Inferiority Complex

I weeble and wobble on Don's arm into the dealership clutching the things that I can think to retrieve from my car.

My EZ Pass, my parking garage chip, my iPhone charger. I grab my insurance card and my thingamadoo that lets me listen to my iPhone while driving and my Bluetooth (earwig) and my prized college reunion CD.  I leave the beach chair. If someone at the dealership wants to steal it, karma will give them a wicked sunburn.

I call the number on the insurance card.  A lovely man answers. I am sure he thinks I am a complete kook when I explain what I have just seen.

Not at all.

He is as calm as a priest.  Tells me it happens all the time.

What??? Why have none of the vast collection of friends and acquaintances I have ever had such a preposterous experience.

I file the claim.  No blips or bumps or speed traps. I am waiting for them to nail me at the end once the 3000 dollar bill has been amassed.

I turn to Don as I hang up. "What do I drive home?  What do I drive for the next few weeks???"  They have exactly one car on the lot. The bo-ring gray Corolla. The Enterprise Rental down the block closed conveniently a half hour ago.  No chance I can go and get a more stylish car there. A Hummer perhaps. Or something, anything that doesn't scream, "I am a low budget soccer Mom. Pity me. Can I please merge?"

I sign the multitude of papers and get into the car. The girl at the counter comes out to fill out all the inspection papers. What is scratched and what is dented and what the mileage is. She seems to pity me. Somehow I know we relate. She is a beautiful, stylish girl who gets completely made up and puts on a fabulous outfit and great jewelry to work in a dealership that smells like tire rubber and those little pine tree shaped air fresheners people buy to hang by their dashboards so their cars don't smell like gym socks and fast food. We are both boiling over with the need to never come back here ever again.

I decide to make her life easier. I gush about how much I love the car and how much I appreciate her help and then peel out as quickly as the 4-cylinder engine and automatic transmission will allow me to.

I want to die. I have motor envy.

Living In One's Car

I walk down the street thinking I will  barely have enough time to buy the cup of coffee let alone finish it.

I am on my second 20 ounce cup and my fifth biscotti and have written about three blog entries before I realize I have been sitting in the Farmer's Market for far too long for it to have been a simple issue.

I finish my coffee and log off of the iPad and walk back to the dealership. And once there, I sit some more. In fact I have one of their complimentary cups of swill disguised as coffee before my phone rings.

I look around as I answer and tell the Toyota man that I am in the lobby. We find each other, make eye contact and he waves me over.

"So what's up with my car, Don?" I ask, looking at his embroidered shirt.  He has a lot of papers on the desk in front of him.

"About your car," he begins.

"Yes, what about my car?" I interrupt.  I have been waiting for nearly three hours (only a very slight exaggeration, mind you).

"We should walk outside," he says.

Why? So my obscenity-laced swearing doesn't disturb your other customers?  So the loony bin people can throw a net over my head without chasing me around the garage when you tell me what you are about to charge me?

I start looking at the papers on Don's desk, thanking God once again for granting me the ability to read and add upside down just as swiftly and efficiently as I do right side up.

"What is that note on your papers there that says '$2,000???' And what is that note about a back order?  What exactly is going on, Don, my friend?" I am trying and failing to some degree not to raise my voice and become screechy.  My inner Estelle is scissor kicking to the surface like an Olympic platform diver.

"That's why we should go outside. I need to show you."

Now I am convinced that some numb skull technician who thinks my 6-speed off-roading manual transmission behemoth vehicle seemed like a lot of fun to drive barreled into traffic and plowed blindly into a cement truck.

I speed walk with Don to my car trying to control my breathing.

He opens the hood and stands in front of it for a moment.

"Some squirrels built a nest..."

"WHAAAAATTTTT???"

"Some squirrels built a nest under your hood and have chewed a bunch of holes in your wiring harness. It is the wiring unit for the entire car and in this condition the car really is unsafe to drive.  You could be stranded anywhere at any time.  It needs to be replaced, and the part is nearly $2,000.  And then there is the labor.  And the part is on national back order for 10 days."

I look under the hood. Clearly half a dozen squirrels have bellied up to the wiring harness and made it their personal buffet.  It is chewed to bits. And there is quite a nest underway under the hood as well. They have made themselves quite a little man cave. All that is missing is the Keg-o-rator. They have probably been traveling back and forth across the bridge with me for weeks as stowaways (though I can't blame them for not abandoning ship in Camden. I don't even want to get out of my car).

I practically swoon.  Don holds my arm and tells me we need to get my insurance card so he can talk to my agent when I call in the claim.

I look in the glove box for the insurance card and am secretly hoping I find a paper bag to breathe into while I am there.

Car Sense

Did I tell you about my car?

The car we took to DC, Kate named it Denzel, was a rental.

A bland, gray, unembellished, base model Toyota Corolla. Bo-ring!

Instead of my zippy, behemoth, off-roading, 6-gear manual transmission Space Shuttle of a car (my divorce present to myself...instead of a Hummer which I was convinced would be too much on a variety of levels), we are traveling (however slowly) in a mundane, garden variety, can't-find-it-in-a-crowded-lot Corolla.

Not by choice, mind you. I was forced!

One day, about 4 days after having left the dealership following an oil change and some kind of frivolous check up, half of the so-called repairs of which were emphatically declined, as I drove to the pool, all the lights on my dashboard illuminated.

Christmas comes early in the interior of my car. Yay.

At the time, I was still comfortable talking with Scott (We'll get to that) and had called him to ask what could possibly be wrong that would make my seatbelt, airbag, VSC brake system, etc etc etc all come on at the same time.

Scott explained that cars are not run on individual fuses like our father's cars. Everything is computerized and connected. I'd need to take it to the dealership and have them perform a diagnostic (Cha-ching!) and have them tell me which of the myriad electrical thingies it could possibly be.

Where is my Dad when I need him?  This is not a job for Super Mom. This is a Dad's job. My Dad would have relished it.  Talking shop with the technician. Questioning why this doo-hickey is connected to that thing-a-ma-bob and why should we pay to disentangled them?

I delay calling until the first warm day of spring. It is 80 degrees and I roll up my windows and turn on the A/C as I cross the bridge.

Warm air.  Warm air blowing all throughout the car.

Not working.

I call the dealership and explain the dilemma - and practically blame them for leaving some kind of cap unsealed or connection loose. Assholes.

On Saturday, I roll into the dealership. I tell them I'll shop in the lovely outdoor mall down the street and to call me when they've recapped or reconnected whatever they failed to do last time, careless fools that they are.

I go off to have coffee and a few biscotti. And I wait.

Damn This Traffic Jam

The evening is a total blast. From the people-watching to the people we meet, to the constant laughter. It is over much too soon.

We dawdle the next morning. Linger over brunch. Have an extra cup of coffee. One more piece of toast. We walk up Embassy Row to visit the National Cathedral. Get razzed on Facebook by friends thinking it would be fitting for us to step into confessionals while we are there. We tour the garden and browse in the gift shop. We eventually stroll back toward the hotel at a glacial pace, admiring the embassies as we do. But once we arrive we have have to face the fact that it all must come to an end. Priscilla has a long drive so she leaves as soon as we reach the hotel. Kate and I drag out our visit just a wee bit longer by enjoying lunch before we go. We go to Jose's restaurant and sit in his section. We do not order by phone. The fun is over.

Eventually we get into my car with our bags and our memories and our gigantic Diet Mountain Dews and drive. Or try to.

We are dismayed beyond redemption at the traffic. A jam that slows thousands of cars to a near stop. It takes us an hour to go a mile. It is infuriating. And we are hungover. It is a toxic combination.

We are detoured. And detoured again. The detour signs must have been placed by some drunken, pranking fraternity boys because they send me and 17 cars behind me the wrong way down a one way street! Kate and I are shrieking. I want to turn around to avoid certain disaster but between the cars zooming toward us and the cars bombing up behind us it is a death defying Duke of Hazard feat at best.

We pull over and turn to Google Maps for a reasonable solution that is not doomed to get us both killed. That would suck.  Kate enters my address into the search field and we obediently follow the directions so confidently offered by the grating woman's voice endured by many a Google Maps user.

We are northbound at last but suddenly Betty, as we have come to call her, tells us to exit shortly thereafter. We do as she says (what do we know? She's the maps guru!) and when we get our bearings we realize that we are heading back to DC! Right into the traffic we just left.

Kate starts the search again. More of the same. A few twists and turns and we are right back on the highway with the Washington Monument looming in the windshield.

We pull over in a dicey little slum to figure out how not to be The Griswalds. I look at Google Maps swearing at Betty under my breath.

I begin to retype my address and realize that there are hundreds of addresses that begin with my house number and street name. The first one, the one Kate had selected, is in Georgia. Hence all the u-turning and screaming at us to go south.

I choose the right address and we are on the road once more. Betty seems much more relaxed now.

Another Girls Weekend come and gone. An adventure from door to door. Typical. I can hardly wait for the next one.

Motoring

We zoom around a corner and up a crowded street. And we stop.

And we sit. And we sit some more.

Our driver who had seemed  to be oblivious to our incessant chattering holds up his hand as if to silence us as he gets radioed.  I think it is a nervy thing to do but don't blame him. He'd have a hard time hearing an air horn over the racket we are making in the back seat.

He turns and looks directly at us. For a moment I think he is going to reprimand us for disturbing his conversation with God-only-knows-who. But no.

"Ladies, the Presidential motorcade is coming through up ahead very shortly.  I'm afraid we are stuck right here until it passes and traffic is permitted to move. This may be a while. I hope you understand."

Oh, we understand. We understand perfectly. We understand that our precious few hours of Girls Weekend are ticking away while we sit with our legs politely crossed in a this effing stationery car. With no cocktails, for Chrissake.

I reach for my wallet without hesitation, and in fact we all reach for our wallets. They are flying open and bills are whooshing in all directions as we assemble a little pile of cash to cover the fare and the tip and maybe his first beer of the night. Kate hands the driver the pile and I hear her making some excuse as I open the door and reach for Priscilla's hand.

In one fluid motion we are out of the car and walking toward the W. 

I will admit that it is a thrill to see the motorcade go by.  It is nearly silent. Police, long black cars, fortified black SUVs, helicopter support, motorcycle escorts. Somewhere in all that fanfare are Barack and Michelle.
Flying by us. All of us on our way to an evening out, filled with anticipation.

The walk takes its usual form. We walk. We talk (what else?). We joke. At one point Priscilla begins to tell a story that gets us all laughing. Laughing so hard in fact that Priscilla can't continue to speak and Kate finishes the story, which gets us laughing harder still. And before the story is even finished we have had to stop walking in favor of bending over double with hysterics.  We are wiping tears of laughter from our faces and crossing our legs so as not to pee, we are laughing so hard. A spectacle, no doubt. You'd think by now we'd remember to stash extra panties in out purses for moments like this.

Once we've sufficiently recovered and the abdominal muscle cramping has subsided, we make our way to the W where we are quickly ushered to the rooftop bar.  From there we can see the Presidential helicopter taking off from the White House repeatedly, circling the Washington Monument and returning. I wonder if it is typical Saturday night amusement for the First Children while the Secret Service babysits and the First Parents enjoy an evening out as a couple.

We order champagne just for fun. Seems like everyone in Washington is out for a fun night. None more so than us. Cheers!

First Stop, Boredom

We start at a typically swanky hotel no matter where you are on the planet. It can only be better on THIS weekend, in this city. We are not disappointed. We arrive, are greeted as though we might be Kate Middleton, Pippa and a slutty friend in a great dress. We are offered signature cocktails and expertly decorated White House cookies and escorted to a gorgeous mahogany bar to join the party.

Party? What party? Join the "bunch of suits drinking mundane cocktails and talking politics and filling all the available air with so much boring that we practically all suffer acute asphyxia upon crossing the threshold." Yawn. No one remotely interesting. No one even notices we've walked in, and let me tell you, we were noticeable.

Eyes rolling, we politely excuse ourselves, making an excuse to the overly cheerful (God love her) sensibly dressed hostess who can't understand why we'd ever leave such an obvious powerfully packed room full of navy suits. And that's just the women.

Priscilla says we'd love to stay however we've just now realized we'd be late for another engagement. But we'd love to return for the after party. Hint, hint.

Upon hearing the words "after party," Hans, one of the hotel people whose job is just nebulous enough for us to realize that he is the key to everything fun going on in the hotel, approaches us and asks us how he can help us this evening. We need a cab, Hans, and maybe CPR, the damn party was so effing boring in the bar. He points to the Invitation Only party in a private ground floor room with iced glass windows that only allow you to notice that there are black tuxedos and beaded dresses beyond. "That's where the beautiful people are. You should be there."

We couldn't agree more.

Kate, ever the optimist, asks if she can get us in. He says he can't without losing his job, but he can get us a cab to the hottest bar in town if we follow him.

Through the tunnel and into the catacombs we walk with Hans. We are just squinting out of the dark and into the late day sun when a black car pulls up in front of us and we see Hans leaning in to give the driver directions. He turns and hands Priscilla his card. Tells her the After Party starts at midnight. Please come back as his guests.

We pile into the car, thank Hans, assure him we'll see him later and zoom off the beaten Secret Service path on our way to the roof top bar of the W. 

Happy, Ours

Over the course of the day, as we traipsed hither and yon all over our Nation's Capitol, we realized we had come to DC on a very favorable weekend. Not only was the weather absolutely picture perfect, it was also White House Correspondents' Dinner weekend. All of DC was overrun with shiny black limos and Escalades, all manner of press, Hollywood glitterati, and not-so-Secret Service.  Hotels and restaurants were poised for everything and anything (except maybe Jose who seemed a little reluctant when we first made our outrageous suggestion, however successful the arrangement). Service was its smiley, shiny, accommodating best.

After umpteen beers and a mystery bruschetta flatbread pizza, the gals and I walked (some more) around Du Pont Circle to the front of our hotel to begin the ritualistic primping routine.

This is always a favorite part of any Girls Weekend. All the clothes and shoes and jewelry and makeup and hair products come out to play. We share, we compare, we try on outfits for approval. We  even try to find ensembles that make us look like we belong together.

No, that isn't to say we try to match. That would just be creepy and weird and Brady Bunch. No, we dress as though we have planned for the same occasion. So instead of me being, for instance, in jeans and a tank top, and Kate being in a skirt and cardi, and Priscilla wearing a ball gown, we dress to the same level of dressiness. Weird as it sounds, we all want to be similarly over dressed, under dressed or perfectly turned out for any establishment or party we go to. It takes some coordinating, and sometimes trading, or tweaking, or even overhauling.

The music is on, the hair driers are blowing, makeup is passing from hand to hand, perfumes and hair products are being admired. All on a good beer buzz.

And when we have decided we have reached the pinnacle of perfection, we head to the first establishment we've decided upon.

In this case, since it is early, we decide to maintain our buzz in the much-touted complimentary happy hour in the hotel fountain lobby.

It is where we get our people watching engines fired up and humming. The attire. The manners. The misguided plastic surgery. The poorly thought out tattoos.The conversational missteps. It is just hilarious.

And when we've tired of the budget Chardonnay and the powder mix margarita punch (whatever that is) we reapply our lipstick and head out to hail a cab. The evening has started. We've got our Girl on.

Gab Fest

We schlep home when the bar staff has stacked all the chairs on top of the pub tables around us. Hint, hint.

I am not sure how we got home. No one knew exactly where we were in relation to our hotel and exactly no one was paying attention as we walked. Yakkety, yakkety, yakkety.  Oh, look!  Isn't that our hotel?

Someone remembers the room number. Someone else finds a key. Someone else leads the way to the elevator. Shoes are kicked off. Outfits are flung. PJs are put on (in some cases, backwards.) Soon we are all snoozing.

We wake to find that it is a glorious day. Sun shining in an azure sky with big, puffy, white happy-looking clouds.

A round of teeth brushing, a little moisturizer, athletic clothes for all, and we head for breakfast with little packets of Tylenol to wash down with our OJ. 

We rehash the evening's antics over eggs and coffee and fill in the fuzzy parts for each other. We also decide what to do first on this glorious morning.

We decide on a walk to the White House. Once we are on the Mall we can decide from there where to go and what to do.

What never needs a moment's planning however, is what in the world we will find to talk about.

We go from Du Pont Circle to the Lincoln Memorial (once we got our alcohol damaged collective sense of direction ironed out) and the WWII (where we take photos of my Diary State ladies by the Wisconsin plaque, natch) and the Jefferson Memorial, and then the FDR (where we stop for photos with Eleanor's hands and Franklin's beloved pup), walk by the Washington Monument (covered in scaffolding thanks to earthquake damage) the length of the Mall, up the Capitol steps, past the Newseum (where I offer a 10 minute dissertation on what a wonderful museum it is), say a prayer for my Dad at the Navy Memorial, scope out countless possible locations for tonight's festivities, chat about each of the Smithsonians that we pass, finally make it to the White House where we are alarmed by a variety of troubling political demonstrations, and all the while as we trek for 5 and a half hours, we look for pubs with outdoor seating in the sun so we can get the much craved hair o' the dog beer and still enjoy the beauty of the day.

We find one, and after ordering our first beer from Jose, realize that the bar is actually attached to the backside of our own hotel.  So close, yet so far away. 

We quickly realize that Jose is flying solo as the only waiter working in the early afternoon (it is only about 3 pm) and confined to the dining room where the blue hairs and the families with toddlers will surely be piling into booths soon. We go inside and order the second round, and Kate decides that the arrangement is not going to work. Leaving the table mid-gab is a total buzz kill and doesn't exactly get the beer served on time.

When Jose appears with our second round, Kate has a deal to offer him. If he gives us his cell phone number we'll phone in our orders. It's a win-win. He doesn't have to keep coming out to check on us, and we don't waste precious imbibing and gabbing time walking inside to find him. He thinks we are a bunch of kooks but probably notes that we are kooks with piles of cash and it is in his best interest to comply. I put his cell phone number in my phone and label it "Jose."

A beer later, we test the waters. "Hello, is Jose there?"  Bingo! Beers delivered without anyone having to tighten an ass muscle to get out of a chair.

It is Girls Weekend. The Girls are in control. All is right with the world.

Weekend Update

The high drama and excitement of getting there now behind us, we settle into the regular groove of Girls Weekends.  Updates on job searches, kids, friends who are not with us, men, cocktails.

In telling Priscilla all the details of the blossoming excitement I have over Craig, I am feeling pretty good about things. Somehow saying the details out loud make them meaningful.

And then she asks to be brought up to speed on the Scott aftermath.

She is horrified that we have been texting, though she understands the desire to reach a place of peace with the whole thing, as opposed to smouldering anger for the rest of my life. She seeks reassurance from me that I am not "in over my head" and not about to fall for some game Scott is very likely to be playing. She asks how I feel. 

How do I feel?  What do I feel?  I feel fine. I feel nothing in particular. I have reached a place of perfect pitch indifference.

Kate chimes in with her impressions of our phone call on the way (bringing up the sore subject of our outrageously long and circuitous commute...)  Priscilla seems a little troubled by the fact that there was a phone call at all.

He was sending us off with a "Have a great time, dear. Don't worry about me and the kids, just enjoy yourself!" call????  Isn't that a little too involved in my life???

Possibly, but then I confess the truly troubling part.

The frequency and timing of the texts. Early in the morning when he's first awake. Good night texts. Good luck on your interview texts. More texts than I get from Kate or Charlotte or my kids or anyone else whose friendship I put ahead of the line of Scott's in the pecking order. They are texts that I would send to someone I am having a relationship with. 

Not good.

We let the subject drop while we buzz around DC finding cute bars and fun crowds and checking out the locations of places we want to make sure we go to the next night. I am already feeling like a weekend is not long enough and one of the job seekers among us needs to get a job here so we can visit.

Later in the night...much later, as the last fun bar has sent its last standing barmaid over to our table with what will be our last prickly pear margaritas, Priscilla's brain returns to the subject of Scott.

She takes both of my hands in both of her hands and moves in close to my face to talk to me, looking directly into my now bloodshot eyes. It is a sobering moment, if not a sober discussion.

She says, in the gravest of tones, "Listen to me. You have a pretty good thing brewing with Craig. It could turn out to be something very good.  But NO MAN is going to tolerate you getting texts from Scott at all hours of the day and night. His ghost is nothing more than a threat to any man who knows what you had together and wants a relationship with you. If you want to get your life off the ground, you have to stop texting with Scott. No contact at all."

I can tell she expects an argument. A justification. An excuse.

I don't have one. In fact I completely agree. "You are absolutely right. On all counts. There is no room for that. It is inappropriate and unfair to any man I hope to share my life with. I have responded to my last text from Scott."  We clink glasses.

And with these words, I know I am going to have to tell him. Tell him something. Tell him that he can not stand in the wings and stage whisper into my new life.

But for now, I have to do nothing. Do nothing but enjoy Girls Weekend with the girls who know my heart better than any man.

Not So Happy Hour

Kate and I tag-team peeing, getting parking passes, obtaining room keys and texting Priscilla. We race to the room to reapply a little lipstick and perfume, and tweak our outfits. Well, Kate's is actually cute and presentable if not for the blob of hummus on her shirt, so she has to find a new one. I had worn my outfit to work and so need a complete overhaul.

Not that I dress like a rare book collector for work and couldn't go out in the same ensemble. But it is not a true and correct indication of how I see my zippy self. It just happens to be a combination of very stylish and hip blouse over cute cami paired with exquisitely fitting cream colored pants. Or slacks as my mother would have called them. That's the kiss of death right there, even if the shoes earned bonus points. I had this same conversation out loud with Kate as we approached the cute guy with the boat. She looked Happy Hour Chic. I looked like a beleaguered office slave who had to conform for professional survival and forgot that I owned a push-up bra or a pair of pink cowboy boots in the first place.

While we primp at neck-breaking speed, we get a profanity-laced text from Priscilla. She had grown weary of the free beer and wine selection (or more more precisely, the portion sizes) at the hotel Happy Hour, and the company along with it, and had taken her fine self to a nearby club. She gives us the name, the approximate global coordinates, and threatens us with facial deformity if we do not get our collective ass to the bar pronto.

We arrive, quite literally, moments later to find Priscilla surrounded by a large collection of Swedish men who may have mistaken her for one of their own. I suppose her swearing in a distinctly American dialect dashed that notion. But they were happy to buy her drinks and chat with her until we arrived, and for some time after. The Swedish Football Team surround Priscilla in a huddle as we approached (Do the Swedish even play football?) but parted like the Red Sea as we skulked in. Backed off as we apologized for our DC-by-way-of-Ogden, Utah road tripping proclivities, and ordered a round of stiff drinks.

The trailer once again leveled, we were off to the races on a fabulous Girls' Weekend.

Boats, Beer and Bobbing and Weaving

Bored and dying for the fun to start, Kate and I take a detour. It is her suggestion. She knows the way.

I am also convinced that any suggestion Kate makes is fraught with the potential for adventure. Life with her in the passenger seat is never dull.

So over the next few hours she ghost texts for me connecting to people we know in the area, we fly down roads I've never been on like the valedictorian of Bat Outta Hell Driving School, and try to let Priscilla know how very late we are going to be.

But that isn't to say we could not be earlier.

No, we decide to enjoy some fun of our own if we must detour all over God's green Earth on the way to DC. Thelma and Louise would be so proud. We had a ripping good time, no one got robbed and our car never once bombed toward the edge of a cliff (at least not that we were aware of...)

We stopped and joined a very cool and quite handsome man for an impromptu boat ride. We drank locally brewed bottles of beer and toured the Chesapeake, kicking off our shoes and letting the wind blow through our hair, which had begun to feel like a pair of bad wigs from the stifling office atmosphere. We docked and had some scrumptious food, downed another beer, laughed our heads off, took some hilarious pictures and reluctantly returned to the car to rejoin traffic. DC was almost less appealing by comparison.

I strapped on my Speed Racer helmet and Kate opened her bag of tricks.

No wine in her Mary Poppins's carpet bag today, but she did have a handy stash of rice crisps and some delicious hummus tucked in with her Daytimer and her Blackberry, which had heaved its last breath while we were still in front of her building. (Dang! Would you look at that...no one can reach me all weekend. Boo hoo.)

So as I jettisoned us toward DC with absolutely no sense of direction whatsoever, Kate scooped and shoveled mounds of hummus into each of our mouths and I careened and bobbed and weaved through jam after jam with expert precision (at least according to us). A container of hummus, a whole pack of crisps, and a million crumbs later, we screeched into the parking lot of our tony little Du Pont Circle hotel.

We both need to pee and Priscilla is pissed.

Highway to Hell

Priscilla, Kate and I decide to take a trip. Think "Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure."

We book a hotel in DC and plan to meet on a random Friday when Priscilla can find a break in her extremely bountiful social schedule, Kate can get a weekend pass from parenthood, and I don't have custody of Hil and Pat. The Holy Trinity of freedoms.

I bail out of the office (because who cares what I accomplish now...) at 3 pm on Friday and race across the bridge to retrieve Kate from Hell's twin sister, her office. We barrel into traffic like bats out of Hell, giving rise to images of Thelma and Louise to every person I nearly run off the road.

Soon enough we are stuck in wicked traffic and fending off The Crankies. Priscilla will beat us there, get to the bar first and become the de facto Party Queen while we are still inching through Delaware. Boo.

And as I sit at the wheel dictating texts for Kate to send from my phone, Scott calls.

I answer the phone, looking at Kate for her reaction which is somewhere between WTF and morbid curiosity.

We exchange greetings and pleasantries, and have a nice chat.He tells me that his daughter and her boyfriend have broken up, that he himself still maintains a friendship with the ex-boyfriend in a bizarre breach of parental loyalty, that the boy is now dating some high school girl that his daughter got a job at the place where all three of them work, etc etc etc. Convenience store meets Peyton Place. He asks about my job search, about the kids, about the trip to DC. Tells me he had so much fun when I took him there for his birthday. I recall the trip very fondly myself. It was truly one of the better memories I've filed away for posterity. I still chuckle when I recall the dude picking his pants out of his ass crack at the Irish bar.

When the call has ended, Kate looks at me and says, "What the hell was, THAT?"

And I proceed to tell her that Scott and I might actually be able to be friends. It's a long shot, but I hate to go through life with enemies. She tells me the most alarming thing about the phone call was its pleasant simplicity. No games, no agenda, no posturing. Just pleasant conversation. Like friends should have.

I tell her to make no mistake. He is just walking along the plateau with me. Being patient. Being a good friend. Giving me the space he is smart enough to know I need to get comfortable. And then when my life has once again spun royally out of control, like it routinely does, he is banking on being the one I turn to.

And I assure her I won't.

Buying Signs

So back to Craig. I can't exactly pinpoint what you'd call our relationship. Perhaps if we'd gone through this little interview formality there would be fewer questions.

But like the job interview process, in the absence of the words, "We'd like to make you an offer" you are compelled to make some educated guesses about the things you have observed.

So like any interested hiring manager at any company, he's done some key things that I can take as good indicators.

He stays in touch. Calls or texts. The context of which are very sweet.  Flirtatious. Inquisitive. Supportive. Demonstrate interest. Just like a good recruiter who keeps a candidate warm while all the background activity churns out of one's view (except for the flirting, which would just be creepy).

He keeps asking for dates. And we have fun! And while no one would ever call an interview fun (unless they've been recently sprung from the booby hatch) getting a second or a third interview is always good news. And certainly better than not being invited back.

He says and does all the right things. Tells me I'm beautiful. Is exceptionally generous. Holds my hand. Surprises me with kisses. Holds up his end of the conversation. Laughs at my stories. That isn't to say that all of these things should happen during anyone's interview process - and if they do, you should excuse yourself  for the ladies room and alert the authorities that there is a predatory sexual harasser on the premises who needs to be immobilized and have his twigs and berries cryogenically frozen at once as a matter of public safety. But a good interviewer will perpetuate the conversation and woo a strong candidate that they think they may want to hire. It is the point where the interviewed becomes the interviewer. They playing field shifts to just about level.

And he's interested in meeting my friends. Just like an interviewer who knows good people know other good people, he wants to know the pack you run with. It's like a reference or a referral.  The fact that your best friend is funny, and smart and spontaneous like you seem to be says good things about you. Similarly, if your former colleagues have all gone to Federal Prison for fraud, that waves a caution flag for an employer. You may have just had a better lawyer and managed to avoid the same fate.

So while I am not ready to stop sending out resumes just yet, I think I have a pretty decent thing going, even if it hasn't led to anything formal yet. I could still be the sun in his sky, he just hasn't said so out loud.

Or so I tell myself.

Date v. Interview

I think that the folks who began the "speed dating" thing actually may be onto something.  But the format is a little flawed. They need to think it through a little. It is still a first date, however brief, and therefore still murky and fraught with social injustices.

What if, instead of the endless torture of first dates, where you've committed to drinks and dinner and know that his breath is a deal-breaker when you answer the door and you have to go on for hours feigning interest and maintaining decorum because he's paying, we conducted first round interviews?

One person, either party, does the inviting. Let's just take the sexism out of it. Mama can ask a man to interview. The inviting party is the Interviewer and the Decision Maker.  The person invited is the Candidate. It would help to have the roles clarified a a little, don't you?

At the appointed hour, each party appears at the designated location.  Drinks or whatever are at your own expense.  And then the interview begins, without all the false, posturing, Let's Pretend crap.  The game has high stakes, just like the job interview.

The interviewer has an hour. Can ask whatever questions are meaningful to the the role of, for example, "My Next Boyfriend." And just like a job interview, both sides are assessing the other.

The questions may go like this:

1) Why did you leave your last girlfriend?  Were you fired or did you quit?  Why?  Are you eligible for rehire?

2) Tell me about your family.
And as a natural follow up question:  Your mother sounds like an opinionated, controlling, intrusive pill.   How do you handle that? What would your prior girlfriends say about her?

3) Tell me about a time when you were under pressure to keep a commitment with your friends to do something important to all of you, and your girlfriend wanted you to do something that she considered important with her instead.
- How did you resolve that?
-Is that where that scar came from?

4) Describe in detail the attributes of your favorite past relationship. Texting and calling habits. Number of dates per week.  Frequency of cards, gifts, flowers. Subject matter and context of most frequent arguments.

5) We are about to leave for a dinner party and I say, "I think this dress makes my ass look fat."  Your response should be:
     a - I was just thinking that.
     b - Your ass is fat, but your boobs look fabulous in that dress.
     c - You look fine. We're late.
     d - You look great but if you are not happy with the way you look, go change. I don't mind waiting.
     e - None of the above.

Once the interview has concluded and everyone has said goodbye, the Candidate waits to hear if the interviewer liked him, and wonders if it is a good idea to call and check on the status of his application. One of several things can happen:

• The Interviewer calls with an offer. He aced it.
• The Interviewer calls for another round of interviews with other key stakeholders.  Her sister. Her mother. Her therapist. He can continue in the process or run away while there is still time.
• The Interviewer sends a nicely worded rejection letter. Close but no cigar.
• The Candidate withdraws from consideration formally and dispassionately.  The Interviewer was clearly clinging and neurotic. And who needs that?
• Both parties continue to search, and say as much.

Perhaps then there would be less wondering about phone calls and texts and what each other was thinking.

Just maybe.

No Resume Necessary

And while we are on the subject of the job seeking mambo being more like the dating site cha-cha, what if job applicants did not have to provide a resume per se, but instead composed a little advertisement for themselves? One that would tell you what they really want you to know about them besides their typing speed or where they did their clinical rotations?

No more bullshit about what you've accomplished in your career. Just a checklist of skills you possess and then a personal advertisement. The advertisements would have to be more compelling than some of the cover letters I've been forced to read over the last 2 years.

One might go like this:

I am Joe Jones. I am an exceptional colleague for many reasons, including but not limited to the following:

• Flawless Parking Lot Etiquette - I neither reverse park nor hog more than one space with my careless command of my automobile. 
• Upon arriving at the office, even on Mondays, I make eye contact and say "Good morning," or some other conventional greeting rather than ignoring you using the excuse that I have not had sufficient coffee. I will not greet you with a snarky comment along the lines of "Another day in paradise" or "Is it over yet?" thereby pissing all over your otherwise cheerful disposition.
• Regarding conduct in areas of common use:  I make another pot of coffee and do not leave a mouthful of swill to congeal at the bottom of the burning pot when I've poured the last cup. I flush. I wipe the lasagna shrapnel from the interior of the microwave when my lunch has unexpectedly exploded. I do not leave my leftover pizza in the refrigerator until they've become fertile little bacteria-producing Petri dishes. When I jam the copier or use all the paper, I unjam and reload, even if I think it is someone else's fault. 
• I do not interrupt, roll my eyes, sigh in disgust or begin my counterargument while you are speaking. I also do not make disparaging comments about whatever project you are working on, even if it is truly asinine, based on all observable evidence.
• I have exceptional e-mail manners. I will not SCREAM AT YOU IN ALL CAPS, nor will I use long, flowery, overly complicated, descriptive terms in sentences that go on and on with no end in sight. I get to the point and send the damn thing.  I also refrain from copying an ever-widening pool of people when we are having an e-mail conversation in which we disagree about something. I will not CC or BCC dozens of unnecessary, marginally interested recipients for the sole purpose of attempting to humiliate anyone, nor will I grouse up the food chain.  I will pick up the phone and call you, though I may not give you the warm and fuzzy treatment when I do. 
• I reply, respond, return calls, RSVP, show up on time, arrive prepared etc etc.  I realize that what you are trying to accomplish may depend on me accomplishing something first. Even if what your are doing could most charitably be described as inane. 
• I concentrate on doing my job not covering my ass. The first should render the second unnecessary, at least in my esteemed opinion. 

Yes, I do believe this format might be more useful. 

A Page From Each Other's Playbook

And what if dating sites made you endure all the stressing, candidate-hostile features of employment seeking in your quest to find a reasonably inoffensive-looking, decent human being with a halfway acceptable personality, a relatively stable career, a sense of humor that does not inspire you to reach for the nearest skillet to brain him with, and personal hygiene that does not routinely send you into convulsive fits? 

Like for instance, an application that makes you swear under penalty of Federal purgery charges that your responses to the remarkably intrusive questions are truthful and complete to the best of your knowledge and that discovery of anything to the contrary will result in your public beheading?

Drug tests? Criminal history checks?  Let the buyer decide whether that THC in your system is a deal breaker or a selling point. And let's talk about that International Drug Trafficking smudge on your record before we make any big travel plans.  Was there imprisonment in a Mexican jail involved?  Disorderly Conduct? How disorderly are we talking? Are we talking about a loud party with lots of drunk people doing the Electric Slide in the street or are we talking about Molotov cocktails? 

And what if the job application process were more like the tools used on dating sites?

It has long been taboo to attach your picture to your resume (though some people still do...which always made me want to scream. I am a human resources professional. You don't need to send me your picture. I don't need to know your race, gender, physical attributes or how well you dress to give you an interview. I do however care if you are stupid, which you clearly are...)

But what if it were more the norm?

Wouldn't it save a lot of time to figure out that the guy who looks pretty decent on paper is actually that asshole who carries on loud, foul-mouthed conversations on the train on his cell phone, phoning his buddies with all manner of misogynistic drivel on the express into town BEFORE he sits down across the desk for an interview?

Wouldn't it help to know that Maryann Wentworth is really Maryann Whipple, the girl from high school with the gruesome habit of wiping her incessantly snotty nose on the sleeve of her uniform, and the weapons-grade BO, and the penchant for satanic chanting, BEFORE inviting her in to interview for the customer-facing, complaint resolution position?

Yes, I really do think the two industries should talk...

Truth in Advertising

Let's think about this for a minute.

Let's think about it from a "truth in advertising" point of view.

When you sign up for one of those dating sites you create a profile for yourself. Women try to make themselves sound attractive and fun loving and tread the fine line between being the type a man wants to be around his children and vixen. Like they will tolerate entire Sundays of football without complaint (and may even fetch the beer and nachos for the gang assembled in the Man Cave) or will happily go camping.

Men will fill their profile will the same sort of bullshit about candlelit dinners for two and romantic sunset walks on the beach and that they'll love and adore your kittens as if they were their own. Like they will happily hold your purse while you try on the 40th dress for some distant relative's wedding and gamely sit through countless Sunday brunches with your aging parents or your gaggle of shrill girlfriends with the wimpy husbands.

But what if the dating sites asked you to provide a resume instead, listing in chronological order all the marriages and relationships you've had (omitting all the brief encounters like one would omit the 3 month prison sentences that some jobs inevitably become)?

Names, addresses, length of relationship, accomplishments, reason for leaving.

It might look something like this:

Joe Jones
Kalamazoo, MI
9 years, 3 months
In our time together, I learned all the rules and terminology associated with football, golf and ice hockey. Consistently prepared breakfast and elaborate 4 course dinners on a daily basis and became an expert at laundering and ironing dress shirts with the precise amount of starch. Routinely cleaned urine from around the base of the toilet, removed fossilized blobs of toothpaste from sink basins, and collected random piles of laundry from various and sundry spots about the dwelling.  Provided coaching on closing drawers and closets, appropriate storage of mail, car keys and personal belongings, and acceptable disposal of toenail clippings.
Reason for leaving: Relocation. I relocated to the guest bedroom when I discovered that he was having an affair with his chiropodist.

Or

Ann Jones
Kalamazoo, MI
9 years, more or less
During our relationship I mowed, trimmed, edged, weeded and disposed of countless tons of grass, leaves, branches, sticks and other unsightly yard waste. Prepared for and executed all manner of vehicle maintenance, inclusive of removing squirrel detritus from the where it had become affixed to the grill of her car.  I was given in depth instruction on such things as managing ones spouse's premenstrual bouts with bi-polar disorder, the subtle nuances between listening and pretending to listen to dissertations on shoes, weight loss endeavors, issues with ones mother/sister/co-worker/fellow member of the Fall Gala decorating committee, and how to tell "satin finish" from "eggshell finish" especially when choosing between such wildly different paint colors as are "toasted almond" and "buttered caramel."
Reason for leaving: Better opportunity. Chiropodist is an only child with deceased parents and has a 72 inch plasma screen TV with the NFL channel.

I think this idea has legs!

A Search Is a Search

My job search underway, my inbox forever being filled with emails from head hunters and job boards sites suggesting different "exciting opportunities" for which they just know I'll be a smash, and my resume constantly evolving, I am noticing something.

Admittedly, I may be the last person on the planet to have noticed it, but better late than never.

There are not a lot of differences between searching for the perfect job and searching for the perfect mate.

And I am not just talking about the "needle in a haystack" thing, or the "all the good ones are taken" complaint.

Many of the acts, the people involved, the technology used are remarkably similar between the two searches. (To say nothing of the devastating disappointments...) On any given day, one search, or the other, can be either wildly exciting or crushingly humiliating. Can make you feel validated or insignificant. Worthwhile or not worth a second look.

And frankly, the things that make them different only exist because if a job search were allowed to be more like a search for a mate, there would be a whole lot more discrimination and harassment law suits.

What if they were more the like one another? Just imagine.

Not that I know much about matchmaking sites firsthand, I can see the similarities, having lived vica riously through girlfriends who have used them for years.

Like the Girls Weekend friend who told us, three cocktails into Happy Hour, about the psycho she met on a dating site who appeared normal enough at first blush to warrant a second date.

On that date he asked her (no joke) if she would be so kind as to read his manuscript and plunked the 500 page tome on her lap in the cab.  And then three days later began ritualistically harassing her to hurry up and finish it - leaving increasingly more offensive and foul-mouthed voicemail messages on her machine with artfully articulated suggestions about "what she could do" with her snooty attitude since she had not made the manuscript top priority.

What if things had been different then? What if she had had some of the rights employers have when hiring someone?

What if she had been able to check his references?

"Johnny was an exceptional conversationalist but flunked Anger Management twice and was hospitalized for acute mania following a nude swim in the town fountain after his first book was published."

Next!

But what if?

Slam Dunk

So I send Hil off to school feeling a little uneasy about what might happen with The Piece of Paper.

Not unlike the time my mother, when equally as baffled by a language arts homework question as I had instructed me to write "Beats the hell out of me," on the blank in the workbook. Or a similar time when neither of us could answer the question about who did some inane thing in another reading assignment, had me supply the answer "Mabel Selhorst." I was mildly relieved to learn that this name was neither the name of some suspected mistress of my father's nor the name of some recently arrested prostitute, but that of my ancient neighbor across the street where 3 generations of women lived under one roof, grousing about mankind day in and day out.

I assured Hil that I would do nothing to embarrass her, though she shot me that wrinkled forehead look anyway. Evidently, in her estimation, I am just this side of clueless on what things do and do not mortally humiliate my child. Point taken. I apologize profusely for belting out Band of Gold with Freda Payne with the windows open at the Wawa where the Middle School set gets their beloved smoothies.

I get to work and can not resist checking my phone every few seconds for a missed call or voice mail or text.

And as luck would have it, the school does call...but when I am unable to take the call. Not that I wouldn't have blown off just about everyone short of The Blessed Virgin Mary to take the call, but a potential new employer had called and it is poor form for a job seeker to put the interviewer on hold for anything other than being robbed at gun point.

But I return the call, feathers all puffed up and posturing for a fight with the newest idiot the school district has placed in the Principal's office in the Big Boy Chair.

And to my everlasting amazement, when he came to the phone, he was not only polite, but deferential, admitted that the form was a problem, and committed to throwing it in the shredder. Assured me that Hil would have no problem. Hopes she is feeling better.

When I recovered sufficiently to pick myself up from the industrial grade carpet my cheap-o employer paved the office with, and managed to form words, I found myself smiling as I offered to help rewrite a more effective contract that abides by the law and holds the appropriate people accountable for their own conduct. An Elevator Honor Code.

He sounds overjoyed at the offer (and the free advice) and thanks me. We commit to making it a project for the new school year. We wish each other well and say goodbye.

Now if nailing down a new job were this easy...

They Can't Be Serious

Has this ridiculous school never heard of the Americans with Disabilities Act?  Are they out of their minds?

I turn to Hil and tell her there is no way on God's green Earth that I am signing the "piece of paper," as she called it.

She crinkles up her forehead and says that if I don't, then she won't be able to use the elevator and will have to take the steps with her backpack and crutches. (I am waiting for her to say something about going uphill barefoot in the snow...)

I tell her that I will sign the paper but I need to write a terse little note asking for a phone call.

She asks me what "terse" means.

I tell her that it means, at least in this case, that the principal will be red faced and swearing under his breath when he reads it. It won't be very nice.

Again, with the crinkled brow, she says, "You know I have to hand this to the secretary." (I am imagining sweaty Beatrice gasping.)

I tell her I'll put it in an envelope so she can convincingly say that she has not read any of her mother's insulting little comments that flirt with the very edge of decency.

We have a deal.

In my most artsy handwriting, which to me suggests loudness, I scrawl the following:

"This is absolutely preposterous. Once again you have managed to focus your attention and take a hard line on something completely stupid and continue to avoid doing anything meaningful about the bullying that goes on every day right under your noses. You will absolutely not discipline my child without my specific  permission and will not hold her accountable for the conduct of any of the other little derelicts on the elevator. Have you heard of the ADA?  Look it up. I expect a phone call by the close of business."

A Leg To Stand On

But life, in spite of this latest detour, goes on pretty much as usual. The maddening events at school, the confusing behavior by men, the daily grind of home ownership.

Hil's leg injury, first thought to be a sprain was actually a fracture which brought a whole host of problems bubbling to the surface.

I wonder what quack Lars had taken her to who misdiagnosed the injury and wonder if the quack was not a a person at all, this had just been his half-rate medical guess.

She is on crutches now, with an annoying full-length boot affair affixed to her scrawny little leg for most of the day, and a little immobilizing brace (vice) squeezing her ankle into submission all night. She is as cheerful as a rattlesnake.

When she returns from Lars' house at the end of the week, he's given me all kinds of instructions and notes and hoo-hah about what to do to care for her. As if this weren't a natural instinct of mine. Like I am one of those wild animals in Yosemite that wanders away from my young when I get bored with them. I graciously snatch the crinkled notes from his prissy little hands and jam them disrespectfully in my back pocket without looking at them. I help her  in the door and proceed to close it in his face with a dismissive little wave. Asswipe.

Hil hands me a note  from school that needs to be returned on Monday.  It is a note about using the elevator, according to her.

And all I can think is "Elevator?  We had mimeograph machines and chalkboards when I was there and now you have A/C, energy efficient windows, scanners, smartboards AND an elevator???"  I take the paper from her to see what I have to know.

And I am immediately infuriated.

It is not a helpful little note about how and when the elevator can be accessed by my temporarily disabled child. It is a contract.

Hil is responsible for making sure that no one gets on the elevator with her, except someone specifically designated to help carry her books.

Hil is responsible for proper elevator usage. No horseplay. No noise. No graffiti. No, no Nanette.

If there is any trouble whatsoever, Hil will be subject to detention, a written reprimand and will lose her elevator privileges.

Over my rotting carcass, she will. Mama's on a new mission.

Brave New World

So now I have a work plan and an Other Work plan.

One will be shear torture, doing work for which I have the enthusiasm of a British land slug. I must remain cheerful, swallow my pride, suppress my anger, refrain from lashing out indiscriminately, and tolerate, tolerate, tolerate the sheer lunacy of what goes on around me.

The other will be a mission not unlike those on Survivor.  I am driven to win at any cost.  The competitor in me wants to land a fabulous job before I leave so I can walk about the office preening and cooing about the fabulous new opportunity I have landed simply because I was smart enough to decipher the writing on the wall, take a treasonous position and go over the proverbial wall.

I begin to network - in the form of telling people the news. First, the Chairman of the board I sit on, however temporarily, given the circumstances.  I am deferential and professional. Until she figures out what exactly it is I am prevaricating about the bush over and lets fly with the F bomb.  She is horrified and gasping in disbelief. I love executives like her.

Now that the pantyhose are off and we are talking turkey, she lets me in on a few tidbits of word-around-the-campfire intelligence, unwittingly confirming my suspicions about the changes I anticipated.  Colorful language, name-calling and all. It appeared that I had read the signs correctly.  I was smart to roll the dice and go while the going wasn't too heinous.  She offers to network. She offers to help. She offers to read my resume. She offers to be a reference. And here I thought she'd be disappointed in me.  Who knew?

And all those annoying placement agencies who call me incessantly. They each get a call. Guess who is on the market and will be so grateful when they've landed they will surely give you an exclusive right to their business in the future???? Yes, they are all excruciating to speak with, but business is business.

And all of my former colleagues and work friends in Human Resources departments all over the local area get a cheerful call and a follow up email with my resume attached. The long tentacles of my job search are making their way across the area with the efficiency of The Plague.

By lunch time, I am feeling pretty good about the connections I've made. And I've only stifled overwhelming nausea twice. It is going to be a bumpy 12 weeks.

Moscow Rules

But now I have to concentrate on work. I have a meeting to prepare for and a strategy to execute. And I have to be nimble. I have to stay calm (I've mentioned that this is not a natural state...) and I have to be cool. Can't let anyone see me sweat. And no flinching allowed. Practice practice practice.

When Don and I finally meet, I present him with a work plan.  It is thorough, it is detailed. It is brilliant. He is impressed.

And when we've gone through all the details, he asks a few questions and then says we'll meet as the work progresses and talk about the next 30-60-90 day plan.

I tell him I don't think there will be one.

He looks at me blankly. 

I tell him that this is an exit strategy.  And ask him to listen.

I tell him that I am not at all comfortable with the changes I've seen and what I envision. I tell him that I understand that my position will be eliminated eventually, but in knowing that, I have reached my own conclusions about what is happening as opposed to how it is being couched for the general audience. He leans back and nods.  

I tell him I don't want to stay and wait for the other shoe to drop when someone else decides it's time to drop it.

I would rather choreograph a graceful exit and control how it is blabbed about. Because it will be blabbed about. That we can count on.

He nods again.

I tell him that I think I can tolerate 12 weeks of work without misbehaving (hence that 12 week work plan) and he describes a creative severance package he thinks he can get for me (while he is still in charge - which I don't envision is for long).  I thank him and look at him directly so that he understands that I am serious. I tell him that I will be fair and decent with him so long as he remains fair and decent with me. (This is more a question than a statement).

We shake on hands.  I think we know exactly what each of us knows and what each of us has said, without saying it out loud.

I have assessed the situation correctly. I know more than I should. I am smart not to believe everything I have heard. He is almost envious.

I return to my desk and think about what to say to my team. And all I can see on my bulletin board are the Moscow Rules I have posted on a little piece of paper a former boss had given to me long ago.  (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moscow_Rules).

 How true they are.