Downtime

Let's rewind a minute. We derailed the train and took off down Memory Lane (which runs through some pretty bleak terrain, I must say) way back around the time of my first, and hopefully my only, visit to the Office of the Unwashed Masses.  We have to board the train and put it back on the tracks.  There is lots of ground to cover.

So, at the time of my sojourn into Hell Itself for my eye-opening and eye-stinging visit to the Office of the Unwashed Masses, I had lots of job prospects and a lot of enthusiasm. And I had not yet begun to have beads of sweat form on my brow over money worries. I was going to play it safe, be responsible, make my money last for me.  I would not be running out to buy new sandals and bathing suits en masse, but my lifestyle and the lifestyle the kids enjoy would not really feel the squeeze in any palpable way.  OK, maybe we won't eat out at all, but why would we?  I'm home all day!  I have all the time in the world to prepare lovely, mouthwatering, world class meals!

But I do discontinue having my groceries delivered. It's not that the delivery fee and tip are back breaking. It is just that it is hard to justify the luxury when I have all damn day to shop and put away groceries. And besides, the new grocery store in the area has a Beer Garden (What??????) and gives you discounted gas prices based on your spending.  So if I can brace myself for the Hell that is grocery shopping with a pre-game beer, avoid a trip to the beer distributor AND get 20 cents off my gas price, why would I spend money to sit on my ass and have the groceries delivered?  That will be the carrot dangling at the end of my job search. 

So I search. Everyday. All the job boards, all the employers I have heard are looking for people who do what I do. (Or do what I did.) All the headhunters I know have been sent my resume.

And I network. They say that it is not what you know but who you know (which I really hope is not the case for a lot of industries, like Brain Surgery) so I connect with former colleagues. It is not enough to know a lot of people who can assist your search. They have to know you are searching. So I dial for dollars. Make small talk, ask for help.

And even with all of this searching and applying and submitting and following up and interviewing and contacting old contacts in good places, I am left with far too many hours in the day for any sane person to possibly contend with. 

So I decide something. I decide that I have absolutely no excuse for not having the cleanest house on the block, the most finely manicured yard, and the fittest physique on any 40-something in the Tri-State area.

Now, how to make that happen...

For Shore

A few days later, I have the good fortune to be invited to join my dear friend Caren at the giant shore house she has rented with her husband. And her children. And his children. And those children's husbands, and wives, and children, and boyfriends, girlfriends, and assorted bridal party members.  Did I mention that the house is enormous? 

Caren and I are old friends. We met when I was in Drill Team and she was in the Rifle Squad.  Her best friend, who became my good friend, Sally, had a locker next to Scott's.  The entanglements are long and complicated. Let's just say, there are no strangers among us.

Caren and her husband Joe are great people with big hearts and big appetites for fun and games. I offer to bring dinner. They tell me wine or beer or both would be better. I am overly obliging. It's going to be a wild three days.

And why not?  I am not working and have no interviews to conflict with the little sojourn.  I pack some fun clothes, a few bikinis, lots of sunscreen and my little job search notebook so I am not caught with my panties around my ankles if one of the nameless, faceless HR people from one of the hundreds of job applications I've submitted half-heartedly sends up a flair of good will.

Caren and I do what we've been doing all summer. Soak up the sun (though usually it is while standing in the waist-deep end of her pool) drink wine (though we are far less concerned about blood alcohol levels since no one is even leaving the porch, let alone getting in a car) and catch up on our lives (though mine has more highs, lows and hairpin turns than hers).

We share secrets. We laugh at our new "old age" habits (Hers is a sleep mask. Mine is incessant moisturizing.) We fill in gaps since the last hilarious chat. My job hunt. My man hunt. My kids and their climb into teenagedom.

I tell her about the message from Scott. I also tell her that her husband Joe thinks I should just search my soul and if I can still feel anything toward Scott, just cut the crap and let him back in my life. We were in love once. We'd remember how it felt and be married by Christmas. Has so much changed?

She nearly huffs wine out of her nose and looks around as if she's looking for something heavy to hurl at him.  She's making that "Are you an asshole?" face at him.  He's not even on the porch. It is a remote telepathic thing only spouses enjoy. Somehow, telepathically, he knows he was smacked upside his head.

I tell her what I told Joe. There have been so many wonderful people who I already have in my life, why would I choose someone who treated me so poorly for the coveted position on my arm forever more?  Friends treat me better. Acquaintances have been kinder and more concerned about my well being. Strangers have heaped praise upon me. Why spend time with someone by whom I will always be reminded that when the going got tough, he bit his nails down to nubs and went scampering off to hide, whimpering and afraid to speak? 

I tell her about the older man I met at a local pub who described me as "the only lady on the pirate ship" and who found me so charming and disarming he offered genuine help in networking for a new job.  And the man at Girls Weekend (we've not covered that yet, friends, but we will!) who kept telling me I was "delightful." Joy and I had howled with laughter about that. Oh yes, I am a delight alright. You just ask anyone.  Give me a minute and a few other D words will come to mind. Drunk. Disorderly. Deranged.  Disheveled. Maybe even Douchebag. You never know which direction the evening will go. 

Caren has the perfect reply for Scott. One word. "Delightful."  Only she and I will know the joke behind it.  He'll be confused. And maybe just astute enough to know that the message has more than one meaning.

I am delightful. I am.  My life is delightful. And other people find me so, as well. Too bad you let me out of your sight. But there I will stay.

Delightful. Send.

And The Winner Is...

Am I ok?

Am I ok?

Am I ok?

The possible replies are endless. Or is it more accurate to say that the possible retorts are endless.

Who wants to know?

Who is this please?

I'm ok, you're ok. I'm My Own Best Friend. Yes, I Can.  (quoth Rosanne Rosannadanna). 

Compared to you, I'm fabulous. 

Thank you for your concern. Now, fuck off, please.

I am not completely sure why this simple question touched my shredded nerve ending with a hot poker, but it did. I literally slammed my iPhone down, screen first, on the night table.

Note to self:  Slamming one's iPhone, face up or face down, accomplishes absolutely nothing of value. No one knows you did so but you (and maybe a couple of observant house cats) and thanks to the 3 pound protective rubber casing, it is wholly unsatisfying, even from an auditory standpoint. Slamming should sound like flying bowling pins. 

Haven't I been clear about the way I feel?  Haven't I expressed that there is no hope of reconciliation and even dimmer chances of friendship?  (Why so maybe someday I can sit with Craig in the church pew while he marries the reasonably cute 20 year old from the Animal Shelter where he got his 27th dog?)

What I want to say is this:  "You lost your right to even inquire about my well being when you vanished last year. So until such time when you stumble across my name in the Obituaries, assume that everything is hunky-fucking-dory, pal."

But I don't. I need to consult with my friends. This has got to stop.  Evidently my tactics have all met with failure. I need another plan.  Please, lets pull the coven together and come up with a carpet bomb reply.

The Subtext Of That Text Is Contested

So a few weeks go by. And he sends another one, just when I've convinced myself that he's taken the hint and ceased. And desisted, for good measure.

An early morning text.  One that comes at 5:30 in the morning.  Only two entities are permitted to text at that hour. Family reporting the untimely and unexpected demise of another family member, and your lover. The dawn's early light should be used only to read the tragic "Don't go to work, so-and-so's carcass needs to be retrieved from the sewer pipe today" messages and the often flirtatious, always fabulous "Good morning beautiful, wish my head were on your pillow" messages.  No other messages are welcome at that hour.

He says he thinks of me often and imagines me with a big smile on my face. He hopes everything is great in my life and wishes me a great day. XO

And again I don't answer.


The text from Scott sits there festering like moldy tub of cottage cheese. Gaseous. Stinking. Ready to explode.


And in the meantime there was a storm.  A big one.  And Hil was worried about Scott and the girls. The last big doozy was the catalyst for his meltdown.  Or so I'd assumed. It also handed the East Coast some of the worst devastation we'd seen in decades.  They even have an annoying little jingle about rebuilding that sends me into fits of rage every time I hear it, in a Pavlovian way.

So as I am prone to do, after a night of wine and Facebooking and blogging and movie watching, I replied. Someone really needs to invent a Breathalyzer for one's phone to prevent such things from happening. The mere whiff of Chardonnay and the texts go into a holding pattern until the person is sober enough to make a competent, thoughtful decision about sending the boozy rants which are undoubtedly riddled with typos and brimming with emotions no one ever hauls out in polite company.

"Scott - It isn't that I don't think about you. I do. And the kids were worried about you during the storm last week. It is just that there is too much that I can not reach past. So this has to stop."

Or something like that. I've erased it.  Again, no need to keep a souvenir from the relationship.  I've also pitched the cards and notes I'd so carefully collected when he'd left them for me in my car or under my pillow or in my lunch bag. I am not sure I even have any pictures left. Our relationship is over and there will be no shrine, thank you.

And since then I've continued to distance myself.  Meet other people. Create a social life for myself. Check for wedding bands on hands of nice men I meet. Keep my heart open to possibilities. Including Craig.  So far all the people I meet seem to serve only one purpose, and that is to make Craig seem more appealing, however hopeless the prospect may appear to be at any given moment. I don't want to get old with nothing more to show for it than a really good friend that I see 10 times a year, even if marriage is off the Bucket List for good.

And Scott sends a random text every once in a while. A simple hello or something similar.  All of which are ignored. (As Priscilla's voice echoes in my head, "Do. Not. Engage!")

And then he sends me one that sends me sailing over the edge of reason.

"Hi, Liza. Are you okay?

What Would I Say?

So where were we when this little schlep down memory lane began?  Oh, yes. Scott's last unanswered text.

I did not answer because I could not. It was a running-on-one's-sword, cards-on-the-table sort of text. He'd loved seeing me. The short encounter had made him miss me even more. He had really hoped I'd come back to hug and kiss him.

I could not tell whether that last line pertained to my return from the Office of the Unwashed Masses or was a more general statement. Some romantic notion that I'd searched the world over for him so I could fall into his arms a live Happily Ever After, some cosmic force having once again pushed us together. (Those cosmic forces have some great pranks...)

Not unlike my friend Jane who I'd had to unfriend and block, he seemed to take every contact as a new opportunity.  A cosmic message from the world that we were meant to be together. Though I trust his intentions were purer of heart than Jane's. Jane was a double agent observing and reporting for her own benefit and at everyone else's expense. Scott really just wanted me back. In some way.

And even though it is not even a remote consideration, people have asked me if it is a possibility. (At least those who have not threatened to throw a net over my head and drag me off in the direction of the nearest Booby Hatch do) And I can truthfully say it is not. No way, Jose.  Hit the road, Jack. The line forms on the right, babe. No, going back to Scott is not an option.

But think about it. What would that look like?  It would be a two-week courtship (not unlike those he was a proud proponent of in high school).  And it would end badly. Very badly.

• We'd reunite.
• In a matter of days he'd recall in living color whatever it was that gave him the vapors and made him run for the fire exit in the Fall. (Oh! Right, right, right, right....).
• In those same days, he'd compare unfavorably to nearly every kind, mature, educated, successful, attentive, fascinating, communicative man I've spent even a minute with in the last few months, and I'd be making excuses. ("Sorry, can't see you tonight...I promised I'd take a class with my elderly neighbors on 1,000 uses for your used candles and bars of soap.") 
• We'd decide we don't really like each other and vanish from each others lives again. Why bother with the litmus test?

OR

• We'd reunite
• Panicking, and vowing never to let me get away again, he'd race to the jeweler and get a ring, on Beyonce's sage advice. 
• And he'd find some cute, adorable, hard to refuse way to give it to me. This time, I am the one with the vapors.
• And I'd refuse anyway, because he compares unfavorably to nearly every kind, mature, educated, successful, attentive, fascinating, communicative man I've spent even a minute with in the last few months
• And a dozen YouTube moments would follow, the final one featuring me peeling away from the curb in front of his house with him hanging onto the bumper of my car.
• Not pretty.

So, no. I don't answer. There really isn't anything to say that isn't hurtful or even hateful. Silence will say it all more effectively. And perhaps less harshly.

Missed Messages

I had a blast at the wedding. My friends and other guests made me nearly forget that my man had:

- Blown me off
- Not called
- Not apologized
- Shown no remorse
- Not cared for a moment that he was sending me off to a beautiful, fancy occassion without him, running the risk of some predatory man sweeping out onto the dance floor, off my feet, and out of his life (maybe not all at once---but perhaps with sustained effort...)

Had I not been so crushed by the slight -- or heaping pile of slights -- I might have thought more in those terms. Ya know, love the one you're with.

But I am more loyal than that. I'd never bolt from anything meaningful like my relationship with Scott without talking through things first.

Had I only known that he had no such notions himself. Fewer than three months later, I'd be swirling in bewilderment and grief when he drove a backhoe into our relationship and sped off without so much as a glance in his rear view mirror. It's hard not to now view the entire relationship through shit-colored glasses.

But I do know better. But only because I knew Scott for decades and knew how deeply he loved and how he'd handled matters of the heart in the past. How he treated departures when he was a young man. My mistake had not been to have gotten involved. It was to have let myself be convinced he'd ever be different.

Given that understanding, I am convinced that my convictions now are correct. On point. Accurate.

He loved me once. He may still love me. He flaked. That is all.

But flaking is not okay. Fifteen year olds flake. Fifty year-olds don't...or should know how not to. You know, a little self control. A little ownership. A little responsibility to another person.

So having flaked is the kiss of death for Scott. He obviously had something he needed to say and didn't. He was overwhelmed by something and could not find a way to manage to collect himself sufficiently to articulate his fear. He bolted rather than have to step up into the ring.

And so the past being the best predictor of the future, I have to say he's a bad risk. He couldn't manage to have a meaningful conversation about the direction our relationship was taking. What if I got cancer? What if Someone had some real tragedy to deal with? Would he be a man or a paper tiger?

Survey says!.......

Paper tiger.

And so my mind remains made up.

I Will Survive!

In survival mode, I resorted to the tactics I'd employed as a Miserable Wife. When Lars had acted horribly, had embarrassed me, had disparaged me in public, had humiliated me, I'd smiled and carried on. Why let the habitual grouch ruin every joyful moment in my life with his inexcusable behavior?  Why let anyone rain on my parade?  Why forgo all that is important to me and wallow in self-pity when I could smile and laugh and enjoy myself?  If Lars - and now Scott - wanted to marinate in their own pathetic, insecure cess pools of social isolation and misery, I had no need to dive in and join them.  I'd thrown a life line. If they chose not to grab the monkey fist, fuck 'em.

I parked my car practically giddy with anticipation.  This was going to be a fun event, in spite of the baggage I'd dragged along in the trunk of my car. My dress was perfection. My hair was sexy.  My perfume divine. My legs rivaled Tina Turner's. 

I walked with my pretty clutch and my envelope to find the mother and father of the bride.  Placing the envelope in Dad's hands, he led me by my other hand to a gaggle of men at the the beer tent. Introduced me to them all and asked the bartender to treat me like royalty. The stage was set.

But when I caught up with the MOB and our other dear  friend from High school, they both immediately knew something was not quite right. My smile betrayed me.  They asked questions.

I matter of factly explained Trudy's flair up and Scott's need to care for her. And then explained less matter of factly how it had all happened. The MOB rolled her eyes and shook her head on her way to the Wine Bar.

The other friend took my face in her hands and looked into my eyes and said, "I know."

She knew. She knew what I was thinking.

She knew that I was thinking that the ghost had been given up. In one small tip of the hand, Scott had shown me his soul.

The handsome 18 year old who had dated his way across three counties in two states had not evolved into a charming man with the maturity and depth to carry a long term relationship with someone as soulful and sincere as me.

He was still the same 18 year old, with the same immaturity and the same inability to have a meaningful conversation about anything that actually matters. When push came to shove, he'd push his way out.

And again, as in so many instances with Lars and with J. I was all dressed up with no man on my arm, no one to dance with, and no one to call my own.

Lies! Lies! Lies! They're Gonna Getcha!

I proceeded with all that I had to do. Pedi. Eyebrow wax.  Shaving. Polishing. Buffing.

And I kept waiting to hear from him. An update. An ETA.  A text saying he needs a stiff drink instead of coffee when he arrives. Even the sound of him pulling up to the curb.  Anything. I got nothing.

Time wore on. I continued to get ready.  Hil helped me with my hair.  Her job as she sees it. Pat helped me zip my dress and clasp my necklace.  Scott's job as I see it.

As the moment I needed to leave drew near I panicked. Peppered him with calls and texts. Where on God's green Earth was he?  Was everything OK? Was he in the ER?  What could have possibly happened that would keep him from calling me or texting me? I imagined the worst. I wondered if I should be frivolously trotting off to a wedding at all if his daughter were in grave danger. (My party girl version of Nero fiddling while Rome burned.) Can you imagine?  I am yukking it up in the beer tent and he's in the ICU with a daughter under conscious sedation.

Finally he texted me. Quite calmly and without apology.  He said that his daughter was feeling crappy and he and she were lying in bed watching TV.  She was weak and miserable and just needed him there.

Which would be swell if she were five years old. But she was 15.

And I could forgive him his choice as a parent quite simply and immediately, if only he had let me know what was happening. Been up front. Had not waited for me to ask. And ask again. And ask more urgently. And ask with words of panic and concern. Had he volunteered the information.

But he had not. He had not given me the courtesy.

I sent him a less than courteous text. He ignored it.

And what made matters worse is that I'd not heard his voice or even his daughter's through all of this. And that made it all seem insincere. Made me think he was lying. Could this have been staged?

I pushed the thoughts from my head and got myself looking absolutely striking. Got into my car. Drove to the wedding. Stepped out literally and figuratively on my own.

But on the way to the wedding, I saw something. I was putting iTunes on in my car at a red light and Facebook flashed across the screen.  And Scott's daughter had posted something funny and snarky and completely hilarious on FB.

I sent a veiled message. I "liked" it. So she knew I saw it. And so did he.

And moments later, the post disappeared.

I assumed he told her to stay off Facebook. She needed to appear sick. The weak and miserable do not post amusing YouTube videos. And she'd blow his cover if she posted that she were riding the log flume on the Boardwalk.

And I am sure she was.

The Plot Thickens

No. Not that way at all.

The morning of the wedding was routine enough. I woke up, got myself looking presentable and smelling like a pocket full of posies for Scott's early morning arrival.  I got the usual "On my way!" text as he'd gunned out of the driveway.  I could estimate his arrival.  Have coffee waiting. And something yummy for breakfast.

He'd already asked about what to wear to the wedding but I sensed that he had his doubts and wanted time for shopping for a Plan B outfit.  Attire for this gig was admittedly a little tricky. A casual wedding with Southern BBQ at our friends' home.  Hot as blue blazes out. I had sent the mother of the bride a note asking for some direction. Would we be going in the pool?  What were the men wearing? What was she wearing?  Women have it so much easier. No one is going to think your a boob if you wear a fitted sundress and everyone else is in shorts. Women can overdress and get away with it. But if Scott showed up in a seersucker suit and the men were in Hawaiian shirts and flip flops, that would suck.

I was ready to make the trek to the mall to get a camera ready wedding outfit on the fly with Scott. Had already figured that into the agenda along with hair, makeup, and a pedi for me.  I was on a roll. Fun day ahead.

And then something weird happened. His daughter texted me looking for him.  I said I had not spoken to him but could find him. Was she ok?

She was not feeling well.  She has a chronic condition that was flaring up and had been suffering all night. I said I'd find him, but I wondered why she hadn't just called him herself. Why go through me? He never ignored his girls' calls.  Had she tried him?    Had she texted him a 911 saying as much?  That would get his attention pronto.

I called him and got him right away. Told him what was wrong. He said he'd call her. He was half way to my house and would be along shortly.  He'd call me back.

And he did.  His daughter was having a bad episode and needed her meds. She was at his sister's beach house for a few days and did not have them with her (God knows why) and he'd have to turn around and get them for her, deliver them to the beach house, and then make the trek to me all over again. DOing the math in my head, I hoped he did not need the time to shop after all.

I stammered. Why can't Abby take them there?  Can her boyfriend?  Can't his sister or her husband get to his house faster and therefore get the meds to her faster? Logically it made no sense for him to turn around and drive 45 miles back, grab the meds, and then join the shore-bound traffic to the beach house.  No sense at all.

But he insisted. She was crying.

And soon, I would be.

Wedding Bell Blues

And sometimes this nagged at me. Mostly because when he had been chatting up the Drill Team bimbo, she had mentioned my presence on his timeline, called him out on it and told him to buzz off.

Lesson learned.

And one time, his daughter tagged him in a post and as usual, he ignored it. We were all sitting on his sofa together with a pile of dogs and she called him on it. And I jumped on the band wagon. We ganged up on him. Told him he was dog himself for ignoring us on Facebook.  Accused him of wanting to appear single and childless. 

He had argued back, however lamely that he only had a Facebook account to keep an eye on Abby and her sister and their cyber images. And to me, he said what he always said. That he had gone on Facebook and searched for me, and now that we'd formed the relationship we had, he had no reason to go onto Facebook anymore.

And I believed him. Because I wanted to.

And that article that advised to keep your relationship off of Facebook rings in my head now.  If not for Facebook, no one would be the wiser about any of this. Including me. you can carefully craft an image on Facebook that gets you exactly what you want. And it is easier and cheaper than a personal ad.

But the one big thing I forgave and should have paid more attention to had absolutely nothing to do with Facebook.  It was a big, glowing, flair in the night sky that I never really acknowledged and should have made a Federal Case out of.   It was the most clear indication of Scott's feelings about our relationship in the months before he went Over the Wall.  I should have paid attention. I should have made a Big Fucking Stink about it. I should have packed my bags and made myself scarce, at least for a while. I should have sent up a few flairs of my own.  I should have ripped a few choice pages from Estelle's book about how to indicate that something has sent you over the edge of reason.

In the Summer, perhaps two months before Super Storm Sandy and the havoc it caused on the East Coast and the seemingly cosmic whammy it put on my personal life, we had been invited to a wedding. The wedding of the daughter of a close friend from High School who we both know very well. The wedding itself had taken place St. John, but our friends were throwing a big reception at their home a few weeks later. We'd Saved The Date for months.

My outfit was carefully planned. I had tried at least 10 hair dos. I had the perfect clutch purse. My jewelry was exquisite. I had a big date with my handsome boyfriend that was going to be lots and lots of fun and I looked fabulous.

Only it didn't turn out that way.

Danger, Falling Rock

So I am pondering again (the unemployed's favorite hobby) about something I've pondered for months now.

Not all the time. Just when something bubbles to the surface and makes me think about something I've safely filed away in a file that is labeled "Dangerous Substance - Do Not Open."

I remember when Scott vaporized into nothingness like it was yesterday.  The bewildered sense of disbelief that THIS could actually be happening. The man in whose hands I had placed my heart was cleaning out his closet and came across Our Relationship and decided to put it in the Donation pile with threadbare sweaters and child-sized sporting equipment. Put it all in big black plastic bags and put it at the curb with a sign that read "FREE."

I had been baffled. Stunned. Confused.  I was replaying and reviewing every last detail of the preceding days, weeks, months looking for some kind of clue. Something that would shine like a beacon as if to say, "Here I am!  This is the thing you did that made him do an illegal U-turn and leave skid marks on his way out!"

I remember telling everyone that our relationship had been utterly without problems. We were happy. We were solid. I had no worries.

But as we all know there had been a few speed bumps.  The Facebook activity had been troubling.  Chatting up the Drill Team bimbo and the low-budget UPS girl was a Problem.  With a capital P. That rhymes with C. That stands for Castration if I ever get so much as a whiff that you are doing that again.

And his way of having resolved that problem was like the guy who is gay and goes into the priesthood to hide from his feelings. You can't get into trouble if all access is denied.

Scott boycotted Facebook. He was on Facebook so seldomly that he struggled to remember his password to go on and send Pat a birthday message.

But what appeared as a warning sign only after I'd missed it at least a hundred times was this:  If he is never on Facebook, then he is never "accepting" things on his Timeline.  So anyone looking at my Timeline would see that it is splashed with photos and activities that would spell out F-A-M-I-L-Y to anyone that is looking.  Scott and I and our kids on vacation. Scott and I jet skiing. Scott and I at Graduation. Scott and I and the kids at Thanksgiving. Scott and I with his sister's family at Easter. Scott and I getting a puppy. Scott and I throwing a birthday party.  Scott and I refinishing his living room floor. Scott and I on a weekend in the Poconos with my cousin and her beau. Scott and I on a 5-day romp in the Keys.

But on his Timeline, there were none of those things. Not accepting them kept them from appearing. No sign of them. No sign of me.

On his Timeline, he appeared single.

Reviewing the Game Films

And in between the fiasco that was J., after which I spent months stomping out embers that he kept trying to rekindle flames from, and which ended in a bizarre confrontation during which he unveiled the ill-advised and unauthorized tattoo of my face on his leg, and me calling the police and the locksmith, there was yet another well-timed trip West with The Girls wherein I again got my Girl on, and got happy, but did not come home and slip into morbid depression.

No, that time, I found Scott.

I had met - or rather, re-met - a guy named Alejandro on the trip West and he'd been good for me.  Flirted with me, danced with me, asked to take me to his house in South Florida for a little getaway.  He was wildly successful and loads of fun to be around.  A good guy, with good friends. You do the math. Where's the negative? I came home feeling all fabulous and full of myself.

But as they usually do, things faded away pretty quickly after we all returned home from the surreal suspended animation that is vacation to the harsh reality that is Life. And work. And Winter weather and Christmas shopping and the usual family harangue. Alejandro and I talked a few times. Texted a few times. Made some tentative plans to get together that never really materialized. And then nothing.

But somewhere as things faded to black Scott had Friended me on Facebook, and that was a new distraction. A sudden buoyancy when I was sinking.

I think we've adequately covered where things went from there: zero to sixty in a matter of days. We were madly in love. Even as we still got to know each other as the adults we'd become, scarred and weathered and molded by our respective life experiences.

And as they say, love is indeed blind. Because perhaps had I been looking a little harder or listening a little more closely, I would have seen and heard things that I would have questioned. Things that would have moved a check from the Plus column to the Minus column, or at least to the Not Entirely Sure What To Think About That column.

Or maybe not.

Were there signs that Scott would turn out to be the kind of man who just vanishes from a relationship without so much as an argument, a discussion, an explanation, a confession?  Did I miss some huge, critical monkey wrench along the 27 point pre-flight inspection that would have given me some clue, some warning light that we would have an engine failure and plummet from space unexpectedly?

Pondering again. Like the unemployed are apt to do.

The House That J. Built

And then after Lars and I began our long, arduous, bitterly fought, acrimonious divorce, I went on a few pathetic dates with Mack, got my heart a little dinged, went on a ripping good vacation with The Girls, got my Girl on, came home, slipped into deep depression, got myself some happy pills, got too happy, dialed back the dose of happy pills and then met J.

No wonder my judgment was off.

But J. had been exactly what I'd needed at the time, or so it seemed. In retrospect (the unemployed can be very retrospective) some of what seemed like exactly the right stuff may have actually been bad stuff that just seemed like good stuff compared to all the swill I'd been slogging through in my marriage.

I was invisible to Lars. To J. I was the sun in the sky.

I had been a terrible homemaker and cook according to Lars. J. thought I should write a book about doing it all to perfection and working a full time job, too.

Lars had filled my head with doubt about myself as a mother. J.'s saw me as warm and nurturing and wanted me in his children's lives.

Lars criticized the way I dressed, my hair, my weight.  J. thought I was beautiful, even as I rolled out of bed.

But all of this worship may have really been just an act.  He fell in love too fast. It was not natural, but it seemed magical. He seemed so solid. A good foundation. A good family.

And over time I realized:

He smoked when he said he didn't. Mouthwash was his accomplice.
He liked the way I looked and dressed so long as no other man noticed. Then there was trouble.
He wanted me involved in his children's lives simply to keep up an illusion of a happy family. They could easily blow his cover.  And he knew I'd feel responsible to them and that would make it hard to leave.
His job was not what it seemed and he was not what he claimed to be.
His family was more akin to a coven of witches. And I had the Ruby Slippers, evidently.
His feelings for me were more possession and desperation than love and adoration.

And it is hard to tell which came first: Did his life unravel and allow insanity and alcoholism to get a foothold? Or did insanity and alcoholism finally sink in their talons and his life unraveled as a result? 

It doesn't actually matter. The result is the same no matter the path. Complete and utter destruction.

Based on what I've learned since his death, from his daughters, from his former wife, and from gaps that have been filled in over the passage of time, I can surmise this:  He was genuinely happy to have me in his life and came out of the starting gate with the best of intentions.  But he was who he was and all the pretending in the world would never change that. And the charade would never stand the test of time. So when the years rolled on, time took its toll and the foundation crumbled. And with it went the house of cards.

Lesson learned. Or so I'd thought. 

The Blame Game

I really do not want to become THAT person. You know who I mean. We all have one in our lives. She - or he - is the person to whom everything happens. Bad luck befalls them wherever they go. The people in their lives all turn into lice.  They've been tricked, wronged, hornswoggled at every turn.  And nothing, nothing is ever their fault.

I am sure I played a starring role in all of my failed endeavors. I could garner awards for the roles I played in my failed relationships.  I guess I still have to figure out how I was cast in the Shakespearean play that was me and Scott. And is it more Romeo and Juliet or Much Ado About Nothing? Something to ponder. (The unemployed tend to ponder...)

So where Lars and I are concerned, in retrospect it is safe to say that it was an  "OK" marriage that came unraveled when Fate yanked on the loose thread on the sweater that kept his Psyche safe and warm.  We became parents and his identity blew to smithereens. 

And while I tried like Hell to keep all the plates in the air and put one foot in front of the other and keep refilling the leaking bucket - all while raising two kids and maintaining a full time job and trying to figure out what the Hell to do with Dad - eventually the bottom dropped out of the whole thing.

Lars kept unraveling. I kept trying to keep him warm. I lost ground. I couldn't light up his darkness. He couldn't light up his darkness. Even pharmaceutically.

And then I stopped trying.

And then I stopped caring.

Lars became one of the most consistently pissed off people I have ever known. Suspicious. Confrontational. Argumentative. Combative. Contrary. Mean.

I tried to appease him for a while. Fall in line. Carry the flag.

And then I ignored him.  So what if he insulted me in public? Who cared if he disparaged me?  People who know me will just take it as confirmation that I married A Complete Ass.

And then I began to do things that I knew would send him sailing over the very edge of reason, but that were important enough to me to suffer the consequences.

And that is the slippery slope I set foot upon. The one that leads to being a Bad Spouse.

Not that I did anything morally reprehensible. I would not compromise myself. I just became a crappy partner.

You don't want to go out with friends on Friday?  Fine, stay home. I'm going.
You don't like what I've made for dinner? Don't eat it. There are takeout menus in the hall drawer.
You don't like the way I do laundry? You are perfectly welcome to wash your own fucking socks, asshole.
You don't like my outfit?  Well no one asked you to wear it, and by the way, pleats make you look like Humpty Dumpty.  Lose the pants or lose a few pounds, Chub-O.
You don't like my friends?  They are not fans of yours either. Let's not mingle, okay?

So while Lars certainly has a few big ticket items in the Blame Column for our divorce, I don't think anyone would exactly label me a Saint either.

I just had the good sense to get out before I threw every sense of discretion out the window to scrounge up a little happiness. 

The Wonder Years

And over the next few hours there are more texts from Scott. Benign, friendly texts with no overtones or hints that suggest anything other than friendship.

Against my judgment, I answer each one. But with short, unenthusiastic responses. Except for the last, which goes unanswered.

Because by then, I was envisioning explaining this whole thing to Priscilla and am hearing her Wisconsin accent as she says, (or even screeches), "Did you not hear the words coming out of my mouth?  Have you learned nothing?  Do. Not. Engage!" 

So like so many other texts before them, in fact, every text we ever exchanged, I deleted the conversation on my phone. No record of it. No souvenirs.  It's easier to do so now.  It took all the bravery I could muster to erase two years of love notes last Fall.  Gone in an instant. No record of them ever being sent or seen.

But this whole recent episode troubles me, to be honest.  I don't like the idea that someone, somewhere out there is constantly thinking of me. It reminds me of the obsessive, possessive way J. was with me at the end, and I hate to put J. and Scott in the same brain synapse.  Ever.

And then I start to wonder. Because the unemployed have abundant amounts of time to wonder and ponder and overthink the most minuscule things.

I wonder if J. had been possessive and insane all along.  Had he been a secret, closeted maniac the entire time and had simply lost his ability to control himself  after the first few years? Or was a really good guy like I'd thought, whose health and bad habits twisted his life (and then his psyche) into a pretzel?  It casts the whole relationship in a muted, puce, warping color wash of craziness that makes me question my ability to make decisions. Bad spouse, bad boyfriend(s), bad jobs, bad mother. Oh wait, that last one can not be pinned on me.

But when I review the three years that J. and I were together and can see it now in the context of alcoholism and insanity, I can explain things that went unexplained at first and have to consider the possibility that the relationship was not a really great thing that soured and decayed. No.  The whole thing was a festering mess quietly simmering below the surface all along.  Like the egg that has rotted that looks perfectly normal until you crack it and then becomes a Pandora's box of botulism and other nastiness.

Am I going to see Scott and me in the same tainted way before too long?  And is that a fair assessment, or is that just my way of making it all make sense in the rear view mirror?

Signed, Sealed, Delivered, It's Mine

My caseworker (yes, now I have a caseworker) is delightful.  She is personable, pleasant, well-groomed, well-spoken and competent.  She is also distinctly a "she" which I find refreshing. 

She deftly handles the details about the ID and answers some other questions I've developed while rifling through my papers. The literature is written in such a way that you could easily screw up filing for biweekly benefits.  If your social security number ends in an odd number you can file by phone on this day and that day between this time and that time, but not on this day and that day, and never between this time and that time.  And if your social security number is even it is the opposite, but no matter what your social security number, you can file on any day electronically, but only between this time and that time and never on Saturday, and the hours are different on Sunday.  I am placing little reminders in my phone calendar with alarms so I don't screw it up for myself. Once you screw up, you can't unscrew the darn thing. There is no retroactive anything. You're just SOL.

This part of the process is relatively painless and my caseworker (I actually cringe when I type that word) is such a peach that she files my first claim for me online. I will be paid in 2 days!  Yay me!

When the whole ordeal is over, I gather my papers and my ID and place them in my purse, and feel around for the hand sanitizer. I feel compelled to sanitize to the point of "scrubbing in" before I get back into my car with God-Only-Knows-What cooties and klingons that have found me to be an appealing host. Smelling like apricots after a rubbing some of Hil's travel sized stash all over my hands, wrists, elbows and neck, I hop into my car, relieved to find that it is neither up on blocks or stripped for parts, lock the doors and rev the engine to leave.

I bob and weave through the landmines of garbage and debris strewn along the roadways of this uncommonly run down neighborhood and head for home. I pass by my old work building and briefly scan the intersection where I'd run into Scott. No sign of him, so no guilt about blowing through the light at neck-breaking speed. 

I am home in under 30 minutes.  And within another 30, I get a text.

It's Scott. Wondering if I safely survived my visit to Hell Itself. 

And I'm a little pissed. Running into him does not mean that the door has been flung open and we can start chit chatting again.  And for the record, I worked for 3 1/2 years in Hell Itself without incident. Mama don't need no man for protection!

How dare he?

Next!

Finally, my name is called. Or a reasonable facsimile of my name. I am not sure what is so damn hard to pronounce.

I approach the desk and am asked a few routine questions by someone whose face seems to have been dismantled and haphazardly reassembled at some point. Perhaps by Stevie Wonder. (Maybe he'll rearrange a catchy tune about it, too. "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face: The Remix.") She/he is hard to look at.  I can not be certain of the gender based on the usual jewelry, attire or makeup cues. I look for telltale signs of a bra strap since boobs are no longer a dead giveaway. I give up and decide to skip any polite references like "Ma'am" or "Sir."

She/he scrawls something on my form (even the fingernails don't give up the tapes!) and stamps a number on the bottom. I listen attentively (though with somewhat crossed eyes) to instructions to take a seat in another groady orange plastic chair, in another section of the Office of Unwashed Masses, to wait for my number to flash on a screen.

I find the most inoffensive spot to sit down.  I look around at the others waiting for their numbers.  Most of them are scrunched down in their seats sleeping.  Maybe that is why the annoyed-sounding people in the high walled booths are screeching the numbers as they click through them on the LED screen.  I am sure I am in Oz.

There are no magazines to read, only pamphlets about other services most of these folks might find interesting. Free baby formula. Learning to read. Free school lunch programs.  Free transportation.

Aware of my failure to fit in at this moment, I pull my sleeve down over my Cartier watch and flip through some papers. I dare not take out my iPhone and start scrolling through Facebook. (But wouldn't a Check-In at the Office of the Unwashed Masses in Hell Itself get the tongues wagging across the social network?) I just sit there and try not to look like an interloper.

I hear my number called. (They've given up on changing the sign that can't be read through eyelids). I can't tell where the disembodied voice is coming from.  The walls of the booths are so high I can't see anyone but the County worker directly in front of me who seems to be very distressed by her client at the moment.

And I wonder: Why all the privacy here and now? By the time you've reached this stage of the Unemployment Game, you've pretty much stowed your dignity, your privacy, and any sense of self worth, and the entire free world knows your are currently earning a big fat Goose Egg for a living and is mentally doing the math between what you used to earn and what you'll have to attempt to live on. (Hence the pamphlets.) Is there more humiliation to come?

Finally, a bangled hand and wrist appear, waving above the wall of a booth at the end of the room.  I jump up and immediately scurry to it.  Desperate not to lose my place in line. Desperate in a lot of ways.

A Bag For My Head, Please

As if the situation were not deeply humiliating enough, there is another twist of the knife.

The Office of the Unwashed Masses has a Board Room. And in that Board Room meets a Board. A Board of very smart folks who meets to guide and manage and hold accountable the County employees tasked with making every effort, turning every stone, finding every avenue, providing every service and type of assistance necessary to get the unemployed back to work. And each month that Board hears a detailed progress report from a rail thin chain smoker named Kathy, who brings her own lunch to the meeting and has a voice so abrasive it could remove floor wax.

And on the Board are some very experienced, gainfully employed, well informed people in lovely tailored outfits, and polished shoes, with stylish leather briefcases, who race in from other important meetings at other important places, to donate their time and expertise and often a little bit of money to ensure that every effort was indeed being competently made, that every standard was being met, that every worthwhile idea gained traction and launched successfully.

And included on that Board was Yours Truly. Yes was. Board Membership was tied to my employment at my former employer. 

And I used to come to the meetings, breeze through the lobby, a lobby filled with the Unwashed Masses, in my fabulous outfit and wearing a fresh spritz of good perfume, get buzzed past the steel doors by an armed guard without breaking stride and without making eye contact (with anyone except Rita, the armed guard with the raspy voice and the unfortunate wig, and who called me "Darlin'") and place my good bag and fabulous briefcase by a comfy chair at the highly polished table on my way to get a cup of coffee. Coffee provided by a caterer because no one would expect these people to drink the office swill.

And today, there was no tailored outfit or briefcase or perfume for me. In fact I was regretting not having traded my spiffy purse for a grocery bag (and brought an extra to throw over my head).  There was no buzzing me through the door. In fact Rita did not even recognize me. Instead, I meekly signed in on a clipboard using a filthy pen attached to the clipboard with some rubber bands, looked around at the Unwashed Masses,  and then took a seat among them on the only available groady plastic orange chair left, to wait for my name to be called.

To my everlasting horror.

It's Show Time, Folks!

I drive - or rather my car drives itself, I am that distracted - through the so-called neighborhood on the way to the Office of the Unwashed Masses. I artfully dodge garbage that has blown into the street, runaway grocery carts, unsupervised toddlers, J-walkers who really are just trying to kill themselves early, and a random car part or two.  It is a smorgasbord of filth and disarray. I suddenly wished for my rental again.

As I round the Popeye's Chicken parking lot to turn into the puddley, uneven, three-ring-circus that is the lot for the Office of the Unwashed Masses, my phone rings. I glance at it as I am not wearing my Bluetooth/earwig that I should be wearing to free up my hands for driving lawfully in this state. That happy little device would have warned me who was calling so I could make an informed decision to ignore it.

But I glance down and see Scott's face smiling back at me. Evidently unfriending someone on Facebook does not remove them or their picture from your contacts automatically. I am going to have to spend some time with my owner's manual to figure out how to make that madness stop.

I answer cheerfully enough.  No need to be a piss ant just because I am skulking into the Office of the Unwashed Masses to file for assistance and got busted by the man who dumped me.  No, no one should feel awkward about that at all.

He seems so pleased to have randomly seen me. I can't say it was unpleasant. Just weird.  Like when you are at a concert with 98,000 people and run into your old roommate.  Or how you can automatically pick out your baby in the nursery without being told which is yours.  Just one of those things.

He of course asks what I am doing in Hell Itself, and I tell him honestly.  He is shocked and appalled for me. He also asks how the court hearing went for my petition to reduce my payment to Lars. I give him the highlight reel version, complete with sound bites from His Honor, and he is stunned nearly speechless. He tells me again that if I ever need anything that he is there for me.

The words cut like a knife. I would never take his money. But I needed him in the Fall and he vanished. I'd be crazy to think of him as a safety net. The reminder is jarring.

I tell him that the parking lot is full of beat up cars so I assume the line in the Office of the Unwashed Masses is at least 40 people deep. I should get going if I don't want to be in there long enough for my car to be stripped for parts.

He tells me it was nice to see me, and to pull over if I see him on my way back out of Hell Itself. I tell him I will, though I know that I won't and he'd never know.

I hang up, gather all the proof of who I am (though I know not myself at this moment) and turn to face the music. 

Now That's a Drive By

Since there is no way around it, I gather my Unemployment documents, my photo IDs (all of them) and prepare to go to the Office of the Unwashed Masses.  A treat for sure.

I get up, shower and put on a responsible-looking outfit.  I don't really know why. I know I could show up and get in line wearing naught by a pair of Daisy Dukes and a training bra and no one would bat an eye.  But I want whoever I deal with not to question my integrity. I want an outfit that says, "The person in these clothes was actually gainfully employed for a very long uninterrupted period of time and made a very good living.  But circumstances, like everything else, change from time to time, and this is one of those times, and so therefore I do believe that this person and her kids deserve to eat, so please, for the love of God, approve the claim. She'd be most grateful."

I get in my car and head in the direction of the Office of the Unwashed Masses, with fear and loathing in my heart, and that doesn't even cover the road rage.

As I meander through the Hell Hole that is the neighborhood in which I worked, which is also the neighborhood where the Office of the Unwashed Masses stands, however tenuously, I recall the dread of my everyday working life. Happy to be gone, even under these circumstances. Black hole of misery that it was. 

And suddenly, as I pass my old building, there he is.

No, not my boss, and I know what you're thinking. I would not actually run him over.

Scott.

That Scott.

Right by my car.

Really?  After Scott vanished, there was a part of me (okay a huge, dominant part of me) that pined for him. That needed to see him. That hoped I would see him. That foolishly thought if we just saw each other, we'd remember all that we were to one another and get back on track again. But we live 90 miles apart, so bumping into him at the deli was not really likely.

And then, as all my friends and family rallied around me, and I realized what a jerk he was in comparison to some of the fine people I already knew and needed to get to know better, I came to think of the 90 miles as a blessing. No bitter reminders. Nothing tugging at my threadbare heartstrings. Distance made the heart grow forgetful.

And now, all this time later, there he is. 

He sees me and I see him. I wave. He waves. I keep driving.

It was just too weird.

Labor of Love

Today I'll write a real time post instead of continuing to muse endlessly on the misadventures of my life, which is still doing laps around Memorial Day from a writing perspective.

And since today is Labor Day, I have decided that I will do absolutely nothing that resembles labor. Which may sound odd coming from an unemployed person who has no immediate need to get out of bed, don fresh panties and a spiffy outfit, or put gas in my car. 

I will not spend one moment fretting over my labor camp of a yard. Beads of sweat will not form on my forehead as I endlessly mow and weed whack. I will not haul out the tree saw, the hand saw, the chainsaw or the hedge trimmers to tame the behemoth hedges that surround my yard like a fortress, planted oh so many years ago by Lars, who insisted on privacy and encircled the place with a hedge that can be seen from space. Deep Space.

I will not dust, polish, vacuum, or remove sticky stuff from anything in my house. Anything. The volume of Irish Lace suspended from the ceiling will not prevent anyone from moving freely about the house and will be waiting for me tomorrow, I'm quite sure.

I will not do laundry of any kind.  It can fester in the hamper plotting to choke me with its noxious fumes for another day. 

I am going to sit and reflect on what it means to be part of the work force --- and to not be.

I am still not working, at least for a paycheck.  But I feel like I have worked quite a lot this summer. At finding meaningful work, at networking, at presenting myself favorably to potential employers.  And at not letting the ups and downs, like bi-polar mood swings on the best of days, make me feel anxious, hopeless or unworthy.

I have worked very hard to stay in shape. Slogging away for hours at the track and on trails, even when traveling (I hesitate to say "while on vacation" since I was really not on vacation from anything.  It was all just a matter of geography...). I have pushed myself physically and have been determined, even getting out in the rain a few times and coming home soaked to the skin with my beloved iPhone wrapped in one of those plastic bags the park provides for you to curb your dog.

I have worked very hard at being a parent.  It occurred to me a few weeks ago that Hil was the exact age that I was when Estelle spread her wings and flew the coop.  It gave me fresh perspective on how much we need our parents at that tender age and what it meant for Estelle to have skimmed that chapter. (Maybe we'll muse about this another time together.) I have been present.  I have communicated. I have provided advice and guidance. I have been game for all manner of activities (i.e. rollerskating, apple picking, outlet shopping, R-rated movies against my initial judgment.)

I have worked very hard at sorting out matters of the heart as thoughtfully and honestly as possible.

I have worked very hard to manage money, which is in admittedly short supply, without giving the kids too much to worry about.

No, I will not work today. I will reflect.  Reflect on what I've done and what I need to do. And I am hoping that what reflects back at me is something with renewed enthusiasm, determination and grace. Relax, and have a happy Labor Day!