When it rains, it truly pours. And sometimes it rains 3 inch nails. Three inch rusty nails intent on giving you tetanus.
I go in to the office the next day as usual. And that is where the normalcy stopped.
I get a phone call while en route to the office from the cramped, shaky, disconcerting elevator upon which I was the only person (using the term charitably, now) without a tear drop tattoo on my face. Immediately begin humming "One of These Things Is Not Like the Others" to calm my nerves in closed quarters with murderous ne'er-do-wells. Answer phone cheerfully but never taking my eyes off the others in the appliance-carton-on-a-string contraption.
It is Lars. That "sprain" Hil had suffered to her ankle (not sure I've mentioned it, it was such a blip on the radar of our exciting life) is actually a break and she needs to be home for a few days, can I fetch her?
Of course I can, provided I emerge from the elevator alive, but let me retrieve some work from the office first.
However, upon walking into the Outer Limits I call my department, am immediately waved over by my boss who is wildly gesticulating about something critical to the ongoing security of our nation, natch.
I patiently take a seat at his table as I have a thousand times before. But this was different.
Seems there are changes afoot, positions being eliminated, people bringing in their own people to feather their own nests, new sheriffs in town, reorganization abounding, yadda yadda yadda, blah-dee, blah-dee, blah.
However the big news is I will have a serious choice to make. Because in a few short months, the job I have will be eliminated.
There is a buzzing in my ears and I am not at all clear on the details of what Don has just prattled on endlessly about following lowering the boom. I do know I can have what could very generously be described as a "future" in the department, but this is one of those winning occasions where both ends of the lollipop are fairly fuzzy.
I look at Doug directly, and he at me. I can tell he's wondering if I am about to cry (fat chance) or leap across the table and hack open his cranium with the business end of paper cutter that currently resides on his table, for reasons that can not be adequately explained.
I do neither, so he speaks again. Tells me to take a few days and think on things. I tell him I have to go and tend to Hil's ankle. She's broken it. Built like me, something was eventually bound to snap. He laughs and assumes everything is okey-dokey. It is not okey dokey but he'll never hear that from me.
I return to my car, riding this alone this time on the rickety death trap elevator, and immediately start making phone calls.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
One Foot In Front Of The Other
The next morning, Julie arrives at my house early. I am still primping, so I make her some coffee and introduce her to the cats. She's bantering on and on and drinking decaf. I don't know where she gets the energy without full on doses of caffeine.
Eventually I have sufficiently primped and am appropriately turned out to honor the dead. We hop into my car and meander thought the neighborhood. Lyla's Mass is at the church I share with Toni and Del and their girls.
So many people already. Julie and I start to scan the pews for two seats together.
Our eyes evidently land on the same woman at the same time. Her hair is whipped up and affixed to the top of her head in what appears to be an 8 inch industrial spool of yarn.
"She's headed to the looms later," I remark.
"Oh here we go again," Julie laughs. And then points out another woman, rail-thin, dressed for the night club, pin-up girl hair and push-up bra with black outlined lips and gold hoop earrings the size of 45 rpm records from our turntable pasts. "No idea she was going to church today," she quips.
All this and we are still not even seated.
We find a spot and continue people watching - and eventually find people we know. We kiss and shake hands with a bunch of old friends we share with Toni. And then scurry back to our seats. The vocalist/organist has taken his place on the bench in the choir loft. Show time.
We all rise and everyone begins to process in. The 6 ladies I'd met at Niles' house a few nights before, Lyla's besties since grade school who Niles calls the Taliban, are the pall bearers. It is enough to break my heart. I ask Julie for a tissue. She's left hers in the car at my house. We are each handed a bunch by a kind woman in front of us who looks like Dame Judy Dench. I thank her profusely and she pats my hand.
Behind the Taliban are the grandchildren, being escorted by Toni's twin girls. The twin furthest from me sees me and begins to smile and then tears form and she is horrified that she is already beginning to cry. I blow her a kiss.
Niles is flanked by his children. He's finally come undone. This is the final day. Tomorrow a new life must be contemplated and begun.
And then there is Toni. She and Del have her mother by her arms. And Toni has begun to sob.
Mass has not even begun and we are all a wreck.
But as Mass often does, it strengthened me - many of us - and attempted to put a hopeful spin on the unimaginable. All the while I wondered about the eulogy. I can't imagine anyone having the composure to do it. And soon enough, it is Del at the pulpit. Once again being Toni's hero.
He begins with a poem one of the girls had written for Lyla and had intended to read but could not. And then, always the thespian, he proceeds to beautifully articulate the myriad thoughts and expressions that had been shared about Lyla in the days since her death. Endearing terms, funny stories, quirky habits and sayings, the fact that she'd married divorced and remarried Niles. We are laughing, dabbing our eyes, smiling.
At the cemetery I am pleased to learn that Lyla will be only a few yards from Dad. I visit his grave after the tearful end to the service there. At this point, there is full on hysteria at the grave site. The physical departure is so palpable. I ask Dad to keep watch over Lyla - and think with how much Dad adored Toni, he'd think Lyla was a pisser.
Del finally cracks at lunch. He ad libs a non-denominational, all-inclusive blessing and for the first time I hear his voice quiver. The poor thing has been a rock for weeks and as he rounds the final turn, he is starting to unravel. I go to the bar, I get us two drinks. I walk over to him and kneel beside his seat at the table, give him a hug and a kiss and a look that tells him it's okay to be a wreck in front of me. He knows what I'm saying and nods, his chin shaking. He recovers as if by shear will and tells me that he still has my shaker that I'd delivered the martinis in. Extends an invitation to join him and Toni for another round as soon as they can begin to think about life returning to normal.
And I know in my heart that that won't be soon. The rules have all been changed and the playbook scrambled for Toni and Del and all of us who knew Lyla. Everyone will be learning how to live a life without Lyla. We may as well learning to walk.
Eventually I have sufficiently primped and am appropriately turned out to honor the dead. We hop into my car and meander thought the neighborhood. Lyla's Mass is at the church I share with Toni and Del and their girls.
So many people already. Julie and I start to scan the pews for two seats together.
Our eyes evidently land on the same woman at the same time. Her hair is whipped up and affixed to the top of her head in what appears to be an 8 inch industrial spool of yarn.
"She's headed to the looms later," I remark.
"Oh here we go again," Julie laughs. And then points out another woman, rail-thin, dressed for the night club, pin-up girl hair and push-up bra with black outlined lips and gold hoop earrings the size of 45 rpm records from our turntable pasts. "No idea she was going to church today," she quips.
All this and we are still not even seated.
We find a spot and continue people watching - and eventually find people we know. We kiss and shake hands with a bunch of old friends we share with Toni. And then scurry back to our seats. The vocalist/organist has taken his place on the bench in the choir loft. Show time.
We all rise and everyone begins to process in. The 6 ladies I'd met at Niles' house a few nights before, Lyla's besties since grade school who Niles calls the Taliban, are the pall bearers. It is enough to break my heart. I ask Julie for a tissue. She's left hers in the car at my house. We are each handed a bunch by a kind woman in front of us who looks like Dame Judy Dench. I thank her profusely and she pats my hand.
Behind the Taliban are the grandchildren, being escorted by Toni's twin girls. The twin furthest from me sees me and begins to smile and then tears form and she is horrified that she is already beginning to cry. I blow her a kiss.
Niles is flanked by his children. He's finally come undone. This is the final day. Tomorrow a new life must be contemplated and begun.
And then there is Toni. She and Del have her mother by her arms. And Toni has begun to sob.
Mass has not even begun and we are all a wreck.
But as Mass often does, it strengthened me - many of us - and attempted to put a hopeful spin on the unimaginable. All the while I wondered about the eulogy. I can't imagine anyone having the composure to do it. And soon enough, it is Del at the pulpit. Once again being Toni's hero.
He begins with a poem one of the girls had written for Lyla and had intended to read but could not. And then, always the thespian, he proceeds to beautifully articulate the myriad thoughts and expressions that had been shared about Lyla in the days since her death. Endearing terms, funny stories, quirky habits and sayings, the fact that she'd married divorced and remarried Niles. We are laughing, dabbing our eyes, smiling.
At the cemetery I am pleased to learn that Lyla will be only a few yards from Dad. I visit his grave after the tearful end to the service there. At this point, there is full on hysteria at the grave site. The physical departure is so palpable. I ask Dad to keep watch over Lyla - and think with how much Dad adored Toni, he'd think Lyla was a pisser.
Del finally cracks at lunch. He ad libs a non-denominational, all-inclusive blessing and for the first time I hear his voice quiver. The poor thing has been a rock for weeks and as he rounds the final turn, he is starting to unravel. I go to the bar, I get us two drinks. I walk over to him and kneel beside his seat at the table, give him a hug and a kiss and a look that tells him it's okay to be a wreck in front of me. He knows what I'm saying and nods, his chin shaking. He recovers as if by shear will and tells me that he still has my shaker that I'd delivered the martinis in. Extends an invitation to join him and Toni for another round as soon as they can begin to think about life returning to normal.
And I know in my heart that that won't be soon. The rules have all been changed and the playbook scrambled for Toni and Del and all of us who knew Lyla. Everyone will be learning how to live a life without Lyla. We may as well learning to walk.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Tears of a Clown
I make plans to meet Julie for the viewing. We get there as it is starting. There is already no place to park in the funeral home lot and we are cruising the side streets and main drags for two spots reasonably near each other. As if it matters where we park.
The entire free world has poured into the funeral home to pay their respects. Julie and I recognize an occasional face, but there are hundreds and hundreds of moist, drawn, saddened faces that pass us as we make our way through the lines that snakes this way and that through every room in the home. I remember when we buried Toni's Dad. The viewing was here , too. And I remember there was wine. I am secretly wondering if a glass of something soothing will be politely placed into my hand by an austere gentlemen with a serious but kind face. And wondering if I can scam Julie's too since she doesn't drink. Her nerves will have to fend for themselves.
And Jukie and I begin to catch up on all the mayhem that has come to pass since we last saw each other, which may have actually been at Toni's Dad's viewing. I had been with J. then. I whole relationship has come and gone since then. Geez. I better become a better pen pal.
Jukie and I catch up on the usual top topics. What's going on at work (nothing good). How the kids are (a little of this and a little of that and a few adorable photos). Updates on the rest of the family inclusive of sibs and pets. (Where to begin?) And then turn to small talk. Memories mostly. Which turns to funny stories (Did I mention Julie is our crazy friend?) and eventually escalates into full on irreverence.
She reminds me of the time I got caught at a sales meeting having sketched a none-too-flattering pen and ink drawing, complete with shading effects, of our Service Manager's very unfortunately shaped legs protruding from an equally unflattering skirt, crossed at their thick, shapeless ankles under the board table.
I ask her to clarify for me if she actually did what she said she'd do when she found out her live-in boyfriend was cheating on her or if I'd just made that up. She says, no, she did indeed get out her sewing machine and sew over, hundreds of times, a random shirt sleeve, or pant pocket, or suit jacket sleeve lining, or pant leg (invisibly at the cuff of course) before chucking all of his precious things onto the lawn and changing the locks. The sewing was intended to be the reminder that just kept popping up for years to come.
At one point I am laughing so hard I need to sit down on one of the high backed velvet chairs intended for those who are overcome with grief, just to keep from peeing.
We are getting an occasional hairy eyeball from the overwhelmed in the crowd and when we get to the flowers and the casket, dim the lights on the comedy show.
The messages from the friends and family on the arrangements are lovely. Layla's casket is closed. Evidently she had once said she did not want to be remembered dead. Instead, next to the casket, as we approach Niles, is the beautiful black and white photo Lyla had sent to Toni the night before she'd died. Smiling beautifully, dancing at a wedding, a much better parting image.
We somehow make it through the line of bereaved - Niles, Toni's Mom, The children and grands, to Toni. She'd heard the ruckus we had been making. She said it made her smile for the first time in days. Lyla would have wanted to hear that there was laughter at her wake.
Julie and I go out to a local place for beer (me) and coffee (her) and resume or story telling. We are again the loudest people in the place. We have caught up completely, as old friends do, and are ready, we think, to face the funeral.
The entire free world has poured into the funeral home to pay their respects. Julie and I recognize an occasional face, but there are hundreds and hundreds of moist, drawn, saddened faces that pass us as we make our way through the lines that snakes this way and that through every room in the home. I remember when we buried Toni's Dad. The viewing was here , too. And I remember there was wine. I am secretly wondering if a glass of something soothing will be politely placed into my hand by an austere gentlemen with a serious but kind face. And wondering if I can scam Julie's too since she doesn't drink. Her nerves will have to fend for themselves.
And Jukie and I begin to catch up on all the mayhem that has come to pass since we last saw each other, which may have actually been at Toni's Dad's viewing. I had been with J. then. I whole relationship has come and gone since then. Geez. I better become a better pen pal.
Jukie and I catch up on the usual top topics. What's going on at work (nothing good). How the kids are (a little of this and a little of that and a few adorable photos). Updates on the rest of the family inclusive of sibs and pets. (Where to begin?) And then turn to small talk. Memories mostly. Which turns to funny stories (Did I mention Julie is our crazy friend?) and eventually escalates into full on irreverence.
She reminds me of the time I got caught at a sales meeting having sketched a none-too-flattering pen and ink drawing, complete with shading effects, of our Service Manager's very unfortunately shaped legs protruding from an equally unflattering skirt, crossed at their thick, shapeless ankles under the board table.
I ask her to clarify for me if she actually did what she said she'd do when she found out her live-in boyfriend was cheating on her or if I'd just made that up. She says, no, she did indeed get out her sewing machine and sew over, hundreds of times, a random shirt sleeve, or pant pocket, or suit jacket sleeve lining, or pant leg (invisibly at the cuff of course) before chucking all of his precious things onto the lawn and changing the locks. The sewing was intended to be the reminder that just kept popping up for years to come.
At one point I am laughing so hard I need to sit down on one of the high backed velvet chairs intended for those who are overcome with grief, just to keep from peeing.
We are getting an occasional hairy eyeball from the overwhelmed in the crowd and when we get to the flowers and the casket, dim the lights on the comedy show.
The messages from the friends and family on the arrangements are lovely. Layla's casket is closed. Evidently she had once said she did not want to be remembered dead. Instead, next to the casket, as we approach Niles, is the beautiful black and white photo Lyla had sent to Toni the night before she'd died. Smiling beautifully, dancing at a wedding, a much better parting image.
We somehow make it through the line of bereaved - Niles, Toni's Mom, The children and grands, to Toni. She'd heard the ruckus we had been making. She said it made her smile for the first time in days. Lyla would have wanted to hear that there was laughter at her wake.
Julie and I go out to a local place for beer (me) and coffee (her) and resume or story telling. We are again the loudest people in the place. We have caught up completely, as old friends do, and are ready, we think, to face the funeral.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
The Crying Game
I stay in touch with Del as promised. And we agree to an evening when I can come and spend some time with him and Toni. I will bring martinis and whatever. We just need to see each other.
On the day we agreed upon, I text Del to make sure that it is still okay. It is, he says, but they are all at Niles' and Lyla's. meet them there. All are welcome. It's a great big love in.
I have not been to Lyla's home since Toni's baby shower. The twins are in 7th grade. How has that happened? I put th e address in my navigation app, pour the martinis, pack up the hummus and flatbreads and port wine cheese and crackers, brush my teeth, fix my face, brush my hair, change my outfit, take a deep breath and drive.
I am a wreck.
I get to what will now be Niles' house and sit for a moment. The moment I've dreaded is here. Time to face my friend and her horrific loss.
I approach the front door. Niles' son opens it as I get there. I tell him who I am. He says he knows who I am, of course. He looks over at Del who warmly greets me with a kiss and a hug and takes my things from me. I warn him not to spill the martinis. He says he'll get Toni and some glasses.
And Toni emerges. Lipstick perfectly affixed to her beautiful, troubled face. She looks thin. She walks toward me and I toward her and we are immediately sobbing. All I can think to say is, "My dear, dear friend, I am so sorry."
It seems so inadequate. But her sobbing to me somehow makes it okay. She's letting go. Friends allow you that. Sometimes that is what it takes. The presence of an old friend who knows all of your secrets, your strengths, your insecurities, your private thoughts, and has a deep abiding love and knowledge of your very soul, to unleash what you hold inside.
We pour drinks. She and Del gamely introduce me to people I have known for years. Toni and Del have huge sprawling, loud, consuming, inviting families. I have met 100s of them since becoming Toni's compadre way back in our 20s. They all seem so grateful that I am there. When really it is I who am grateful. Grateful to be welcomed to the inner circle of family at such a personal time.
I listen to stories. I share a few of my own memories of Lyla. I look at pictures with Toni. I step outside with her because she has resumed smoking. The twins arrive from where they'd spent some time with other relatives. I comb their long tresses like their mother would if she could stop shaking. I give them each a long beautiful Katniss braid. They are practically purring.
And after many drinks, and many kindnesses shared, I say my good nights, make a round of kisses, and head out. I walk past Lyla's white SUV, probably up for auction within a week. I think about all of the decisions Niles must face. I think about the lonely tomorrow's Toni must brace herself for, without her own Super Hero sister.
I get in my car, pop the clutch and turn the engine. And begin to cry. And do not stop until I am at home with Trinket and Gidget curled up in bed with me.
On the day we agreed upon, I text Del to make sure that it is still okay. It is, he says, but they are all at Niles' and Lyla's. meet them there. All are welcome. It's a great big love in.
I have not been to Lyla's home since Toni's baby shower. The twins are in 7th grade. How has that happened? I put th e address in my navigation app, pour the martinis, pack up the hummus and flatbreads and port wine cheese and crackers, brush my teeth, fix my face, brush my hair, change my outfit, take a deep breath and drive.
I am a wreck.
I get to what will now be Niles' house and sit for a moment. The moment I've dreaded is here. Time to face my friend and her horrific loss.
I approach the front door. Niles' son opens it as I get there. I tell him who I am. He says he knows who I am, of course. He looks over at Del who warmly greets me with a kiss and a hug and takes my things from me. I warn him not to spill the martinis. He says he'll get Toni and some glasses.
And Toni emerges. Lipstick perfectly affixed to her beautiful, troubled face. She looks thin. She walks toward me and I toward her and we are immediately sobbing. All I can think to say is, "My dear, dear friend, I am so sorry."
It seems so inadequate. But her sobbing to me somehow makes it okay. She's letting go. Friends allow you that. Sometimes that is what it takes. The presence of an old friend who knows all of your secrets, your strengths, your insecurities, your private thoughts, and has a deep abiding love and knowledge of your very soul, to unleash what you hold inside.
We pour drinks. She and Del gamely introduce me to people I have known for years. Toni and Del have huge sprawling, loud, consuming, inviting families. I have met 100s of them since becoming Toni's compadre way back in our 20s. They all seem so grateful that I am there. When really it is I who am grateful. Grateful to be welcomed to the inner circle of family at such a personal time.
I listen to stories. I share a few of my own memories of Lyla. I look at pictures with Toni. I step outside with her because she has resumed smoking. The twins arrive from where they'd spent some time with other relatives. I comb their long tresses like their mother would if she could stop shaking. I give them each a long beautiful Katniss braid. They are practically purring.
And after many drinks, and many kindnesses shared, I say my good nights, make a round of kisses, and head out. I walk past Lyla's white SUV, probably up for auction within a week. I think about all of the decisions Niles must face. I think about the lonely tomorrow's Toni must brace herself for, without her own Super Hero sister.
I get in my car, pop the clutch and turn the engine. And begin to cry. And do not stop until I am at home with Trinket and Gidget curled up in bed with me.
Monday, May 27, 2013
A Whole New Ballgame
My first call is to Julie, the friend Toni and I grew up in our careers with before we all flew off in different directions and found the industries that would make us experts at something. Julie is our Crazy Friend. Everyone has one in some form. Some make you think about taking bail money when you go out. Some make you think about throwing a net over their heads. Some make you wish you could occasionally make your house invisible. Some are a combination of all three. The jury is still out on Julie.
I tell her what I know, which isn't much. She is as horrified as I was and in a panic about what to do. Nothing seems right. Nothing seems enough. There really isn't a play book for this. I tell her that I will stay in touch with Del and fill her in on details as they trickle in.
And they do. Painfully slowly and fraught with complications. Planes only fly off the island two days a week. Lyla was an American in a foreign country. The family flew to one place; she went to another. There is something cosmically appropriate that her body went to South Beach. One last party before going home.
Julie and I decide to connect to attend the viewing. And the funeral. It's is one of those instances where I need to be there for all of it.
But in the meantime, I plan to visit Toni and Del and bring them some nosh and a shaker of martinis. Del is keeping all the plates in the air and losing his marbles in the process. Toni won't answer the phone for fear of having to rewind and repeat the past few days events. I need to see her and she needs to see me. The madness of it all is something she and I need to look into each others eyes and understand together. Toni without Lyla is an unimaginable horror.
And I am compelled against my will to thInk of me and Charlotte in the same circumstances. it makes me wince. we mean so much to each other. family you count among your friends. she has made a career out of throwing herself in front of moving trains for me. I have been the What-the-Hell-What's-the-Worst-That-Can-Happen free-spirit for her (hence all the moving trains...) What in the world would we do without each other to roll our eyes to, secretly text about our idiot brother with, scratch our heads together over Estelle's many antics, share private WTF looks over perfectly set holiday dinner tables? to say nothing of the relationships with one another's precious children. We are second mothers to each of them. Fun permissive versions of each other! Who would I talk to all damn day???
And I think of Kate and her sisters. How they can't be separated from each other in other people's minds, or in our own hearts. I remember when Kate lost her brother suddenly. And Joy lost her brother just as tragically a few years later. Unimaginable losses, made worse by the suddenness, their youth, our not having prepared for or even considered the possibility, even on the remotest of terms. How does anyone go on putting their feet on the floor each day and willing themselves to live another second?
Perhaps it is our time. Our age. Our friends and people we love will start some of these journeys soon. Sick parents. Our own bodies revolting against us. Ailments that don't subside. Maintenance prescriptions. Specialists and special dietary restrictions. Bad feet, bad circulation, high cholesterol, low bone density, hormone replacement, low sex drive, gray hair, sore backs, reading glasses. But losing any one of these people is just not fathomable.
Or so it is. With Lyla's passing we face the harsh reality that we will someday, maybe sooner than we'd thought, be forever separated from one another. The loss feels like a lost limb; the hollowness aching and concave.
The game has been changed.
Friday, May 24, 2013
Funeral for a Friend
Indeed something terrible has happened. Terrible and unexpected. Terrible, and unexpected, and unimaginable.
Toni's dear sister, Lyla has had a terrible thing happen. A stroke. A big one. And while traveling no less. Spending a few days with their brother and his family, on a blissfully, peaceful island where Lyla and her husband have a secluded little villa to escape to once in a while.
But let's face it, not the place to be if you need serious, urgent medical care.
Though her husband was not with her, she was among family who love her, and they were, at this moment, waiting to see what would happen, praying for a miracle, bracing themselves for the inevitable. The outcome, short of a truly miraculous, defying all medical odds reversal of events, would surely be grave. Lyla, to all reasonable people, was dead. The actual loss of life was just a detail. She would never wake again.
And I am immediately crying. And so is Del. And I feel terrible for making him crack like that. But this is the power of friendship. You know each other's hearts and have no need to shield them from each other. The exposure is innate and natural.
I focus on practical things. How can I help? Where is Lyla now? Where is Toni and who is holding her hand? What does she need? What about their mother? My God she just buried her husband! This is crazy! The poor woman! (It is obviously not innate and natural for me to focus on the practical for very long.)
Del and his broad, loud overwhelming family, and all of Lyla's friends have asked the same things and feel equally as helpless to find that Lyla is still out of the country, her husband has flown to be with her as she leaves this world, and Toni's brother and his family are handling all the logistics of this unthinkable nightmare.
And for now, I can do almost nothing. Call a few friends of Toni's for Del to spare him the agony. Sit and wait for details to unfold. We end the phone call with words of kindness, kisses for everyone, and a promise of constant prayers.
And in between the phone calls to friends and the dribbling in of information, I have endless stretches of time. Time to be alone in my own head. And the thoughts of what Toni must be feeling scare me to death.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
The Call of Duty
In the meantime, something terrible has happened.
At some point, amid all the running around in all manner of weather and seeing all manner of sights, I miss a call from Del, Toni's husband.
Let's be honest. It is never a good thing when your dear friend's family member calls you instead of the friend herself. It is not likely that he's calling with good news. The husband doesn't call to tell you about a new baby, or a promotion, or invite you out to celebrate her boob job over cocktails.
And, he called from her phone. Something about that completely unsettles me.
I retreat to a little corner of privacy to call Del back. But first I need to listen to his message. On the hope that he, against all odds, was calling to invite me to a surprise party. How old will she be this year? Nevermind. it's a longshot.
The message is short. But Del's voice gives him away. Measured. Serious. Dare I say "grave?" Clearly he's not calling to see if I can make it to a last minute karaoke party.
I call him back on one of the two numbers he's left.
Two numbers. It's important. Oh, crap.
I leave a message on the first. I mirror Del's seriousness. Then I call the second number. He answers right away and I am bracing for the worst. I am sure it is bad news. I am sure it is about Toni's dear mother. I am immediately remembering her at Toni's Dad's funeral. And at Toni's wedding. And how sweet she was to me each time I bumped into her when I was getting married. Such a Mom. Toni and Del and I were just talking about her on a recent happy hour excursion. Quite a character. I hope she's okay, but a call like this isn't usually simply to update anyone on anyone else's bunion surgery or new dentures.
I stiffen my back as Del and I plow through the normal courtesies.
And then he says, he has some awful news.
And I have that sinking feeling that unfortunately I was right.
And he begins his practiced, artistic, thespian delivery of the news he's clearly delivered a few times now. And as I listen for the words I am sure he's about to say, he doesn't say them.
I'd been wrong. I am stammering to ask him to repeat them. Rewind. Please, start over, and slow it down when you get to that last part.
Oh. My. Just when you have prepared for the worst, Life throws you a curve, and the unimaginable happens.
I am standing with the phone pressed to my head, struggling to make sense of the devastating news Del has been assigned to carrier-pigeon all through the entries of their joint address book.
And for the first time in ages, I am unable to breathe or speak or even think. All I hear is the roaring of blood through the vessels in my head and I am sure I am about to faint.
At some point, amid all the running around in all manner of weather and seeing all manner of sights, I miss a call from Del, Toni's husband.
Let's be honest. It is never a good thing when your dear friend's family member calls you instead of the friend herself. It is not likely that he's calling with good news. The husband doesn't call to tell you about a new baby, or a promotion, or invite you out to celebrate her boob job over cocktails.
And, he called from her phone. Something about that completely unsettles me.
I retreat to a little corner of privacy to call Del back. But first I need to listen to his message. On the hope that he, against all odds, was calling to invite me to a surprise party. How old will she be this year? Nevermind. it's a longshot.
The message is short. But Del's voice gives him away. Measured. Serious. Dare I say "grave?" Clearly he's not calling to see if I can make it to a last minute karaoke party.
I call him back on one of the two numbers he's left.
Two numbers. It's important. Oh, crap.
I leave a message on the first. I mirror Del's seriousness. Then I call the second number. He answers right away and I am bracing for the worst. I am sure it is bad news. I am sure it is about Toni's dear mother. I am immediately remembering her at Toni's Dad's funeral. And at Toni's wedding. And how sweet she was to me each time I bumped into her when I was getting married. Such a Mom. Toni and Del and I were just talking about her on a recent happy hour excursion. Quite a character. I hope she's okay, but a call like this isn't usually simply to update anyone on anyone else's bunion surgery or new dentures.
I stiffen my back as Del and I plow through the normal courtesies.
And then he says, he has some awful news.
And I have that sinking feeling that unfortunately I was right.
And he begins his practiced, artistic, thespian delivery of the news he's clearly delivered a few times now. And as I listen for the words I am sure he's about to say, he doesn't say them.
I'd been wrong. I am stammering to ask him to repeat them. Rewind. Please, start over, and slow it down when you get to that last part.
Oh. My. Just when you have prepared for the worst, Life throws you a curve, and the unimaginable happens.
I am standing with the phone pressed to my head, struggling to make sense of the devastating news Del has been assigned to carrier-pigeon all through the entries of their joint address book.
And for the first time in ages, I am unable to breathe or speak or even think. All I hear is the roaring of blood through the vessels in my head and I am sure I am about to faint.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Shopping and Dropping
And then later, after the souvenirs have all been purchased and the snow has stopped and the kids and I are planning where to eat dinner, Scott texts again.
"Did Pat find a gun? Lol?"
How did he know? I guess he just knows. That's what two years gets you. Someone else finds your kids as predictable as you do.
He asks about the antique shop we'd been to together. Off the beaten path. Loaded floor to ceiling with cool historical stuff. War knives, guns, pins, bullets, artifacts. Regrettably, I have to tell him, it is closed. Seems like things have changed for everybody since our last visit. Not just me and Scott.
But, changing to a brighter topic, I tell him we were successful in another store. Pat got the coveted gun that met all of his criteria and mine. I shelled out way too much money for it, but Pat agreed to pay half. Pat agreed that if the gun ever left the house for any reason it would become garbage the following day. The shopkeeper reinforced my message with a strong message of his own about safety and realistic looking guns and the split second an officer has to determine if your gin will be used to kill him before he kills you. Nice guy. Seemed like a good parent. Pat seemed to take him seriously. Since his own mother has clearly lost her marbles.
Pat wants to send Scott a picture of his prized possession and we send it. Hil holds up her dress so we can send a shot of that too. It reminds me of when I was a kid and we'd return from shopping and dash into the house to show my Dad all our cool stuff. (The stuff that didn't stay hidden in the trunk until my mother could sneak it in by dark of night.)
Scott is as excited as my Dad always pretended to be. He asks if I got the dress too and I tell him it looked ridiculous on me. He comments that he thinks it would be "hot" and I change the subject. Tell him about my jewelry purchases. Safe topic. Doesn't involve calling up any obvious images of thighs or cleavage.
Scott tells me that he would have been happy with a beer and a game of pool with a pretty girl.
I don't exactly know what to say. So I send a smiley face icon.
And immediately think it was the wrong thing to have done.
"Did Pat find a gun? Lol?"
How did he know? I guess he just knows. That's what two years gets you. Someone else finds your kids as predictable as you do.
He asks about the antique shop we'd been to together. Off the beaten path. Loaded floor to ceiling with cool historical stuff. War knives, guns, pins, bullets, artifacts. Regrettably, I have to tell him, it is closed. Seems like things have changed for everybody since our last visit. Not just me and Scott.
But, changing to a brighter topic, I tell him we were successful in another store. Pat got the coveted gun that met all of his criteria and mine. I shelled out way too much money for it, but Pat agreed to pay half. Pat agreed that if the gun ever left the house for any reason it would become garbage the following day. The shopkeeper reinforced my message with a strong message of his own about safety and realistic looking guns and the split second an officer has to determine if your gin will be used to kill him before he kills you. Nice guy. Seemed like a good parent. Pat seemed to take him seriously. Since his own mother has clearly lost her marbles.
Pat wants to send Scott a picture of his prized possession and we send it. Hil holds up her dress so we can send a shot of that too. It reminds me of when I was a kid and we'd return from shopping and dash into the house to show my Dad all our cool stuff. (The stuff that didn't stay hidden in the trunk until my mother could sneak it in by dark of night.)
Scott is as excited as my Dad always pretended to be. He asks if I got the dress too and I tell him it looked ridiculous on me. He comments that he thinks it would be "hot" and I change the subject. Tell him about my jewelry purchases. Safe topic. Doesn't involve calling up any obvious images of thighs or cleavage.
Scott tells me that he would have been happy with a beer and a game of pool with a pretty girl.
I don't exactly know what to say. So I send a smiley face icon.
And immediately think it was the wrong thing to have done.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Stormy Weather
Scott and I have been texting occassionally. Not too much, nothing too personal. But definitely more than my girlfriends and I text. A more regular thing. I am not sure I am comfortable with it. But not sure I want to make a big, hairy deal out of anything either. Who am I to read to much into a friendly text?
The day that it snows, he sends me a text. It arrives about the time that he is leaving work. I, on the other hand, am in the tenth souvenir shop of the day. Evidently, Pat has it in his head that the only appropriate souvenir from a town known for its Civil War battle is a gun. Not a real one, not an operating one, not a toy one. One that looks real, feels real, is not made of plastic, doesn't fire little spongey darts, but is not necessarily illegal for him to carry. There isn't a single good feeling to be had about this. Why couldn't he have picked silent films as a hobby? So much quieter and less annoying.
Ping. The text. Not Craig. Scott.
He's telling me to be careful driving. The snow is turning to slush and it is thick and slick and is making a menace of the roadways. He wants me to be careful driving home.
I would be if I were, but we are seeing the Burg on foot. But just the same, I tell him thank you, and let him know we are in Gettysburg, far away from the bridge and bad drivers that normally plague my rush hour commute; we are walking the streets of my college town.
And his feet are immediately on memory lane.
He recalls our trip here on Mothers Day last year. It was to celebrate my birthday. His parents and sister had gone here, he'd seen it a million times before. But never from my perspective. It had been a completely different experience for him.
He tells me he remembers how much fun we'd had. Thanks me for sharing it with him. I am not sure what to say. I was willing to share everything in my life with him at the time. My oh my, what a difference a few short months makes. Now I'm guarded. Have to think about things. Have to question his motivations.
I never questioned anything from him before. Maybe I should have.
Am I overreacting? Shouldn't we be able to discuss fond memories? Are they all off limits? I am sure my parents, once they got through the bashing years, and the "you can meet your mother at the end of the driveway" years, and the jealousy years, and the "It would have been simpler to have killed him" years, were able to let a memory cross their minds and have a good laugh or a good cry and not actually have their synapses fly off to the dark sides of their brains where things like homicidal thoughts and uncontrolled rage are born. I am certain of it.
So should I be thinking what I'm thinking? Which is, he's trying to get the home fires burning by throwing a few lovely memories on what he hopes are a few smouldering embers? Or should I just relax and chalk this off to the steps that are taken when the door slams shut on one relationship but a window allows a little feeling in again?
I honestly don't know. The most humiliating part of dating at this age is the not knowing. Not knowing the rules, or if there are any. Not knowing the political landscape. Not knowing who to trust, who to fear, who to bank on, who to run from.
But right now, I have a souvenir to buy as a matter of OCD obsessiveness. I ignore the text and head out onto the snowy sidewalk, my children at my side and a nagging thought in my head.
The day that it snows, he sends me a text. It arrives about the time that he is leaving work. I, on the other hand, am in the tenth souvenir shop of the day. Evidently, Pat has it in his head that the only appropriate souvenir from a town known for its Civil War battle is a gun. Not a real one, not an operating one, not a toy one. One that looks real, feels real, is not made of plastic, doesn't fire little spongey darts, but is not necessarily illegal for him to carry. There isn't a single good feeling to be had about this. Why couldn't he have picked silent films as a hobby? So much quieter and less annoying.
Ping. The text. Not Craig. Scott.
He's telling me to be careful driving. The snow is turning to slush and it is thick and slick and is making a menace of the roadways. He wants me to be careful driving home.
I would be if I were, but we are seeing the Burg on foot. But just the same, I tell him thank you, and let him know we are in Gettysburg, far away from the bridge and bad drivers that normally plague my rush hour commute; we are walking the streets of my college town.
And his feet are immediately on memory lane.
He recalls our trip here on Mothers Day last year. It was to celebrate my birthday. His parents and sister had gone here, he'd seen it a million times before. But never from my perspective. It had been a completely different experience for him.
He tells me he remembers how much fun we'd had. Thanks me for sharing it with him. I am not sure what to say. I was willing to share everything in my life with him at the time. My oh my, what a difference a few short months makes. Now I'm guarded. Have to think about things. Have to question his motivations.
I never questioned anything from him before. Maybe I should have.
Am I overreacting? Shouldn't we be able to discuss fond memories? Are they all off limits? I am sure my parents, once they got through the bashing years, and the "you can meet your mother at the end of the driveway" years, and the jealousy years, and the "It would have been simpler to have killed him" years, were able to let a memory cross their minds and have a good laugh or a good cry and not actually have their synapses fly off to the dark sides of their brains where things like homicidal thoughts and uncontrolled rage are born. I am certain of it.
So should I be thinking what I'm thinking? Which is, he's trying to get the home fires burning by throwing a few lovely memories on what he hopes are a few smouldering embers? Or should I just relax and chalk this off to the steps that are taken when the door slams shut on one relationship but a window allows a little feeling in again?
I honestly don't know. The most humiliating part of dating at this age is the not knowing. Not knowing the rules, or if there are any. Not knowing the political landscape. Not knowing who to trust, who to fear, who to bank on, who to run from.
But right now, I have a souvenir to buy as a matter of OCD obsessiveness. I ignore the text and head out onto the snowy sidewalk, my children at my side and a nagging thought in my head.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Back in Time
The three days in my college town were good for the three of us.
The kids have become tradition-mongers. Every enjoyable thing we do together must be repeated. Every year. Gettysburg. DC. Hershey Park. Mt. Gretna. And much of what we do there must be repeated as well. At the ripe old ages of 13 and 14 they have "old haunts." It cracks me up that they look forward to some very simple things. I am almost afraid to explore their attachment. It could be enlightening and heartwarming and make me feel validated as a mother. It could be insipid and infuriating and make me want to put a fork in my eye. What if they said "We'd rather do this stupid activity than that other snoozefest you tried to get us to do last summer."
It snows. We take loads of pictures. We eat comfort food in some familiar places and try a few new places we swear we'll return to again. We shop. We meet and chat for hours with shopkeepers. Anthony and his life partner Anthony have a delightful boutique. Hil buys a dress Anthony says she simply must try on with her exquisite coloring and beautiful shape, OH-TO-BE-THAT-AGE! I buy a bracelet made by a local artist and Anthony tells us her story. He brings me a steaming cup of coffee made from beans that The Other Anthony expertly roasted himself and tells me a story about Salvador Dali's house. His uncle lived near him in Spain and the tour of the house inspired the creative flair Anthony clearly has. All this because I asked about a piece of art hanging behind the counter where Anthony buzzes about joyfully remarking on this and that and telling Pat all about the old fashioned razor and the lovely wallets and cool henna tattoos on display on the one or two shelves devoted to men's accessories. Flailing a handful of tags on little strings as he does.
And all the while, Craig touches base. But not much. I text more. The texts take on about a 4 to one ratio. Mine are about 10-15 words each. His are no more than 5. Most are closer to two. As good as I felt as the weekend with him ended, it can turn that quickly to confusion. I realize I have no idea what he's thinking. Some of what he does is so warm and intimate. Like he wants me to really get to know him. Other things he does leave me feeling like he'd like to keep a little distance between us.
And all the while, I am getting texts from Scott.
The kids have become tradition-mongers. Every enjoyable thing we do together must be repeated. Every year. Gettysburg. DC. Hershey Park. Mt. Gretna. And much of what we do there must be repeated as well. At the ripe old ages of 13 and 14 they have "old haunts." It cracks me up that they look forward to some very simple things. I am almost afraid to explore their attachment. It could be enlightening and heartwarming and make me feel validated as a mother. It could be insipid and infuriating and make me want to put a fork in my eye. What if they said "We'd rather do this stupid activity than that other snoozefest you tried to get us to do last summer."
It snows. We take loads of pictures. We eat comfort food in some familiar places and try a few new places we swear we'll return to again. We shop. We meet and chat for hours with shopkeepers. Anthony and his life partner Anthony have a delightful boutique. Hil buys a dress Anthony says she simply must try on with her exquisite coloring and beautiful shape, OH-TO-BE-THAT-AGE! I buy a bracelet made by a local artist and Anthony tells us her story. He brings me a steaming cup of coffee made from beans that The Other Anthony expertly roasted himself and tells me a story about Salvador Dali's house. His uncle lived near him in Spain and the tour of the house inspired the creative flair Anthony clearly has. All this because I asked about a piece of art hanging behind the counter where Anthony buzzes about joyfully remarking on this and that and telling Pat all about the old fashioned razor and the lovely wallets and cool henna tattoos on display on the one or two shelves devoted to men's accessories. Flailing a handful of tags on little strings as he does.
And all the while, Craig touches base. But not much. I text more. The texts take on about a 4 to one ratio. Mine are about 10-15 words each. His are no more than 5. Most are closer to two. As good as I felt as the weekend with him ended, it can turn that quickly to confusion. I realize I have no idea what he's thinking. Some of what he does is so warm and intimate. Like he wants me to really get to know him. Other things he does leave me feeling like he'd like to keep a little distance between us.
And all the while, I am getting texts from Scott.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Road Tripping
Craig likes my town. Likes the walkability. Likes the Irish-ness of it. Likes a lot about it. I tell him he is welcome any time. He seems to like that idea, too. He's easily to please.
As we walk back to the car, and I realize he is going to leave shortly, I have that bittersweet feeling you get when one adventure is about to end and another is about to begin. An hour after he leaves, Hil and Pat and I will be on the road again, this time to Gettysburg, a town I love and my children have come to embrace. My school. My friends. My memories (however beer-soaked and fuzzy). All wrapped up in a quaint little package.
I tell Craig before he leaves that I will have the kids for about 4 days and then face an unthinkably long stretch without them. They will finish out the end of what would be my week with Lars. It is just the way the Spring Break cookie crumbles. I will give them their Easter Baskets on a weekday and see them off for a 9-day drought without any fanfare. Fanfare is as bad as maudlin weepiness I've found. Better to just plug along like this is the routine in every family. Even though we all know deep down that it is not.
I tell him that if he finds himself with free time around the holiday to be sure to be in touch. I'd love to see him again so soon. My town, his town, any town. He thinks it's a great idea. And maybe a possibility. He'll let me know, or so he says.
And after kissing him goodbye in the street and heading inside to get the cats settled and the kids bags out of their rooms, I text him. Just the sort of note I'd hope to get. Something to thank him for the evening and flatter him in just a few words. He sends a similar return text. All is right with the world.
And then all is right with Hil and Pat. They've already rock-paper-scissored their way through the decision about the seating arrangement in the car and both have headphones so they don't need to listen to my dorky music. I can more or less be alone with my thoughts on the trek to the 'Burg. I replay parts of the weekend in my head. Some parts I replay over and over again. And some parts I dwell on and ponder. Did I read that message right? Did he say what I think he said? Does he mean this or did he mean that? What was he trying to tell me when he said such and such? I could make myself a lunatic with this kind of thinking. I am a hazard to myself. But it makes the drive whiz by.
The kids and I check into the hotel and are surprised to find ourselves in the Executive Wing. Enormous room. Very cool decor. Off the beaten path. Very quiet. Perfect for being alone with my thoughts. Maybe it is not such a great arrangement. I insist that we go out into the town and get lost in a crowd. Force the thoughts of insecurity and foolishness from my head and replace them with shopping and dining and sweet nostalgia.
We don't get very far. We wind up in the restaraunt off of the lobby. The very lobby I walked through at the reunion two years ago and accidentally became part of the Indian wedding procession. Men and women in traditional garb flanked me on either side as I strolled through the lobby from the parking garage in my Lilly Pulitzer shorts and fitted T, flipping and flopping along hiding behind my Jackie O-style sunglasses and barely concealing my smile thinking what a great cocktail party story it is going to make. Me, the inadvertent photo bomber. Talk about a Wedding Crasher.
I order a pint and we order a light lunch. We tune into the NCAA tourney. I check in on Facebook. I get a lot of instant likes. But nothing from Craig.
And this is where the insecurity breaks from the pack and goes sailing off in the direction of Hell. I read into everything. I read into things that aren't there. I read the silence. I read the delays. I feel the inattention. I have to physically restrain myself from figuratively jumping up and down and waiving my arms to see what I get back. It is madness.
Thank God for a good old antique mart. Nothing pushes the current problem from one's head like imagining the stories attached to the garments and jewelry and household items touched by lives that came and went decades before. The place is practically alive with presence. Items in glass cases call to me to tell their stories. It very nearly makes me forget my own.
Nearly.
As we walk back to the car, and I realize he is going to leave shortly, I have that bittersweet feeling you get when one adventure is about to end and another is about to begin. An hour after he leaves, Hil and Pat and I will be on the road again, this time to Gettysburg, a town I love and my children have come to embrace. My school. My friends. My memories (however beer-soaked and fuzzy). All wrapped up in a quaint little package.
I tell Craig before he leaves that I will have the kids for about 4 days and then face an unthinkably long stretch without them. They will finish out the end of what would be my week with Lars. It is just the way the Spring Break cookie crumbles. I will give them their Easter Baskets on a weekday and see them off for a 9-day drought without any fanfare. Fanfare is as bad as maudlin weepiness I've found. Better to just plug along like this is the routine in every family. Even though we all know deep down that it is not.
I tell him that if he finds himself with free time around the holiday to be sure to be in touch. I'd love to see him again so soon. My town, his town, any town. He thinks it's a great idea. And maybe a possibility. He'll let me know, or so he says.
And after kissing him goodbye in the street and heading inside to get the cats settled and the kids bags out of their rooms, I text him. Just the sort of note I'd hope to get. Something to thank him for the evening and flatter him in just a few words. He sends a similar return text. All is right with the world.
And then all is right with Hil and Pat. They've already rock-paper-scissored their way through the decision about the seating arrangement in the car and both have headphones so they don't need to listen to my dorky music. I can more or less be alone with my thoughts on the trek to the 'Burg. I replay parts of the weekend in my head. Some parts I replay over and over again. And some parts I dwell on and ponder. Did I read that message right? Did he say what I think he said? Does he mean this or did he mean that? What was he trying to tell me when he said such and such? I could make myself a lunatic with this kind of thinking. I am a hazard to myself. But it makes the drive whiz by.
The kids and I check into the hotel and are surprised to find ourselves in the Executive Wing. Enormous room. Very cool decor. Off the beaten path. Very quiet. Perfect for being alone with my thoughts. Maybe it is not such a great arrangement. I insist that we go out into the town and get lost in a crowd. Force the thoughts of insecurity and foolishness from my head and replace them with shopping and dining and sweet nostalgia.
We don't get very far. We wind up in the restaraunt off of the lobby. The very lobby I walked through at the reunion two years ago and accidentally became part of the Indian wedding procession. Men and women in traditional garb flanked me on either side as I strolled through the lobby from the parking garage in my Lilly Pulitzer shorts and fitted T, flipping and flopping along hiding behind my Jackie O-style sunglasses and barely concealing my smile thinking what a great cocktail party story it is going to make. Me, the inadvertent photo bomber. Talk about a Wedding Crasher.
I order a pint and we order a light lunch. We tune into the NCAA tourney. I check in on Facebook. I get a lot of instant likes. But nothing from Craig.
And this is where the insecurity breaks from the pack and goes sailing off in the direction of Hell. I read into everything. I read into things that aren't there. I read the silence. I read the delays. I feel the inattention. I have to physically restrain myself from figuratively jumping up and down and waiving my arms to see what I get back. It is madness.
Thank God for a good old antique mart. Nothing pushes the current problem from one's head like imagining the stories attached to the garments and jewelry and household items touched by lives that came and went decades before. The place is practically alive with presence. Items in glass cases call to me to tell their stories. It very nearly makes me forget my own.
Nearly.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Man About Town
It is oddly exciting to know he's in town. In my pub. Waiting for ME.
I let Pat know that when I am dressed to go, we'll be leaving. That is to say, "Dressed to go in a perfectly pub-appropriate pair of jeans and top that flatter every inch of me and look like I have not tried too hard, perfectly made up to look naturally gorgeous, hair groomed as if to suggest that I always zip around town with gleaming tresses with each strand casually lying in place, and perfumed in all the right spots with a light, clean, irresistible scent." Like that won't take every minute of the hour I have left.
When I've dropped Pat off at Lars' and thanked him profusely, panicking that I have a secret plan to remove my money from his wallet, I return home, check my look and head to the pub on foot. I have never driven to the pub and won't start now, even if it means more pre-date exertion than is recommended.
And thus the weekend with Craig begins. A pub crawl of sorts interjected with stops back at home and bites to eat. Lots of conversation and catching up. We are still getting to know each other.
We wish a a bogey on Tiger over IPAs at one pub. Root for the nice coach from Butler in the NCAA tourney over cheese steak egg rolls and Guinness at the next. Forgo the liverwurst sandwich in favor of a killer grilled cheese later over pre-season baseball where both our teams lose but the English ale is delightful at our last stop. Craig tells me about his family. I fill him in on the saga of my wacky ex-friend. We walk from place to place arm-in-arm or hand-in-hand. I tell him about my court hearing and child support drama. He fills me in on the latest events in his kids' lives.
We return home earlier than usual. We get ready for bed chatting like a couple who's been married for years, but still feeling like there is so much more to know about each other. Such curiosity. Even as I pull back the sheets I am craving the next date.
The next morning I remind Craig that I'd offered to take him out for breakfast. A new place that seems promising and is only a short distance up the road. Too new to have gotten a fine slick of grease all over the interior yet like most diners do.
We laugh the entire way. Even on a drive barely a mile long I am pushed to roadrageous ranting. Craig starts to sing a song about a Plastic Jesus and a Magnetic Moses.
Breakfast is lovely. A perfectly turned out meal at the counter, side-by-side and chatting over delicious, over-sized cups of coffee. He tells me that he'd like to join me for a concert I've talked about, and a party I mentioned. He'd even like to meet some of my friends at a gig we've got cooking. He seems to be planning to spend a lot of time with me. I can't help smiling.
He asks about what I like to do when I travel. Do I like cruises?
Eeeww, yuck. The last thing I want to do is spend a fortune to be trapped on a crowded boat with other people's children. Send me to jail instead. I prefer to visit a place and immerse myself in the culture. Eat where the locals eat. Shop in the local shops. No guided tours, please. Let me wander and meander and explore on my own, with my own curiosity as my guide.
Craig completely agrees. No interest in tours or cruises. Unleash him on the land and he'll have more fun than anyone.
And his question gets me thinking.
Is this a "get to know you" question in the purest sense, or is there more to it? Is he trying to learn what makes me tick, or is he crossing off an item on his checklist of criteria for a mate? "Not a pain in the ass to travel with. Check."
Or is he simply jonesing to take a trip and looking for someone to come along?
The mysteries that are born out of dating at this age are enormous and complicated. But very intriguing and exciting just the same. I hope I find out more on the fourth date. Provided there is one.
I let Pat know that when I am dressed to go, we'll be leaving. That is to say, "Dressed to go in a perfectly pub-appropriate pair of jeans and top that flatter every inch of me and look like I have not tried too hard, perfectly made up to look naturally gorgeous, hair groomed as if to suggest that I always zip around town with gleaming tresses with each strand casually lying in place, and perfumed in all the right spots with a light, clean, irresistible scent." Like that won't take every minute of the hour I have left.
When I've dropped Pat off at Lars' and thanked him profusely, panicking that I have a secret plan to remove my money from his wallet, I return home, check my look and head to the pub on foot. I have never driven to the pub and won't start now, even if it means more pre-date exertion than is recommended.
And thus the weekend with Craig begins. A pub crawl of sorts interjected with stops back at home and bites to eat. Lots of conversation and catching up. We are still getting to know each other.
We wish a a bogey on Tiger over IPAs at one pub. Root for the nice coach from Butler in the NCAA tourney over cheese steak egg rolls and Guinness at the next. Forgo the liverwurst sandwich in favor of a killer grilled cheese later over pre-season baseball where both our teams lose but the English ale is delightful at our last stop. Craig tells me about his family. I fill him in on the saga of my wacky ex-friend. We walk from place to place arm-in-arm or hand-in-hand. I tell him about my court hearing and child support drama. He fills me in on the latest events in his kids' lives.
We return home earlier than usual. We get ready for bed chatting like a couple who's been married for years, but still feeling like there is so much more to know about each other. Such curiosity. Even as I pull back the sheets I am craving the next date.
The next morning I remind Craig that I'd offered to take him out for breakfast. A new place that seems promising and is only a short distance up the road. Too new to have gotten a fine slick of grease all over the interior yet like most diners do.
We laugh the entire way. Even on a drive barely a mile long I am pushed to roadrageous ranting. Craig starts to sing a song about a Plastic Jesus and a Magnetic Moses.
Breakfast is lovely. A perfectly turned out meal at the counter, side-by-side and chatting over delicious, over-sized cups of coffee. He tells me that he'd like to join me for a concert I've talked about, and a party I mentioned. He'd even like to meet some of my friends at a gig we've got cooking. He seems to be planning to spend a lot of time with me. I can't help smiling.
He asks about what I like to do when I travel. Do I like cruises?
Eeeww, yuck. The last thing I want to do is spend a fortune to be trapped on a crowded boat with other people's children. Send me to jail instead. I prefer to visit a place and immerse myself in the culture. Eat where the locals eat. Shop in the local shops. No guided tours, please. Let me wander and meander and explore on my own, with my own curiosity as my guide.
Craig completely agrees. No interest in tours or cruises. Unleash him on the land and he'll have more fun than anyone.
And his question gets me thinking.
Is this a "get to know you" question in the purest sense, or is there more to it? Is he trying to learn what makes me tick, or is he crossing off an item on his checklist of criteria for a mate? "Not a pain in the ass to travel with. Check."
Or is he simply jonesing to take a trip and looking for someone to come along?
The mysteries that are born out of dating at this age are enormous and complicated. But very intriguing and exciting just the same. I hope I find out more on the fourth date. Provided there is one.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
It' Showtime, Folks!
My toes and fingers freshly painted, I sit at the dryers watching NCAA basketball and texting with Craig. And ordering Chinese food for me and the kids. I want to cook like I want to pull out my own teeth. A little MSG never killed anyone. Or did it? Oh well, too late. The Shrimp Lo Mein and the Chicken and Broc have been ordered, with some Spring Rolls and some Wonton Soup as well. If I can manage to cork the chardonnay without smearing a nail, the evening is poised for success.
Craig asks if I would still come his way. I have no objection and I like the idea that we'll no longer be such a big secret. I am not sure why that means so much. Maybe because Scott had stopped acknowledging my presence on Facebook so long ago. I am overly sensitive to the idea that someone will not want to parade around with me on their arm for all the world to see.
I am overpacked but I think I can just leave the garment bag on the back of the door and have everything I need for whatever we decide to do. No need to wreck a perfectly good manicure overanalyzing the outfit selection. "Whatever we decide to do" is something I am very excited to learn about but could be dictated by what I am dressed for. I am sure I won't be standing there going, "Damn, that sounds like fun but I didn't bring a ball gown!"
The next morning I am awake early, coffeed up and ready to roll. I head out to the track to do a few miles. It always puts me in a great mood to get a brisk walk in. I do my best thinking. Sort it all out. Evaluate my options. Write this blog in my head, usually.
I get a text from Craig about 3 miles in. He wants to know if I want to get together.
What?
I write back, sort of in a panic. "I thought we were..."
I wonder if he thinks I changed my mind. Found a better option. Or is his memory just that squirrely? I hold my breath waiting for his reply.
Ding!
"Cool." and a little smiley.
I have no idea what might have just happened.
I reply immediately. I don't want the conversation to end without answers. "All we need is a plan."
"I can come to you if you like. You already have a lot of driving ahead."
I do. And although I'd love to meet him on his home field, I love playing host to him. He's fun to have around. Comfortable. I tell him I have at least one child with me until 2. He says that's cool. He'll see me then.
But OMG I need to clean my house! I step up the pace, finish my last 2 laps and hot foot it back to the house.
Hil is leaving for the mall with some girlfriends. One less child to make a mess behind me but also the only child with halfway decent motivation to help me out the door in the same deal. I look at Pat playing XBox 360. If he manages not to move, and brings down all the debris he's collected around himself, I'll be fine.
Lucky I am limbered up and messy. It makes for a dive-in and get dirty cleaning situation. Irish lace be damned.
I tackle the visible things first. Create the illusion of neatness and order. Empty and reload the dishwasher. Put away pots and pans drying on the stove. Clean up around the cat bowls (little 4-legged slobs that they are). Wipe down the counters with something that smells like germ-free squeaky cleanliness. Sweep the floor. Wet mop it with something that smells hospital-quality sanitary on my way out, grabbing the dust rag and Pledge as I do.
I whiz through the wooden furniture on the first floor. Lemony freshness everywhere. I light a lemon scented candle to perpetuate the illusion. I dry mop the hardwood floors and the stairs. Grab the vacuum and carpet freshener. The rugs will be laundry fresh even if I know they are not. I am like a housework fairy flitting from room to room.
While the freshener freshens and the kitchen floor dries, I head upstairs. Dust my bedroom. De-clutter the tops of the dressers. Place shoes back in boxes, hang clothes or stuff them into the hamper, remove bras from door handles. Change the sheets on my bed to crisp white ones and spray them with linen spray. Make the kids beds. Again, sprinkle the carpet freshener.
Time for bleach. Bleach wipes on the countertops in the bathroom. Bleach in the tub. Swab the deck with a bleach-soaked cloth. De-mold the shower liner with bleach spray. Replace all the towels intending to wash them in bleach. Scrub-a-dub-dub the toily with a brush and guess what? Bleach!
Back downstairs to vacuum. Back upstairs to vacuum. Clothes that have been left to be put away in each child's room by their personalized Indentured Servant Fairies are collected and stashed in the usual places.
Better Homes and Gardens may as well have been on their way. My house is perfect.
I jump in the shower. I have about an hour until Pat goes to his Dad's.
A few minutes later I emerge...shaved, scrubbed, exfoliated, shampooed and deep conditioned, youth-masked and scented to perfection. I wrap my hair in a fresh towel and as I lather on the glistening moisturizer, I get a text from Craig.
"I am at the Pub. Take your time. I know I am early."
Well, darn it, then I will be too!
Craig asks if I would still come his way. I have no objection and I like the idea that we'll no longer be such a big secret. I am not sure why that means so much. Maybe because Scott had stopped acknowledging my presence on Facebook so long ago. I am overly sensitive to the idea that someone will not want to parade around with me on their arm for all the world to see.
I am overpacked but I think I can just leave the garment bag on the back of the door and have everything I need for whatever we decide to do. No need to wreck a perfectly good manicure overanalyzing the outfit selection. "Whatever we decide to do" is something I am very excited to learn about but could be dictated by what I am dressed for. I am sure I won't be standing there going, "Damn, that sounds like fun but I didn't bring a ball gown!"
The next morning I am awake early, coffeed up and ready to roll. I head out to the track to do a few miles. It always puts me in a great mood to get a brisk walk in. I do my best thinking. Sort it all out. Evaluate my options. Write this blog in my head, usually.
I get a text from Craig about 3 miles in. He wants to know if I want to get together.
What?
I write back, sort of in a panic. "I thought we were..."
I wonder if he thinks I changed my mind. Found a better option. Or is his memory just that squirrely? I hold my breath waiting for his reply.
Ding!
"Cool." and a little smiley.
I have no idea what might have just happened.
I reply immediately. I don't want the conversation to end without answers. "All we need is a plan."
"I can come to you if you like. You already have a lot of driving ahead."
I do. And although I'd love to meet him on his home field, I love playing host to him. He's fun to have around. Comfortable. I tell him I have at least one child with me until 2. He says that's cool. He'll see me then.
But OMG I need to clean my house! I step up the pace, finish my last 2 laps and hot foot it back to the house.
Hil is leaving for the mall with some girlfriends. One less child to make a mess behind me but also the only child with halfway decent motivation to help me out the door in the same deal. I look at Pat playing XBox 360. If he manages not to move, and brings down all the debris he's collected around himself, I'll be fine.
Lucky I am limbered up and messy. It makes for a dive-in and get dirty cleaning situation. Irish lace be damned.
I tackle the visible things first. Create the illusion of neatness and order. Empty and reload the dishwasher. Put away pots and pans drying on the stove. Clean up around the cat bowls (little 4-legged slobs that they are). Wipe down the counters with something that smells like germ-free squeaky cleanliness. Sweep the floor. Wet mop it with something that smells hospital-quality sanitary on my way out, grabbing the dust rag and Pledge as I do.
I whiz through the wooden furniture on the first floor. Lemony freshness everywhere. I light a lemon scented candle to perpetuate the illusion. I dry mop the hardwood floors and the stairs. Grab the vacuum and carpet freshener. The rugs will be laundry fresh even if I know they are not. I am like a housework fairy flitting from room to room.
While the freshener freshens and the kitchen floor dries, I head upstairs. Dust my bedroom. De-clutter the tops of the dressers. Place shoes back in boxes, hang clothes or stuff them into the hamper, remove bras from door handles. Change the sheets on my bed to crisp white ones and spray them with linen spray. Make the kids beds. Again, sprinkle the carpet freshener.
Time for bleach. Bleach wipes on the countertops in the bathroom. Bleach in the tub. Swab the deck with a bleach-soaked cloth. De-mold the shower liner with bleach spray. Replace all the towels intending to wash them in bleach. Scrub-a-dub-dub the toily with a brush and guess what? Bleach!
Back downstairs to vacuum. Back upstairs to vacuum. Clothes that have been left to be put away in each child's room by their personalized Indentured Servant Fairies are collected and stashed in the usual places.
Better Homes and Gardens may as well have been on their way. My house is perfect.
I jump in the shower. I have about an hour until Pat goes to his Dad's.
A few minutes later I emerge...shaved, scrubbed, exfoliated, shampooed and deep conditioned, youth-masked and scented to perfection. I wrap my hair in a fresh towel and as I lather on the glistening moisturizer, I get a text from Craig.
"I am at the Pub. Take your time. I know I am early."
Well, darn it, then I will be too!
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
One Day at a Time
The work day flies by---an act of mercy really because with my crazy former friend's outrageous behavior, I ended up getting about three minutes of sleep. And not in a row, either.
And it's probably a good thing. With my lack of sleep I have bags under my eyes I could tuck into my waist band. Pretty. I'd be lucky if Craig didn't excuse himself for the men's room and leave town.
The kids call me when they arrive home from school...giddy about Spring Break and annoyed that our Internet connection seems to have gotten itself on the fritz.
I swear the Cable Company does this on purpose from afar. It is their money-grab tactic for getting you to allow them to send a technician into your home. The minute they cross the threshold, the bill starts at $70. Even if all they end up doing is standing in front of the wire box and scratching their ass.
I tell the kids there is not a thing I am willing or able to do from another state sitting at my office desk working on my budget, but will reboot the darn thing when I get home. I have become an expert re-booter. I will not be the first to blink with the hateful cable company.
I still need details about where and when from Craig and I think for a moment that if the cable company outsmarts me and I can't jump start the WiFi, I might be incommunicado with him. I text him as much. He asks if I am free to chat.
Of course I am. I have given up on applying reason to my budget and have taken a "throw it all in a pile" and subtract approach. Done.
He invites me to join him a night earlier. Tells me where to meet him tonight.
The whole weekend??? Wow! That's progress!
But I must disappoint him. I still have a commitment to the kids until the following afternoon. I mention that I'd love to but can't.
I leave work and go home to find that the kids have retreated to friends' houses for the afternoon. Friends presumably with functioning WiFi. I take myself to the salon to get my toes done. Spring for a mani, too. And the salon has WiFi!
I text Craig.
He texts back. His plans have changed.
He texts back. His plans have changed.
Oh no.
Friends aren't coming.
Oh no.
But he'd like me to come just the same.
Oh yes!
Monday, May 13, 2013
Courting Disaster
Throughout the next hours the beat goes on.
My maniacal ex-friend continues to send hateful texts - though in her haze of anger, she becomes wildly entertaining. It is clear that she is spitting mad. And has taken on Pee Wee Herman-type speech patterns. I know you are, but what am I?
And at times, she adopts a Snoop Dog persona. I know of no other grown, educated adult that speaks like that, much less commits it to writing. Please. Have some pride!
I have begun to pack a bag. I am prepared for anything. Craig is unsure of the plans. They could be LBD and heels plans or jeans and drinking shoes plans. I will pack for both.
The next morning, as planned, I go to the county courthouse.
I have decided to take advantage of the notice I recieved from Family Court reminding me that I reserve the right to have my child support arrangement reviewed by a judge every three years. And this year is that year. Our expenses have changed. My income has changed, I presume Lars' has too. And he has the lovely live-in Liza and her business income to add to his household coffers. I would think I should get some reduction in what I owe him every month ("owe" being used in a very loosely defined manner for this purpose!)
I take the kids to school and head to the courthouse. I go through the metal detector. I smile at everyone and am exceedingly complimentary and cordial to everyone I meet. I want the Child Support Fairies to sprinkle little twinkling chards of good fortune (emphasis on "fortune") on me.
I fill out my complaint form. It doesn't seem like a complaint. The time to complain was when I was before the first judge.
Everyone I encounter mixes up whether I am the plaintiff or the defendant. It must be a rare case to see a woman come in to have what she pays reduced. I am sure it is more often a woman asking to be paid more. It makes me angry to think what a taker Lars has been.
I turn in my forms and go and pay my $10 filing fee on another floor through a plate glass divider to a woman named Margie with little inky rubber thumbs on. I ride the rickety elevator back down to the ladies I originally met with. They smile when they see me come back.
Soon enough I am called back to meet with Lawanna. She is the exact same Lawanna I met with a few years ago when I asked to get my payment temporarily reduced when I was furloughed at work for a time. She is sitting in the same exact desk with the same exact art work on her filing cabinets. I remember her, but I am sure I am one of a cast of thousands to her.
She takes me through the process and begins to explain the steps. She completes some forms and copies them. One for me and one for her and a third off to the side. She gives me a court date and I momentarily break into a sweat. She tells me she will send the third copy of what she's given to me to Lars.
Uh-oh.
"When will he get it?" I ask.
"You're here early. The early mail will be delivered tomorrow. He'll have it his mail tomorrow."
I make a face. Lawanna asks what's wrong.
I tell her that if Lars gets it tomorrow, the weekend will be Hell. I can just see him backing out of his commitment and me standing Craig up at the last minute. I begin to think that I should call Charlotte.
She says that she could hold it for the late mail. He'd get it Monday. Would that be better?
Oh yes, much. I could pratically kiss her.
I walk out the door with my envelope after wishing Lawanna and the other ladies a lovely weekend.
I get to my car and I realize I am shaking.
My maniacal ex-friend continues to send hateful texts - though in her haze of anger, she becomes wildly entertaining. It is clear that she is spitting mad. And has taken on Pee Wee Herman-type speech patterns. I know you are, but what am I?
And at times, she adopts a Snoop Dog persona. I know of no other grown, educated adult that speaks like that, much less commits it to writing. Please. Have some pride!
I have begun to pack a bag. I am prepared for anything. Craig is unsure of the plans. They could be LBD and heels plans or jeans and drinking shoes plans. I will pack for both.
The next morning, as planned, I go to the county courthouse.
I have decided to take advantage of the notice I recieved from Family Court reminding me that I reserve the right to have my child support arrangement reviewed by a judge every three years. And this year is that year. Our expenses have changed. My income has changed, I presume Lars' has too. And he has the lovely live-in Liza and her business income to add to his household coffers. I would think I should get some reduction in what I owe him every month ("owe" being used in a very loosely defined manner for this purpose!)
I take the kids to school and head to the courthouse. I go through the metal detector. I smile at everyone and am exceedingly complimentary and cordial to everyone I meet. I want the Child Support Fairies to sprinkle little twinkling chards of good fortune (emphasis on "fortune") on me.
I fill out my complaint form. It doesn't seem like a complaint. The time to complain was when I was before the first judge.
Everyone I encounter mixes up whether I am the plaintiff or the defendant. It must be a rare case to see a woman come in to have what she pays reduced. I am sure it is more often a woman asking to be paid more. It makes me angry to think what a taker Lars has been.
I turn in my forms and go and pay my $10 filing fee on another floor through a plate glass divider to a woman named Margie with little inky rubber thumbs on. I ride the rickety elevator back down to the ladies I originally met with. They smile when they see me come back.
Soon enough I am called back to meet with Lawanna. She is the exact same Lawanna I met with a few years ago when I asked to get my payment temporarily reduced when I was furloughed at work for a time. She is sitting in the same exact desk with the same exact art work on her filing cabinets. I remember her, but I am sure I am one of a cast of thousands to her.
She takes me through the process and begins to explain the steps. She completes some forms and copies them. One for me and one for her and a third off to the side. She gives me a court date and I momentarily break into a sweat. She tells me she will send the third copy of what she's given to me to Lars.
Uh-oh.
"When will he get it?" I ask.
"You're here early. The early mail will be delivered tomorrow. He'll have it his mail tomorrow."
I make a face. Lawanna asks what's wrong.
I tell her that if Lars gets it tomorrow, the weekend will be Hell. I can just see him backing out of his commitment and me standing Craig up at the last minute. I begin to think that I should call Charlotte.
She says that she could hold it for the late mail. He'd get it Monday. Would that be better?
Oh yes, much. I could pratically kiss her.
I walk out the door with my envelope after wishing Lawanna and the other ladies a lovely weekend.
I get to my car and I realize I am shaking.
Friday, May 10, 2013
S-S-S-Saturday Ni-ight!
The truth is, I am not really free. I have the kids.
But the good news is that it is Spring Break and we are taking a three-day trip beginning on Sunday and I can probably ask a favor of Lars this one time. The rules are all different on holiday weeks.
I respond to Craig telling him exactly that and asking what he has in mind.
Friends are coming into town and he'd like me to join them. Would I mind doing all that driving? A two hour trek east to turn around and make a 5 hour trek west all in one weekend is a lot to ask.
For the all-important third date, yes, I'd do that. Happily.
And I am thrilled. Thrilled to have been asked. Thrilled that he's finally in touch again. Thrilled at the idea of meeting his friends. Until now, this has all seemed so secretive. Meeting the friends is validation.
I make a call to Lars. He's happy to help. (Happy even!) Craig and I have a date. Finally.
And then, to piss all over my joy and elation, my traitor friend unleashes all manner of crazy on me via text for the next 3 hours. Hateful statements. Hurtful comments. Things you can't take back. Unsolicited commentary on my marriage. My life. My character.
As if she is one to talk. I could bury her in the character department.
I turn off my phone to stop the madness. It is hard to hang on to my happiness with someone so insistent upon taking it away nipping at my heals.
But I put my head on my pillow at last, forcing thoughts of former friends from my head, and planning The Outfit for Saturday.
But the good news is that it is Spring Break and we are taking a three-day trip beginning on Sunday and I can probably ask a favor of Lars this one time. The rules are all different on holiday weeks.
I respond to Craig telling him exactly that and asking what he has in mind.
Friends are coming into town and he'd like me to join them. Would I mind doing all that driving? A two hour trek east to turn around and make a 5 hour trek west all in one weekend is a lot to ask.
For the all-important third date, yes, I'd do that. Happily.
And I am thrilled. Thrilled to have been asked. Thrilled that he's finally in touch again. Thrilled at the idea of meeting his friends. Until now, this has all seemed so secretive. Meeting the friends is validation.
I make a call to Lars. He's happy to help. (Happy even!) Craig and I have a date. Finally.
And then, to piss all over my joy and elation, my traitor friend unleashes all manner of crazy on me via text for the next 3 hours. Hateful statements. Hurtful comments. Things you can't take back. Unsolicited commentary on my marriage. My life. My character.
As if she is one to talk. I could bury her in the character department.
I turn off my phone to stop the madness. It is hard to hang on to my happiness with someone so insistent upon taking it away nipping at my heals.
But I put my head on my pillow at last, forcing thoughts of former friends from my head, and planning The Outfit for Saturday.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
Dry Spell
Craig and I flirt until it is time to go to sleep (again) and then again when our respective alarms go off in our respective states. Long distance cyber dating at its weird, detached best.
And then the weirdest thing happens.
For the next 3, almost 4 days, I hear nothing from him.
Nada. Not one single word. The last text was dripping with desire and then followed by a seemingly endless stretch of desert. Dry and lifeless.
And you know, me, the nerveen. I assume the worst.
He's lost interest.
He's died in a horrific accident and his identity still not determined.
He has been swept off his feet by a darling 20 year old with perkier boobs and no pesky work and family demands.
I am simply not the priority I thought I might be.
To make matters worse, work is a totally hellacious shit storm of emergencies, last minute deadlines, SNAFUs and political no-win situations. By Thursday, I ready for a little at-home spa time. I pour a shaker of martinis. I head to the bathroom with the hair dye in my free hand.
I draw a hot bubble bath. I dye my hair. I sink into the tub with some candles lit and nothing but the sound of my own breathing.
Until my phone starts dinging.
I dry my hands on the towel on the floor and reach for the phone. I still have 20 minutes left on the hair dye and my serenity is destroyed.
By what? By texts from my former friend, turned stalker, turned traitor, turned lunatic. Asking why we're not friends. What did she do? How can she learn from her mistake if she does not know what it was?
She knows exactly what it was. I've told her so. In plain, straight forward blisteringly truthful English. She would just like the blame to lie elsewhere. So she asks. You can practically hear the screaming.
And while I am trying to figure out what exactly it is I need to say to her, if anything, to dial down the crazy, I get a text from Craig.
He wants to get together Saturday night. Am I free?
And then the weirdest thing happens.
For the next 3, almost 4 days, I hear nothing from him.
Nada. Not one single word. The last text was dripping with desire and then followed by a seemingly endless stretch of desert. Dry and lifeless.
And you know, me, the nerveen. I assume the worst.
He's lost interest.
He's died in a horrific accident and his identity still not determined.
He has been swept off his feet by a darling 20 year old with perkier boobs and no pesky work and family demands.
I am simply not the priority I thought I might be.
To make matters worse, work is a totally hellacious shit storm of emergencies, last minute deadlines, SNAFUs and political no-win situations. By Thursday, I ready for a little at-home spa time. I pour a shaker of martinis. I head to the bathroom with the hair dye in my free hand.
I draw a hot bubble bath. I dye my hair. I sink into the tub with some candles lit and nothing but the sound of my own breathing.
Until my phone starts dinging.
I dry my hands on the towel on the floor and reach for the phone. I still have 20 minutes left on the hair dye and my serenity is destroyed.
By what? By texts from my former friend, turned stalker, turned traitor, turned lunatic. Asking why we're not friends. What did she do? How can she learn from her mistake if she does not know what it was?
She knows exactly what it was. I've told her so. In plain, straight forward blisteringly truthful English. She would just like the blame to lie elsewhere. So she asks. You can practically hear the screaming.
And while I am trying to figure out what exactly it is I need to say to her, if anything, to dial down the crazy, I get a text from Craig.
He wants to get together Saturday night. Am I free?
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Old Friends and New
A few pints later and I have forgotten all about the fact that I am in my running gear (including the shoes, which are never to be worn anywhere but to the athletic event itself) and not exactly dressed for pubbing (I'd have planned a way better outfit for this!) especially on St. Pat's (not a thread of green, and nary a shamrock to be found anywhere on me.) But I have stopped caring, stopped feeling like I stick out like a sore thumb, and have really begun to enjoy myself.
To the point where I am not at all fazed when Jan and Ken have to leave to go to dinner with relatives and suggest I stay with relative strangers. They don't feel like strangers anymore. In fact the place feels like everyone knows my name (and they may by that point, we've been there a while). I decide to stay and join my new friends for dinner.
I text Craig. He would so love this whole arrangement. Impromptu shenanigans, making friends of total strangers, the mini Guinness's and the traditional Irish dinner complete with bagpipes. And to think I nearly stayed at home and cleaned the toilet today.
Not long after dinner, I've decided I have had my fill of revelry and head for home. It is just starting to get dark. I've spent an entire day in a pub. I get home and crack open a book I've just started reading. I am committed to forming better reading habits; I got so far away from reading when I was with Scott. We were always DOING something. I hardly ever found time to read. I should never have let that happen, although I'll admit it was lots of fun at the time.
This is probably not the most ideal set of circumstances to read under. I am asleep in under 5 minutes.
And an hour later, I am awakened by my phone dinging its familiar ding that it dings when I have a text message.
Several of them it would seem.
First one from Craig. Flirting with me. I flirt back immediately. Smiling like a lunatic.
One from Scott. He's hoping I got home okay.
I am baffled that he knows what I've been up to. How did he know I wasn't home cleaning my toilet?
And then the dim little light bulb in my head shines just a wee bit brighter.
I look at my Facebook posts. One when I join Jan at the bar. One when I snap a cool photo of a guy in a Guinness shirt hours later.
That's how he knows.
Not that we've become friends on Facebook again. No, that has not happened and won't. Unfriending someone is a final act of war. You don't get a do-over. And Scott famously unfriended me and Hil and Pat and almost everyone we have in common the night I changed my status to "single." I understood his reason for doing so. He was not about to watch me live my life on Facebook in the wake of our disaster.
But I am sure he remains curious. How hard would it be to check his kids' accounts or even ask what I've been up to.
I am annoyed at the sneakiness but don't say anything. I very soberly answer.
And resume flirting with Craig.
To the point where I am not at all fazed when Jan and Ken have to leave to go to dinner with relatives and suggest I stay with relative strangers. They don't feel like strangers anymore. In fact the place feels like everyone knows my name (and they may by that point, we've been there a while). I decide to stay and join my new friends for dinner.
I text Craig. He would so love this whole arrangement. Impromptu shenanigans, making friends of total strangers, the mini Guinness's and the traditional Irish dinner complete with bagpipes. And to think I nearly stayed at home and cleaned the toilet today.
Not long after dinner, I've decided I have had my fill of revelry and head for home. It is just starting to get dark. I've spent an entire day in a pub. I get home and crack open a book I've just started reading. I am committed to forming better reading habits; I got so far away from reading when I was with Scott. We were always DOING something. I hardly ever found time to read. I should never have let that happen, although I'll admit it was lots of fun at the time.
This is probably not the most ideal set of circumstances to read under. I am asleep in under 5 minutes.
And an hour later, I am awakened by my phone dinging its familiar ding that it dings when I have a text message.
Several of them it would seem.
First one from Craig. Flirting with me. I flirt back immediately. Smiling like a lunatic.
One from Scott. He's hoping I got home okay.
I am baffled that he knows what I've been up to. How did he know I wasn't home cleaning my toilet?
And then the dim little light bulb in my head shines just a wee bit brighter.
I look at my Facebook posts. One when I join Jan at the bar. One when I snap a cool photo of a guy in a Guinness shirt hours later.
That's how he knows.
Not that we've become friends on Facebook again. No, that has not happened and won't. Unfriending someone is a final act of war. You don't get a do-over. And Scott famously unfriended me and Hil and Pat and almost everyone we have in common the night I changed my status to "single." I understood his reason for doing so. He was not about to watch me live my life on Facebook in the wake of our disaster.
But I am sure he remains curious. How hard would it be to check his kids' accounts or even ask what I've been up to.
I am annoyed at the sneakiness but don't say anything. I very soberly answer.
And resume flirting with Craig.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Pub Crawl
Gotta love the power of exercise and fresh air. I am nearly human by the time I am half way into the woods. Feeling like a million bucks by the time I emerge from the trails a little later. The spring air being moved and freshened by the fast-moving creek water. I take some beautiful pictures. Post them to Facebook as soon as I get into my car. Primarily for Craig's benefit. He always mentions that he likes them (after of course "liking" them on Facebook first).
My cousin Jan, who was one of the fine people who came to my rescue when Scott walked out has been in a charity run that morning. She posts that she is headed to a pub near the park with her running mates.
I check my appearance in the rear view mirror. Hair smoothed into a high pony. Not a glamorous look, but reasonably cute considering I am dressed for athletics, not the Debutante Ball. I had made sure my face was presentable when I'd left. God only knows when I am going to bump into Bradley Cooper at a Boy Scout Jamboree in the park. A little swipe of tinted gloss will be all I need. I am wearing a killer running outfit. It might actually defy the fact that I don't run if I don't slurp down 75 beers and inflate to epic proportions. And why am I worried anyway? I am meeting people who have just run a 5K and are bound to look just like I do.
I text Jan and ask if she is still there. No answer. It's a 5 minute drive. I take my chances.
I park the car and scurry to the pub, hoping they have not left. The pub is rowdy, even at 11 am. Irish musicians and lots of Guinness flowing. I order a pint, and in walks my cuz, her man, Ken, and a whole host of running mates, who have all showered and look fabulous. So much for blending in in my gear.
But a pint or two later, it just doesn't matter. And I am engrossed in conversation and laughter with Jan about Craig and about Scott and the youngster from the bar the night before and how I never imagined there would be such sit-com quality craziness in my life.
Jan says something that I must have known but never really put into words. If not for the balls out rotten way in which Scott broke up with me, we'd probably be able to move past all of it. Until he went over the wall without so much as a suicide note, I would have said he was the world's nicest, most dependable, kindest, most decent human being I'd known. But that one act, that one singular thing, told me he was capable of doing the unthinkable to someone he loved. Or claimed to. The dirty dog.
I tell Jan that I have a hard time imagining him completely absent from my life, but can't exactly identify a place for him in it either. We agree that he and I will most likely go off in different directions, like we did when we were young, spend the next 30 years madly in love with someone else, and when we are about 80, and widowed, we'll bump into each other somewhere, and spend our twilight years holding hands and walking on the boardwalk.
But it is St. Patrick's Day and not a day for deep thought. The bartender has placed 12 highball glasses on a tray on the bar and is pouring mini Guinness's for a table of girls behind us. I snap a photo and send it to Craig. He'll understand the joke.
He does, and I am feeling the luck o' the Irish return to my heart.
My cousin Jan, who was one of the fine people who came to my rescue when Scott walked out has been in a charity run that morning. She posts that she is headed to a pub near the park with her running mates.
I check my appearance in the rear view mirror. Hair smoothed into a high pony. Not a glamorous look, but reasonably cute considering I am dressed for athletics, not the Debutante Ball. I had made sure my face was presentable when I'd left. God only knows when I am going to bump into Bradley Cooper at a Boy Scout Jamboree in the park. A little swipe of tinted gloss will be all I need. I am wearing a killer running outfit. It might actually defy the fact that I don't run if I don't slurp down 75 beers and inflate to epic proportions. And why am I worried anyway? I am meeting people who have just run a 5K and are bound to look just like I do.
I text Jan and ask if she is still there. No answer. It's a 5 minute drive. I take my chances.
I park the car and scurry to the pub, hoping they have not left. The pub is rowdy, even at 11 am. Irish musicians and lots of Guinness flowing. I order a pint, and in walks my cuz, her man, Ken, and a whole host of running mates, who have all showered and look fabulous. So much for blending in in my gear.
But a pint or two later, it just doesn't matter. And I am engrossed in conversation and laughter with Jan about Craig and about Scott and the youngster from the bar the night before and how I never imagined there would be such sit-com quality craziness in my life.
Jan says something that I must have known but never really put into words. If not for the balls out rotten way in which Scott broke up with me, we'd probably be able to move past all of it. Until he went over the wall without so much as a suicide note, I would have said he was the world's nicest, most dependable, kindest, most decent human being I'd known. But that one act, that one singular thing, told me he was capable of doing the unthinkable to someone he loved. Or claimed to. The dirty dog.
I tell Jan that I have a hard time imagining him completely absent from my life, but can't exactly identify a place for him in it either. We agree that he and I will most likely go off in different directions, like we did when we were young, spend the next 30 years madly in love with someone else, and when we are about 80, and widowed, we'll bump into each other somewhere, and spend our twilight years holding hands and walking on the boardwalk.
But it is St. Patrick's Day and not a day for deep thought. The bartender has placed 12 highball glasses on a tray on the bar and is pouring mini Guinness's for a table of girls behind us. I snap a photo and send it to Craig. He'll understand the joke.
He does, and I am feeling the luck o' the Irish return to my heart.
Monday, May 6, 2013
Mind Erased
The next day the wrath of the Mind Eraser takes hold of my head and places it firmly in a vice. I get myself upright ever so briefly, but long enough to find the Aleve, pry the childproof lid off, and swallow a few too many with a teensy cup of water before gagging and putting myself back into a reclining position.
I check my phone.
Yes, I had sent a drunken text to Scott. And one to Craig.
The one to Scott was tame. The one to Craig was not.
I should never drink and text. Ever. My phone should be programmed to shut down when my blood-alcohol content reaches a certain threshold.
Ding! I get a Happy St. Pat's message from Craig. I return the sentiment with a similar one and note that there is not enough hair on any dog to cure what ails me today. There would be a lot of bald dogs in the neighborhood today.
He suggests a Western Omelet and a Gin and Tonic just the same. Can't hurt.
I tell him that I had planned on a Western Omelet, and that the Bombay is conveniently already out on the counter. Really, all that is missing is the lime, but I don't have the dexterity to use a knife at the moment.
I rest my eyes and wonder where the cats are. I get a text. I smile knowing it is from Craig.
Nope. Scott. Damn my drunk texting. I need to make some numbers harder to find.
He is very nice, wants to talk. Something happened and he needs a friend. I take a deep breath and tell him it's okay to call.
And when the phone rings I realize it is the first time I've heard his live voice in ages.
We have a nice conversation -- well, as nice as it can be when one of you is morbidly hungover and the other of you has had something hideous and freakish happen to you (But that is not my story to tell, so I won't. Scott may want to start his own blog, however...) We chat amiably though it is hard not to fall into the same habits of endearing names and such. I have to concentrate and it makes my head throb to think that hard. It is not a long conversation but it is a step toward actual normal friendship. Friends talk on the phone.
But I get a text while we're talking and I know it is Craig. I mean, there is a possibility that it is Hil or Pat sending me a cute picture of their dog, but in all likelihood, it is Craig.
And I feel guilty. Like I am cheating in some way.
And I am not. Even in the remotest sense. But I am not sure Craig or any other man would understand me lying in bed having a very personal conversation with a man I'd once planned to marry and who everyone knew I was madly in love with not long ago. Especially while we are texting ourselves.
I am distracted as I get off the phone and immediately look at the text. It is from Craig. I feel worse now. So I cheerfully reply and mention that if I am ever upright long enough, I will go for my long walk in the State Park. He enjoys my check ins and pictures on FB. And maybe THEN have the G&T. He says I should probably abstain until after the threat of falling into the stream has passed.
But still, I feel rotten about texting with one man and talking to another. My God I sometimes have the sensibilities of a nun.
I make the omelet and get my running gear on. Not that I run, mind you. I walk. I just want to look good while I am running.
And while my omelet is cooking. I erase the entire text conversation with Scott. Nothing on the record. Nothing to remind me. Nothing to make me wonder what in Hell I am doing with my life.
I check my phone.
Yes, I had sent a drunken text to Scott. And one to Craig.
The one to Scott was tame. The one to Craig was not.
I should never drink and text. Ever. My phone should be programmed to shut down when my blood-alcohol content reaches a certain threshold.
Ding! I get a Happy St. Pat's message from Craig. I return the sentiment with a similar one and note that there is not enough hair on any dog to cure what ails me today. There would be a lot of bald dogs in the neighborhood today.
He suggests a Western Omelet and a Gin and Tonic just the same. Can't hurt.
I tell him that I had planned on a Western Omelet, and that the Bombay is conveniently already out on the counter. Really, all that is missing is the lime, but I don't have the dexterity to use a knife at the moment.
I rest my eyes and wonder where the cats are. I get a text. I smile knowing it is from Craig.
Nope. Scott. Damn my drunk texting. I need to make some numbers harder to find.
He is very nice, wants to talk. Something happened and he needs a friend. I take a deep breath and tell him it's okay to call.
And when the phone rings I realize it is the first time I've heard his live voice in ages.
We have a nice conversation -- well, as nice as it can be when one of you is morbidly hungover and the other of you has had something hideous and freakish happen to you (But that is not my story to tell, so I won't. Scott may want to start his own blog, however...) We chat amiably though it is hard not to fall into the same habits of endearing names and such. I have to concentrate and it makes my head throb to think that hard. It is not a long conversation but it is a step toward actual normal friendship. Friends talk on the phone.
But I get a text while we're talking and I know it is Craig. I mean, there is a possibility that it is Hil or Pat sending me a cute picture of their dog, but in all likelihood, it is Craig.
And I feel guilty. Like I am cheating in some way.
And I am not. Even in the remotest sense. But I am not sure Craig or any other man would understand me lying in bed having a very personal conversation with a man I'd once planned to marry and who everyone knew I was madly in love with not long ago. Especially while we are texting ourselves.
I am distracted as I get off the phone and immediately look at the text. It is from Craig. I feel worse now. So I cheerfully reply and mention that if I am ever upright long enough, I will go for my long walk in the State Park. He enjoys my check ins and pictures on FB. And maybe THEN have the G&T. He says I should probably abstain until after the threat of falling into the stream has passed.
But still, I feel rotten about texting with one man and talking to another. My God I sometimes have the sensibilities of a nun.
I make the omelet and get my running gear on. Not that I run, mind you. I walk. I just want to look good while I am running.
And while my omelet is cooking. I erase the entire text conversation with Scott. Nothing on the record. Nothing to remind me. Nothing to make me wonder what in Hell I am doing with my life.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Let's Get This Party Started
At least the neighbor kid is an ally.
He's a decent kid, Jack, whose mother used to make him shovel my sidewalk. He's just a little shocked to be sharing a corner of the bar at the Pub with me. And now that we've established that I am he lady who peeled off bills to pay him for clearing my walk while burping a gassy infant on my shoulder, he's appropriately respectful. Buys me a drink.
It is called a Mind Eraser. Oh, to be in my 20s again.
The other kid, Logan, is trouble. He can't decide whether to choose the path of sending me his resume and pursuing employment or flirting with me and pursuing a one night stand.
I'll entertain the first idea. A recruiter is always recruiting.
The second idea is just ridiculous.
Never. Gonna. Happen.
Not. That. Desperate.
Logan has been out for a cigarette (which would be a deal breaker even if he were my age, single, gorgeous and independently wealthy. Mama's not a fan.) but returns shortly after I've downed my Mind Eraser and bought a round of beers for Jack and me. Least I can do for the kid who took on 300 feet of sidewalk completely against his will because his mother made him.
He begins to flirt with me.
I tell him that he's just asked me for a job opportunity and he would be wise to treat the rest of our conversation like I am his potential employer.
He decides to tell me that I am hot. A cougar.
Now I have heard everything. I tell him that he really needs to look around the bar for someone his own age.
He tells me he is 39 (which would still be too young) and asks the female bartender to corroborate his story.
She's my kind of girl. She tells him to get over himself and tells me he is 27.
I try to put things in perspective for him. I remind him that I was probably having a perfectly legal drink in this very pub he night his mother brought him home from the hospital in a diaper and onesy.
But he is undeterred. Tells me that when he returns from the men's room, he's going to kiss me.
I tell him that that is how I'd know he's not my age. No one in their 40s would ever try to double up and get a date and a job out of the same pick up situation on a Saturday night in a bar. A or B. Never all of the above.
He walks (staggers) in the general direction of the men's room and I look at Jack.
"That's my cue. Cover me." And with that, I walk out the door and head for home. There are girls in tight jeans and Mardi Gras beads dancing on the bar. The crowd is lively, laughing. My hair still looks fabulous.
But I am cutting through the municipal parking lot to disappear into the shady dark neighborhood I live in.
I am asleep before Charlotte texts me asking if she should come to the pub.
He's a decent kid, Jack, whose mother used to make him shovel my sidewalk. He's just a little shocked to be sharing a corner of the bar at the Pub with me. And now that we've established that I am he lady who peeled off bills to pay him for clearing my walk while burping a gassy infant on my shoulder, he's appropriately respectful. Buys me a drink.
It is called a Mind Eraser. Oh, to be in my 20s again.
The other kid, Logan, is trouble. He can't decide whether to choose the path of sending me his resume and pursuing employment or flirting with me and pursuing a one night stand.
I'll entertain the first idea. A recruiter is always recruiting.
The second idea is just ridiculous.
Never. Gonna. Happen.
Not. That. Desperate.
Logan has been out for a cigarette (which would be a deal breaker even if he were my age, single, gorgeous and independently wealthy. Mama's not a fan.) but returns shortly after I've downed my Mind Eraser and bought a round of beers for Jack and me. Least I can do for the kid who took on 300 feet of sidewalk completely against his will because his mother made him.
He begins to flirt with me.
I tell him that he's just asked me for a job opportunity and he would be wise to treat the rest of our conversation like I am his potential employer.
He decides to tell me that I am hot. A cougar.
Now I have heard everything. I tell him that he really needs to look around the bar for someone his own age.
He tells me he is 39 (which would still be too young) and asks the female bartender to corroborate his story.
She's my kind of girl. She tells him to get over himself and tells me he is 27.
I try to put things in perspective for him. I remind him that I was probably having a perfectly legal drink in this very pub he night his mother brought him home from the hospital in a diaper and onesy.
But he is undeterred. Tells me that when he returns from the men's room, he's going to kiss me.
I tell him that that is how I'd know he's not my age. No one in their 40s would ever try to double up and get a date and a job out of the same pick up situation on a Saturday night in a bar. A or B. Never all of the above.
He walks (staggers) in the general direction of the men's room and I look at Jack.
"That's my cue. Cover me." And with that, I walk out the door and head for home. There are girls in tight jeans and Mardi Gras beads dancing on the bar. The crowd is lively, laughing. My hair still looks fabulous.
But I am cutting through the municipal parking lot to disappear into the shady dark neighborhood I live in.
I am asleep before Charlotte texts me asking if she should come to the pub.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Where Everybody Knows Your Name
I walk the 4 blocks to the pub. I give myself a pep talk the entire time. I will find friends. I will not be the 40-something loser standing alone at the bar for more than a minute. I will be welcomed into the warm embrace of friends or neighbors (or both!) in seconds.
I walk in the door. I hate the way this bar is laid out. When you walk through the door, everyone's back is to you. You feel like a first class loser.
I walk directly to the empty spot at the bar directly across from the door. It would normally be a little too close to the musicians, but tonight, praise The Lord, there aren't any and I need not venture all the way into the bar. I order a beer. An IPA. The bartender is a young girl I have seen here before. Her bar partner is a guy who used to wait on me and Scott. He seems confused that I am alone. He needs to get over it. But all in all, it is a pretty comfortable scene.
I am immediately approached by a young man. He says he won a couple of free drinks and offers me a shot. I refuse for the moment. He offers me some Mardi Gras beads instead. Those I accept.
We start to talk. At least there is someone to talk to, even if he is wearing a two-foot tall hat designed to look like a pint of Guinness with the requisite Bishop's collar.
He is clearly half my age. So I start a conversation about work. A safe, simple question asking what he does for a living.
He decides to tell me about how famous his parents are and why he's not working at the moment. Given the economy, I bet this conversation is not so different from countless others happening across the nation.
He asks me what I do for a living and I tell him. He is immediately gunning for a job. So, being in Talent Acquisition, I start to screen him like I would anyone else. Subtle, nonthreatening questions that tease out what a person is made of. He seems like he has the chops. At least I have someone to talk to while I wait for all those friends and neighbors to show up!
And then we are approached by his friend; a guy he went to prep school with. A guy who grew up across the street from me.
"Mrs. Royal?"
I cringe. And then I explain.
This is about to get very weird.
I walk in the door. I hate the way this bar is laid out. When you walk through the door, everyone's back is to you. You feel like a first class loser.
I walk directly to the empty spot at the bar directly across from the door. It would normally be a little too close to the musicians, but tonight, praise The Lord, there aren't any and I need not venture all the way into the bar. I order a beer. An IPA. The bartender is a young girl I have seen here before. Her bar partner is a guy who used to wait on me and Scott. He seems confused that I am alone. He needs to get over it. But all in all, it is a pretty comfortable scene.
I am immediately approached by a young man. He says he won a couple of free drinks and offers me a shot. I refuse for the moment. He offers me some Mardi Gras beads instead. Those I accept.
We start to talk. At least there is someone to talk to, even if he is wearing a two-foot tall hat designed to look like a pint of Guinness with the requisite Bishop's collar.
He is clearly half my age. So I start a conversation about work. A safe, simple question asking what he does for a living.
He decides to tell me about how famous his parents are and why he's not working at the moment. Given the economy, I bet this conversation is not so different from countless others happening across the nation.
He asks me what I do for a living and I tell him. He is immediately gunning for a job. So, being in Talent Acquisition, I start to screen him like I would anyone else. Subtle, nonthreatening questions that tease out what a person is made of. He seems like he has the chops. At least I have someone to talk to while I wait for all those friends and neighbors to show up!
And then we are approached by his friend; a guy he went to prep school with. A guy who grew up across the street from me.
"Mrs. Royal?"
I cringe. And then I explain.
This is about to get very weird.
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
Wild Irish Rose
So I wait patiently and look for the signs that there is some Universal, On High, Grand Plan for my life. It would be so nice to see the signs up front rather than figuring it all out after the horse has left the barn. Or the man has left your life.
And the signs are all very confusing. Stop. Go. One way. Forget it. Share the road. Low flying plane. I have no idea what I am doing.
And I am getting bored again.
As the next weekend rounds the corner, Craig and I begin to chat about the possibility of seeing each other. Rollercoaster up!
Who would have thought that I would have the more predictable life? I have the whack-job ex-husband. The unheard of custody schedule. The hellish work demands. The home and garden obligations that rival a labor camp. I can keep a lot of plates in the air. I just can't seem to find a way to work this plate into circulation. And when I can, it often flies off in another direction and sometimes smashes to smithereens. Rollercoaster down.
St. Patrick's day is coming. On a weekend to boot. I would love to show him the pubs in the neighborhood on the high holiday. All the traditions. All the colorful locals. Wear the drinking gloves.
On Friday night, I am out with work friends celebrating someone's (long overdue) retirement when Craig texts something flirty and adorable. I am so wildly attracted to him I ask him which one of us is getting into the car and driving in the other's direction. I can no longer even pretend to care that the retiree is leaving forever.
Craig admits to family obligations. Wishes he could see me, but can't.
I flirt a little and tell him he needs to find a way to escape soon. I won't put my heart on ice for long.
He flirts back. It is almost enough.
Except that Saturday night comes and I am bored. And I am inside-out thinking that the High Holiday was passing me by and would not fall on a weekend for another 5 years. I'd be in my 50s. The thought gives me the vapors.
I text Charlotte. She tells me to get dressed and go to the Pub. I think going alone is icky.
She reminds me that it is a neighborhood pub and statistically it is a given that I will know about 25% of the people in the bar.
I agree but still think it is icky.
She tells me she will join me there after the dinner gig she has been invited to.
I consider the idea. I am showered and looking fabulous. I have great jeans and a green shirt on. My hair is stunning. I can't fathom wasting this good a hair day on a rerun of Dirty Dancing. I will not put Baby in a corner.
Scott texts me. I don't remember the reason. But I tell him I am wigging about going out by myself. He tells me that he goes out by himself all the time (I bet). I say I tell him I never do. He says with a little notice he'd have joined me. I am not sure how I feel about that exactly, but it sounds a lot less lonely than what I am about to do. And it sounds a lot like something Charlotte would strangle me with her purse straps over.
But I put on a little perfume and walk out the door and put my feet on the road to perdition.
And the signs are all very confusing. Stop. Go. One way. Forget it. Share the road. Low flying plane. I have no idea what I am doing.
And I am getting bored again.
As the next weekend rounds the corner, Craig and I begin to chat about the possibility of seeing each other. Rollercoaster up!
Who would have thought that I would have the more predictable life? I have the whack-job ex-husband. The unheard of custody schedule. The hellish work demands. The home and garden obligations that rival a labor camp. I can keep a lot of plates in the air. I just can't seem to find a way to work this plate into circulation. And when I can, it often flies off in another direction and sometimes smashes to smithereens. Rollercoaster down.
St. Patrick's day is coming. On a weekend to boot. I would love to show him the pubs in the neighborhood on the high holiday. All the traditions. All the colorful locals. Wear the drinking gloves.
On Friday night, I am out with work friends celebrating someone's (long overdue) retirement when Craig texts something flirty and adorable. I am so wildly attracted to him I ask him which one of us is getting into the car and driving in the other's direction. I can no longer even pretend to care that the retiree is leaving forever.
Craig admits to family obligations. Wishes he could see me, but can't.
I flirt a little and tell him he needs to find a way to escape soon. I won't put my heart on ice for long.
He flirts back. It is almost enough.
Except that Saturday night comes and I am bored. And I am inside-out thinking that the High Holiday was passing me by and would not fall on a weekend for another 5 years. I'd be in my 50s. The thought gives me the vapors.
I text Charlotte. She tells me to get dressed and go to the Pub. I think going alone is icky.
She reminds me that it is a neighborhood pub and statistically it is a given that I will know about 25% of the people in the bar.
I agree but still think it is icky.
She tells me she will join me there after the dinner gig she has been invited to.
I consider the idea. I am showered and looking fabulous. I have great jeans and a green shirt on. My hair is stunning. I can't fathom wasting this good a hair day on a rerun of Dirty Dancing. I will not put Baby in a corner.
Scott texts me. I don't remember the reason. But I tell him I am wigging about going out by myself. He tells me that he goes out by himself all the time (I bet). I say I tell him I never do. He says with a little notice he'd have joined me. I am not sure how I feel about that exactly, but it sounds a lot less lonely than what I am about to do. And it sounds a lot like something Charlotte would strangle me with her purse straps over.
But I put on a little perfume and walk out the door and put my feet on the road to perdition.
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