too hard. Desperation is not a good color on anyone.  I wouldn't even want to whisper that.

But between the clothes I can no longer look at because of their connection to Scott, and the clothes that no longer fit because I've angsted off 10 pounds because of Scott, and the need to change my stripes because of Scott, I am in a quandary.

So early one Saturday, Hil and I, armed with Starbucks and a couple of store coupons and a pile of cash and credit cards, head out on a spree like no other. The Shop-a-holics better bring their A game.  Hil and Liza are in the house.

The Last Kiss

And the truth of the matter is, I had already met someone interesting.  Interesting and funny and smart and successful and attentive. And a champion caliber flirt. He'd become a friend through friends over the past few years but we'd not spent tons of time together. We just had common friends.

But when Scott flew the coop and carpet bombed our life together in doing so, we'd connected like I had connected with so many old friends at the time.  He had words of kindness. He said things to cheer me up. He made me laugh when I could not imagine that I'd find a single thing on this Earth worth laughing about.

And then we'd started to flirt. And flirt some more. And talk more regularly.  I'd put a post on Facebook in the morning and he'd text me a "good morning" note. We'd have coffee together if only virtually. And we started to get to know each other.

And when we finally made plans to go out, I was so thrilled. For more than the obvious reasons.

Of course I was excited to see him. And of course I was optimistic about the possibilities.

But it was more than that. 

There is a sense of satisfaction and achievement in getting to this point. I remember the same sense of personal satisfaction when Lars and I were getting divorced (not that there were many gratifying moments during that protracted misadventure) and I was invited to my very first social event alone.  The invitation was sent just to me. Me me me me me. It was finally going to be about me.

And at that event, which was Jackie's 40th birthday party, and for which I must have bought 14 new outfit options, I met Mac.  He was tall and handsome and funny as hell. He had a great career and a cool car and a bad ass attitude.  I liked him immediately and two days later he asked me for a date.

And in addition to being very excited about the man himself, I had another thing to smile about.

There is always something very gratifying when the man who did you wrong is no longer the last man you kissed.

Party Like a Rock Star

A few hours later, the kids and I are busy getting dressed and perfectly groomed for Kate's party.  They are looking forward to it as much as I am. Lots of kids. Lots of food. Lots of permissive parents who won't over-supervise because they are too busy enjoying the company of other parents.

And speaking of parents, the very purpose of the party is to give all of us a chance to see Kate's parents who she flies up to visit at the holidays when there are kids Christmas concerts and family birthdays and lots of reasons to celebrate together. They will be there and so with Kate's sisters, the other sister, Priscilla having flown in the night before.  I can hardly wait. The possibility to hilarity is endless.

Kate's parents are enormously important to me. It was important to me that they'd met J.  I could tell they were surprised at my choice...we were fairly far down the road to ruin by then to be honest, so I can't blame them...and I was so excited for them to meet Scott two years later. Milt and Maggie had been so cute. Maggie cornered Scott in the doorway of the kitchen near the bar. And Scott had been so good-natured about The Test. I'd told him Milt and Maggie were as important to me as my own parents so he knew there would be some type of Parental Assessment. And after a few minutes of conversation, Maggie had said something sweet and reassuring to him followed by "Liza's last boyfriend was such a dud!" A+ on the Boyfriend Report. It made his day. He was a fan of Milt and Maggie in an instant.

And tonight, I am going to the same party, happy but unescorted. Enormously happy. I am almost bouncing into Kate's house I am in such a good place in my heart. It doesn't even give me the vapors to rehash The Non-Break-up in great detail with Maggie.  She asks a lot of great questions only a happily married woman her age could think to ask. She roots for me.  She is as dismayed as any mother would be. And she wants to kill him. But only if I want to kill him, to be clear.

It's a full house. Jack and Charlotte are there being fabulous. Joy and her husband are there with bells on. The recently separated Priscilla has asked her new love interest to come and meet her family and some more friends. Jackie and her husband have made a rare appearance. The mood is festive and jubilant.

Jackie is shocked to learn that J. had died, that Scott had bolted, that I was truly single. Her husband, whose friend Mac I'd gone on several hideous dates with when I was first single and very vulnerable, is happy to pass along my number to that guy again - swearing he's a good guy and that I am in a much better place to deal with him now.  Mac would be no match for me. What the hell?  Give him my number. He won't call.  Not until Christmas is over - no need to deal with that uncomfortable do-I-buy-a-gift-or-not situation. And then why not wait until the horror of Valentines Day has passed as well. It gives me some time to think and meet other people.

And meet other people I will. Tonight, I am convinced of it.

Cookie Therapy

By the next morning, I have reassembled my emotional foundation and am reasonably certain I can let my children leave the room and my field of vision without having a panic attack, calling 911 or sending out a pack of hounds to find them.

Charlotte has invited us to her house to jump start our old tradition of The Cookie Exchange. We used to do it every year without fail, but somehow the drama in my life and my commitments have served to derail it for the past few years.  We used to include Kate and even my idiot sister-in-law (who made laughable inedible cookies but was not indelibly carved on the Black List quite yet) but this year it was just going to be me and Charlotte and my kiddos.

Or one of them.

Pat has decided he is too cool for cookie baking. (Though not too cool for cookie eating, we've found). He wants to hang out with his friends and play Xbox and skateboard to Wawa for a soda. Even in the bitter cold. Anything but hang with the girls doing some girly activity, no matter how much he'd enjoy it.

I suppose it is time. At least he hasn't decided I am a complete embarrassment yet. He still thinks I am the bomb when I swear at other drivers. My heart aches for him to be little enough to drag out to the car by his jacket sleeve. But those days are over. And he won't wear a jacket anymore either.

So Hil and I head to Charlotte's with sufficient refrigerated cookie dough to feed a premenstrual army.

Like the superhero Charlotte always is, she has matching aprons for all of us (including the absentee Pat) and holiday music on the iHome. And Jack is making breakfast while the coffee is brewing. And the house is festive and brimming with candles, and pine rope and poinsettias and pine cones. 

We mix. We roll. We shape. We decorate. We roll in sugar. We accent with candies. We are cookie making perfection. Dozens and dozens or fabulous cookies.

It is exactly the leg up my anemic Christmas spirit has needed. As I head for home to host 5 teenagers for lunch and Just Dance 4 for a few hours before Kate's party, I am in exactly the festive mood I had thought would evade me this year. And for the moment, I'd say, "Scott who?"

Home Is Wear I Hang My Heart

The day of the horrible shooting, however, I spent thanking all the angels and saints for my children, and trying to explain to them that I was not coming untethered from my sense of sanity, I had just been snapped back into the harsh realization that I needed to be forever present and enormously grateful for each second I had with my them. Even when they were acting like insolent little eye-rolling piss pots.

I looked at Hil's face as she walked in the door, bewildered that I had asked her to return home earlier than she'd liked, and noticed the blueness of her eyes (as she rolled them) and the delicate freckles across the bridge of her dainty little nose, and her tiny little shell-like ears. She was scowling, however adorably, that I'd posted on Facebook that I wished that she would come home and let me give her a shamelessly adoring smooch and squeeze. She came home, mostly to pressure me to remove the post.

Until she saw my face when I saw her. And picked up her bean pole frame, lifting her tiny little feet off the floor, the laces of her turquoise Chucks dangling on the carpet, and buried my face in her face and neck, breathing in her little girl Lip Smacker and hand sanitizer scent.

I planned a carpet picnic for dinner, against my normal rules. A fire in the fireplace. Take-out burgers, fries and milkshakes for dinner. The tablecloth spread on the living room floor so we could all sit beside each other. And watch Elf.

I was so happy to have my children close enough to touch. To have them giggling next to me and leaning over and into me with laughter. To have them steal fries from my plate and put their pickles on mine. To have them hold their milkshakes in my face begging me to tell them which one was the best flavor, the Oreo Cookie or the Strawberry Cream.

And as the kids nodded off, leaning on me, during the second movie, the plates piled up on the ottoman behind us and the cats each choosing one lap or another, I let my mind wander to the mothers to the north who were not putting their children to bed that night. Not smelling their dirty-dog-played-hard-all-day-little-boy smells, and not braiding anyone's hair into a Katniss braid before bed. Not promising pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse or banana muffins for breakfast. Mothers who were regretting having made a big deal out of missing the bus that morning or having scolded their child for forgetting about the permission slip until the last minute. Mothers who were curled up in their children's otherwise empty beds, aching for them, and crying themselves to sleep wondering how on Earth they'll put their feet on the floor the next morning. Or any morning after that.

And I wondered, as I walked my half asleep, drowsy children up the stairs to bed, how anyone with a heart beating in their chest could look into any one of those mother's faces and dare make an argument against stricter gun regulations.

Everybody Run! The Homecoming Queen Has A Gun!

There were reasonable arguments on both the Hatfields and the McCoys sides of fence. And there were statements posted by utter boobs.

There was one guy who posted this ridiculous post about the difference between a large clip and some other stupid feature of a gun that he needed to hunt wild sows.  It was so preposterous I thought it was a tongue-in-cheek joke.  Hyperbole intended to suggest agreement with Christopher's position.

And Christopher posted something arguing with it like it was serious, and for a moment I was a little mortified for him, being so caught up in the argument that he didn't realize someone was joking.

And then came the Wild Sow Hunter's argument in reply and I realized that the original comment was not a hyperbolic comic response but an actual argument. I nearly choked.

The stupid subtleties in gun features that the 2nd Amendment Rights Zealots argue would be an infringement to be stripped of the right to own and carry are so completely insane that I wonder if there is some kind of mind control brainwashing that goes on in the gun shops across America.

Christopher wonders online about what is so difficult about distinguishing between an assault rifle and one that is for sport. 

I suggest that it is a matter of interest. We quite handily distinguish between what is a passenger vehicle and what is a commercial vehicle. What you need a Drivers License to drive and what you need a commercial license to drive. No one gets into a big heated argument about needing to haul wild sows in their minivan.

I also suggest that there are cars defined for the road and cars deemed suitable only for the racetrack. Engine power. Certain simple design features. No one argues that they should be allowed to drive their drag strip car on that Autobahn.

But when we try to compromise on "the right to bear arms" the Right-to-Bear-Armists get all apoplectic when you suggest that the Uzi should not be toted around the mall in one's purse.

The argument made me completely incensed.

So I posted one final comment.

"Before I never look at this post for the rest of my life, I would just like to assert that my child's right to safely go to the school/the movies/the mall trumps your right to shoot at a wild sow or any other target without the inconvenience of having to reload."

And then I messaged Christopher privately.

"I think you should bring up a totally benign topic next. Like Joe Paterno or assisted suicide. Maybe abortion."

And he messaged me back.

"I like the way you think."

Someone has to.

Happiness is a Warm Gun?

And thus the age old argument about gun control gets its cork popped again.

The NRA and other 2nd Amendment enthusiasts were respectfully quiet for a brief time.

But those of us who would like to see more stringent gun control (and I say "us" because this is the side of the argument on which I firmly plant both feet and dig in my heels) took to social media.

Of course we all expressed our profound grief and sympathy for the parents and other loved ones of the victims of the most recent gun tragedy.

And then we got on our collective soap boxes. 

My friend Christopher posted something on FB that suggested stricter regulations were in order. The time had come. Let's start simple. It is hardly an infringement on someone's right to bear arms to amend that right to include guns used for sport and personal self defense, and not military assault rifles and machine guns and other big clip, rapid-fire weapons of mass destruction.

Expecting rousing support, he posted this to FB.

I was among the first to chime in with my support - in the form of disdain for the people who, after something like this, or the Colorado theater shooting, take place, say something like "If just one of those movie patrons had been armed, this would not have happened" and suggest that that lone armed innocent, at that moment, in that dark, smokey, chaotic theater, would have had the presence of mind and clarity to have pulled out his own weapon, identified and then picked off that madman with a single silver bullet.

I assert that that is simple-minded drivel, and that the hearts and minds of homicidal maniacs are completely different from those of your average citizen who is carrying a weapon simply hoping to be able to protect what he loves.  Odds are, in Colorado, there was at least one other armed patron in the joint. And they did what we'd all do. They threw themselves on top of their dates/children/spouses/friends and attempted to avoid getting shot as they ran for cover.

You would not believe the s*** storm it started.

TGIF Turns to WTF

I get home with my new present to myself and set about assembling it.

Let's be truthful. This is not my strength.  I can't even figure out how to open the box. Darn Europeans. Leave it to the good people at Dyson to have a fancy schmancy box folding technique that leaves me scratching my head. My head with its throbbing headache and its little voice saying "You will never be able to assemble this thing. It will be nothing more than a modern sculpture when you are done with it and have shredded the directions out of pure frustration."

I pry open the box, leaving it in unrecognizable pieces. So much for returning it. That option is right out the window.

Aside from all the little tags and plastic bags and protective pieces, it is really not a lot of pieces to assemble. The pictures are baffling, and I did a few things backwards and upside down at first, but eventually I am reasonably convinced that I have finished the job.

Time to plug it in. The moment of truth.

And it sucks!

That is to say, it does not suck at sucking. Just like the box had read. The box that is now in shreds. It noted that this model will never lose its suction power. Very sucky indeed.

And at that very moment, the first of my children comes in the door.

And I am overwhelmed with relief. 

You see, while I was eating a high fat breakfast and tooling around town with Joy, and nursing my hangover and bitching together two different vacuum cleaners with a trip to the department store in between, a tragedy was unfolding.

A few states away, in a serene little affluent town in Connecticut, a mad man hatched a plan.

He took a high powered assault rifle from his gun-enthusiast mother's collection, took tons of ammunition, dressed to menace, and went about executing an insane plan.

He shot and killed his mother.

He drove to the local elementary school.

He overpowered the principal and killed her. He had the run of the building and had a gun.

He went calmly into classrooms and methodically killed children  - all grade school ages - and any adults who dare stand in his way.

Twenty six people in all. All shot multiple times with a high powered assault rifle. 

All the world over as people heard the news, they imagined the scene. Imagined the horror. Looked into the faces of their own children and tried to imagine hearing such unimaginable news about them.

And I had begun the day hungover but grateful for the rate opportunity to greet my children at the door as they returned from school. Now I was simply grateful that they were returning to me at all.

I took Pat a little by surprise. My "don't kiss me at the bus stop" kid was a little taken aback at the zeal with which I greeted him. I smothered his cheeks with kisses and hugged him so long and so tightly that he thought something might be wrong.

Oh something was wrong, alright. But all was right in that moment in time when my son's sweet face was next to mine and I could drink in the sweet smell of his hair. Still here. Still mine.

Merry Christmas to Me

In spite of what is turning out to be a crushing hangover, I rally.

I am not a no-man-about-the-house victim!  Hell, no!  I own power tools!  I have a real chainsaw and the required safety goggles!  I operate a lawnmower and snow blower without supervision!  I have restarted the pilot light on my heater without blowing my address off the map!  I am woman!  Hear me roar!

And hear me digging in my purse for my keys and the 30% off coupon at Kohls and race back out to my car trying to remember which parking lot is closest to the vacuum department.

The vacuum department is daunting. Thank God it is small. I have only about 12 models to choose from.

The outrageously over-priced Dyson that promises to keep my house spotlessly clean without me having to even remove the darn thing from the broom closet.

The moderately priced Dyson that states that it is only 17 pounds suggesting that I might have to actually run this inferior model by myself, but may not sweat like work horse.

The two or three models that claim to be exact replicas or reasonable facsimiles of Dysons with more modest prices yet more garish colors. Not that anyone leaves their vacuum out as a conversation piece, but who wants a grape purple vacuum?

The Dirt Devil, the box for which depicts a woman in heels joyfully vacuuming up what appears to be dirt from her floor plant which was evidently upended by her heinous children which she should be off chasing and registering for boarding school.

The Cyclone.  To me, that just suggests more chaos and cleaning to do. No thank you.

The Kohls brand, which is trying to mimic all of them in some way and profoundly confuse you with its dirt-low price and promises.

I am looking at each one and trying to do the 30% off math in my head, which is equipped today with only a dehydrated, shriveled up specimen of a brain.

I try to do the math the reverse way. Seventy percent of outrageously over-priced is X.

I have very little chance of solving for X. 

My thoughts are further disturbed by a young couple who is also on a vacuum-buying misadventure.  She is reading the boxes aloud and he is commenting on pricing. She is suggesting one feature trumps another and he is saying the Kohls version claims to do it all like a Dyson at a fraction of the price.
I am wondering if she is thinking what I am thinking, and that is that the dude in the flannel will never put his hands on this particular appliance unless under duress and he should let the lady get whatever damn vacuum she wants to clean up after his sorry ass.

I get out my iPhone and click on the calculator feature.

I figure out my pre-Christmas on-top-of-everything-else threshold for pain. I lurch the mid-priced Dyson from the shelf and carry it on unsteady legs to the cashier.

Merry Christmas to me.

Good Morning, Starshine!

I emerge from my glorious shower feeling famished by decidedly more human. However temporarily. Hangovers can be tenacious, opportunistic little bastards.

The gals are all awake and gabbing. We are never at a loss for interesting must-tell news. It has always surprised me how it stays on the right side of gossip. It is good for my soul.

Kate and her sister Kelly are going to spend the day in the city and start with a vigorous walk 10 blocks to the world famous market in the center of town.

Ten blocks sounds like a trans-Atlantic trek to me.

Joy and I have a different idea. We'll have breakfast in the adorable little lobby restaurant, pronto, drown our troubles in steaming hot coffee, and then head for home to get a jump start on a few projects around the house - provided our hangovers cooperate - and then be at the door to greet our kids from school for once.

We sit and order over-stuffed omelets and buckets of coffee. We also ask to have our water glasses refilled a dozen times.  Toast, jam, and fried potatoes round out the medicinal meal. We are feeling worlds better, again, however temporarily, by the time our plates have been cleared.

Over one last cup of coffee we talk about Scott. We talk about our kids. We talk about the holidays. We review pictures we took during the buffoonery of the night before. We decide which are suitable for Facebook and which need to be cropped first. We talk about Kate's party this weekend. More importantly, we talk about what we will wear to Kate's party this weekend.

When it's time to go, we schlepp to my car and continue to catch up. I am forever intrigued at how much we have to talk about. I swear I could be stranded on an island for decades with any one of these women and we'd never tire of each other.

Once home, I set about unpacking and dosing myself yet again with Tylenol.  Ad after a huge glass of iced tea and a call to Charlotte, I begin to clean my house.

I do a cursory job of dusting. I sweep and mop the kitchen floor. I get out the vacuum.

And it sucks.

To be clear, it is not sucking, so it sucks.

I could scream.

I unplug the darn thing so as to not electrocute myself on top of the hangover. (Talk about a Double Whammy).  I begin to take it apart.  Tube by tube, screw by screw. The cats are engrossed in what I am doing. Probably because of all the swearing.

I put it all back together, tube by tube, screw by screw, curse word by curse word.

And it sucks more.

That is to say, it is worse. It is not sucking even as well as before. Sucking less if you will.

Maybe it is the hangover. Maybe it is the lack of sleep. Maybe it is the vacuum. Maybe it is the winning combination of all three. But I am suddenly overcome with sadness about not being able to count on Scott's handyman-ness. And I want to cry.

A Long Night's Journey into Day

The rest of the night is one I could have predicted...as all Girls' Nights with these girls take the same form.

We bar hop.

We collect new friends.

We bump into old friends.

We try new drinks. We order old favorites.

We laugh at each other. We listen to each other's news. We enjoy each other's outrageous company.

We believe for a few hours, and do a fairly decent job of convincing others, that we own the town. It is all in the attitude. And we got attitude.

Eventually, we make it back to the hotel, courtesy of Habib's fine tuned navigation skills. (Kate had to hop in the front seat and take charge at one point.)  I am more than ready for bed and can feel my skin begin to breathe once I peel off the outfit and step out of my heels.

All this while Kate and her sister visit the roof top bar that is finally open to the public.  I have lost my interest and frankly can get a $12 beer anywhere.

It is nice to put up my hair and wash and put on PJs in the hotel. There is something so relaxing about using someone else's facial soap and someone else's moisturizer and someone else's freshly laundered towels and knowing that someone else will launder the towel later, and wipe up the water on the vanity later and swish the little blob of toothpaste out of the sink later and that that someone will not be me.

Somewhere in the night Kate and her sister return and climb into the other plush bed. Joy and I share the first one, the one near the door. Whenever we travel, there are unspoken rules guidelines about who is in which room with whom, depending on who is with us, and who shares a bed with whom, again, depending on who is with us. Habits forms from years of travel, girls nights, girls weekends and crashing at each others homes. The habits born out of years of friendship.  We know Joy snores. We know Kate farts. We know Jill must be alone in the hotel room to use the bathroom.  We know I don't sleep. 

By morning I am jonesing for a Tylenol cocktail and a greasy breakfast. I wish Room Service would just read our minds and bring us some. But a shower will have to suffice.

I pad across the room, close the pocket door behind me and start the shower. The soap and shampoo are exquisite. I am in heaven. The hotel is straight from Paris.

Paris.

Paris - the town I visited with Lars when I was pregnant with Pat.

Paris - the city I adored enough to visit again, that time with J. who fell in love with it and me all at the same time.

Paris - the destination I wanted to introduce Scott to, to convince him that he's love it as I did, even if there is no place to surf.

Paris - This may be as close as I get to Paris ever again.

I have got to restart my life. It is one thing to have recovered from the heartache. It is quite another to envision a future.

And that is where I need to spend the weekend. The future and what it may bring. Buy the dress and the occasion will come.

I need to go shopping for date clothes.

And We're Off

We find the secret entrance to the place after convincing our cabby that he has really and truly reached the correct destination, even though it does not appear to be a social establishment of any sort. Thanks for your concern, Habib, but the meter is running.

A long elevator ride and a few secret turns later and we are in the penthouse bar. Very dimly lit, very hip vibe. We go to the bar.  We order drinks. Kate takes out some kind of list.

It is the recommended Pub Crawl published by her magazine. 

Oh.

My.

Gawd.

We are all looking over the list for familiar names. Places we've been to. Places we love. Places we'd sooner avoid.  Narrow the list. Make a plan.  We've got ground to cover.

The bar tender, returning with several drinks asks what we are examining so closely.

Kate shows him the list and mentions that it is from her magazine.  (She omits the part about her being in Advertising Sales and not a Food Critic...)  He looks over the names, makes a few suggestions, states his conviction that we are already seated at the bar of the best place on the whole darn list. But of course.

As everyone is discussing the list and mapping out a tentative plan, I look around the room.  The bar is elevated in the middle of the room. Boxing ring style. There are small tables in front of a plush banquet encircling the bar. Set up for people watching. Seeing and being seen. And there are small romantic dining tables beyond that to one side. But the most interesting part of the room is behind me.

A sunken section, several steps below the banquet.  Softly lit with tiny candles.  Huge floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the entire city, with all of its twinkling lights and varied skyline.  Deep, generously proportioned chairs and low-backed sofas that are close to the floor. 

It is the picture of romance. The perfect, dimly lit place for a clandestine meeting or a hushed conversation. Maybe a little public affection.  There is one couple nestled in one of the chairs together. Her ankle crosses his. Their faces are whisper-close. They clearly adore each other.

And I am acutely aware that I am out with my girlfriends and have no one to call and suggest a romantic evening to. I am so envious of the ga-ga couple I have pangs.

But am soon rescued, as I generally am by my gal pals. Someone has begun to set place settings in front of each of us, despite the fact that we have  not ordered food.

Seems the bar tender, seizing the connection Kate has with the magazine that can make or break a place like this, has asked the chef to prepare some small plates for us. And has asked that he come out and say hello.

Time to forget the pity party and join the living. Must. Be. Charming. No one likes a party pooper at Girls Night.

Top of the World

Joy and I put on and take off at least three outfits each. Everything. Pants, tops, bras, shoes, earrings.

We wander in and out of the enormous bathroom, applying this, brushing that, and generally giving a lift to everything from head to toe.

Kate calls. She is on her way to the airport. Start without us. There are two bars in the place. She suggests the rooftop bar.

Joy and I inspect each other's finished appearances, unplug our charging phones, make sure a lipstick and door key is in each of our purses and head to the roof.

We are stopped at the entrance to the secret elevator. There is a private party of some sort at the roof top bar. And no we are not allowed to crash. So what if we are fabulous. And have money to burn.

We tell the doorman he'll regret it and head to the other bar.  First floor. Cool industrial decor. Great beer and wine selection. Joy and I find a table perfectly situated for people watching. It is the tail end of happy hour. There should be plenty to watch.

Can I ask when sequins became standard office attire in business?  For every man who came in wearing a beautiful dark suit, or a business casual shirt and jacket and polished shoes, there was at least one if not two overly curling-ironed, glossy woman in something glittery. And usually too short.  I could certainly be accused of being a slave to fashion, and admit to keeping up on trends, but I would be loathe to step across the threshold of my office looking like I'd hot glued a bunch of Christmas ornaments to my outfit. But there was reflecto-gear everywhere. I felt like a librarian in comparison.

And here's the thing, ladies, if you can't walk in the shoes, they cease to be sexy the moment you teeter unsteadily across the floor in the direction of the bar. Lose and inch and re-gain your sashay.

Two drinks into our people watching stint, Kate texts that she has arrived.  We go back to the room to meet her and her sister, to do more catching up, more primping and to check on the status of our ability to gain admission to the much coveted roof top bar. It is a gorgeous balmy December night. We won't get many more chances until Spring.

Soon enough we are back on the elevator headed to the roof. The same doorman turns us away. The company has extended its time. We uniformly snarl at him and make snarky parting comments as we re-enter the elevator to head into the city.

Joy and I suggest the first floor bar, it has been good to us so far. But instead we hop in a cab. The out-of-town sister needs to be shown a good time, and the best place to start is the club house high atop the loft condominiums in one of the city's tallest buildings.  Great views. Great reputation. Sure to be brimming with eligible bachelors, I'm told.

We introduce ourselves to the cabby, and he introduces himself to us. We will call him later when we need him. Can he be at our beck and call? 

Habib agress and steps on the gas. The Pub Crawl has begun.

Checking In

Joy gets her complimentary glass of wine and sits back down on the ottoman.  Just like she always does, she gets the 411 on the New Guy in the room.  Where's he from, what's he doing here, how long is he staying, what's his situation.

Not that any of this is relevant in any way. When The Girls are out, we collect New Friends.  Joy is the Social Director. She keeps track of them all. 

Turns out he's in the market to buy a bar. Took a look at a few today.  Asked us if we knew anything about the bar scene.

An idiot says what?

He can't tell us the names of the bars; he signed a contract saying they are allowed to kill him if he says anything.  But he can tell us the area - the neighborhood - maybe the street. 

At the most minimal clue we are guessing them on the names of the bars on the first try. Many of them we've never been to - maybe even avoided - but know the reputations, the things they are known for, their longitude and latitude. 

Eventually he laughs and shakes his head. The kind of bewilderment where you take off your baseball hat and scratch your head.  "I'm going to go scalp a ticket to the game. Have a great time, ladies. When I finally buy a place, I'm sure we'll meet again."

He's off - and we go to check in.

Kate is delayed. Her son had some kind of respiratory thing and he's getting chest x-rays. She'll be late picking up her sister at the airport. Our directive is to check in and start primping.

We get the key. We get a wine opener from the bellman when we get our bags. We board the elevator to the 9th floor.

The hotel is adorable - very French and eclectic. There are amusing little over the top details everywhere. But most importantly it is extremely spacious (Kate got an upgrade, evidently simply for being Kate) and the bathroom is like a gymnasium.

Joy and I begin the ritualistic catching up while primping.

All the clothes come out of the bag. All of the details of the latest events in our lives are put on the table.

What have I heard from Scott? (Nada)
How is Joy's freshman in college fairing? (Fabulously)
How is the situation with the beyotch at work going? (Improving for both of us)
How are our parents (Loaded question)
What are you wearing?

And here is where the games really begin.

Girls Just Want to Have Fuu-uun

The Girls Night is an American classic. Girls never more enjoy the ritual of getting ready to go out more than when they are with their best friends and getting their Girl on together.

At just about 5 pm...okay maybe I shaved a few minutes from the business day, I dashed to my car, made sure my overnight bag had not been smashed-and-grabbed from my car in the parking garage, conveniently situated in the crime capitol of the nation, and zoomed over the bridge to the city.

A city I love. The city that holds so very many colorful memories. A city that is always changing yet that I know like the back of my hand and always feels like home.  I can feel the tightness across my shoulders loosen just a hair as I take the hairpin exit off of the bridge, take the secret loop into Olde City and make my way past landmarks and historical sites toward the hotel.

I circle the block once looking for decent parking and pull into a lot for the night. I feel as at peace walking through the city back to the hotel as Meg Ryan's character in You've Got Mail. 

The doorman opens the door and directs me to the bellman who takes my coat and bag, encouraging me to enjoy the Wine Hour as he hands me my ticket and tells me he'll keep an eye out for my friends.

I am served a much needed Chardonnay from an impeccably dressed hipster young man and just-stepped-out-of-Vogue young woman and look around at the eclectic decor in search of a seat.

There is one. It is next to a nice looking, long-legged young man who is reading the paper. It looks like there may be someone with him. The chair is empty but there is an empty coffee cup on the table between the two mismatched but perfectly coordinated occasional chairs.

He looks up. I smile. I almost say something cheesy like "Is this seat taken?" but rewrite the sentence in my head even as I begin to speak. "Is anyone sitting with you?"

He smiles. "No, please sit down," and smiles before returning to what appears to be the sports page. He is wearing a Syracuse hat.

He folds the paper. "Do you know anything about Philadelphia?"

Do I?

"Yes," I say. "Of course. I am actually from Philadelphia." 

He looks confused. Like maybe I am some desperate kook who comes to local hotels every night for their complimentary happy hour and free food.

"I am meeting some out of town guests and staying in town for the night. I actually live in the suburbs,"I say, making sure I gesture to the Western Suburbs, not the Jersey Suburbs, God forbid.

"Oh. What are the chances, you think, of me getting a ticket to tonight's NFL game?"

"Really good," I say. "We are losing, just about out of the playoffs, have a QB that everyone loathes and a coach whose head people want on a plate with a side of fries. Show up at the stadium. You'll get a ticket. Probably at face value."

"You ARE from here, aren't you?"

You can take the girl out of Philly...

At that precise moment, I hear Joy's voice.  I look in the direction from which it came, and miraculously, the bellman is in fact directing her toward me with a smile. Such intuition. 

She gets to where I am. The guy offers her the ottoman in front of him as she sits for a moment. I introduce them. Joy turns to me.

"Did you bring the wine?" she asks.

"Yes, but like an ass I forgot the opener." 

"Oh I probably have one in my purse, we'll be fine. If I don't Kate does."

And thus, a Girls Night Out begins.

The guy is loking at us like we are

Who's That Girl?

I make a point of having a productive, albeit hungover, Sunday.  More Christmas shopping. More organizing my house. Time I never had before all being put to good use.

I have even gotten brave and have allowed the cats to co-mingle.  Yes, the warring cats. The territorial bully Trinket, and the joyously intruding Gidget.

While the kids had been with me all week, I'd asked that they let them spend as much time together as possible. Letting them get to know each other. Establish boundaries. Mark territories (hopefully without the assistance of urine) and learn to stay out of each others ways.

I'd left them alone for a bit on Saturday while I'd left the house. I admit I was nervous. Called Charlotte. Felt as terrible as I had when I'd left the children with a babysitter for the first time. Irresponsible and guilty. I must be crazy.

But I have a reason to get the kitties acclimated to life with one another.

On Thursday, I will leave them home alone overnight for the first time.

Kate's sister is flying in from Wisconsin. Kate is picking her up at the airport, Joy is taking a taxi downtown, and I am flying over the bridge after work, taking the hairpin exit from the bridge and zooming into Olde City to meet at the hotel Kate has booked. We have a girls night planned and a hotel room to sleep in once our hair has been ignited and has eventually flamed out.

I can hardly wait. We did this for each of our 40th birthdays.  There are cocktails while primping. There are lots of people befriended during the night. There are comped meals and comped cocktails as soon as the restaurant or bar staff figure out Kate works for the magazine whose restaurant critics can make or break you in this town. Even if she has nothing to do with the reviews. She sells advertising. Still, she's a meal ticket every time she opens her mouth.

So I have cats to acquaint. I have outfits to plan. And backup outfits. And a bag to pack. Jewelry to select. Wine to buy, and smuggle into the hotel in my bag.

And I have to get my game on.

I have to stop seeing myself as the jilted, betrayed humiliated former partner of a man I'd have given anything to and done anything for.

I have to begin to see myself as the formidable woman with a great career, fabulous smile, razor sharp wit and kick ass body that my girlfriend see.

This is going to take a few days of conversation with myself.

So as I put a whammy on my cats and convince them that they can live with each other, I will cast a spell on myself as well, and convince myself that I am the kind of woman I want another man to see me as.

My Girl Wants To Party All the Time

We take a seat in the posh bar for one last cocktail that neither of us needs.  We continue to meander from topic to topic - J. and his nonsense, the kids caught in the crossfire, idiotic Sheila who neither of us had considered bothering to be friends with, Endorra and the tightly held secret that despite the pretty pink lipstick and careful boufant was a witch on a broom.  We are like old friends. It is good to have it all out on the table and snark openly outside of earshot of impressionable kids.

While she is out having a cigarette, I look at my phone. I have gotten a text from my friend's husband who is throwing her surprise party the following night. He's in a panic trying to keep her in the dark and has fallen behind. If I'd like to, I can come to the house early and help him decorate, and then follow him to the restaurant so I don't get lost.

I reply that that would be great. I love their big old haunted house and would love to spend some time with its mouldings and mantles and hardwoods.  And we have alread established that I am a terrible party pooper when I am lost. It will be nice to be spared the flop sweat.  Of course I'll come early, I reply to him.

And then he does it. "Will you be bringing anyone with you?"

Why is this such a painful question to answer?

I want to hammer out on my phone the whole sordid story about how it is that I will be attending the party desperate and dateless and not by my own choice and isn't Scott hateful, but just the same you are welcome to seat me at the kiddie table or the table with the other desperados so the natural order of coupledom doesn't suffer at tables of eight. 

But I don't. I just text, "Just me!" and keep it cheerful.  If he hasn't been filled in on the details, I am not going to burden him with them myself.

Soon enough, Sandy returns, we drink to the bottom of our glasses, look around the room to assess the state of dateworthiness among the men on hand and make a pledge to come back together with a purpose. We are giggling like school girls as we walk to my car and I drive her to hers.

We both text each other when we are home safe and unharmed.  It is nice to have even just a friend worry for you. It is one of the things I miss about Scott. Someone to worry about you.

After a restful night's sleep I am up early and on the move. Shopping. Wrapping. A jaunt in the State park to get my blood moving.  And then it is time for the party.

It is an odd thing suddenly having to attend parties by myself again.  Having to hope couples don't mind you glomming on to them and joining their conversations.  Hoping not to look as obviously desperate as the guy at the next table who called a meeting at work to tell everyone his wife just moved out while he was at work one day and just left him a note. Or the divorcee who is also strategically seated at his table who has three young children who obviously have become her obsessive compulsive focus since hubby flew the coop. She needs to find something else to talk about and maybe do a little something with that hair if she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life hoping that at least one of her children fails to launch and stays home with her forever. Maybe a relaxer. Rick James had better hair.

But all in all, I manage quite nicely. Meet new people. Find my groove. Sit with the hilarious Jack and his boyfriend Kelly who hack into my Facebook account and post "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard" while I am in the ladies room. And later try to post a pic they've taken of the large man at the next table who is showing off his ass crack to the other party guests every time he sits down. Thank goodness I caught them before that went out into cyberspace.

I return home, happily jamming to iTunes in my car and thinking that the weekend is a rousing success. And that I have things planned for quite a few days in the coming week.  I  do believe I have recovered quite nicely.

He Said, He Said, Hee Hee

And then, another round ordered, we get to the meat of things.

We obviously had formed opinions of each other over the years. We obviously formed those opinions based on the only available information we'd had at the time. We obviously have reason to suspect that the information might have been skewed by its sources.

We start in on the questions and answers. 

Me:  I can't believe he was such a card-carrying Dean Martin career drunk.  He told me you were the one hiding in the bedroom drinking Your life away.

Her:  No. Somebody had to stay sober. He was always drinking. All. Ways. He hid all of the bottles in the attic. 

Me: He told me that is where you stashed them when you locked him out of the bedroom. I am surprised I didn't see them when I went into through the secret door and found all of the cigarette butts when he said he wasn't smoking.

Her: He always smoked. We both did. I still do.  He just lied about it.

And to think I'd asked him right in the beginning about the smoking and he'd lied.  So that was what the mouthwash was for. Or maybe that was just vodka with food coloring. Doesn't matter. I found out about the smoking and the drinking eventually. Just not soon enough.

Her: Did he always think you were cheating on him? He always thought I was having an affair every time I took a business trip. 

Me: Yes!  One time he went through my wallet while I was in the shower and asked about all the business cards. Well not all. Only those with names of men on them. By the way, he told me you cheated on him and that he was devastated.  He used that as an excuse to behave the way he did...you know, all the paranoia. He actually thought I was going to get my teeth straightened simply so I could go out an find a better man. Like it would have been a matter of teeth to begin with! He'd have preferred that they stay crooked so I'd be less appealing, I guess.

Her:  What a joke. He cheated on me throughout our marriage.  It crushed me at first but then I thought, "What do I care? I am not in love with him.  Maybe it will keep him away from me."

Me:  He made you out to be a filthy rich miser who could barely part with a penny. He used to tell this one story about how you would fly into a rage because he forgot to use a coupon at the store. 

Her:  He forgot half the list, that was the problem!  He was drunk! He told me that you got along like two peas in a pod with his sister and mother. Everything was rosey. That I must have been the bitch in the equation.

Me: Did he also tell you that I regularly had words with Sheila and left her stammering, and that I called his mother a fat old hen?

We toasted. We were howling with laughter. How Sheila was such a loser. How Endorra was in denial.   How no one should have been surprised that J. was a drunken womanizer, his father was one, too.  We roared about the idiotic tattoo. She had probably funded it with a child support payment!'

Before we moved on the to next bar where the monied, Main Line Middle Aged set were sure to be enjoying a $12 glass of pinot, we decided that we really needed to do this a little more often. Maybe every 6 or 7 weeks. To stay connected, to help each other out. 

We walk to the bar. She has a cigarette and I go in to find us a seat. And to text a few friends that have been so kind that they can stop worrying about me. That I have indeed turned a corner. In fact, I am right as rain.

And the Other Thing

We spend a lot of time talking about Abby's staged escape and what had triggered that. (An alcohol fueled rage where he destroyed the condo where they were all living at the time. No wonder she'd gotten a police escort to get her things from her room.) We talked about how Moira would not leave her father. How she'd been so serious. She appears to have brightened up since then. At least from what I can tell on Facebook since we've all become friends.

And then Sandy tells me what she struggled with the entire time I was with J. She tells me that the girls have said we are so similar, that that may be why they loved me so much so soon.  And while she knew all the while that J. was in trouble, trouble he artfully concealed from me for so long, she was torn about what to do.

She knew J. would somehow, someway, ruin my life or come close to it. At a minimum there would be big trouble.

She knew he had me snowed about his drinking. He'd be pulling that same holier-than-though, tea totalling bullshit with me too, all the while maintaining a steady round the clock buzz at all times. Every morning OJ, every iced tea, every coke, every lemonade, dosed with vodka. I'd never smell it, I'd never know. His calm, reserved, quiet demeanor concealing the usual ups and downs of alcoholism because there were no ups and downs. Just buzz maintenance.

She struggled with what to do.  She wanted to spare me the heartache and trouble that surely were to follow. She wanted to spare my children the turmoil that trouble in one's mother's life always brings. She wanted to stop him from doing what he'd done to her. She'd barely made it out alive (Which explains some of the more selfish, seemingly heartless, wicked things she'd done over the years. In retrospect, I wonder why she was so tame.)

But she knew that so long as I was in J.'s life, I was in the lives of her children.  That I loved them in her absence. That I listened and guided and laughed with them. I cooked and I shopped and I doted. I filled in gaps, I helped them find hope and possibility.  And the ugly reality of what life would become for them if I were removed from the equation was almost too much to bear. A safety net pulled from all of them.

She'd talked to a therapist about her ethical dilemma. He'd ultimately told her that she could go out on a limb with me, but given the dynamics, I was unlikely to listen. And ultimately she'd left well enough alone, praying instead that Fate would find us all where we need to be.

And then Abby left.

And then I left.

And then J. moved in with his mother, and while he drank his life away on their sofa in secrecy, Endorra did what grandmothers the world over do when they must, she loved and cared for her granddaughter.

And Moira left.

Prayer, Fate - call it what you will. We all landed safely on the outskirts of J.'s life.  And with nothing left to live for, his life ended. 

A nice tidy ending for such a hideously ugly path.

J. Walking

And then, after ordering the second glass of wine, we turn our attention to the past. To J. and his antics. To the girls and how they've recovered. To comparing notes, to asking questions, to ferreting out the mysterious details that had evaded us.

Sandy tells me she needs to tell me two things. I brace myself. For a moment I think there is more to be worried about. Something else I had not known that will come roaring into my life to haunt me from his grave. Some new problem when I can least deal with one more plate in the air.

She wants to thank me.

Huh?

When I was having the most trouble with J. and he continued to make trouble in my life even though I'd left him in the dust and even as I became happily involved with Scott, I had heard from a judge who was his acquaintence, if not his friend. We'd all been out to dinner a time or two. The judge and his wife had been lovely.  A little older, a little wiser, and very, very amusing.

The judge had called me to ask if I'd been in touch with J. and mentioned that J. was in some kind of trouble. The kind of trouble that comes across a judge's desk in his chambers.  He was not looking for J. but more so giving me fair warning. He told me to not involve myself in J.'s problems. They were too big and I was too nice a woman to let someone like him take me down. He told me some of the problems, beginning with crazy, out of control drinking habits and ending with some other equally troubling developments in his life. He told me to protect myself, to keep my distance, to alert the police if I must. 

He sounded fatherly. He told me to go off and be happy, and not to marry a perfect stranger. Because to him, J.'s charades were so consuming and complete, he considered him a stranger to me.

At that time, I struggled ethically.  Abby had made her escape and gone to live with Sandy.  Moira was still in J.'s care even as they squatted at his mother's house. I had emailed her at the time.

I remember telling her that I was coming to her with no hidden agenda, no horse in the race, nothing to gain. That I had information about J. that I thought as Moira's mother she should know. That I hoped if the shoe were on the other foot, someone would step up, be brave, cross the DMZ and help me, mother to mother, as part of the priviledge of membership.

She had not committed to anything at the time. I had not expected her to share a plan with me. She had no reason to trust me. For all she knew, J. and I had had a tif, I got mad and contacted her, and as soon as the tif were over, I'd share her plan with him and foil the whole thing. 

But what she tells me tonight is this:  That she knew that she had only one shot at getting full custody of Moira. She had to paper the file and strike when the iron was hottest. And she had put my email in her lawyer's hands and waited...but not long. Within a matter of weeks, Moira had left with all her things while J. slept and the family was out.  No looking back. J. signed the papers without argument, in the face of overwhelming evidence against him as a custodial parent.

In Luck and In Love

By Friday, I am slightly more rested but not entirely sure I should be out of my plastic bubble and out mingline with the general public. But there is no way I am cancelling Sandy. That would be dirty pool.

I get home on time and "sh*t, shower and shave* as my Dad would have said.  My dark wash jeans are fitting more fabulous than ever (purchased during the relationship afterburn of the J. years) and my legs look 10 feet long.  I love the color of my clingy new sweater. My hair and jewelry are perfection. I may be headed out with Sandy, but nothing says I can't turn a few heads in the meantime.

I get in my car. I am hoping I will recognize her. J. had always convinced me that she was pure evil and to look at her directly would have meant I'd have surely turned to stone.  It seems so silly now. Why on Earth did I ever believe one dollop of drivel from him?

Against the odds, since it is the night they are lighting the Christmas tree in town, I find a prime parking space right near the place where we are to meet. I get a text from her as I am taking off my seatbelt. "I am here!"

I text back that I am too, just parking. 

I walk into the restaraunt. It is very crowded. There had not been a soul here on Sunday.  But I see Sandy at the bar, and she sees me, or probably my coat. In a sea of navy and gray overcoats, I look like Little Red Riding Hood.

We greet each other warmly. I realize I feel like I've known her my whole life.

And really, I have, sort of. At least for some pretty major crap.

And yet, it is like we are starting fresh. Fact checking.  Comparing notes. Piecing things together from scraps and clues we've filed away for years.  We are full of questions...but first things first.

Like I'd thought, Abby and Moira had seen my Facebook activity and had told her of my change in status. When she'd first reached out to me to plan something awash in cocktails, I'd agreed right away but would not commit to a date. I fessed up that I had recently found myself among the single set - and rather abruptly so, and was not sure I'd be great company.  She had said she is a great listener, but did not push. She alluded to a heartbreak of her own.  I left it at that, since I had no idea at the time when I'd feel human enough and strong enough to tread the path we'd be on tonight.

But it was time to tell her the tale. Someone completely outside the situation needed to learn all about it and digest it and spit out what honestly uninfluenced opinion she'd formed.

It was surprisingly painless. 

I could gush about Scott, I could rail against Scott, I could tell her without crying that my heart had been shattered by him. And I could tell her very honestly that I'd wallowed and played morose music, and reached out to friends and asked for the help that I needed. That I'd been so touched to find that I was important enough to care about. I mean, come on. It was a garden variety bad breakup. It's not like my parents were killed in a plane crash with a famous rock band or my house burned down and took my museum quality irreplaceable art collection with it. I got dumped. Yawn!

But she got it.

Mostly because she'd lived it on her end too. Had her own lengthy, lovely relationship that was full of promise. One that made her heart beat faster and made her want to get her eyebrows waxed and buy new lipstick and new bras.  One that put a spring in her step and motivation in her every undertaking.  One that soothed her to sleep and filled her with peace.  And he'd abruptly made his choice as well. And for her, it will never be the same. She has no hope of reconcilliation. But has never gotten him out of her heart or her head.

And suddenly, I am pitying her. A woman of such power, as I've come to know her. The world by the ass. Layed low in love never to recover. 

And I think for the first time in weeks that I am about the luckiest person I know.