Just Give Me A Reason

The weekend progresses and I decide two things.

I still don't want to learn the slightest thing about why Scott dumped me the way he did - or dumped me at all. Nothing useful there. Almost anything about it would likely make me blow an aorta in anger.

And though I am sure I am not without culpability in the breakup, I am sure I did nothing to deserve the uncommon cruelty that Scott heaped upon me. Nothing. Those reasons have everything to do with his character and not mine. I need to hang on to that. Because people who are capable of such things are clearly capable of doing them more than once. Why stick my head into the lion's mouth?

So I survive the weekend and head into yet another hideous work week. The bright spot is that Craig's drinking gloves have come in. He's been a little quiet, perhaps because of my misguided text from Friday, but I have a reason to send him a text.  I feel like a 7th grader slipping a note into my crush's locker.

But he texts first! He makes a joke about a dark beer in a small girly glass as I am walking to the track to burn off the stress of the day.  I tell him I could use one too, and that his drinking gloves are in my office. And after a few jokes back and forth, I suggest that one of us needs to get into our car with our drinking money and gloves and drive in the other person's direction.  We talk about free weekends, try to nail down some deets. This is the hard part. We want to see each other and can't. 

And though I love the attention, and having someone to think about, I wonder if it is enough. 

It is enough for me - at least for now.  I have no pressure to be anywhere every weekend and no long standing commitments and can see my girlfriends any time they ask me. I have not had that kind of freedom in years. I take long walks and go shopping and the freedom to be spontaneous. And still have the possibility of seeing him, when the situations present themselves. I have dates to plan for  - outfits and outings and something to look forward to.

I just wonder when he will decide it is not enough for him. When will he decide that he needs someone a little closer to home, to talk to across the dinner table or decide what to do with the garden with?  What if he thinks I am just swell but inconvenient? 

And then I notice something one night when I am scrolling through Facebook.  I was going way back on the insipid timeline to see which photos I'd posted to go along with the notes about Hil and Pat being born. As I scroll, I of course go back through to the beginning - including getting married (let's not even discuss it) getting divorced (losing 180 ugly pounds) and the start of my relationship with Scott (my goodness I'd had high hopes). And there, the very next day is a notation of friends that I connected with on Facebook that same weekend, and Craig was one of them.

And I think --- Scott entered my life and was quickly followed by Craig. And maybe that is all part of some larger Purpose. Maybe Craig had to enter the picture then.  We needed the two years that I was with Scott to develop the kind of friendship that allowed him to reach out and help me when Scott did what he did.  And even more ironically, the day after I went out with Craig, I got the first text from Scott saying he was regretful.  The timing is uncanny.

But more significant is this...if Craig and I had not gone out when we had, I might have been completely vulnerable when Scott came looking for me. That text might have been exactly the thing I was waiting to get. I would have caved, would have folded, would have given in. 

But Craig was there throwing up a road block and giving me something to look forward to.  Redirecting traffic in my life, simply by being there.  All things for a reason. I think I need to just ride this out and see what all the reasons are.

It Was Only Just A Dream

And somewhere between the Wedding Crashers and Hil's return from her babysitting gig, I put my little wine-filled head down on a sofa pillow, made a note to vacuum the cat hair off of it the next day, and fell asleep. A troubled sleep filled with weird dreams about driving through a toll booth naked and being at a party and my teeth falling out the moment I go to speak.  Thankfully it didn't last long. I was awakened by the dinging sound my phone makes when I get a text.

Please be Craig please be Craig please be Craig.

No. And it isn't Hil saying she's on her way home, and it's not Pat saying he needs an allergy pill from the cabinet in the kitchen, and it is not Scott telling me that at last his ordeal as a tag along has finally ended.

It is Mac.

Rude, cheapskate, utterly without charm, Mac.

"Hi."

Seriously?  It's 10:44 on a Friday night a week after all his warts came out and he thinks "Hi," is going to win me over?  Flowers and an Elvis impersonator singing telegram would be a gesture more on scale but even then, I am so not interested in anything he might have to say. 

And then he writes that he's sorry he vanished the week before. Makes an excuse about work being so grueling.

I am sorry. Lots and lots of people carry on very successful social lives and very stressful and consuming careers.  There is no excuse for crappy behavior.  Don't make commitments you have no intention of keeping and don't blame work.  Loser.

And he's apologizing for vanishing? The joke is totally on him.  I am the one who has vanished.  I will never take his call, respond to a text or give him one second of my attention ever again. Even to tell him to go to Hell. He's so not worth the effort it would take to formulate a truly insulting string of comments and a few unmistakable hand gestures to go with them.  Ignoring him is so much more fitting.

And now that I am wide awake, I am thinking again.

About Scott's vanishing act.  As much as I don't want to know the reasons and the motivations, his comment tonight has me thinking.

What is it about me that made him do it?  And what made him choose to do it the way he did?  What made him choose to simply turn his back and walk away from me and the commitments we'd made without so much as a sentence to tell me he was leaving?  What is it about me that invited that kind of cruelty from an otherwise very nice and good man?

Hil schleps in looking tired. I turn off the TV and give her a squeeze. She wants to sleep in my bed tonight. And after tonight, it's okay with me that she does.  

Alone Again, Naturally

But since vanishing is not an option (because I would have vanished ages ago if it were) I cheerfully text on and on with no end in sight trying to restore normalcy to something I'd dragged way outside the outer limits of normal.

But Craig must be a patient man. He lets me prattle on and on, and responds dutifully (though far less wordily...) to my inane texts.

As I said, I should have put the phone or the wine down way earlier. Putting them both down would have been a good idea.

And then somewhere in all of this, while Hil texts me from where she has her first babysitting gig, and Pat texts me from the attic about watching a movie, I get a text from Scott.

He's out with a friend and the friend's date. The friend is someone we went to high school with. His sister was my lab partner in Chem and used to laugh with me about our pervy teacher. The friend himself graduated with Charlotte and became famous for slamming a pie in the face of the soccer coach his senior year. Some friends and I rented their mother's shore house for Senior Week. Ours is a small world.

I tell Scott to say hello if it isn't too weird. He says the whole thing is weird, meaning the 5th wheel thing. Though I think he might have said third wheel. A lot of people do. Like you're an extra on a bicycle. I don't know. I knew what he meant.

And then he adds that he himself has not been out with anyone. Not since me.

I am a little shocked at that.  I was pretty sure that that ship had left the harbor and made repeat trips quite a lot by now.

I say so in a text, and he repeats that he's not been with anyone else.

I can't say the same, so I don't, but I am wondering why he is telling me that.

I tell him that I was sure that another person was at least partially behind his reasons for leaving me with no explanation.

And then I quickly regret having said anything about his reasons for leaving, because that is a topic I desperately need to keep nailed shut and booby trapped.

He answers right away and I need to halfway cover my eyes to read it.

"No, not at all. No one." 

I feel the need to repeat that I do not want to know the reasons why he did what he did. And I say "did what he did" because it amounts to a lot more than just ending our relationship. The fact that he vanished without a trace and chose to destroy me rather than tell me he had to leave is still a sucking chest wound on my psyche.

I would have thought that the most plausible reason was two-fold. His enthusiasm for our relationship was cooling, and along came the overly-friendly reasonably cute waitress at the pub in town.  She certainly had made her intentions clear. And she had the geography thing covered.

But Scott says there was no one. Not at all.

And I am not sure how I feel about that.

Back in November, when the freshness of my wounds and the painful tearing away were so wrenching, the thought that he could be with someone else made me physically ill. It literally turned my stomach to think such thoughts.

To get this message then would have been such a relief.

But now it is less so.

Not because I have dated someone else.

But because another woman was an easy and understandable reason - even a partial reason. Maybe a catalyst. But an explanation I could comprehend.

In the absence of another woman, I have to wonder about other things.

I have to consider that the reasons Scott left had only to do with me.

Just me. 

To Whom It May Concern

So all this time, while we've chatted about Mac and his Royal Assholery, and J.'s girls and their sweet, tender bruised lives, we've not chatted about Craig.

And has bobbed to the surface throughout the whole ordeal.

Not a consistent presence, but certainly enough to keep me on a tether.  And keep me interested.

A guy at work gives me a pair of green wool gloves that say "Drinking Gloves" and have a shamrock on them and have the fingers cut off. They are designed for tailgating or pub crawling.  I send a picture of them to Craig, who thinks they are cool. I offer to get him a pair and invite him to pub crawl on St. Pat's.  He's going to work on that.

And later in the week he finds that he can't, but he's been in touch enough that I know that he would if he could, he just can't. He is going to be in town on business earlier in that week and suggests we get together.  I have my kids and can't make it.  Our timing is terrible. It's the story of the divorced parents' life. Kids first. Your love life on ice.

And then then my worst fears come roaring to life.

Well not my worst fears, just one that gives me the vapors.

I send a text to Charlotte one night when I should have put down either the phone or the wine hours earlier. Tell her I need to catch her up on the dating fiascoes and mention that Craig is still in the picture and that I
"A.Dore.Him." Just like that. Emphasis on A-dore. Send.

Send to Craig instead of Charlotte.

Am immediately in a flop sweat and wishing there was a 30 second delay where you could recall bad texts provided you come to your senses in the 30 second window.

No such luck.

I immediately send a followup text to Craig.

"Well THAT wasn't meant for you!  Intended for my sister."

"Nice try," he says.

And what follows for the next 10 minutes is a back and forth about what exactly I meant by dating fiascoes (I explain Mac) and that I do indeed adore him, and that that is the honest truth.  I am trying to be cheerful in my texts. What I want to write is a suicide note.

Or vanish. Vanishing would be good.

What's the Scoop?

I found the mouse.

Well, it found me.

The cat behavior had returned to normal by the time I arrived at home after work. There had been not distressed and shrill calls from Hilary. No sign on the door from the kids saying they'd moved.  No flares sent up for help removing a carcass the size of one's thumb.

I assumed the little intruder had escaped what surely must have seemed like Jurassic Park and headed outside to the wild where he stood a fighting chance.

And then this morning, I try to be industrious.

I have to take the trash out, and decide it would be a most excellent idea to scoop the kitty litter "items" directly into the trash bag.  And to do so, I need to ascend and descend a few stairs, slotted scoop and doodads in hand a few times.  A balancing act for sure.

Let's not get ahead of ourselves; I did not take a spill carrying a fully loaded scoop of hooey. 

But I did bobble the scoop on my way back to the litter box, where it fell, against all odds, in the space between the stairs and the credenza that sits parallel to them.  Truly a stroke of luck. The space is barely wide enough for the scoop to fit into.  Lucky me.

I peer into the little space thinking I can wedge my arm in between the steps and the credenza and pick it up.

No.

My luck being what it is, my arm would fit, but I'd have to pick up the scoop by The Wrong End.

Eeewww. NFW.

So I have to go back up to the hallway, scrounge up a pair of flip flops (OK they weren't a pair by the strictest of definitions, but one of Pat's and one of Hil's. But this isn't exactly the red carpet, either) and trek into the creepy basement and go under the stairs to retrieve the scoop.

And thank God for the flip flops.

As soon as I turn the corner and duck under the steps into the darkness to reach under the credenza into the nest of dust bunnies to find the handle of the scoop, I step on Something.

Something soft. Something small. Something dead.

I know in an instant what it is. Or rather who it is. More accurately, who it was.

Completely wigging out, I grab the scoop, shake off the willies, and turn toward the carcass. Scoop in hand, I shovel the little lifeless thing into a nearby box lid.

And holding it out in front of myself like it might explode, I run back up the stairs, losing a flip flop on the way, and dump the little cadaver into the trash.

I turn to find that the cats are looking at me from the top of the stairs with the most curious expression. Like I've just thrown our their Little League trophy. 

Sorry girls.  Until one of us becomes a taxidermist, the dead things are not allowed to stay. 

I am sure both cats are plotting to catch another creature just to show me who's in charge. And I am sure this one will be found in my bedroom slipper.

Circle Game

So - back to J.'s girls.

Eventually, the conversation had to turn to the subject of his drinking.

Ironically, I had blown through a bottle of wine in record time in advance of the discussion. How nice. 

Evidently, the girls had figured out the excessive drinking. Long before I had.

I explained that while I had had very little doubt that J. drank a cocktail occasionally, I had had no idea of the madness until his friend the judge had mentioned it. 

I told the girls how he'd always seemed to judge me if I had gotten tipsy on wine on a Friday evening on the patio. He'd never seemed to overindulge.  I though his worst vice was the smoking. Something else he lied about. I always thought he was so conservative about alcohol. One is fine. Two is trouble. Three is unacceptable.

I had thought news of his drinking would have come as a surprise to them.  But oh no. 

They had noticed a strange habit that he had. He was always drinking something. A soda, or juice or iced tea.  But if they had asked for a sip, or reached for his glass to wet their whistles, he'd object. Vehemently object.  Like a five year old who doesn't want your cooties.

He had something to drink everywhere they went.  In the car. On a walk. At cheer leading competition.  They'd started speculating, and then one day, when they were all in the car, he stopped for gas. Since he'd never qualified for his own credit card when Sandy left him, he went inside to pay with cash.

And Moira did it.

She reached into the front seat, took the cup from the cup holder and took a swig.

And nearly choked.

Loaded with alcohol.  In the car. At the wheel. With them in the car.

They'd known.  They knew I hadn't known.  Knew they could not tell me. He'd know they said something and murder them for wrecking his relationship. How sad.

But sadder still was the secret life they'd been leading, as part of the charade J. was keeping up. 

I'd always been under the impression that they were so adoring of him. That there time together was so precious.  That family gatherings were so special. They were always laughing.

No.

Abby told me that all through high school, J. had made her cancel plans, rearrange her schedule, turn down invitations, so that she could be at the house on the nights I was there. Eat my cooking. Talk girl talk. Join me on shopping excursions. Entertain my kids. Go bowling. Like she had nothing better to do.  All under penalty of God only knows what.

And Moira told me of plans he'd make with me or my family that directly conflicted with obligations they had.  He'd make them cancel their family gatherings, parties, sporting events to attend mine.  And if that wasn't enough, he'd threaten them, that there would be Hell to pay if they didn't put smiles on their faces and act like there was no place else on the planet they'd choose to be on Christmas Eve, or Easter, or on my birthday, or on Charlotte's boys' game days.

And I'd never meant to suggest they needed to be at any of it. I had only wanted them to know that they were invited. Included. Welcome.  Never obligated. They were family, not POWs. I never had a clue that they had been dragged to anything kicking and screaming.

I tell them that I am amazed that they didn't come to resent me. Hate me. Hate what I represented. 

Somehow they hadn't. I don't know how.

And at this point, we all had a little cry. A cleansing, relieving, well overdue cry.  And a round of real, genuine, heartfelt hugs. 

I went to bed feeling terribly guilty that night. I should have known. Should have dug deeper. And when things got tough in J.'s life and I hung in there, I had felt that I was living up to a commitment. Had I known the truth, I would have done differently.  My staying only allowed J. to perpetuate the charade for that much longer. Perpetuated their torment.  Every time I helped him, stayed with him, found a solution, I'd put a road block on their escape route. Had things gone bad sooner, they'd have gone with Sandy sooner.

And he'd been so singularly devoted to locking up a life with me, he'd willingly sacrificed his children's happiness, their childhoods, their sense of worth.  What a monster. And by staying, I'd kept the wolf at their doors.

When they'd left I'd hugged and kissed each of them.  Reassured them that they always have a confidant in me, that I will always be rooting for them, near or far, and my door is always open.  We'd all come to the places we'd needed to get to, eventually, however circuitous the route.  We had all landed safely on our feet, even if our legs were a little wobbly at first. We'd come full circle.  At last.

M-O-U-S-E

I'll admit that I am distracted as I write this.

With the cold snap last night, accompanied by a frost warning that will surely send my pots of pansies into a tailspin, the flora and fauna are all running for cover.

And a tiny little mouse has taken shelter in my house.

Bad idea.

Trinket spent the night chasing and banging around the house. I told myself, as I pulled the pillow over my head, that she was merely intrigued by a sighting of the big orange cat. But secretly I knew she'd found a living breathing toy to play with. 

And now we'll get to see how the cats respond to this little turn in events together.

Will Trinket be a territorial little beyotch and take her eyes off the mouse to take a few swipes at Gidget  and chase her off of her hunting grounds? 

Will Trinket welcome Gidget in the hunt,  and will she make an excellent wing man?  Double  teaming the little pest and cornering it under the desk Dad made in wood shop in the space where I hide the printer? 

Will we finally confirm that Gidget truly has a vision problem and watch with pity as the pathetic little thing hunts by sense of smell?

I am already guessing that Gidget is not a mouser.  I came downstairs to make the kids' lunches and pour some coffee and the cats would have normally come running into the kitchen.  Under normal circumstances, they'd harass me for some tuna or turkey or some little treat to start the day.

Trinket stayed riveted to the Thing Under The Desk.  I could have walked into the room wearing sparklers in my hair and she'd have taken no notice.

But when I went to fill up Gidget's bowl with Kitten Chow, she came running. It may be her youth.  I remember my brother had this kid on his baseball team when we were growing up. He was young and sort of stupid.  His mother (who evidently had no interest in his games...) had told him to be home for dinner at 6:30.  And at 6:20, he left his post in left field, hopped the home run fence and headed for home, glove in hand, with one out and two men on base.  My Dad nearly croaked.

That's Gidge.  Time to eat, gotta go.

So it will be interesting to see what I arrive home to today. A dead and dismembered thing is a given.  The body count is my real concern. 

With two cats in the game, it's anyone's guess who will come out swinging at whom.

And I am sure Hil will make the obligatory "OH-MY-GOD-THERE'S-A-DEAD-THING-IN-THE-KITCHEN-I-CAN'T-GO-IN-THERE-AND-I-NEED-A-SNACK-CAN-YOU-COME-HOME-NOW-HURRY-I'M-STARVING-YOU-DON'T-UNDERSTAND-CAN-I-GO-TO-CASEY'S-HOUSE-THEY-DON'T-HAVE-MICE-EEEWWW-GROSS" phone call and I'll have to drop everything and go home, lest someone get the vapors and need hospitalization.

More later. On this saga as it unfolds, and of course, J. and his girls.

Six Feet Under

And then there was the funeral.

We know about the persona non grata antics they went through ensuring they had an eviction plan in place should I even think for a minute about coming to J.'s funeral.  Like that was ever going to happen. 

Going to a funeral is about paying respect. I had paid enough. And had no respect for any of them.  I had love and admiration for Moira and Abby.  But didn't necessarily need to walk into the lion's den to let them know it. 

I am sure Endorra and Sheila were secretly wishing I'd show up so they could make a scene.  Wail and carry on like bereaved loons and act as though his murderess had just walked in.  I would never have given them the satisfaction. 

But when it came time for them to say their final goodbyes to J. in his casket and cover his body with the blanket that shrouds a person in their casket, Abby had balked. Couldn't go through with it.

And here is where Endorra earned her Club Box Seats in Hell.  She forced Abby to come to the casket, placed her hand on the blanket, and moved it to make her cover J.'s body.  Abby was shaking.  Endorra had controlled her. It is a memory Abby will hold forever. And Endorra lost her in an instant for an eternity.

And since you can't literally divorce your family, Abby and Moira have just figuratively have done so. Participate minimally in "can't miss" functions. Show up for birthday dinners. Celebrate graduations. All with fake smiles plastered to their sweet faces and murderous thoughts in their heads.

And then Moira tells me a little tidbit that shocks me. 

Even now, when I have been gone from J.'s life for so long that I managed to have 5 months of solitude on either side of a two year relationship with Scott since the last time we had so much as a conversation, and I have been gone from their lives, Sheila's and Endorra's for even longer since I'd made myself scarce since the Wedding Episode, they still interrogate the girls about what, if any, contact they have with me.

It is strictly forbidden. The question asked through clenched teeth.  "You don't dare have any contact with that bitch, do you?" 

As if an affirmative answer might get them written out of The Will.  Whoopee. 

It amazes me that anyone could even be bothered to be that angry.  And at what?  I ruined J.'s life because I welshed on a deal to marry him?  Like that would have been such a fruitful thing to have done? The only positive thing it may have invited would have been that I would have certainly been pushed to the edge of my sanity long before J.'s heart flickered to a dead stop on its own and surely would have resorted to putting a pillow over his face in his sleep.  It would have just accelerated the whole ball of wax.

I know it is just deflecting. I know it is just that they can not stare reality in its face with their beady little eyes and see what the truth is. 

The truth is this: They know I figured it out all on my own and are pissed the little charade did not work. The fact that I trusted them all for so long had just lulled them into a false sense of hope that their little plan to marry off their biggest burden had worked. And then it blew up in the pinched little jowly faces. 

And now, they've not only lost J., they've lost any shred of the life he'd had as well.

And as brutal a reality as that is, it paled in comparison to what came next.

Speak of the Devil and She Will Appear

Abby and Moira evidently got to see their family at their very worst. It was bad enough to be losing their father. They were getting the long concealed inside scoop on the wicked family they sprang from.

Abby evidently had to be present and contribute to every medical decision made on J.'s behalf.  When the doc discussed his acute cardiovascular disease, Sheila and Endorra flew into tizzies. Hands thrown to the cheeks in disbelief. Pearls clutched in shock. 

Hello, what did they think the pacemaker was for?  It is a belt-with-suspenders device for the heart that is most likely to just suddenly stop beating. Because of cardiovascular disease, pinheads! Even Abby rolled her eyes.

And when it became apparent that J. was getting to be a very expensive, uninsured, hopeless case, they did the most despicable thing.

They wanted to throw in the heroic measures towel, but could not tell the doctor they wanted a Do Not Resuscitate order.  No, they wanted to be able to tell people they did everything they could. Prayed the rosary. Sat at his bedside day and night. Held on to hope and faith and let God's will be done.

But they were not about to wait around for that. They made Abby approach the doctor about the DNR. At the ripe old age of 20. Let her go to Hell for that.


Witches.  They just could not have that on their souls.  That's okay. The devil knows where to find them, even if they think this little gesture has gotten excused on a technicality.

The doc was smarter than them all, though.

When Abby nervously approached him about the DNR, he looked her straight in the eye and said, "Abby how old are you?"

She replied.

"Where is the rest of your family? Your father's sister and mother?  Why are they not here?"

She felt like she was in trouble. "The people I'm with asked me to tell you."

"Abby, I never want to speak to you again about something like this. I will talk with your family. This is their job to make this decision. No one can expect you to be comfortable with this. That is just insane."

Some people really are in it for the right reasons. When Abby needed an advocate, she found one in the unlikeliest of places. 

The crime is that those who should have been holding her hand and protecting her and preparing her for what was to come had only themselves on their minds. And the fun was just beginning.

Elephants at the Circus

We finish dinner and I break out the brownies.

And then I break out the Elephant in the Room.

J. was alive - not alive and well mind you- but alive, technically speaking, the last time I'd seen either of them.

And when he'd died, Moira had gone against the rules of J.'s family and reached out to me. Said I'd been important to them. I ought to know.

The poor dear thing.  How brave.  Turns out Abby and Moira had had quite a lot of practice being brave.

We work backwards...starting with how the family has been toward them.

Abby doesn't refer to them as family. She goes to the obligatory baby showers and bridal showers and holiday meals as prescribed.  She dutifully makes dinner table conversation and then finds a reason to leave early. Test in the morning!  Project to work on! Meeting my study group!

Moira was always a big fan of the cousin scene and overnights at Endorra's.  Once she flew the coop for full time life with Sandy, she's never looked back.

The summer had been horrible. It began with J.'s heart attack.  (I am sure Sheila was pissed that he'd gone and done that when the year was supposed to be devoted to Em and Chuck and every fascinating detail of her pregnancy.  I am sure every episode of bloating, gas, hemorrhoids, clumsiness, over-active bladder, edema, and every other gestational woe was discussed in great detail at every chance.) And the weeks that followed were as horrible as you'd expect.

But more so, I think, for Abby.  J.'s condition was immediately deemed too serious for the local hospital around the corner from Endorra's house. He was transferred to a tertiary care facility in the city.  The Big Bad City!

Sheila had been an atrocious bitch.  She, who had spent 98% of her waking life driving her kids to school, several different schools, even college, would not take responsibility for getting her mother to the city to see J.

She insisted that Abby, the college student, leave the city, meander out to the suburbs, pack Endorra's considerable ass into her car, drive her to the city, pay to park, allow her sufficient time to visit, and then schlepp her caboose back out to the burbs, and then drive all the way into the city again to study and carry on a normal college life.

What a douchebag.

And somehow, getting Moira there had to be highly orchestrated and strategically planned because Sandy was not allowed on the premises of the hospital under terroristic threat.

Even as J. stared death in the face with those bloodshot eyes of his, his mother and sister made the whole show about themselves.

But we were just beginning to dig in. We'd barely broken the surface of the depths they'd stoop to.

A Step Back in Time

So about the girls.

I decide to go to the store and get the ingredients for one of the dinners they loved me to make.  It is an old Pennsylvania Dutch recipe my grandmother and then my mother used to make.  So simple. So yummy.  Flank steak, potatoes, onions, and butter cut into bites and baked into a folded over pie crust.  Yummo.

I was actually a little nervous to see them.

And when they finally knocked on the door, it was pure joy.  Abby had matured into a beautiful, poised, gorgeous co-ed with the same electrifying smile she'd always had.  And I would have barely recognized Moira if she had not walked in the door with her sister. She'd grown tall and willowy like Hil had, and her short little bob had been replaced with ironed-straight locks that hung below her shoulders. Her braces were gone, her face had matured and her smile was dazzling. I was choking back tears at the sight of them.

Abby was old enough to drink now. And had brought me a bottle of wine. I'd promptly opened it. She and Moira had Dr. Pepper. I didn't dare offer the driver a drink, though this is all new territory for me.

I introduced them to the cats. We laughed at their antics. We caught up on school, cheer leading, their cat. It was a tiny bit awkward at first. We didn't know what we were to each other now.

But eventually we loosened up (or I did, thanks to the wine) and we discussed the things in their lives that mattered to them. Friendships that had turned sour, problems on the cheer squad, boys that had come and gone from their lives. They were so grown up.

And then we got into it. The sad parts. The craziness. The dark secrets. The things I'd never known.

It started simply and innocently enough.

Em and Chuck had become parents. The irresponsible, self-absorbed nitwits were now responsible for an infant.  God save the queen.

Moira showed me a picture of the baby. A daughter. She told me her name (I've forgotten it, but it was like a little old lady name like Mabel.) I asked when she'd been born.  She'd been born during the hurricane.

Oh my God the damn hurricane again. Seems like my life was not the only one to have changed in an instant that week.

But we were only scratching the surface then. A discussion of Chuck and Em lead quite naturally to one about Sheila.  And of course, Endorra. And J.'s death. And the life leading up to his death. And the life they'd led when I was in J.'s life. The life they'd led that was a secret from me.

And here is where I drained the bottle of wine.

Looking Back and Moving Forward

So while there's a lull in the action, let's back up a little.

At the beginning of this week long odyssey, I had invited Abby and Moira, J.'s daughters, to join Hil and me for dinner while Pat was at Boy Scout Camp. 

It had been on a whim.  I was in the shower one day and thought, "When I step out of this shower, I am going to call Hil and find out what her social calendar involves for the weekend and suggest, if she's free, that we invite the girls and their mother for dinner."  Yes, I think in complete sentences like that.

And I had done just that, and Hil had been thrilled at the idea.  There was no life or death commitments to any sleepovers, JustDance4 parties, trips to the mall, middle school dances, nail appointments, eyebrow waxings or anything of grave import like that.

I texted Sandy.  She said she'd check with her girls.  Moira has quite a social calendar as well, with her sports and the all consuming cheer schedule to contend with. And Abby is away at school. Even if it is a local school, God only knows what obligations she'd have.

When I heard from her, she'd texted and then I'd texted, and then she'd called so we could really catch up without any thumb injuries.  She would be joining us later on Saturday as she'd had another commitment, but it would give the girls and me time to catch up on our own before she'd arrive.

We were both drinking a martini...and had lots to talk about.

I gave her the 411 on my love life.  When we'd gone out in December, Craig and I were still trying to find time to go on our first date. I was still reeling from Scott's vanishing act, and still having a hard time talking about it all without quivering and holding back tears.

Since that time, Craig and I had had two dates and he'd periodically faded from view for days at a time. I'd begun to correspond with Scott.  I'd opened myself up to the possibility of Mac.

She on the other hand, had decided that she'd had her chance at love, that that ship had sailed (and left the harbor) and she'd be alone for the rest of her life.

And I wondered.

What if I was enjoying some beginners luck now but that came to an end?  What if Craig eventually faded away altogether or just never became something tangible?  And what if Mac turned out to be exactly the flake he'd been seven years earlier (and now we know that he had...) and no one else came calling?  What would I do?  For the moment, I had Scott's attention it seemed. But he'd only be around until someone else got his attention...he'd tire of me soon, like he had in the fall. It was inevitable. If I didn't give him something in return soon, he'd be gone forever. Men have an uncanny way of finding a way to survive. 

Would I too resign myself to a life of solitude?  Was I being a Pollyanna thinking I'd have my Happily Ever After?  Do I need to remind myself that I am crowding in on 50 and I am statistically disadvantaged?  Was Sandy being the smart one, giving up now and finding her happiness alone rather than desperately wanting something more for the next 40 years?  Was I kidding myself?

I had to believe not. I had to. The thought of a life by myself...the single guest at the Christmas dinner table, the one invited to the wedding with an invitation that reads "and Guest," the one who has to explain who I am at the graduations and bridal showers and the dinner parties because I don't seem to have a place in the normal order of things...it was more than I could bear.

No. Not me. I pushed the thought from my head with a sip of my martini.  I had to hide my heart from such thoughts. At least for now.

The Final Curtain

Kate and I take to the trails and catch up on all the usual stuff.  Our kids, our jobs, our parents, our sibs, girls' night out plans, girls' weekend plans, who's talked to whom about what, and when.

And then when all the usual topics have been adequately covered, I say, "I have a story for you, but let me start at the end. I am going to The Flower Show with Mac tonight."

She literally swats at me and asks what is wrong with me.

Laughing, I start at the beginning, with how I was feeling that Craig was not mine to have and to hold and the text to Jackie's husband, and all the incredulous bullshit between then and this morning.

We are nearly crying with laughter over the La-Z-Boy and the 5:15 dinner reservation.  At one point I had to stop walking for fear I'd pee my pants in the woods with miles to go and Kate would not want to walk within ten feet of me.  It might have been the part about the cookies.

"You know why he suggested that you pick him up, don't you?" she asks.

"Of course, I do," I say.

"It's not because you live closer to the city and he's trying to be environmentally conscious. He'd get you there, invite you in, pour you a drink and you'd never end up leaving the house."

"Exactly," I say.  "But I am way ahead of Mac." No effin' way I am crossing the threshold to his weird condo.  Three sticks of furniture, a nasty letter from a judge frames on the wall of his bathroom so he can see it when he pees, and a freezer full of Lean Cuisine.  I've been in homier rentals.

I go home and decide to make the house presentable. No one, even someone you don't care if you impress needs to see dust bunnies or dirty dishes everywhere.  In under 30 minutes the house is ready for the Home and Garden Channel to visit.

And while I am running the vacuum, I miss a call from Mac. So I call back. He cuts right to the chase.

"What do I have to do to convince you to just come up here and have some champagne and talk to me?"

I am not sure I've heard him correctly and ask him to repeat himself.

"I'm so exhausted from work. Let's get some champagne and snuggle up in my La-Z-Boy and talk tonight. Get to know each other."

I pull out my No Bullshit voice.

"Mac, I am not coming to your house. Period."

He begins to whine about work and that he's tired and on and on like a 6 year old.

I stop him.

"Mac, if you are really tired, I understand," I lie. "No pressure. We can go out any time.  No big deal.  I have plenty of things I can do tonight.  Take the pressure off. Forget it.

"OK, gosh you are such a sweetheart.  If you get bored, call me. I'll be here."

Oh, I know. In the La-Z-Boy.

He texts a few more times --- notes of appreciation for my kindness and understanding.

Kindness and understanding have nothing to do with it. What he doesn't know is that he'll never hear my voice again.

Mrs. Cleaver Did Not Text

As I drive to meet Kate, I can hear the familiar ding of my text message notification.

Please let it be Kate saying she's picked us up a couple of Egg McMuffins. Or Scott sending an entertaining dog video or a calming picture from the beach.  Or Craig saying he's dying to see me again even if he can't.

But no. It's Mac.  And the texts are completely annoying and unnecessary.

He's aggitated that his mother scheduled a hair appointment that interferes slightly with their lunch date.

He's hungry.

The fact that his niece is joining them for lunch.

His niece's full name, which is decidedly foreign sounding.

The fact that the niece is 1/2 Cuban.

The fact that the niece's mother is Cuban, as if I might not have connected the dots on that myself.

He repeats that he'll see me at 7:30, as if I could forget that, and that my address is in his GPS (for all eternity, how nice).

And then incredulously, he writes, "And Liza, it would be really great if when I arrive you had a plate of freshly baked cookies for me, still warm from the oven."

 I have arrived at the park and need to find Kate, but take the time to respond.  He's lucky he isn't greeted by a cast iron skillet over his head.

"Mac, I can promise you an expertly poured gin martini when you arrive but you have a better chance at an audience with the Pope than you do at getting me to bake for you."  (And considering there was no Pope at the moment...)

He writes back, "You are so cute."

He's infuriating.  I get out of my car and find Kate.  She's going to love every minute of this story.

A Text Worth A Thousand Words

Before I can even leave the house, he starts with the texts. A phone call woudl be much more productive, even if it ended up with me screaming obscenities at him in the end, which is hardly outside the realm of possibility.

"What time are you free?"

I answer.

"Do you want me to pick you up or do you want to come and collect me here?"

I literally stop in my tracks to make sure I've read that correctly.

Did he really just suggest that I might want to do the driving on our first date?  Unless he has his right foot in a cast or has suddenly lost his ability to see, there is simply no excuse for such a preposterous idea. Call the Police! There's a madman around!

I his small and inadequate, feeble defense, I could reationalize that when we dated before (using the term loosely and indiscriminantly now) I was still living with Lars. I HAD to go to meet Mac or see Mac or whatever reasonable alternative there was to Mac knocking on my door and introducing himself to Lars and the kids.

But still.

That was seven years ago. A lot has changed. Or so I'd hoped.

"I think it is time you come to me, Mac,"  I write.

"No problem. Give me your address."

I already had. A week ago.  But I did it again because evidently, anything that is not specifically beneficial to Mac beyond the moment is not worth remembering.

"Great. See you at 7:30. This will be fun."

Somehow I doubt it. All of it.

Stop and Smell the Roses

The next morning, after I've had sufficient coffee and scrapple to feel human again, and after the devastating after-effects fresh hand-crafted beer have worn off, I text Kate about the park.

She doesn't remember even sending the text but she's up for The Loop.

Evidently she'd been at The Flower Show the night before. It's a giant annual themed and overly hyped display of artfully displayed flowers and greens and props and pipe and drape and all manner of hoo-hah that the city goes extravagantly nuts over each year.  Honestly, I've never understood all the hype but lots of people plan their calendar around it. Baffling.

Kate's company was a sponsor and she had an obligation to go.  But being Kate, she had smuggled a decent bottle of red into the gig in her purse.

And evidently had polished it off.  This just weeks after having done something similar at the Lenten Fish Fry Supper at her church.  Kate has a way of making all things tolerable.

And somewhere along the way, she posted a photo on Facebook. No, not of her swilling contraband Merlot from her purse, but of a sign that appealed to her Dairy State native sensibilities.  "Keep Calm and Eat Cheese."

She hadn't remembered doing that either until all of us began commenting on it.  Her memory apparently jogged by the fact that she'd taken such a liking to the sign that she'd found room for it in her purse (the empty wine bottle having been discarded in a convenient ladies room) and had taken it home on the train to display in her kitchen.

So she could use the healing effects of a 5-mile walk in the fresh air as well, it would seem.

I get dressed for a morning of athleticism and hear that I have a text.  I assume it is Kate suggesting we stop for medicinal Egg McMuffins on the way as an elixir for what ails us (Or in my case, "ales" me.)

But no.

It's Mac.

"I've never been to The Flower Show, Liza. That could be fun."

Well, probably not as much fun as if I'd gone with Kate, but it is in the city, which is more my turf, and has a lot of potential.

"Sounds great, Mac."

Here we go.

Pub A Dub Dub

That night I drive home with absolutely no interest in chatting with Mac or even thinking about him.  I just have to endure the damn date.  Get it over with. Say I did.

I text my steady dates, Toni and Del and ask what they are doing. I have to stop at the bohemian brew pub that Craig and I went to on our first date to buy a growler of a fine IPA for Charlotte's husband Jack for his birthday. I'd be game to stay for a pint or two if they are up for it.

They are, and in fact, they get there first. I had to stop and feed the wicked cats. And I text Craig.  I want to put a pleasant memory in his head for the evening.  I tell him I am going to get a growler of the darkest highest alcohol content beer they have for Jack. And I may as well stop and get him some girly glasses to go with it. It is an inside joke about our first pub experience when I ordered a high alcohol content beer and it came in a little responsible glass and I thought it was because I was a woman.  It was hilarious. I know he'll be smiling.

He responds that I must ask for the beer that tastes most like cough syrup. I agree and tell him that I will be certain to ask if it will sit in one's belly like a box of nails all night.

Toni and Del and I have a few beers, have a few laughs and eventually head for home. But upon a trip to the loo I text Craig that I miss his company in the coolest beer pub in the world. He comments that he likes the place. And I suggest a return visit in a few weeks.  He agrees.

And I am thinking "Mac who?"

I go home eventually and watch a little TV.  Catch up on Facebook. Go to bed. 

I wake to find a text from Mac that had been sent moments after I'd slithered in between the sheets.

"Goodnight Liza. Sleep well."

Oy.

And I have a text from Kate.

"The 5-Mile Loop in the park tomorrow?

Now that's who I need to talk to. Laugh with. Grouse to.  Ten minutes expalining to Kate will put it all in a new hilarious perspective.

"Yes, what time?"  Send.

Texting All the Way to Hell

I desperately need to end this downwardly spiraling conversation. I tell Mac to worry about it another time (while I think of a plausible excuse to cancel).

I really do wonder if he has plans later in the evening with someone else. If so she can take over the whole page on the calendar.  I'll step aside, thank you.

Remarkably he texts back. 

"No, I'm reading the sports page. NO MAN goes to bed without having read the sports page."

No, no man still reads an actual newspaper, dodo. 

But what exactly is he trying to say?  Does he think I don't know any real men?  He'd be my first?  The male species is so foreign to me that he's going to have to educate me on their habits and rituals? I WAS married, for Chrissake. And that is only scratching the surface, pal. 

"You know, Mac, I have met a few men in my life..."

"You are so cute with your big attitude."

And now I am secretly hoping that he gets crushed to death in a bizarre La-Z-Boy reclining mechanism malfunction.  And that his pecker gets pinched off in the process.

The next day I consult some of my girlfriends at work. We are near tears of laughter at the 5:15 dinner reservation. It makes him seem like he's a hundred years old. Or cheap. Or both. But everyone is leery about the second date idea.

So I devise a plan. 

I text him that I can't go to dinner that early as I have a parental obligation that evening with one of the kids. Why don't we skip dinner and do something else? I can be free by 7 or 7:30 at the latest.

He picks up the phone and calls me.

It is not a problem - we'll find something to do.

Maybe a movie (Worst first date in the world. Nobody talks) or a nice walk (Are we talking athletic or a walk on the beach?I'll need to know) or maybe we'll just watch TV. (Oh I can assure you that that won't be happening, bucko.)

I tell him we should try to get out of the house. He gets the point, I think.

With that out of the way, I return my focus to work. And I get a text.

"Liza, would you accompany me on a drive to the beach on Sunday?"

Followed by:

"I am so sure that after Saturday you'll be so madly in love with me that you'll want to spend all of your free time with me.  I am thinking of buying a shore house and would like to drive down and look at a few."

Seriously?

I reply.

"Mac, provided you turn out to be charming in spite of yourself, I would be happy to drive to the shore with you. But that remains to be seen."

And again, he tells me my attitude is cute.

Why am I going on this date?

Where the Rubber Meets the Road

"OMG he just told me he has a La-Z-Boy.  I am cringing. You know it is made of pleather."  I am also sure it has boogers on it.

Rocky LOLs at that and asks where he's taking me to dinner.

I tell him I have no idea. I don't even care. I hate going out to dinner.

"You do?"

And I tell him why. He gets it. He gets me.  I love it when people get me.

Text from Mac.

"I made a 5:15 reservation at the Capitol Grille in the burbs."

No. He. Didn't.

I relay that message to Rocky and it is met with much hilarity.

I am not going out to dinner at 5:15!  I'm supposed to put on a dress and prance out on a date in the daylight? My neighbors will be mowing their lawns and I'll be in heels and a boop-de-booping outfit?  Maybe if I put a bag over my head! 

He texts again.

"That's all they had."

Seriously?  We're in the restaurant capitol of the free world. If your first choice of restaurants does not have what you want, pick another. I really do not want to be seated with all the old people and kids. 

He must have sensed that a 5:15 reservation had "LOSER" Sharpeed all over it. 

"I'll call tomorrow and see if I can get it changed to 6.  But I really don't like to eat at 8 or 9 o'clock."

Six?  Why bother? Choose another kind of date!  Or someplace with a 7pm reservation open that isn't on the premises of the Mall. What are we going to do for the rest of the night? Go to Pottery Barn?

Maybe he has a second date later?  Maybe he really is still a penny-pinching pinhead and wants the early menu with its cheaper prices? 

I relate all of this to Rocky.

He says "Mac should know that he'd be better off shoving the 100 bucks back into his wallet and taking you to a brew pub."

Exactly. That is what Craig had done and we'd laughed our heads off. And by contrast, Craig's texts are fun and flirty and interesting and I love getting them.  Mac's are annoying and pompous and too frequent.

And I am wondering again what happened with Craig.

And from the Ashes Rises the Phoenix

So just when I have convinced myself that I should make some other plans for the weekend, I get a text from Mac at about 9:30 that night.

He'd better start paying attention.  At this point he should be in full on flirtation mode if he expects Miss Congeniality to answer the door.

"Liza - sorry to be out of touch.  I going through a particularly grueling period at work and I am exhausted. I don't think travel is an option this weekend. NY or FL."

Score one for Liza. Called it way in advance. I must be psychic.

And incredulously, he continues.

"But I am very excited to see you, Liza, so how about we go out to dinner on Saturday night?"

There is a part of me that would rather douse myself in gasoline and strike a match but I push myself. Mr. Wonderful will not find me if I sit at home in my flannels watching Sandra Bullock movies.

I cheerfully reply. "No problem, Mac. Dinner sounds great."

And it sounds like far fewer hours of torture at this point.  Although I don't love the idea of going out to dinner. Too sedentary. Not enough socializing.  I can't focus on eating that long and I doubt that Mac is a charming enough date for me to be able to keep my food down.

I text Rocky.

"Saved by the bell. Mac had a heinous week.  Doesn't want to travel. Going to dinner instead."

"Good! Ethical dilemma solved!"

And another text from Mac. "I'll make a reservation tomorrow. Too tired to call now."

I get it. You're pooped. Who isn't?

"Put the phone down, Mac. Go to bed."  More importantly, stop texting me and vanish for a while.

But he replies. "No. I am watching the news in my La-Z-Boy."

OMG he did not just admit to having a La-Z-Boy!  He may as well have just said that he was watching the wrestling with his thumb up his ass for as appealing as that made him. 

Dread sets in. I do not reply. I text Rocky instead.

Shazam!

So let's back it up for a minute.  A few weeks back, while Craig was doing his thing and I was fighting off The Lonelies, I made plans to see my friend Kate. Kate is always a blast and she had an evening free after having gone to see a movie by herself. I am not sure how she gets the Get Out of Jail Free cards when she does, but her husband and kids were on their own and she was meeting me for a drink at a bar near Charlotte's house.

And to add to the party atmosphere, I text Joy and Jill and Charlotte and my friend Rocky, inviting all of them and their spouses out to join us. We may as well bring the party with us. 

Joy is booked. Jill is out of town. Charlotte and Jack are on their way back from somewhere and may join us. Rocky and his wife are game. 

Eventually Kate and I are joined by the two couples. Rocky and Jack hit it off. Charlotte and Rocky's wife are like twins separated at birth. Kate is the usual life of the party. Charlotte knows everyone in the bar and introduces them to all of us. We eat. We drink. We drink some more. We pledge to stay in touch a little bit better with one another and all leave with new Facebook friends.

And weeks later, Rocky and I are texting regularly, catching up on all the time we'd lost as friends during the Lars years.  We'd been such good friends. We'd drifted so far apart.  Missed so many milestones.  Now we were getting to know each other again.  Learning about each other's kids and parents and wondering why we didn't rely on each other as we once had when this health issue or that marital problem arose.  Committing to staying in touch now. I want to get to know his wife. He'd like to meet and approve my next choice of men, I'd failed so miserably in choosing without him.

And I am telling Rocky about the issues with my friend the intrusive stalker and about my ups and downs with Craig and the sometimes thrilling sometimes nerve wracking experience dating at this age can be.  It is nice to have his friendship again.

And one night some days later, I ask Craig that if it is wrong of me to go on an elaborate date with Mac when in an instant I'd blow him off for a cup of coffee with Craig.

And he gives me the type of advice only a man can give you. A man with no horse in the race, a man who only has your best interests at heart. A man who roots for you and wants you to date a great guys so double dating is a possibility. He understands my dilemma and does not judge. How cool.

And while I am texting with him, and with Craig occasionally, and Scott once in a while, I realize that it is Thursday and I have not heard a peep from Mac since Tuesday.

There have been no attempts to meet me for lunch like he'd suggested.

There have been no texts. No calls.

I have no idea what we are doing on the weekend.

We are supposed to be boarding a plane - so he's said - in fewer than 48 hours and he's dropped out of sight.

So glad I hadn't run out and bought an outfit for this gig.   Mac has disappeared.

The Terrifying Threes

Tang and Cigarettes turned three years old this weekend. Happy birthday to us.

I can't help thinking about all that has happened and all that has changed since I first took to the laptop late one night, fueled on a dose of the daytime formula of premenstrual symptom relieving pills instead of the nighttime formula, and of course a glass of chardonnay, both of which had me fired up and ready to rant.

It had been Charlotte, as you may remember, who had suggested it. Sent me the link.  I'd been sending her email rants for days and she'd been replying each time inquiring why I was not blogging.

And so I did.

My first topic was drawn straight from the emails I'd sent to Charlotte. A story that would take months to play out. The story of J.'s niece's wedding and the shit storm of drama that it stirred up and heaped upon me and on J. and on my kids. 

And as I got more comfortable with my role as online diarist, my voice became my own and I became less and less afraid to put it all out there. The ludicrous. The insane. The painful. The perplexing. The confounding. The infuriating. The hilarious. The humiliating. All of it.

And of course, as J.'s painful exit began, and ran through its fits and starts, and our relationships with each other's families became more complex and more tricky to navigate, and I faced issues with Estelle and with my kids, my kids' school and my ex-husband, and eventually found my way into a lovely life with Scott, I chronicled it all, even when the blissful, peacefulness of happiness was a little less interesting than the high drama. 

There was always something.

Either something big like a full on war with Estelle for her completely uncalled-for and uncommonly mean comments about me to Charlotte at Christmas.  And the subsequent letter that began with the words "You were such a disappointment at Christmas..." and then the burning of the damn shelves Bill had made.

Or something small like Lars' fiance Liza blowing out the candles on her birthday cake and torching her brittle hair when it poofed a little too close to the scorching heat of 50 candles.

Or the almost criminally sad and hurtful break up with Scott following one of the most brutal storms our area has ever seen,  or maybe my cat eating a needle and thread and needing $2300 dollars of medical treatment and turning me into a nerveen in a matter of minutes.

But through it all, you have stayed. Lived my life with me. Commented to me privately.  Rooted for me openly. Supported me meaningfully.

And now my life is on the brink of newer and potentially more interesting and terrifying and heartbreaking and hilarious things, and I am glad you are along for the ride.

And so, while I say happy birthday to Tang and Cigarettes, I say "Thank you" to you.  For your readership and your support. For your friendship and your prayers. And for finding my life interesting enough to keep following.

I owe you all a beer. Or a chardonnay. Or a signed copy of whatever portion of this blog I eventually find the nerve to publish under an assumed name before I go into the Witness Protection Program. But for now, you have my eternal gratitude. Thank you for reading.