We walk across the street to the diviest, coolest bar in the world. We've been here twice before. Each time I've had a blast. We've met some cool people. We've played some very bad pool. We've had some hilarious moments.
We walk to bar, get drinks and get in the game of pool. Craig puts quarters up on the edge of the table. We're in next.
Of course, being a man and a woman of a certain age, as we settle in with the pool playing crowd, someone always asks "How long have you guys been married?" And Craig always answers,"We're not married. We went to school together." A non answer. It leaves a lot to be assumed. Most people assume the full answer is "We're not married. Not ot each other or anyone else. We're just friends with nothing better to do tonight, so we came here."
I understand the question. Again, we are that couple. Totally having a ball together and completely absent that look of overwhelming boredom that often comes with 20 years of marriage and the vicissitudes of married life. The demands, joys and heartbreaks of children. Career highs and lows.The constant harangue of home ownership. The constant swirl of keeping a relationship from flying into the side of a mountain. On the contrary, we walk in holding hands, smiling, and totally in sync about what is going to happen next. The young couples whose pool game we are about to join want to know what magic fairy dust was sprinkled on our heads and when.
Craig gets beers and we get into the game. He and I eventually meet everyone in the pool hall end of the bar. It's a friendly crowd. (This would never happen in my neighborhood.)
Craig takes the lead when it's our turn to play. I've played pool before but not so much that I could ever pretend to know what I am doing. I know the basic agenda. Hit the little white ball with the end of your stick and hit another ball or two with the hopes of putting a particular ball in a particular hole in the table. That is where my knowledge of the game begins and ends. I have no idea how to rack the balls to break. And if I ever did I've sufficiently pickled that portion of my brain so as to render the memory inert. I'll leave the racking to Craig. And the breaking. I don't have the coordination for that either.
I spend my "non-shooting" time socializing with all manner of people. Craig does the same. We meet at either end of the table occasionally to discuss more drinks or to flirt a little. I am having a marvy time. Even at this hour. It has to be the wee hours by now. I have drank, bocce'd and shot pool all night. I decide to sit with some people for a minute. I have worn sandals that are not designed for playing pool.
I pull up a chair next to two young, heavy set people. One has a gorgeous manicure with fancy nail art and is wearing a very cool dress. The other is in shorts and a T-shirt, has braids and no eyebrows. Bears a striking resemblance to Whoopie Goldberg. I am not at all sure whether it is a man or a woman. It's the boobs that throw me. And the somewhat falsetto voice. I have had too much to drink to be completely confident about the gender roulette wheel.
Whoopie leans over to me and asks me my name and Craig's. I tell him. He asks how long we've known each other and I tell him that we met in school but really only began to spend time together in the last few years.
"He loves you," Whoopie says.
I touch Whoopie's hand (Another confusing matter. Whoopie has very smooth hands. Not at all like a man's) and look into his or her eyes. "What makes you say that?"
The truth is, we have been to this divey bar 3 times, and this is the third time that someone has spent a few minutes with Craig and me and has felt compelled to tell me that in spite of Craig's answer about who we are to each other, that they feel that he loves me.
Whoopie does not hesitate. "A guy knows when a guy is in love." (Thank you for answering the gender question...)
Curious and skeptical, I ask him what the hallmarks are. What has tipped him off? Because clearly I am in the dark about anything remotely resembling Craig's deepest emotions.
Without missing a beat, Whoopie rattles off his observations. "You should see the way you look together! You are something to see! So happy. You really dig each other. And don't you see the way he looks at you, girl? My God, he smiles from ear to ear the minute you start talking to him. It's like he can't believe his luck. And when it's your turn to shoot, he takes care of you and roots for you. When you made that last shot he was beaming. All proud like a peacock."
The girlfriend chimes in. "He's looking at you now. Don't look. His face says everything. He thinks he's the luckiest guy in the world tonight."
Whoopie senses my curiosity. "You didn't know all this?" I shake my head no.
Girlfriend has made a few observations herself. "He touches you a lot. When you walk by, his hand is on your hip. When you went to the restroom he took your beer and then held your hand for a bit as you walked away. He never misses a chance."
"Is that gross?" I ask. I have no idea what people think. I barely know what I think on a good day.
"No," she says. "It's sweet. It's not like he's manhandling you. They are sweet gestures."
I tell them both about the other two men who have essentially said the same thing. I'd never asked them to elaborate. I'm glad I have asked them to.
Girlfriend says, "Don't you think that he loves you? Don't you feel it?"
I say that I think I do, but he's not saying it.
Whoopie has one more bit of wisdom.
"Yes, he is."
Friday, January 31, 2014
Thursday, January 30, 2014
See You In September
Crisis averted (at least until the enormous bill comes and Lars wants to share it) life plods on.
While I am at the shore with Caren and Joe I get a couple of calls about job opportunities. Folks are back from their summer hiatuses and ready to grudgingly begin the mundane working man's tasks. I am careful not to respond to any phone call once happy hour has begun. No one needs to slur their way through their strengths and weaknesses.
I continue my maniacal routine of walking insane numbers of miles and tending my yard and generally wearing myself down to a nub so I can sleep at night. I am in kick boxer shape. I am sure I can crush a man's skull with my thighs if necessary.
I see Craig. Handsome as ever and loads of fun. We run all over town, playing bocce and pool and drinking fabulous microbrewery IPAs. We talk incessantly. I love getting to know him. He's endlessly interesting and we have tons of interests and opinions in common.
We walk to a wonderful Italian restaurant in the little coastal city where we've met. I am not terribly hungry after 3 beers but he's starved. He asks me if I'll share with him if he orders a bunch of food. I tell him I will and he makes a joke about the liverwurst and onion sandwich we once shared. It always makes him laugh that while was still spreading mustard on his half, mine was well on its way to being fully digested. There were nothing but crumbs on my side of the plate and I was already eyeballing the little pile of pickles on his side. I tell him I eat like a condemned man. Or a Viking. You'd think I had a hollow leg.
The food comes. The pasta. The bread. The pepperoncini. The calamari. He spoons pasta on my plate. I feed him an olive. We feast. He's laughing again at how much food I can put away in one sitting and still look like Olive Oyl. He slops marinara on his shirt. I call him a knucklehead and dab it with the napkin from my lap after dipping it into my water glass. The bar tender thinks this is adorable. Craig seems pleased by that.
We take our drinks and make our way to the bocce pit. He seems to have learned the rules but not the terminology. He forgets the name of the white ball. He dubs it "the pannini." Every time he says it I laugh. We play a full game, bravely but poorly, and laugh our heads off in the pit below the main floor of the restaurant. At one point, we look up and realize that there are dozens of people watching us play, lined along the wrought iron gates that surround the pit. We chat with them all, feeling like David Beckham must feel when he's recognized at the airport. They obviously think we know what we are doing. I wonder if they know that the white ball is not called a pannini.
We finish our drinks curled up on a sofa on the mezzanine watching a ballgame. His team is in the wild card hunt. He likes that I can talk about sports. I like that he doesn't think I am an idiot when it comes to sports. When the game is over and his team has lost, we leave and make our way to the last dive bar pool hall of the evening, we are stopped by 3 couples about to enter the restaurant. They engage us in conversation about the food and the neighborhood and where we'd recommend going. They are all from out of town. I like the way Craig works the crowd. He invites them to play pool with us later and tells them where we'll be. He'd fit right in at Girls Weekend.
Once on our way, Craig comments to me. First he tells me that I look beautiful and that he's always amazed that I am the same girl that he knew in college (which isn't as offensive as it may sound. I look nothing like I did in school. And I know I look better. Who can be offended by that? Anyone can look good in their 20s. I am pretty happy to have improved with time.) Then he tells me that he's noticed that wherever we go, we seem to attract a lot of attention.
This is not a foreign concept to me. When I am out with the girls, we create scene-stealing moments just walking in the door. I look at him like he's nuts. "Of course we do. That doesn't happen to you all the time?"
He shakes his head no. I tell him that we attract a lot of attention because we're "that couple." We're the couple all the other couples want to be. We are having fun. We're talking. We're making each other laugh. We hold hands. We kiss. We poke good natured fun at each other. It is clear that we enjoy each other's company. Other couples want to be us. People hope what we have is contagious. It's like when we were on our first date and he placed a really funny drink order making an inside joke to me and then everyone at the bar ordered the same bizarre thing.
He doesn't say anything. Just nods. He smiles, takes a long look up and down at me, and pulls me close to put his arm around me to cross the street to the dive bar.
While I am at the shore with Caren and Joe I get a couple of calls about job opportunities. Folks are back from their summer hiatuses and ready to grudgingly begin the mundane working man's tasks. I am careful not to respond to any phone call once happy hour has begun. No one needs to slur their way through their strengths and weaknesses.
I continue my maniacal routine of walking insane numbers of miles and tending my yard and generally wearing myself down to a nub so I can sleep at night. I am in kick boxer shape. I am sure I can crush a man's skull with my thighs if necessary.
I see Craig. Handsome as ever and loads of fun. We run all over town, playing bocce and pool and drinking fabulous microbrewery IPAs. We talk incessantly. I love getting to know him. He's endlessly interesting and we have tons of interests and opinions in common.
We walk to a wonderful Italian restaurant in the little coastal city where we've met. I am not terribly hungry after 3 beers but he's starved. He asks me if I'll share with him if he orders a bunch of food. I tell him I will and he makes a joke about the liverwurst and onion sandwich we once shared. It always makes him laugh that while was still spreading mustard on his half, mine was well on its way to being fully digested. There were nothing but crumbs on my side of the plate and I was already eyeballing the little pile of pickles on his side. I tell him I eat like a condemned man. Or a Viking. You'd think I had a hollow leg.
The food comes. The pasta. The bread. The pepperoncini. The calamari. He spoons pasta on my plate. I feed him an olive. We feast. He's laughing again at how much food I can put away in one sitting and still look like Olive Oyl. He slops marinara on his shirt. I call him a knucklehead and dab it with the napkin from my lap after dipping it into my water glass. The bar tender thinks this is adorable. Craig seems pleased by that.
We take our drinks and make our way to the bocce pit. He seems to have learned the rules but not the terminology. He forgets the name of the white ball. He dubs it "the pannini." Every time he says it I laugh. We play a full game, bravely but poorly, and laugh our heads off in the pit below the main floor of the restaurant. At one point, we look up and realize that there are dozens of people watching us play, lined along the wrought iron gates that surround the pit. We chat with them all, feeling like David Beckham must feel when he's recognized at the airport. They obviously think we know what we are doing. I wonder if they know that the white ball is not called a pannini.
We finish our drinks curled up on a sofa on the mezzanine watching a ballgame. His team is in the wild card hunt. He likes that I can talk about sports. I like that he doesn't think I am an idiot when it comes to sports. When the game is over and his team has lost, we leave and make our way to the last dive bar pool hall of the evening, we are stopped by 3 couples about to enter the restaurant. They engage us in conversation about the food and the neighborhood and where we'd recommend going. They are all from out of town. I like the way Craig works the crowd. He invites them to play pool with us later and tells them where we'll be. He'd fit right in at Girls Weekend.
Once on our way, Craig comments to me. First he tells me that I look beautiful and that he's always amazed that I am the same girl that he knew in college (which isn't as offensive as it may sound. I look nothing like I did in school. And I know I look better. Who can be offended by that? Anyone can look good in their 20s. I am pretty happy to have improved with time.) Then he tells me that he's noticed that wherever we go, we seem to attract a lot of attention.
This is not a foreign concept to me. When I am out with the girls, we create scene-stealing moments just walking in the door. I look at him like he's nuts. "Of course we do. That doesn't happen to you all the time?"
He shakes his head no. I tell him that we attract a lot of attention because we're "that couple." We're the couple all the other couples want to be. We are having fun. We're talking. We're making each other laugh. We hold hands. We kiss. We poke good natured fun at each other. It is clear that we enjoy each other's company. Other couples want to be us. People hope what we have is contagious. It's like when we were on our first date and he placed a really funny drink order making an inside joke to me and then everyone at the bar ordered the same bizarre thing.
He doesn't say anything. Just nods. He smiles, takes a long look up and down at me, and pulls me close to put his arm around me to cross the street to the dive bar.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
It's PMS. Period.
Have I mentioned that Lars is a nerveen? Most nervous and consistently agitated person I've ever known. The calm temperament of a hummingbird. A hamster on a wheel. He careens through life in a car with no brakes, barely taking in what is happening around him and screaming his head off all the while.
I don't think the man has taken a deep breath since Y2K threatened to force the world to stop spinning on its axis.
In spite of a license that says he should know a thing or two about how a body works, he maintains a couple of idiotic notions about the mysteries of human biology when the subject is his own children (or even more interestingly, himself).
Years ago when Hil was diagnosed with a kidney problem that related to a birth defect that positioned her ureter in such a way that toxins were pumped back into her kidney instead of being flushed out, Lars and I were alarmed, natch. Her one little kidney had atrophied and was being killed off by the poisons in her urine. One kidney was like a nice, plump Jersey tomato. The other was like a sun dried tomato. Operating at a fraction of its former capacity. Thank God you get two.
So we had the surgery to reposition her ureter, staple it in place and let it function to the best of its ability.
Lars thought it might grow back.
An idiot says, what?
Sure, and so will your head when I hack it off with this kitchen knife to spare the rest of you from it.
He kept asking the surgeon if we could get an ultrasound to see if it had grown at all. I wanted to throw a net over his egg-shaped head and drag him off to have it examined by a team of pathologists. Surely something had gone chemically wrong with his brain.
Now, in spite of all the evidence that Hil was suffering PMS not kidney failure, and all arguments to the contrary, he insisted on calling the doctor rather than wait for nature to right the ship.
He is such a sucker. Such an easy target. He once insisted that the dentist pull two of Hil's baby teeth, which were wobbly and loose, because her secondary teeth had begun to come in and she had two where there once was only one. Of course the dentist saw dollar signs and haddosed her with Novocaine and gone through the entire unnecessary extraction. Twice. And then sent a big fat bill for the life or death dental emergency. One that we'd split 58% to 42% because that is the ratio between our salaries. I wanted to bash Lars in the face with a cast iron skillet and create a new dental emergency.
So this time he called the doc about Hil's twinge in her side and of course the pediatrician feigned shock and horror. Of course she needed to be seen. And of course she needed urinalysis. And of course she needed blood drawn for labs. And of course she needed an ultrasound. And of course it had to be with the specialist they are most comfortable with not the one our insurance will pay for. And of course they'd need to scan both kidneys not just one, just so they can compare them to one another (I am sure Lars insisted. He's still so curious to see if it has grown back. I would not be surprised if also expected it to grow legs.)
In a text to him, two chardonnays into the evening, I objected, saying I am sure it is nothing more than a raging case of teenaged PMS and Hil's propensity for high drama. I resoundingly objected to the diagnostics and told him it was completely unnecessary.
But he went ahead and took a day off to take her to the radiology department at some specialty clinic in some inconvenient place. He asked if I wanted to attend. I told him it was unnecessary and therefor not something I had any burning curiosity about. (It is also painless, so Hil's hand woul dnot need to be held.)
And what do you think happened on the way to the ultrasound?
Wait for it.
Hil got her period. Ta-da!
I don't think the man has taken a deep breath since Y2K threatened to force the world to stop spinning on its axis.
In spite of a license that says he should know a thing or two about how a body works, he maintains a couple of idiotic notions about the mysteries of human biology when the subject is his own children (or even more interestingly, himself).
Years ago when Hil was diagnosed with a kidney problem that related to a birth defect that positioned her ureter in such a way that toxins were pumped back into her kidney instead of being flushed out, Lars and I were alarmed, natch. Her one little kidney had atrophied and was being killed off by the poisons in her urine. One kidney was like a nice, plump Jersey tomato. The other was like a sun dried tomato. Operating at a fraction of its former capacity. Thank God you get two.
So we had the surgery to reposition her ureter, staple it in place and let it function to the best of its ability.
Lars thought it might grow back.
An idiot says, what?
Sure, and so will your head when I hack it off with this kitchen knife to spare the rest of you from it.
He kept asking the surgeon if we could get an ultrasound to see if it had grown at all. I wanted to throw a net over his egg-shaped head and drag him off to have it examined by a team of pathologists. Surely something had gone chemically wrong with his brain.
Now, in spite of all the evidence that Hil was suffering PMS not kidney failure, and all arguments to the contrary, he insisted on calling the doctor rather than wait for nature to right the ship.
He is such a sucker. Such an easy target. He once insisted that the dentist pull two of Hil's baby teeth, which were wobbly and loose, because her secondary teeth had begun to come in and she had two where there once was only one. Of course the dentist saw dollar signs and haddosed her with Novocaine and gone through the entire unnecessary extraction. Twice. And then sent a big fat bill for the life or death dental emergency. One that we'd split 58% to 42% because that is the ratio between our salaries. I wanted to bash Lars in the face with a cast iron skillet and create a new dental emergency.
So this time he called the doc about Hil's twinge in her side and of course the pediatrician feigned shock and horror. Of course she needed to be seen. And of course she needed urinalysis. And of course she needed blood drawn for labs. And of course she needed an ultrasound. And of course it had to be with the specialist they are most comfortable with not the one our insurance will pay for. And of course they'd need to scan both kidneys not just one, just so they can compare them to one another (I am sure Lars insisted. He's still so curious to see if it has grown back. I would not be surprised if also expected it to grow legs.)
In a text to him, two chardonnays into the evening, I objected, saying I am sure it is nothing more than a raging case of teenaged PMS and Hil's propensity for high drama. I resoundingly objected to the diagnostics and told him it was completely unnecessary.
But he went ahead and took a day off to take her to the radiology department at some specialty clinic in some inconvenient place. He asked if I wanted to attend. I told him it was unnecessary and therefor not something I had any burning curiosity about. (It is also painless, so Hil's hand woul dnot need to be held.)
And what do you think happened on the way to the ultrasound?
Wait for it.
Hil got her period. Ta-da!
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
Summer's End
So now what?
The next few weeks were a haze of end of Summer activity.
First, there is Back to School shopping for the kids. Hil had accomplished a lot when we had gone outlet shopping when we were on vacation. Pat had not found a single article of clothing or a single pair of shoes he'd ever be caught dead wearing in the corridors of the high school. And he'd decided that basketball pants (he's the proud owner of dozens of them) are no longer cool and we must pitch them all and replace them with considerably more expensive and difficult to buy dark wash jeans. And the selection of acceptable t-shirts and requisite hoodies has narrowed significantly since last year. I see a large charity clothing donation in my future. We will be going to another outlet mall. I am secretly praying that there is a bar on the premises.
And to go with all the new clothes, we'll need hair cuts. Hil is easy. Wants to grow it down to her feet. Just a trim, please. Pat is will let exactly one human being come anywhere near his head with a pair of scissors or clippers, and it is Vincent at Super Cuts, a walk-in only place about 2 miles away where your 11th hair cut is free. It costs me 2 hours and 18 dollars every few weeks. Lars refuses to take him there. He'd prefer that Pat walk around the corner to the barbershop with the 100 yr old man cutting hair against all logic with electric clippers and a wicked case of DTs. It's five dollars and Lars doesn't have to get off of the ass groove on the sofa. How convenient. So I guess I will be doing the round of family hair cuts. Again.
And there is the Back to School barrage of paperwork and permission slips and materials fees and consent forms and club registrations and PTO commitments. No I do not want to chaperon the dance. And yes, I will teach my child about internet safety. And no I do not want to buy a raffle ticket for a round of golf or dinner for two at a local restaraunt I've deftly avoided since it opened or a basket of cheer that would not cheer a wino on Vine Street much less me.
The kids go off to school. They are with Lars that week. It is bizarre and unnatural for me not to see them off with notes in their lunches and kisses on their freshly scrubbed faces. Lars sends pictures from the morning. Hil has churned out the hype with her hair and jewelry and is stunning in her perfectly assembled ensemble. Pat is adorable and dressed to make a good first impression with a perfectly pressed collared shirt. I still wish he'd shave, but he's making a statement.
And to soothe my soul, I head to the shore. Spend some time with Caren and Joe and their kids and their kids' spouses and boyfriends and even a grandchild in a huge manse about 10 steps from a nearly deserted beach. It is a great way to ignore the fact that my life is not the way I'd like it to be. I don't have a job and have scarcely few prospects at the moment. I miss half of my children's lives every year, and many milestones (because asking if I can participate is still an intrusion that sends Lars sailing over the edge of reason). I blinked and my grade schoolers were off to high school. And I have too much weight and not enough shoulder on a good day. I need a partner to share the load with.
While I am at the shore, enjoying the late afternoon sun on Caren and Joe's rented veranda, Lars texts me. "DID YOU KNOW THAT HIL IS HAVING PAINS IN HER SIDE NEAR HER KIDNEY?????????"
No, dumbass. She told me she was writhing in pain on the bathroom tiles but I chose to ignore it.
Against my strongest desire to send a blistering insult, I dial it back and send a tame reply that doesn't overtly suggest that he is a complete moron. He should know that without my saying, anyway.
"Yes, she's told me that she's had a twinge or two. My observations are that she is a little dehydrated, and that she is about to get her period. Period." I've been getting my period for 35 years. Her symptoms are the little trail of breadcrumbs your ovaries leave for you so you know exactly the path to misery.
He argues that he is worried that she could be suffering from the same condition that damaged her one kidney a few years ago. God forbid the other kidney should be affected the same way.
My God, how did this man get a medical license?
Without sounding screechy or preachy, I remind him that her first period was one month ago exactly. She has no idea what signs and symptoms to look for to predict the arrival of her Monthly Bill. And I remind him that the kidney problem she had experienced was the result of a birth defect. (And birth defects don't magically spring up at the age of 13.) And the hallmarks of that condition were fevers and infections. Not a twinge on her side where her ovaries reside. I suggest he give it a day or two and see if her period arrives. She has been profoundly bitchy. Her period is the most likely culprit. (Let's review our notes from Physical Diagnosis class, shall we? I remember how to rule in and rule out, do you?)
I leave the veranda to go to the kitchen. I return with a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses. I sense that I am in for a bumpy night. Caren and I are going to have to brace ourselves.
The next few weeks were a haze of end of Summer activity.
First, there is Back to School shopping for the kids. Hil had accomplished a lot when we had gone outlet shopping when we were on vacation. Pat had not found a single article of clothing or a single pair of shoes he'd ever be caught dead wearing in the corridors of the high school. And he'd decided that basketball pants (he's the proud owner of dozens of them) are no longer cool and we must pitch them all and replace them with considerably more expensive and difficult to buy dark wash jeans. And the selection of acceptable t-shirts and requisite hoodies has narrowed significantly since last year. I see a large charity clothing donation in my future. We will be going to another outlet mall. I am secretly praying that there is a bar on the premises.
And to go with all the new clothes, we'll need hair cuts. Hil is easy. Wants to grow it down to her feet. Just a trim, please. Pat is will let exactly one human being come anywhere near his head with a pair of scissors or clippers, and it is Vincent at Super Cuts, a walk-in only place about 2 miles away where your 11th hair cut is free. It costs me 2 hours and 18 dollars every few weeks. Lars refuses to take him there. He'd prefer that Pat walk around the corner to the barbershop with the 100 yr old man cutting hair against all logic with electric clippers and a wicked case of DTs. It's five dollars and Lars doesn't have to get off of the ass groove on the sofa. How convenient. So I guess I will be doing the round of family hair cuts. Again.
And there is the Back to School barrage of paperwork and permission slips and materials fees and consent forms and club registrations and PTO commitments. No I do not want to chaperon the dance. And yes, I will teach my child about internet safety. And no I do not want to buy a raffle ticket for a round of golf or dinner for two at a local restaraunt I've deftly avoided since it opened or a basket of cheer that would not cheer a wino on Vine Street much less me.
The kids go off to school. They are with Lars that week. It is bizarre and unnatural for me not to see them off with notes in their lunches and kisses on their freshly scrubbed faces. Lars sends pictures from the morning. Hil has churned out the hype with her hair and jewelry and is stunning in her perfectly assembled ensemble. Pat is adorable and dressed to make a good first impression with a perfectly pressed collared shirt. I still wish he'd shave, but he's making a statement.
And to soothe my soul, I head to the shore. Spend some time with Caren and Joe and their kids and their kids' spouses and boyfriends and even a grandchild in a huge manse about 10 steps from a nearly deserted beach. It is a great way to ignore the fact that my life is not the way I'd like it to be. I don't have a job and have scarcely few prospects at the moment. I miss half of my children's lives every year, and many milestones (because asking if I can participate is still an intrusion that sends Lars sailing over the edge of reason). I blinked and my grade schoolers were off to high school. And I have too much weight and not enough shoulder on a good day. I need a partner to share the load with.
While I am at the shore, enjoying the late afternoon sun on Caren and Joe's rented veranda, Lars texts me. "DID YOU KNOW THAT HIL IS HAVING PAINS IN HER SIDE NEAR HER KIDNEY?????????"
No, dumbass. She told me she was writhing in pain on the bathroom tiles but I chose to ignore it.
Against my strongest desire to send a blistering insult, I dial it back and send a tame reply that doesn't overtly suggest that he is a complete moron. He should know that without my saying, anyway.
"Yes, she's told me that she's had a twinge or two. My observations are that she is a little dehydrated, and that she is about to get her period. Period." I've been getting my period for 35 years. Her symptoms are the little trail of breadcrumbs your ovaries leave for you so you know exactly the path to misery.
He argues that he is worried that she could be suffering from the same condition that damaged her one kidney a few years ago. God forbid the other kidney should be affected the same way.
My God, how did this man get a medical license?
Without sounding screechy or preachy, I remind him that her first period was one month ago exactly. She has no idea what signs and symptoms to look for to predict the arrival of her Monthly Bill. And I remind him that the kidney problem she had experienced was the result of a birth defect. (And birth defects don't magically spring up at the age of 13.) And the hallmarks of that condition were fevers and infections. Not a twinge on her side where her ovaries reside. I suggest he give it a day or two and see if her period arrives. She has been profoundly bitchy. Her period is the most likely culprit. (Let's review our notes from Physical Diagnosis class, shall we? I remember how to rule in and rule out, do you?)
I leave the veranda to go to the kitchen. I return with a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses. I sense that I am in for a bumpy night. Caren and I are going to have to brace ourselves.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Right Back Where I Started From
He's just not that into me. That about summarizes the whole thing as neatly as possible.
Everything seems like a great idea when you're on a Girls or Guys weekend. Even this ridiculous skirt I bought. Where on Earth am I wearing that? My next beach bonfire with Frankie and Annette?
But still, the Pollyanna in me wants to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, even if I am 99% sure I'll never hear from him again, I still think that 1% is enough possibility.
And the fact is, a few days later he does text me. (Again, another man who only texts. He must know Craig.) We are both home like losers watching a football game on TV. It's a week that I have the kids. I assume he does, too. Nothing particularly inviting. Just comments on the game. I wonder if the texts were meant for someone else. His brother?
And a few days later he texts again. We have a short chat late in the evening. Cordial, funny. No mistaking the texts as intended for anyone but me, but no mention of making plans.
I am anxious to stay connected. I am hoping eventually he'll feel warm and fuzzy enough to ask when I am free to do something (besides text, for Christ's sake!)But after dozens of texts he hasn't asked, and I am too tired to care.
I send one (almost) final text "Heading up the wooden hill to bed. Goodnight."
He writes, "I say that, too! My grandfather used to say it!"
Smiling, I write, "My grandmother said it, and therefore so did my Dad."
He sends back a smile.
And THOSE are exactly the last words between us. Nothing since. Not a syllable. Nothing happened. Nothing went wrong. It just stopped.
And the Nancy Drew in me wants to dissect the whole thing. Figure out my mistake (because I am sure it is mine) and swear on a stack of Glamour Magazines that I will never repeat the mistake again.
Did I come across as too eager? Too willing? Too desperate? My usual mistake is to be too aloof. Most guys have no idea that I like them. By not making that mistake did I commit a foul of another kind?
I know I wasn't clingy. Everybody knows a guy hates a clinger. Nobody wants to be around someone who is more like an appliance on an extension chord than dance partner. I gave him his Guys Weekend space. Did not infringe. Did not make a boo-boo face when I was not the obvious center of attention. Did not threaten to run off with the nearest member of the male species because he and the guys went to another bar. Did not assume too much. I was attentive but did not go overboard. I did not arrive at the pool on Saturday with his name tattooed on my collarbone (or his face tattooed on my thigh, thank you very much).
Was there interference from Chris? Did he need to not be bested by his best friend so badly that he made it hard for John? Would I have come between their friendship? My Dad always said (when he said anything that looked remotely like advice) not to lose a girlfriend over a boyfriend. Would it have just been too much of a harangue? Or am I just making excuses. Or is it really bad and Chris really is a pig and said that Trish the Dish said I was a bad investment. Trouble with a capital T. A four alarm fruit loop. Not the kind of person you want "around your children."
Or was there just not enough...something? Not enough chemistry. Not enough attraction. Not enough in common. Not enough time. Like a summer romance that makes no sense at all once you get back to school with your friends. Like that idiot Eddie (whose name was actually Rob, but who let me call him Eddie. I have no idea why) who was just as handsome as can be, and funny as hell, and loads of fun to be around, who, once I returned to school my Junior year, seemed like the worlds biggest waste of protoplasm ever. Baby Huey. A toddler in a man's body. All the mental agility of a houseplant. I remember writing him a letter telling him about my favorite class, Eng. 401, Shakespearean Tragedies. From what I'd written he'd thought I was an Engineering major. What????
So a week or two later, I erase all the texts from John from my phone. Remove his number from my contacts.
And I make plans to see Craig.
Everything seems like a great idea when you're on a Girls or Guys weekend. Even this ridiculous skirt I bought. Where on Earth am I wearing that? My next beach bonfire with Frankie and Annette?
But still, the Pollyanna in me wants to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, even if I am 99% sure I'll never hear from him again, I still think that 1% is enough possibility.
And the fact is, a few days later he does text me. (Again, another man who only texts. He must know Craig.) We are both home like losers watching a football game on TV. It's a week that I have the kids. I assume he does, too. Nothing particularly inviting. Just comments on the game. I wonder if the texts were meant for someone else. His brother?
And a few days later he texts again. We have a short chat late in the evening. Cordial, funny. No mistaking the texts as intended for anyone but me, but no mention of making plans.
I am anxious to stay connected. I am hoping eventually he'll feel warm and fuzzy enough to ask when I am free to do something (besides text, for Christ's sake!)But after dozens of texts he hasn't asked, and I am too tired to care.
I send one (almost) final text "Heading up the wooden hill to bed. Goodnight."
He writes, "I say that, too! My grandfather used to say it!"
Smiling, I write, "My grandmother said it, and therefore so did my Dad."
He sends back a smile.
And THOSE are exactly the last words between us. Nothing since. Not a syllable. Nothing happened. Nothing went wrong. It just stopped.
And the Nancy Drew in me wants to dissect the whole thing. Figure out my mistake (because I am sure it is mine) and swear on a stack of Glamour Magazines that I will never repeat the mistake again.
Did I come across as too eager? Too willing? Too desperate? My usual mistake is to be too aloof. Most guys have no idea that I like them. By not making that mistake did I commit a foul of another kind?
I know I wasn't clingy. Everybody knows a guy hates a clinger. Nobody wants to be around someone who is more like an appliance on an extension chord than dance partner. I gave him his Guys Weekend space. Did not infringe. Did not make a boo-boo face when I was not the obvious center of attention. Did not threaten to run off with the nearest member of the male species because he and the guys went to another bar. Did not assume too much. I was attentive but did not go overboard. I did not arrive at the pool on Saturday with his name tattooed on my collarbone (or his face tattooed on my thigh, thank you very much).
Was there interference from Chris? Did he need to not be bested by his best friend so badly that he made it hard for John? Would I have come between their friendship? My Dad always said (when he said anything that looked remotely like advice) not to lose a girlfriend over a boyfriend. Would it have just been too much of a harangue? Or am I just making excuses. Or is it really bad and Chris really is a pig and said that Trish the Dish said I was a bad investment. Trouble with a capital T. A four alarm fruit loop. Not the kind of person you want "around your children."
Or was there just not enough...something? Not enough chemistry. Not enough attraction. Not enough in common. Not enough time. Like a summer romance that makes no sense at all once you get back to school with your friends. Like that idiot Eddie (whose name was actually Rob, but who let me call him Eddie. I have no idea why) who was just as handsome as can be, and funny as hell, and loads of fun to be around, who, once I returned to school my Junior year, seemed like the worlds biggest waste of protoplasm ever. Baby Huey. A toddler in a man's body. All the mental agility of a houseplant. I remember writing him a letter telling him about my favorite class, Eng. 401, Shakespearean Tragedies. From what I'd written he'd thought I was an Engineering major. What????
So a week or two later, I erase all the texts from John from my phone. Remove his number from my contacts.
And I make plans to see Craig.
Friday, January 24, 2014
He's Just Not That Into You
The next few days are busy.
I make myself busy.
I prepare from my interview. Outfit and research and well rehearsed accomplishments, oh my.
I walk 20 miles. Why sit on my ass when there are muscles to tone and calories to burn and a soul to be healed?
I talk to Joy. She is less discouraged than me about the whole John thing. She tells me to clean up my Facebook page. Yes, I am easy to find and yes, it still appears to those who don't know me that Scott might be my boyfriend. I need to go in and untag myself. Oh goodie, administrivia. The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past will not leave me alone. Her advice is to be patient and give him a chance.
I perfect my plans for going from interview to party with a Superman-esque outfit change. I perfect the green dress look, too. Evidently the underwear choice is almost as important as the shoes.
The interview is just "meh." Just a job, and the interviewer acted all squirrely after having been interrupted by her boss and "fleeing the interview" as they say in the movie Fargo. She had to leave for at least 15 minutes and I fidgeted in solitude until her return, secretly hoping she was being fired wherever she was. And then all I could think of was the pregnant detective in Fargo. She kind of looked like her. Except she wasn't pregnant. And didn't wave a badge around.
I look fabulous for the party. Even by my own standards. The lime dress is a big hit. I remember that I'd forgotten to send a photo to Joy for her approval. I make sure I post a beautiful shot of me in the dress on the museum steps with the moon in the background so she can see it. And John, too, if he really has stalked me on FB. And Craig if he's on line. Couldn't hurt to be seen by the entire FB world in a stunning dress, with tanned and toned legs in a pair of sexy heels.
Socially, the party is good thing. I meet a lot of people. I have a lot of fun. I try some great food and some delicious drinks. I meet no one in the romance department but I make a strong appearance. And it's the loose connections that get you somewhere. It is the loose connection that lands the job or gets you introduced to the handsome brother or helps you find a veterinarian that doesn't object to declawing your cats. It's all valuable.
Craig is attentive. Comments to me privately about the dress being va-va-va-voom. That alone is worth having gone dateless.
But over the next few days, John continues to be elusive. Against my better judgement, I send him a quick text. Casual, asking if he's given any thought to getting together. He doesn't know this but I am running out of days that I can see him. My kids return soon and I need to make some plans with him or make plans without His Royal Lameness. I don't want to appear to have nothing to do but I do want to appear interested, incase he was thrown off by photos of Scott.
He makes another excuse. Says he forgot that he owes his wife a few nights that he'd borrowed from her and will have his kids. I am sure it's an excuse. No man is this wishy-washy with his ex-wife. And no one forgets their schedule. Especially if they are excited to make plans with someone else soon and have to see when that might be possible.
So I have my message. It is loud if not perfectly clear. He's just not that into me.
I make myself busy.
I prepare from my interview. Outfit and research and well rehearsed accomplishments, oh my.
I walk 20 miles. Why sit on my ass when there are muscles to tone and calories to burn and a soul to be healed?
I talk to Joy. She is less discouraged than me about the whole John thing. She tells me to clean up my Facebook page. Yes, I am easy to find and yes, it still appears to those who don't know me that Scott might be my boyfriend. I need to go in and untag myself. Oh goodie, administrivia. The Ghosts of Boyfriends Past will not leave me alone. Her advice is to be patient and give him a chance.
I perfect my plans for going from interview to party with a Superman-esque outfit change. I perfect the green dress look, too. Evidently the underwear choice is almost as important as the shoes.
The interview is just "meh." Just a job, and the interviewer acted all squirrely after having been interrupted by her boss and "fleeing the interview" as they say in the movie Fargo. She had to leave for at least 15 minutes and I fidgeted in solitude until her return, secretly hoping she was being fired wherever she was. And then all I could think of was the pregnant detective in Fargo. She kind of looked like her. Except she wasn't pregnant. And didn't wave a badge around.
I look fabulous for the party. Even by my own standards. The lime dress is a big hit. I remember that I'd forgotten to send a photo to Joy for her approval. I make sure I post a beautiful shot of me in the dress on the museum steps with the moon in the background so she can see it. And John, too, if he really has stalked me on FB. And Craig if he's on line. Couldn't hurt to be seen by the entire FB world in a stunning dress, with tanned and toned legs in a pair of sexy heels.
Socially, the party is good thing. I meet a lot of people. I have a lot of fun. I try some great food and some delicious drinks. I meet no one in the romance department but I make a strong appearance. And it's the loose connections that get you somewhere. It is the loose connection that lands the job or gets you introduced to the handsome brother or helps you find a veterinarian that doesn't object to declawing your cats. It's all valuable.
Craig is attentive. Comments to me privately about the dress being va-va-va-voom. That alone is worth having gone dateless.
But over the next few days, John continues to be elusive. Against my better judgement, I send him a quick text. Casual, asking if he's given any thought to getting together. He doesn't know this but I am running out of days that I can see him. My kids return soon and I need to make some plans with him or make plans without His Royal Lameness. I don't want to appear to have nothing to do but I do want to appear interested, incase he was thrown off by photos of Scott.
He makes another excuse. Says he forgot that he owes his wife a few nights that he'd borrowed from her and will have his kids. I am sure it's an excuse. No man is this wishy-washy with his ex-wife. And no one forgets their schedule. Especially if they are excited to make plans with someone else soon and have to see when that might be possible.
So I have my message. It is loud if not perfectly clear. He's just not that into me.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Attention!
The rest of Sunday afternoon is loads of fun. The beach bar fun becomes the bar-across-the-street fun. We leave the party early though. Almost everyone has to get up early and go to work. I am the only one that will be staying for a little solitary beach time. Somehow it doesn't seem like such a prize. I have all summer to sit in the sun by myself.
Craig continues to text back and forth with me. I am torn a little. I love his attention but it is so hard to come by. I don't know if I'll keep John's attention but it was a whole lot easier to get and maintain so far.
I push the thoughts out of my head. Time to get some beauty sleep. Whatever will be will be. Let Fate handle that.
The next morning is beautiful. I pack my car and find my beach chair at the pool while Joy and Penny get ready to leave. I stick my nose in a book I have been trying to finish for months but find it hard to read. Why do I find my social life ups and downs so distracting? How did I ever get through college with all the social crises I so regularly found myself enduring? It is amazing I managed to get a single passing grade. I have the attention span of a sand flea when there is the slightest problem or the slightest victory. Can it be possible that I've gotten worse at managing my life?
Joy and Penny come to say goodbye. Joy wants me to text a photo of my dress for the party and wishes me luck with John. Penny is going to text us pictures of dresses she's selected to wear to her brother's wedding. She has purchased seven of them and can not make up her mind. Thank God for girlfriends. She, too, tells me to let her know what happens with John, too.
I tell them I know what they are thinking. They are thinking that I am so hung up on Craig that I will royally screw up things with John. I have a way of dooming things. I tell them not to worry. I will not be stupid. For once I will be sensible. I will not continue to be my own worst enemy. I will consult with them before I do anything. I will make the investment in the unfamiliar. I am sure they are wondering if I know what being sensible looks like. I am not entirely convinced that I do. I will probably decide what my gut tells me. And then go against it. Going with my gut has been disastrous almost every time. God knows how I have managed to have a career that involves people.
Finally all alone and alone with my thoughts, I close my book and close my eyes and enjoy the sun on my face. And I find that I can't be still. My mind is racing. What am I wearing to my interview? Do I have a suit that still fits my shrinking frame and does not make me look like I borrowed it from a neighbor twice my size? How will I handle the outfit change for Kate's company party? What are my kitties doing at home without me for the 4th day in a row? Should I take my 10 mile walk here or go home and hit the trails? Or should I spend some time working on the yard?
Whatever the answers, it is clear to me that I can not sit in this beach chair for long. I slowly pack up my things, giving myself time to change my mind. But I don't. I get a Snapple at the hotel gift shop, and a bag of almonds to munch on the road, and head to my car, sort of disappointed in myself.
But that is just the beginning.
I get in the car and plug in all of my gadgets. Phone hooked up to play iTunes and to charge. Earpiece unplugged and turned on for maximum chatting. While I am revving my engines Kate texts. She can get John in but she has specific instructions. I need to call her.
Before I can dial, I get a text from John.
I am almost afraid to open it. It is our first post-Girls Weekend contact. What will it be?
I was right to be nervous.
It's a very nice text, and he's put some effort into sounding like himself. (Instead of a telegram, which I hate. Stop.)
Says he got into work and checked his calendar and he has a work engagement the night of Kate's party. Says's he's an idiot. Tells me he'll get in touch later in the week and we'll make plans to get together.
And in that instant he makes Craig that much more appealing.
I call Kate. She is almost as disappointed as I am. No one cancels a first date. And even if the reason is completely legitimate, the proper thing to do would be to establish other plans right as you are cancelling the previous ones. As in, "I am sorry I can't make it Wednesday. Are you free for dinner on Thursday or Friday?"
That is if you are interested at all. Which I am convinced he is not.
Craig continues to text back and forth with me. I am torn a little. I love his attention but it is so hard to come by. I don't know if I'll keep John's attention but it was a whole lot easier to get and maintain so far.
I push the thoughts out of my head. Time to get some beauty sleep. Whatever will be will be. Let Fate handle that.
The next morning is beautiful. I pack my car and find my beach chair at the pool while Joy and Penny get ready to leave. I stick my nose in a book I have been trying to finish for months but find it hard to read. Why do I find my social life ups and downs so distracting? How did I ever get through college with all the social crises I so regularly found myself enduring? It is amazing I managed to get a single passing grade. I have the attention span of a sand flea when there is the slightest problem or the slightest victory. Can it be possible that I've gotten worse at managing my life?
Joy and Penny come to say goodbye. Joy wants me to text a photo of my dress for the party and wishes me luck with John. Penny is going to text us pictures of dresses she's selected to wear to her brother's wedding. She has purchased seven of them and can not make up her mind. Thank God for girlfriends. She, too, tells me to let her know what happens with John, too.
I tell them I know what they are thinking. They are thinking that I am so hung up on Craig that I will royally screw up things with John. I have a way of dooming things. I tell them not to worry. I will not be stupid. For once I will be sensible. I will not continue to be my own worst enemy. I will consult with them before I do anything. I will make the investment in the unfamiliar. I am sure they are wondering if I know what being sensible looks like. I am not entirely convinced that I do. I will probably decide what my gut tells me. And then go against it. Going with my gut has been disastrous almost every time. God knows how I have managed to have a career that involves people.
Finally all alone and alone with my thoughts, I close my book and close my eyes and enjoy the sun on my face. And I find that I can't be still. My mind is racing. What am I wearing to my interview? Do I have a suit that still fits my shrinking frame and does not make me look like I borrowed it from a neighbor twice my size? How will I handle the outfit change for Kate's company party? What are my kitties doing at home without me for the 4th day in a row? Should I take my 10 mile walk here or go home and hit the trails? Or should I spend some time working on the yard?
Whatever the answers, it is clear to me that I can not sit in this beach chair for long. I slowly pack up my things, giving myself time to change my mind. But I don't. I get a Snapple at the hotel gift shop, and a bag of almonds to munch on the road, and head to my car, sort of disappointed in myself.
But that is just the beginning.
I get in the car and plug in all of my gadgets. Phone hooked up to play iTunes and to charge. Earpiece unplugged and turned on for maximum chatting. While I am revving my engines Kate texts. She can get John in but she has specific instructions. I need to call her.
Before I can dial, I get a text from John.
I am almost afraid to open it. It is our first post-Girls Weekend contact. What will it be?
I was right to be nervous.
It's a very nice text, and he's put some effort into sounding like himself. (Instead of a telegram, which I hate. Stop.)
Says he got into work and checked his calendar and he has a work engagement the night of Kate's party. Says's he's an idiot. Tells me he'll get in touch later in the week and we'll make plans to get together.
And in that instant he makes Craig that much more appealing.
I call Kate. She is almost as disappointed as I am. No one cancels a first date. And even if the reason is completely legitimate, the proper thing to do would be to establish other plans right as you are cancelling the previous ones. As in, "I am sorry I can't make it Wednesday. Are you free for dinner on Thursday or Friday?"
That is if you are interested at all. Which I am convinced he is not.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Round And Round In The Circle Game
We approach the boys. I can not really get a read on John at first. The boys seem every bit as hung over as they were the day before. Like I'm in a position to judge. We make small talk and jokes and comment on the weather. The guys are hoping the day clears up. They want to squeeze every last drop out of Guys Weekend. Can't say I blame them. But it is a somewhat awkward gathering. I feel like we're in high school.
They have a bunch of beach games with them. They are all very complicated games that involve throwing things. Like toddler games grown up and on steroids. Think Toss Across with heavy machinery. They are uncommonly enthusiastic and competitive - razzing each other as they set up the court. I am wondering how they turn the game into a drinking game at all with all the potential for lost teeth and broken bones. In this particular game they are hurling wooden blocks. Big wooden blocks. And sending other big wooden blocks sailing in every direction. It is a Cave Man game. That crude.
The game is about to begin. John stands up. (I will admit that it irks me that he did not rise to his feet upon our approach. Gentlemen know to do that.)
He moves in close to me and asks if "this is it" for the weekend. Puts his arms around my waist and puts his face close to mine. I remind him that a bunch of us are staying another night. I forgive the lapse in memory. It was 3:45 in the morning. I might struggle to remember my own name. He gives me kiss and asks if we are going to hang at the pool. I tell him we hope to, pending the weather improving. He says he'll stop by a little later. Kisses me again.
We begin to walk away. Chris asks us if we'd like to stay and watch them play (Like a bunch of groupies???) I tell him it looks like a very exciting game but we'll wait for the highlight reels. He calls me a smartass and laughs. Takes one to know one, pal.
I head back to the room and begin to pack. Why wait until morning? It just makes it that much sadder. Once Girls Weekend ends, it really is the end of the summer. And what do I have to look forward to? Kids going back to school leaving me with endless hours by myself? Court with Lars? Jumpstarting my job search? More penny pinching and number crunching? Another few hundred miles on the trails in the woods?
I have a few days at the beach with my cousin planned. And another few with some beloved friends. But there are vast amounts of time in between. I need a plan. I need a job. I need a companion. I need a paycheck. I need a grip.
Bleak thoughts, all of them. I need a little happiness to happen.
As the day wears on, a lot happens.
The sun comes out. We stop moaning about the weather and race to our beach chairs, SPF 30 in hand.
I get some texts from Craig. He's been away for the week with his kids. He comments on FB and is generally very attentive. I like it, especially since I have no idea what to expect from John.
I get an invitation to interview for a job I'd long ago forgotten applying to. I have to go in on Wednesday morning or early afternoon. It completely destroys my plans to hit the beach again with my cousin, but I can't exactly tell the hiring manager that her interview schedule conflicts with my social engagements.
Kate says that as long as I am going to be in the city on Wednesday, she can get me into her company's big party for its customers. It's the event of the season and I can be a VIP. It's a nice consolation prize. No beach but a chance to get dressed up and mingle with strangers. Who knows who I might find there?
And to put the candles on the cake, the boys come to the pool. They are getting ready to go home. Someone's kid is returning from China and they have to be home at some appointed hour and they are all in one car yadda yadda yadda.
Kate and John strike up a conversation they began back on Friday about her company party and his company's presence at it. He wants to go. She tells him she can probably get him in. She's getting me in. He looks at me and smiles. I smile back. "You're going?" he says, smiling broadly.
I nod and say that I am. He says it looks like he's going with me, then.
I am trying to be cool but I am smiling like an idiot. He says he'll have to meet me there, he'll already be downtown. I skip over the interview part of the story and tell him I'm sure we'll find each other. I am wearing a lime green dress. He smiles and says, "Niiiiiiiice!" I actually have something to look forward to that feels like a date. A date with promise.
We all say our goodbyes and make jokes and make plans to see them at home that we all know we won't keep. But John holds me close, kisses me and says he'll see me at the party. He gives my hand a squeeze as he turns to walk away.
All is right with the world. The band has come on stage. Juuulia has found us a table and held it for us because we'llnever get one on our own. We move from beer to drinks with garnishes. And soon enough, two young men approach our table.
The braver of the two says "Hello, ladies. We're sure these two seats are reserved for two much better looking gentlemen, but can we be your Plan B for an hour until they arrive?"
We all crack up. We ask them to sit and wave Juuuulia over for another round. The weekend has truly come full circle.
They have a bunch of beach games with them. They are all very complicated games that involve throwing things. Like toddler games grown up and on steroids. Think Toss Across with heavy machinery. They are uncommonly enthusiastic and competitive - razzing each other as they set up the court. I am wondering how they turn the game into a drinking game at all with all the potential for lost teeth and broken bones. In this particular game they are hurling wooden blocks. Big wooden blocks. And sending other big wooden blocks sailing in every direction. It is a Cave Man game. That crude.
The game is about to begin. John stands up. (I will admit that it irks me that he did not rise to his feet upon our approach. Gentlemen know to do that.)
He moves in close to me and asks if "this is it" for the weekend. Puts his arms around my waist and puts his face close to mine. I remind him that a bunch of us are staying another night. I forgive the lapse in memory. It was 3:45 in the morning. I might struggle to remember my own name. He gives me kiss and asks if we are going to hang at the pool. I tell him we hope to, pending the weather improving. He says he'll stop by a little later. Kisses me again.
We begin to walk away. Chris asks us if we'd like to stay and watch them play (Like a bunch of groupies???) I tell him it looks like a very exciting game but we'll wait for the highlight reels. He calls me a smartass and laughs. Takes one to know one, pal.
I head back to the room and begin to pack. Why wait until morning? It just makes it that much sadder. Once Girls Weekend ends, it really is the end of the summer. And what do I have to look forward to? Kids going back to school leaving me with endless hours by myself? Court with Lars? Jumpstarting my job search? More penny pinching and number crunching? Another few hundred miles on the trails in the woods?
I have a few days at the beach with my cousin planned. And another few with some beloved friends. But there are vast amounts of time in between. I need a plan. I need a job. I need a companion. I need a paycheck. I need a grip.
Bleak thoughts, all of them. I need a little happiness to happen.
As the day wears on, a lot happens.
The sun comes out. We stop moaning about the weather and race to our beach chairs, SPF 30 in hand.
I get some texts from Craig. He's been away for the week with his kids. He comments on FB and is generally very attentive. I like it, especially since I have no idea what to expect from John.
I get an invitation to interview for a job I'd long ago forgotten applying to. I have to go in on Wednesday morning or early afternoon. It completely destroys my plans to hit the beach again with my cousin, but I can't exactly tell the hiring manager that her interview schedule conflicts with my social engagements.
Kate says that as long as I am going to be in the city on Wednesday, she can get me into her company's big party for its customers. It's the event of the season and I can be a VIP. It's a nice consolation prize. No beach but a chance to get dressed up and mingle with strangers. Who knows who I might find there?
And to put the candles on the cake, the boys come to the pool. They are getting ready to go home. Someone's kid is returning from China and they have to be home at some appointed hour and they are all in one car yadda yadda yadda.
Kate and John strike up a conversation they began back on Friday about her company party and his company's presence at it. He wants to go. She tells him she can probably get him in. She's getting me in. He looks at me and smiles. I smile back. "You're going?" he says, smiling broadly.
I nod and say that I am. He says it looks like he's going with me, then.
I am trying to be cool but I am smiling like an idiot. He says he'll have to meet me there, he'll already be downtown. I skip over the interview part of the story and tell him I'm sure we'll find each other. I am wearing a lime green dress. He smiles and says, "Niiiiiiiice!" I actually have something to look forward to that feels like a date. A date with promise.
We all say our goodbyes and make jokes and make plans to see them at home that we all know we won't keep. But John holds me close, kisses me and says he'll see me at the party. He gives my hand a squeeze as he turns to walk away.
All is right with the world. The band has come on stage. Juuulia has found us a table and held it for us because we'llnever get one on our own. We move from beer to drinks with garnishes. And soon enough, two young men approach our table.
The braver of the two says "Hello, ladies. We're sure these two seats are reserved for two much better looking gentlemen, but can we be your Plan B for an hour until they arrive?"
We all crack up. We ask them to sit and wave Juuuulia over for another round. The weekend has truly come full circle.
Tuesday, January 21, 2014
Into The Final Turn
The next morning The Girls and I go to breakfast again. It's a routine. All the best stories are told and retold at the breakfast table over made to order omelets and buckets of coffee.
I'll admit to keeping one eye peeled for John. He got coffee here yesterday, why not today?
But no John.
And while I would love to bank on seeing him at the beach or pool, the day is starting off gray and dismal with a threat of rain. And cold. Last night's chilliness has hung in the air. Boo.
A few of us decide to make ourselves presentable and go for a walk into the neighboring town. The shopping is always fabulous. So what if it is two days in a row? The fabulous $200 bikini could be half price today.
I am dying to ask what Chris had been up to the night before. Why is came to our hotel. How he appeared out of nowhere (with beer). Why he had come alone and not with John or the other guys. It's all very strange. I assume the other girls know but no one is volunteering and I am not asking, so I am just picking up on tidbits here and there. He'd been near our room when Jill and Joy had gone back.
Then suddenly I recall one little exchange the night before that made me think he was up to no good. When John and I had gotten up to leave, John had asked him for a room key. I knew that John hadn't had one, he'd mentioned that in his race to get to us he'd forgotten to ask one of the guys for one and envisioned waking up the whole hotel before any of his mates returned to consciousness.
When John asked for the key, Chris must have assumed that John and I were going to his hotel room. I knew differently and so did John, but I am sure Chris had made assumptions. I don't care; he's just some punk. But he gave John a hard time. Wouldn't give him the key. Kept making him ask. The whole thing took no longer than 3 or 4 minutes but Chris was definitely obstructing the plan on purpose. For what reason, I can only guess. Either to exert some kind of authority over John like a bully or to prevent any possibility of John "getting the girl" again. Both reasons make him an ass in my esteemed opinion (and believe me, I know an ass when I see one. I am well acquainted with the hallmarks of your garden variety ass).
Eventually, Chris handed the key, almost secretively, to me, held my hand and looked in my bloodshot eyes before letting it go, and then turned away.
Weird.
When we've shopped a little and walked a lot, we turn around and walk back on the beach. It is a gray and windy day, but there is a glimmer of hope that the sun might overpower the cloud cover and give us a pretty pool day after all.
Kate and Yvette go back to the room when we reach our block but Joy and I still have coffee to finish and decide to keep walking (Being off of my 10 mile a day routine has made me feel yucky. Almost constipated. Not good under any circumstances). In a few moments, we think we see the boys sitting in a group on the beach.
"Shall we walk by?" Joy asks.
"Only if I don't look hideous," I reply. And then add, "You look very presentable, by the way."
She tells me I do, too, but I am skeptical.
"No fright wig?" No.
"No bags under my eyes that I could tuck into my waistband?" No.
"My skin doesn't have the texture of a navel orange?" No.
"My outfit is not frowzy?"
"Liza, your shorts make your ass and legs look like you are a Broadway dancer. And your top and sweater look great with your push up bikini on underneath. Stop worrying. Besides, John liked you even when you were drunk and disorderly." We both laugh. Yes, delightful and drunk and disorderly.
"OK, let's go."
Joy gets a phone call as we proceed down the beach. It is a good excuse to stop a little ways away from them. Joy talks, I look around. The guys wave us over. I signal that we'll be over in a second or two.
The weekend is coming to an end. I guess the next few minutes will determine what it has all been about.
I take a deep breath and turn up the beach with Joy as my wing man. Game time.
I'll admit to keeping one eye peeled for John. He got coffee here yesterday, why not today?
But no John.
And while I would love to bank on seeing him at the beach or pool, the day is starting off gray and dismal with a threat of rain. And cold. Last night's chilliness has hung in the air. Boo.
A few of us decide to make ourselves presentable and go for a walk into the neighboring town. The shopping is always fabulous. So what if it is two days in a row? The fabulous $200 bikini could be half price today.
I am dying to ask what Chris had been up to the night before. Why is came to our hotel. How he appeared out of nowhere (with beer). Why he had come alone and not with John or the other guys. It's all very strange. I assume the other girls know but no one is volunteering and I am not asking, so I am just picking up on tidbits here and there. He'd been near our room when Jill and Joy had gone back.
Then suddenly I recall one little exchange the night before that made me think he was up to no good. When John and I had gotten up to leave, John had asked him for a room key. I knew that John hadn't had one, he'd mentioned that in his race to get to us he'd forgotten to ask one of the guys for one and envisioned waking up the whole hotel before any of his mates returned to consciousness.
When John asked for the key, Chris must have assumed that John and I were going to his hotel room. I knew differently and so did John, but I am sure Chris had made assumptions. I don't care; he's just some punk. But he gave John a hard time. Wouldn't give him the key. Kept making him ask. The whole thing took no longer than 3 or 4 minutes but Chris was definitely obstructing the plan on purpose. For what reason, I can only guess. Either to exert some kind of authority over John like a bully or to prevent any possibility of John "getting the girl" again. Both reasons make him an ass in my esteemed opinion (and believe me, I know an ass when I see one. I am well acquainted with the hallmarks of your garden variety ass).
Eventually, Chris handed the key, almost secretively, to me, held my hand and looked in my bloodshot eyes before letting it go, and then turned away.
Weird.
When we've shopped a little and walked a lot, we turn around and walk back on the beach. It is a gray and windy day, but there is a glimmer of hope that the sun might overpower the cloud cover and give us a pretty pool day after all.
Kate and Yvette go back to the room when we reach our block but Joy and I still have coffee to finish and decide to keep walking (Being off of my 10 mile a day routine has made me feel yucky. Almost constipated. Not good under any circumstances). In a few moments, we think we see the boys sitting in a group on the beach.
"Shall we walk by?" Joy asks.
"Only if I don't look hideous," I reply. And then add, "You look very presentable, by the way."
She tells me I do, too, but I am skeptical.
"No fright wig?" No.
"No bags under my eyes that I could tuck into my waistband?" No.
"My skin doesn't have the texture of a navel orange?" No.
"My outfit is not frowzy?"
"Liza, your shorts make your ass and legs look like you are a Broadway dancer. And your top and sweater look great with your push up bikini on underneath. Stop worrying. Besides, John liked you even when you were drunk and disorderly." We both laugh. Yes, delightful and drunk and disorderly.
"OK, let's go."
Joy gets a phone call as we proceed down the beach. It is a good excuse to stop a little ways away from them. Joy talks, I look around. The guys wave us over. I signal that we'll be over in a second or two.
The weekend is coming to an end. I guess the next few minutes will determine what it has all been about.
I take a deep breath and turn up the beach with Joy as my wing man. Game time.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Another Round
John says he snuck off to Wawa right off the Drunk Bus. Ditched the other guys and just bolted. But bolting in this town at this hour is a dicey proposition. He apologizes for taking so long to Mighty Mouse to our rescue. He's brought me a Snapple. The gesture charms me.
Joy and Jill finish a cigarette and head to bed. John and I squeeze onto a lounge chair.I am feeling quite cozy.
We launch into stories about our respective nights. Mine is exponentially more fun. He is so apologetic about having followed the crowd and going to a bar where there was something troubling at every turn. Capped by a girl who did a hand stand on a bar against a wall and twerked. He's sure there will be YouTubes. He is horrified. Alarmed. It is sort of a cute reaction. He says they should have played their hand differently and come with us. "You ladies are..." He hesitates, trying to find words that make sense. If he says "mature" I might hurl him into the pool.
Afraid of what he's going to say, I offer a few words from my eHarmony profile and say, "Fun but not idiots?"
He enthusiastically agrees. He seems at first like he might want to elaborate on the thought but thankfully does not. It's not exactly news. Just news to him! But before either of us has time to change the subject, he looks at me like he wants to kiss me. We are on a deserted pool deck. It seems like a good idea. Until, mid-smooch, we hear familiar voices.
"That's Jill," I say.
"And that's Chris," he says.
We pop the lounge down and turn to face them. "Hello, over there!"
Jill says, laughing, that they have beer and for us to come over. I need a beer like a frontal lobotomy but we join them. They are smoking again. Joy eventually joins us. It's like we've found another after-party. They had been sitting on our room patio but had gotten shooshed by our neighbors. I wouldn't be surprised if the random stranger returned. It's baffling.
Actually I am baffled by a lot.
I like John. He seems to like me. He showed up tonight eventually, but after last call. Am I his last call or am I thinking too much?
Where did the beer come from? Who has the secret stash? Is there a Beer Fairy?
I am still baffled about how Chris got here. John had peeled off from the crowd and gone off on his own mission without a word to his friends. Chris wound up at our hotel. Why? What was HIS mission?
I curl up on John's lap as we all talk. Eventually I am so tired I rest my head on his chest. It feels nice. I like the way his voice sounds. He starts to whisper because he thinks I am falling asleep.
I am not but I really want to. But it's Girls Weekend, and I don't want to miss a moment (Penny and Yvette have no such hangup). Are you a party pooper if you stay up to 3:30 am but miss the
last few highlights?
Before I fall into a dead sleep, morning breath and all, I whisper to John that I need to turn in and ask him to walk me home the long way. He helps me to my feet and picked up my shoes in one hand while taking my hand in the other. We walk to the beach, around to the next block and eventually to the hotel and to my door.
He kisses me goodnight. And then once more. He asks what my plans are for heading home. I tell him a few of us are staying until Monday. He says, "Nice that you could get the day off." I cringe. Hopefully not visibly. He assumes I am working. I will hate admitting to the contrary.
I change the subject and tell him to come find us at the pool after breakfast. He assures me he will. Turns to leave but Tells me again that I am delightful.
Delightful. And a little bit baffled.
Joy and Jill finish a cigarette and head to bed. John and I squeeze onto a lounge chair.I am feeling quite cozy.
We launch into stories about our respective nights. Mine is exponentially more fun. He is so apologetic about having followed the crowd and going to a bar where there was something troubling at every turn. Capped by a girl who did a hand stand on a bar against a wall and twerked. He's sure there will be YouTubes. He is horrified. Alarmed. It is sort of a cute reaction. He says they should have played their hand differently and come with us. "You ladies are..." He hesitates, trying to find words that make sense. If he says "mature" I might hurl him into the pool.
Afraid of what he's going to say, I offer a few words from my eHarmony profile and say, "Fun but not idiots?"
He enthusiastically agrees. He seems at first like he might want to elaborate on the thought but thankfully does not. It's not exactly news. Just news to him! But before either of us has time to change the subject, he looks at me like he wants to kiss me. We are on a deserted pool deck. It seems like a good idea. Until, mid-smooch, we hear familiar voices.
"That's Jill," I say.
"And that's Chris," he says.
We pop the lounge down and turn to face them. "Hello, over there!"
Jill says, laughing, that they have beer and for us to come over. I need a beer like a frontal lobotomy but we join them. They are smoking again. Joy eventually joins us. It's like we've found another after-party. They had been sitting on our room patio but had gotten shooshed by our neighbors. I wouldn't be surprised if the random stranger returned. It's baffling.
Actually I am baffled by a lot.
I like John. He seems to like me. He showed up tonight eventually, but after last call. Am I his last call or am I thinking too much?
Where did the beer come from? Who has the secret stash? Is there a Beer Fairy?
I am still baffled about how Chris got here. John had peeled off from the crowd and gone off on his own mission without a word to his friends. Chris wound up at our hotel. Why? What was HIS mission?
I curl up on John's lap as we all talk. Eventually I am so tired I rest my head on his chest. It feels nice. I like the way his voice sounds. He starts to whisper because he thinks I am falling asleep.
I am not but I really want to. But it's Girls Weekend, and I don't want to miss a moment (Penny and Yvette have no such hangup). Are you a party pooper if you stay up to 3:30 am but miss the
last few highlights?
Before I fall into a dead sleep, morning breath and all, I whisper to John that I need to turn in and ask him to walk me home the long way. He helps me to my feet and picked up my shoes in one hand while taking my hand in the other. We walk to the beach, around to the next block and eventually to the hotel and to my door.
He kisses me goodnight. And then once more. He asks what my plans are for heading home. I tell him a few of us are staying until Monday. He says, "Nice that you could get the day off." I cringe. Hopefully not visibly. He assumes I am working. I will hate admitting to the contrary.
I change the subject and tell him to come find us at the pool after breakfast. He assures me he will. Turns to leave but Tells me again that I am delightful.
Delightful. And a little bit baffled.
Friday, January 17, 2014
Pool Party
The night is every bit the barn burner the night before had been. We drink. We dance. We sing. We laugh a lot. We stay until they turn on all the ugly lights.
And when the bar staff have all but thrown us out, we walk to the hotel and sit by the pool again. I go to the room to pee and to grab a beer and some peanuts and my phone. All the things I'd take with me to a deserted island.
I come back to find Jill and Joy and the friends we'd bumped into sitting at a table. And some guy I don't recognize. I suppose he's another friend. We all start talking now that there is not deafening music playing.
I offer my bag of peanuts (it's a big bag) to everyone at the table. Everyone declines except the guy I don't know. I introduce myself. So does he.
When he gets up to use the bathroom, I ask the rest of the table how they know him.
They don't! Apparently he just followed the fun crowd to the pool! And here I am offering him my peanuts!
We shut up just in time for him to return though we can not understand why he would want to. It's not like anyone is talking to him (and he'd not getting any more peanuts, that's for sure). He sits down in the same spot like he belongs there. There are 20 other tables he could sit and be catatonic at but he wants the chair between me and Jill, natch.
In an effort to ignore him, I turn on my phone. (My girlfriends have been highly impressed that I have left my phone at home on a Saturday night. I am a phone junkie. I'd rather leave a limb at home.)
It begins its familiar dinging. I have texts.
John.
3 hours ago: "You were right about this bar."
2.5 hours ago: "This was a mistake."
2 hours ago: "Where are you girls right now?"
An hour ago: "Did I lose you?"
I reply, ignoring the sort of sappy question.
I am not lost. I am at the pool.
And then I think that if I expect to see him, I should be a little nicer. Maybe a little more inviting, less snarky.
Come to the pool, I write.
He writes right back. Will you be there a while?
Well, there is a weird random guy sitting next to me that doesn't seem willing to leave and I am fading, so unless "a while' means "under 10 minutes" then no. I have never learned to text without full articulation. Prepositions, punctuation, etc.
"We're on our way. Don't fade."
"Here I come to save the day!"
He must have been on the Drunk Bus. The bus that takes everyone from bar to bar so no one risks a DUI. It is pretty tame on the way out to the bars. Like a fraternity on wheels on the way back. And it stops every few blocks to let staggering drunks out to zig zag home on their wobbly pins. Some are carrying pizzas which often haven't completely survived the ride. I assume the John is on the Drunk Bus because 1) I would be if I were him, and 2) It is taking forever for him to get here. Good thing the creepy random weird guy isn't actually capable of doing anything predatory. He's completely saturated in alcohol. Brain in a jar drunk.
Eventually the random weird guy rises unsteadily on his feet and begins to walk ever so slowly away. Barely manages to miss the pool (I would NOT be going in for a rescue) and leaves the hotel. Once he's gone our old friends decide it is safe for them to leave as well and they head to their cars. They pass John going in the other direction. He's looking for us in the dark.
"Hello, Mighty Mouse! Crisis averted! How did you come here? By way of Ogden, Utah?"
And when the bar staff have all but thrown us out, we walk to the hotel and sit by the pool again. I go to the room to pee and to grab a beer and some peanuts and my phone. All the things I'd take with me to a deserted island.
I come back to find Jill and Joy and the friends we'd bumped into sitting at a table. And some guy I don't recognize. I suppose he's another friend. We all start talking now that there is not deafening music playing.
I offer my bag of peanuts (it's a big bag) to everyone at the table. Everyone declines except the guy I don't know. I introduce myself. So does he.
When he gets up to use the bathroom, I ask the rest of the table how they know him.
They don't! Apparently he just followed the fun crowd to the pool! And here I am offering him my peanuts!
We shut up just in time for him to return though we can not understand why he would want to. It's not like anyone is talking to him (and he'd not getting any more peanuts, that's for sure). He sits down in the same spot like he belongs there. There are 20 other tables he could sit and be catatonic at but he wants the chair between me and Jill, natch.
In an effort to ignore him, I turn on my phone. (My girlfriends have been highly impressed that I have left my phone at home on a Saturday night. I am a phone junkie. I'd rather leave a limb at home.)
It begins its familiar dinging. I have texts.
John.
3 hours ago: "You were right about this bar."
2.5 hours ago: "This was a mistake."
2 hours ago: "Where are you girls right now?"
An hour ago: "Did I lose you?"
I reply, ignoring the sort of sappy question.
I am not lost. I am at the pool.
And then I think that if I expect to see him, I should be a little nicer. Maybe a little more inviting, less snarky.
Come to the pool, I write.
He writes right back. Will you be there a while?
Well, there is a weird random guy sitting next to me that doesn't seem willing to leave and I am fading, so unless "a while' means "under 10 minutes" then no. I have never learned to text without full articulation. Prepositions, punctuation, etc.
"We're on our way. Don't fade."
"Here I come to save the day!
He must have been on the Drunk Bus. The bus that takes everyone from bar to bar so no one risks a DUI. It is pretty tame on the way out to the bars. Like a fraternity on wheels on the way back. And it stops every few blocks to let staggering drunks out to zig zag home on their wobbly pins. Some are carrying pizzas which often haven't completely survived the ride. I assume the John is on the Drunk Bus because 1) I would be if I were him, and 2) It is taking forever for him to get here. Good thing the creepy random weird guy isn't actually capable of doing anything predatory. He's completely saturated in alcohol. Brain in a jar drunk.
Eventually the random weird guy rises unsteadily on his feet and begins to walk ever so slowly away. Barely manages to miss the pool (I would NOT be going in for a rescue) and leaves the hotel. Once he's gone our old friends decide it is safe for them to leave as well and they head to their cars. They pass John going in the other direction. He's looking for us in the dark.
"Hello, Mighty Mouse! Crisis averted! How did you come here? By way of Ogden, Utah?"
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Two Trolls Walk Into A Bar...
I can not be sure if Frumpy and Frowzy actually saw me at any time during happy hour. And no it has nothing to do with being blind drunk, smartass. I simply became engrossed in the frivolity at my immediate table and could not have been bothered by what choking haze of boredom settled over their table. (In the back, against the dunes, in a fog of greenhead flies, and away from anything resembling fun.) The beautiful thing about having a friend on the bar staff and getting seated in a prime spot is that the prime spot has so many appealing qualities that other appealing people want to join you at the table. In other words, we get lots of attention. It's beach bar celebrity status. Dumpster Girl and Sasquatch will know no such pleasure. Poetic justice.
At some point during all the stories, we one-by-one peel off to begin primping. There is still an open question about where we'll go. There are a few of us who would be game to get dressed up and go to the high end bar for high end cocktails with high end people who may turn into high end people of interest. There are just as many who would be just as happy to return to the bar we went to last night where we can get away with all the hi jinx we are so famously fond of. There is at least one neutral party who will go anywhere, wear anything, let's just go already. Better decide soon before outfit decisions are made.
I am in favor of last night's bar. I have a feeling that my two former Mean Girl colleagues will be going to the high end bar. (Provided there is no strict rule about attire. I'm sure Management would rather give entrance to Ru Paul and his drag queens than well behaved schlubbs like the tww of them.) Beth is single and desperate and would surely be on the hunt for a man with money. (She'll need a paralyzing drug and a net for sure.) But the man with money would likely also be a man with taste, and would probably be amenable to Beth washing his car, but not straightening his tie. And no high end establishment wants patrons who look like they are only there because their car broke down right outside.
And the last thing I feel like doing is making polite conversation with Beth in a plush, hushed bar with a jazz singer crooning in the corner. I'd rather run into her in a pub, make a few loudly vocalized, highly entertaining comments that figuratively knock her on her aircraft carrier-sized ass, and disappear onto the dance floor surrounded by friends, sashaying my shapely derriere across the room as I walk away.
In the end we decide to go back to the bar across the way. We are banking on an exceptional band and an even better crowd. Better be. John has gone radio silent and I need to cast another net for a dance partner.
As Fate would have it, as I decide on what top to pair with the white jeans I am wearing because the weather has gotten cool, I get a text from John. He wants to know where we are going. I tell him. He says that they are going to another bar. I don't even want to suggest a change of plans to The Girls. This weekend is about them, not chasing some man who just remembered my name in the last minute and a half.
I punt with my reply. Answer his text with a question that makes no commitments.
"Is this the hour where we ignore each other?"
"Aren't we past that?" he replies.
I was joking. I have no idea if he is. I hate texting.
"Let's leave it to Fate."
I am sure he is not about to insist that the guys go back to the bar we went to last night. It's Guys Weekend. He should go with the flow of the group. Has to. It's not something I can't argue with. It is exactly what I'm doing.
Besides, it's not as though I will never have a chance to see him again and these could be our last hours together. It isn't as if I live on one coast and he on another. We live a few miles from each other at home. We can enjoy our respective weekends, and if it all seems like a good idea in the harsh light of reality at home, we can get in touch with one another and make plans.
Eventually we bop across the street and walk into the bar. The band is fabulous and in full swing. Covers of 70s tunes. We immediately bump into old friends, guys, that we've known for years. The party has begun.
I find myself scanning the crowd. Not for John. For Beth and Adrienne. Before I can let my hair down and really rip up the dance floor I have to know where all my vulnerabilities lie. Sure Hag and Bag would prefer the monied meat market at the other bar. But what if they asked someone at the beach bar where they should go to have fun and that person suggested our bar? I better be prepared with my reaction. Cool. Calm. Collected. Absolutely on my game. Witty. Unflappably in control. Impeccably styled. And ready for highly testy verbal sparring. It's two against one. Can I pull this off?
No, actually it's two against five. Two against eight if we count the friends we've just bumped into.
Actually I am kind of looking forward to running into them. And ignoring them. Making them approach me. And coming out with guns blazing when they do. It has all the makings of a great Girls Weekend legend. Game on.
At some point during all the stories, we one-by-one peel off to begin primping. There is still an open question about where we'll go. There are a few of us who would be game to get dressed up and go to the high end bar for high end cocktails with high end people who may turn into high end people of interest. There are just as many who would be just as happy to return to the bar we went to last night where we can get away with all the hi jinx we are so famously fond of. There is at least one neutral party who will go anywhere, wear anything, let's just go already. Better decide soon before outfit decisions are made.
I am in favor of last night's bar. I have a feeling that my two former Mean Girl colleagues will be going to the high end bar. (Provided there is no strict rule about attire. I'm sure Management would rather give entrance to Ru Paul and his drag queens than well behaved schlubbs like the tww of them.) Beth is single and desperate and would surely be on the hunt for a man with money. (She'll need a paralyzing drug and a net for sure.) But the man with money would likely also be a man with taste, and would probably be amenable to Beth washing his car, but not straightening his tie. And no high end establishment wants patrons who look like they are only there because their car broke down right outside.
And the last thing I feel like doing is making polite conversation with Beth in a plush, hushed bar with a jazz singer crooning in the corner. I'd rather run into her in a pub, make a few loudly vocalized, highly entertaining comments that figuratively knock her on her aircraft carrier-sized ass, and disappear onto the dance floor surrounded by friends, sashaying my shapely derriere across the room as I walk away.
In the end we decide to go back to the bar across the way. We are banking on an exceptional band and an even better crowd. Better be. John has gone radio silent and I need to cast another net for a dance partner.
As Fate would have it, as I decide on what top to pair with the white jeans I am wearing because the weather has gotten cool, I get a text from John. He wants to know where we are going. I tell him. He says that they are going to another bar. I don't even want to suggest a change of plans to The Girls. This weekend is about them, not chasing some man who just remembered my name in the last minute and a half.
I punt with my reply. Answer his text with a question that makes no commitments.
"Is this the hour where we ignore each other?"
"Aren't we past that?" he replies.
I was joking. I have no idea if he is. I hate texting.
"Let's leave it to Fate."
I am sure he is not about to insist that the guys go back to the bar we went to last night. It's Guys Weekend. He should go with the flow of the group. Has to. It's not something I can't argue with. It is exactly what I'm doing.
Besides, it's not as though I will never have a chance to see him again and these could be our last hours together. It isn't as if I live on one coast and he on another. We live a few miles from each other at home. We can enjoy our respective weekends, and if it all seems like a good idea in the harsh light of reality at home, we can get in touch with one another and make plans.
Eventually we bop across the street and walk into the bar. The band is fabulous and in full swing. Covers of 70s tunes. We immediately bump into old friends, guys, that we've known for years. The party has begun.
I find myself scanning the crowd. Not for John. For Beth and Adrienne. Before I can let my hair down and really rip up the dance floor I have to know where all my vulnerabilities lie. Sure Hag and Bag would prefer the monied meat market at the other bar. But what if they asked someone at the beach bar where they should go to have fun and that person suggested our bar? I better be prepared with my reaction. Cool. Calm. Collected. Absolutely on my game. Witty. Unflappably in control. Impeccably styled. And ready for highly testy verbal sparring. It's two against one. Can I pull this off?
No, actually it's two against five. Two against eight if we count the friends we've just bumped into.
Actually I am kind of looking forward to running into them. And ignoring them. Making them approach me. And coming out with guns blazing when they do. It has all the makings of a great Girls Weekend legend. Game on.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
Ghosts of Employers Past
I'd recognize her anywhere. She was widely referred to as Big Bird. I think she looked like the Bumble in the Christmas show, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. Same body type. Same googly eyes (with very flattering Hubble Telescope glasses, I might add.) Hair that looked like she combed it with a fan. Fashion sense of nun. Most catastrophically boring wardrobe I've ever seen. But then again, I know nothing of the challenges faced by women who have to stretch a pair of pants around what is barely recognizable as a human ass. It would be like trying to put a rubberband around a mobile home.
But for her obvious weekend getaway (with her only friend, I'm sure, who sadly dresses like she shops in a dumpster) she has churned out a little hype. Her freeze-dried blonde hair has lost its usual tumbleweed quality and is missing the dent that is usually left by the scuunci she obviously wraps around her wet hair before she flops into bed at night, bed springs wincing under the stress. She is still wearing the same tired black knit pants that she routinely wore to the office, probably for the "slimming" effects of wearing black. Asking the black pants to have a slimming effect on her medicine ball-sized ass cheeks would be like asking highlights to improve Donald Trump's hair. Never. Gonna. Happen. She is wearing a crisp white twin set as opposed to the blousy, fake silk patterned tops she usually paired with an ill-advised boxy cut jacket that did nothing but emphasize all the wrong things. She may as well have worn a pin which read "Caution. Vehicle makes wide turns." But it's a twin set. A white twin set. With pants. At the beach. Did she know she was coming to the beach or did she think she was going to the Business Card Exchange for Professional Singles With Nothing Else On Their Calendars?
And the feet. There is no concealing them. Throw out the shoes. Wear the boxes. My God she can kick up a lot of sand with those slabs of meat.
I quietly (well as quietly as I get, anyway) point out to The Girls the two people and give a thumbnail sketch of their back story in relationship to me. Adrienne is a poorly informed and overly confident executive who has no idea how abrasive and rude she is or how enormously underqualified she is for the job she was so graciously given by her friend, who happens to run the company now. She is one of the most highly disliked pains in the ass on the payroll saving one. Her buddy, Beth, who she probably met in the cafeteria late one night, since all they do is work 80 hour weeks so they can say they did and not feel so terrible about having nothing more interesting or enjoyable to do. Beth is a smile-in-your-face-while-someone-she-knows-puts-sugar-in-your-gas-tank kind of girl. The type that stirs up trouble elsewhere and somehow finds a way to blame it on her latest target. (Shit Starters is the official term. Pot Stirrers are amateurs.) The type who files away every conversation, every decision, every nuance about another person so she can use it all against them later, usually in a uniquely humiliating public situation. A person who would rather destroy another person than peaceably resolve a conflict. Because it makes a much better story. And a person who will never forgive you for looking 10 years younger than she is, or being 80 pounds lighter, when your birthdays are only 2 weeks apart and she is younger. A Cardinal sin. No turning back from the Gates of Hell.
Jill visibly winces when she sees the two of them. "They gave YOU a hard time?"
Yes, hard to believe, isn't it?
I waffle back and forth with the ideas of wanting them to see me and not wanting them to see me.
I hate that I am running into them socially. Even more so since I am still not employed. Being the type that has no life outside of work, that would be the first question they'd ask. I'd have to kill them both.
On the other hand, I have never looked better. If Beth was intimidated by my appearance 6 months ago, she'd be in a flopsweat at the sight of my abs now. Best shape of my life. Relaxed. Tan. The picture of health. I'm in a bikini and she is stuffed into black knit pants like so much sausage in too little casing. It would only be better if Mark, Chris, The Beave and John would show up right about now. But even still, I am obviously at The Fun Table with 4 of my most gorgeous friends. Intimidating enough. If she would just walk by while we were all busting a gut laughting it would be priceless.
I'll let Fate decide what happens. Right now, a round of Rippers is on its way, and there are some appealing men coming to the next table. Time to focus on the reason for the weekend. And that has nothing to do with Ghosts from Employers Past.
But for her obvious weekend getaway (with her only friend, I'm sure, who sadly dresses like she shops in a dumpster) she has churned out a little hype. Her freeze-dried blonde hair has lost its usual tumbleweed quality and is missing the dent that is usually left by the scuunci she obviously wraps around her wet hair before she flops into bed at night, bed springs wincing under the stress. She is still wearing the same tired black knit pants that she routinely wore to the office, probably for the "slimming" effects of wearing black. Asking the black pants to have a slimming effect on her medicine ball-sized ass cheeks would be like asking highlights to improve Donald Trump's hair. Never. Gonna. Happen. She is wearing a crisp white twin set as opposed to the blousy, fake silk patterned tops she usually paired with an ill-advised boxy cut jacket that did nothing but emphasize all the wrong things. She may as well have worn a pin which read "Caution. Vehicle makes wide turns." But it's a twin set. A white twin set. With pants. At the beach. Did she know she was coming to the beach or did she think she was going to the Business Card Exchange for Professional Singles With Nothing Else On Their Calendars?
And the feet. There is no concealing them. Throw out the shoes. Wear the boxes. My God she can kick up a lot of sand with those slabs of meat.
I quietly (well as quietly as I get, anyway) point out to The Girls the two people and give a thumbnail sketch of their back story in relationship to me. Adrienne is a poorly informed and overly confident executive who has no idea how abrasive and rude she is or how enormously underqualified she is for the job she was so graciously given by her friend, who happens to run the company now. She is one of the most highly disliked pains in the ass on the payroll saving one. Her buddy, Beth, who she probably met in the cafeteria late one night, since all they do is work 80 hour weeks so they can say they did and not feel so terrible about having nothing more interesting or enjoyable to do. Beth is a smile-in-your-face-while-someone-she-knows-puts-sugar-in-your-gas-tank kind of girl. The type that stirs up trouble elsewhere and somehow finds a way to blame it on her latest target. (Shit Starters is the official term. Pot Stirrers are amateurs.) The type who files away every conversation, every decision, every nuance about another person so she can use it all against them later, usually in a uniquely humiliating public situation. A person who would rather destroy another person than peaceably resolve a conflict. Because it makes a much better story. And a person who will never forgive you for looking 10 years younger than she is, or being 80 pounds lighter, when your birthdays are only 2 weeks apart and she is younger. A Cardinal sin. No turning back from the Gates of Hell.
Jill visibly winces when she sees the two of them. "They gave YOU a hard time?"
Yes, hard to believe, isn't it?
I waffle back and forth with the ideas of wanting them to see me and not wanting them to see me.
I hate that I am running into them socially. Even more so since I am still not employed. Being the type that has no life outside of work, that would be the first question they'd ask. I'd have to kill them both.
On the other hand, I have never looked better. If Beth was intimidated by my appearance 6 months ago, she'd be in a flopsweat at the sight of my abs now. Best shape of my life. Relaxed. Tan. The picture of health. I'm in a bikini and she is stuffed into black knit pants like so much sausage in too little casing. It would only be better if Mark, Chris, The Beave and John would show up right about now. But even still, I am obviously at The Fun Table with 4 of my most gorgeous friends. Intimidating enough. If she would just walk by while we were all busting a gut laughting it would be priceless.
I'll let Fate decide what happens. Right now, a round of Rippers is on its way, and there are some appealing men coming to the next table. Time to focus on the reason for the weekend. And that has nothing to do with Ghosts from Employers Past.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Bitch at the Beach
We never see Trish again. We have no idea what she's told the boys. I am not even sure she'd be able to remember what we told her. Maybe she'd embellish! God only knows what she'd come up with. Whatever it is, it would be hilarious. One of us is an undertaker. One of us is a high end escort. One of us is an Olympic equestrian. One of us is CIA/Langley. Fair enough. Rock on Trish.
Juuuulia scouts a table for us near the band and suggests we move. The Saturday night crowd is moving in. We each peel off one by one to run a brush through our hair, put on a swipe of lip gloss, spruce up the appearance in general. No one even has to say what we're doing. It just happens. Like a Swiss watch. Keys are handed off, compliments paid, chairs assumed at the table.
The band is great. The weather is gorgeous. We are at a high table near a tree where we can see the entire playing field. (And of course be seen -- we are hoping that the boys pass through the bar on the way to their hotel.)
At last we spy Mark (he is a good 6 inches taller than anyone else in the bar) and wave him over. We expect that he will stay (in fact Juuuuulia is going to include him in our complimentary round of Panty Ripper shots) but he is not interested. He asks if we've seen The Beave or John. (We have not.) He left Chris on the beach to come looking for them. They left hours ago to get "provisions" and have not returned.
Not a good sign. They must have spun off and found their own happy hour. Why wouldn't they just come here where they know they'll have fun.
I know why. It's because they know what to expect here. And what they want is the unexpected. It is a fact of Girls/Guys Weekend Life. It is a getaway. A weekend pass. It is the one weekend a year (okay 2 or 3 if your us...4 or 5 if you are Joy) when you get to go out and create experiences. Why would you repeat one? Why would you settle for a Saturday night that is going to look just like Friday night when there are a million other combinations to balance the other half of the equation?
I am briefly miffed but get over it when Juuuulia delivers the Panty Rippers, drinks Mark's because he's gone looking for his friends, and the Band starts playing Sweet Caroline and we are in the mood to sing.
I surprise myself. I am really not that peeved. Sure John gave me every indication that he was interested in getting to know me and that he liked me. It really didn't seem like he was pretending. He wasn't even that flirtatious. Just really nice. So maybe this is just Guys Weekend and once it's over he'll get in touch with me.
Who knows? And do I actually care? I still have some semblance of something going on with Craig. I am not completely alone in the world. And tonight is Saturday night! It is fraught with potential for fun and romance and new people! Why would I waste my time scanning the crowd looking for John and miss out on all of the other eye contact I could be making? And it is Girls Weekend. Let's not let one second of it be ruined by some man. I remember too many weekends that Penny could not enjoy because Mr. Friday Night did not morph into Mr. Saturday Night. Never let a man stand dictate the course of Girls Weekend. It is a recipe for disappointment. Always. There ought to be a law.
I relax into that thought, order a rum drink served in a bucket and enjoy the band. The people watching is great...until I see a former work colleague, Adrienne. What a kill joy. Not exactly a foe, but definitely not someone I want to spend any weekend time with. Nothing about her says. "I'm a blast to hang out with, fly me." Not only was she a troublemaking beyotch to work with, she had some of the most annoying personal qualities I've ever been exposed to. I wouldn't want to ride the same bus with her much less share the same bar space with her at the beach. Besides, she looks homeless. Threadbare cropped jeans, 100 year old sandals. Ancient sweater in the style favored by librarians in the 70s.
She walks past and does not see me. Or pretends not to see me. Come on, we're noticeable. She runs into someone along the way and stops to talk. I put on my sunglasses to see if it is her husband. I am curious what a man who would marry THAT might look like.
But it's not her husband.
It is the bitch on wheels who orchestrated my demise in my last job.
Better drink up. Girls Weekend just got that much more interesting.
Juuuulia scouts a table for us near the band and suggests we move. The Saturday night crowd is moving in. We each peel off one by one to run a brush through our hair, put on a swipe of lip gloss, spruce up the appearance in general. No one even has to say what we're doing. It just happens. Like a Swiss watch. Keys are handed off, compliments paid, chairs assumed at the table.
The band is great. The weather is gorgeous. We are at a high table near a tree where we can see the entire playing field. (And of course be seen -- we are hoping that the boys pass through the bar on the way to their hotel.)
At last we spy Mark (he is a good 6 inches taller than anyone else in the bar) and wave him over. We expect that he will stay (in fact Juuuuulia is going to include him in our complimentary round of Panty Ripper shots) but he is not interested. He asks if we've seen The Beave or John. (We have not.) He left Chris on the beach to come looking for them. They left hours ago to get "provisions" and have not returned.
Not a good sign. They must have spun off and found their own happy hour. Why wouldn't they just come here where they know they'll have fun.
I know why. It's because they know what to expect here. And what they want is the unexpected. It is a fact of Girls/Guys Weekend Life. It is a getaway. A weekend pass. It is the one weekend a year (okay 2 or 3 if your us...4 or 5 if you are Joy) when you get to go out and create experiences. Why would you repeat one? Why would you settle for a Saturday night that is going to look just like Friday night when there are a million other combinations to balance the other half of the equation?
I am briefly miffed but get over it when Juuuulia delivers the Panty Rippers, drinks Mark's because he's gone looking for his friends, and the Band starts playing Sweet Caroline and we are in the mood to sing.
I surprise myself. I am really not that peeved. Sure John gave me every indication that he was interested in getting to know me and that he liked me. It really didn't seem like he was pretending. He wasn't even that flirtatious. Just really nice. So maybe this is just Guys Weekend and once it's over he'll get in touch with me.
Who knows? And do I actually care? I still have some semblance of something going on with Craig. I am not completely alone in the world. And tonight is Saturday night! It is fraught with potential for fun and romance and new people! Why would I waste my time scanning the crowd looking for John and miss out on all of the other eye contact I could be making? And it is Girls Weekend. Let's not let one second of it be ruined by some man. I remember too many weekends that Penny could not enjoy because Mr. Friday Night did not morph into Mr. Saturday Night. Never let a man stand dictate the course of Girls Weekend. It is a recipe for disappointment. Always. There ought to be a law.
I relax into that thought, order a rum drink served in a bucket and enjoy the band. The people watching is great...until I see a former work colleague, Adrienne. What a kill joy. Not exactly a foe, but definitely not someone I want to spend any weekend time with. Nothing about her says. "I'm a blast to hang out with, fly me." Not only was she a troublemaking beyotch to work with, she had some of the most annoying personal qualities I've ever been exposed to. I wouldn't want to ride the same bus with her much less share the same bar space with her at the beach. Besides, she looks homeless. Threadbare cropped jeans, 100 year old sandals. Ancient sweater in the style favored by librarians in the 70s.
She walks past and does not see me. Or pretends not to see me. Come on, we're noticeable. She runs into someone along the way and stops to talk. I put on my sunglasses to see if it is her husband. I am curious what a man who would marry THAT might look like.
But it's not her husband.
It is the bitch on wheels who orchestrated my demise in my last job.
Better drink up. Girls Weekend just got that much more interesting.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Trish the Dish
Eventually, the guys get up to leave. I am feeling better about things. Maybe this mornings awkwardness could be blamed on a hangover?
But what is up with Chris sitting on my chair? I thought that was so odd. Not that I minded or anything; it was just a place to sit (and my bird legs leave lots of room to sit) but I would have thought that Chris would have considered that seat taken.
Unless he's just that big an asshole that he's trying to interfere? I don't know the guy at all. I know he's an elementary school gym teacher who smokes. (Which brings up visions of Walter Matthau in the Bad News Bears) And he's married. And he's hilarious. Not Three Stooges hilarious. Smart and clever hilarious. But he could be just that big an asshole. He can't have the girl so he'll interfere with his friend getting the girl? What? Is he five years old?
No time to dwell on that. He doesn't actually matter. Once the guys leave and I am feeling a little less like an ass, we resume normal Girls Weekend activities.
Discuss what a drag it is getting old.
Discuss that sex with the men we love was more fun before they became the husbands we love.
Discuss vitamin supplements, and peri-menopause, and the best hair dye to cover your grays, and what a travesty it is that we are actually discussing these things at Girls Weekend.
We are paid a visit by our friend who is the mother of two children under the age of three and help her chase them around and all remember quietly to ourselves why the no-kid feature of Girls Weekend is so sacred.
We bump into old friends and old colleagues who are thrilled to get a peek at what happens at Girls Weekend.
One of the friends is a zippy older lady named Trish with a very handsome husband Bob that Kate used to work with. She's come to the bar to get a cocktail she intends to smuggle onto the beach. She's a total trip to talk to and she is thoroughly enjoying retirement. She is planning a Girls Weekend with some of her retiree friends after Labor Day. It sounds like they may actually have more fun than us!
The band has begun. We've started to order cocktails. We've made individual decisions about needing naps or not. (Again, another travesty. I remember Girls Weekends when our heads never touched a pillow.)
Kate announces that she is ready for cocktails because she is feeling all zippy. She took a snooze in the lounge chair, took a walk, had a salad, took a big poop and was ready to rock and roll. (We never used to discuss bowel movements at Girls Weekend either.)
A few drinks later, Trish returns to the pool. Presumably to mover her bowels. On her way back, she asks us about some guys we may have met last night.
We are all out of our chairs, cocktails in hand, on our feet surrounding her at once.
She says that one of them, one who smokes, approached her.
OK - it was Chris. The one who has the greatest likelihood of being an asshole.
She says he walked through the pool area, evidently unobserved, while we were all talking and noticed her. He found her on the beach with her husband, sat down and began talking to them.
She mentioned that he was very nice. Had very nice manners. Was very personable. Otherwise her husband would have clobbered him inside a minute.
She says he asked how well she knew us all. Before she could answer, she says he told her that we'd all met last night and that they wanted to mysteriously come up with little known facts about us when we all talked tonight. Keep us guessing.
She says she was on the verge of telling them that she barely knew most of us but decided we could actually have fun with it. So she said she'd be happy to dish, she just needed to go get a fresh drink. She'd come find him on the beach.
That's when she approached us, wide-eyed with devious intentions. "Let's give 'em somethin' to talk about girls! Let's blow their minds!"
We come up with all kinds of hilarious ideas. Bogus factoids. Outrageous jobs. Fantastic life stories. Well hidden marriages to celebrities and dignitaries.
In the end we decide to provide tidbits on only 5 of us, not 6, so they can not decide anything by process of elimination.
She'd tell them one slightly outlandish but sort of believable back story for each of the 5, and claim not to know the 6th, and also decline dishing about which story belonged to whom.
One of us is a beer heiress.
One of us practices witchcraft. Serious witchcraft.
One of us is a lesbian, but married to a man.
One of us is having a long term affair with a foreign ambassador.
One of us is an accomplished trapeze artist and performs in Vegas seasonally.
She is giggling wildly and taking guesses as to who they will think is whom.
Trish flips and flops off toward the beach. We are giddy with delight.
Another plan hatched by the boys that we get the upper hand on first.
What is not to love about Girls Weekend?
But what is up with Chris sitting on my chair? I thought that was so odd. Not that I minded or anything; it was just a place to sit (and my bird legs leave lots of room to sit) but I would have thought that Chris would have considered that seat taken.
Unless he's just that big an asshole that he's trying to interfere? I don't know the guy at all. I know he's an elementary school gym teacher who smokes. (Which brings up visions of Walter Matthau in the Bad News Bears) And he's married. And he's hilarious. Not Three Stooges hilarious. Smart and clever hilarious. But he could be just that big an asshole. He can't have the girl so he'll interfere with his friend getting the girl? What? Is he five years old?
No time to dwell on that. He doesn't actually matter. Once the guys leave and I am feeling a little less like an ass, we resume normal Girls Weekend activities.
Discuss what a drag it is getting old.
Discuss that sex with the men we love was more fun before they became the husbands we love.
Discuss vitamin supplements, and peri-menopause, and the best hair dye to cover your grays, and what a travesty it is that we are actually discussing these things at Girls Weekend.
We are paid a visit by our friend who is the mother of two children under the age of three and help her chase them around and all remember quietly to ourselves why the no-kid feature of Girls Weekend is so sacred.
We bump into old friends and old colleagues who are thrilled to get a peek at what happens at Girls Weekend.
One of the friends is a zippy older lady named Trish with a very handsome husband Bob that Kate used to work with. She's come to the bar to get a cocktail she intends to smuggle onto the beach. She's a total trip to talk to and she is thoroughly enjoying retirement. She is planning a Girls Weekend with some of her retiree friends after Labor Day. It sounds like they may actually have more fun than us!
The band has begun. We've started to order cocktails. We've made individual decisions about needing naps or not. (Again, another travesty. I remember Girls Weekends when our heads never touched a pillow.)
Kate announces that she is ready for cocktails because she is feeling all zippy. She took a snooze in the lounge chair, took a walk, had a salad, took a big poop and was ready to rock and roll. (We never used to discuss bowel movements at Girls Weekend either.)
A few drinks later, Trish returns to the pool. Presumably to mover her bowels. On her way back, she asks us about some guys we may have met last night.
We are all out of our chairs, cocktails in hand, on our feet surrounding her at once.
She says that one of them, one who smokes, approached her.
OK - it was Chris. The one who has the greatest likelihood of being an asshole.
She says he walked through the pool area, evidently unobserved, while we were all talking and noticed her. He found her on the beach with her husband, sat down and began talking to them.
She mentioned that he was very nice. Had very nice manners. Was very personable. Otherwise her husband would have clobbered him inside a minute.
She says he asked how well she knew us all. Before she could answer, she says he told her that we'd all met last night and that they wanted to mysteriously come up with little known facts about us when we all talked tonight. Keep us guessing.
She says she was on the verge of telling them that she barely knew most of us but decided we could actually have fun with it. So she said she'd be happy to dish, she just needed to go get a fresh drink. She'd come find him on the beach.
That's when she approached us, wide-eyed with devious intentions. "Let's give 'em somethin' to talk about girls! Let's blow their minds!"
We come up with all kinds of hilarious ideas. Bogus factoids. Outrageous jobs. Fantastic life stories. Well hidden marriages to celebrities and dignitaries.
In the end we decide to provide tidbits on only 5 of us, not 6, so they can not decide anything by process of elimination.
She'd tell them one slightly outlandish but sort of believable back story for each of the 5, and claim not to know the 6th, and also decline dishing about which story belonged to whom.
One of us is a beer heiress.
One of us practices witchcraft. Serious witchcraft.
One of us is a lesbian, but married to a man.
One of us is having a long term affair with a foreign ambassador.
One of us is an accomplished trapeze artist and performs in Vegas seasonally.
She is giggling wildly and taking guesses as to who they will think is whom.
Trish flips and flops off toward the beach. We are giddy with delight.
Another plan hatched by the boys that we get the upper hand on first.
What is not to love about Girls Weekend?
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Twistin' By The Pool
I try not to let it distract me but I have one train of thought and evidently only one track for it to ride on. Maybe I will derail it when Kate and I go for our walk.
Every Saturday for every Girls Weekend to date, Kate and I have walked the beach, dodging the Beach Badgers to go to the next town over and do some shopping. Souvenirs for the kids and the men in our lives. A beer coozy to match the bathing suit du jour. A Snapple to wash down the ibuprofen. And maybe a little fun shopping. I have gotten some adorable things at end of summer sales. I have also gotten some things that look preposterous once I am no longer at the beach. Or tan. Or I remember that I'm not 25 anymore.
Kate asks more questions while we walk along the beach. I am happy to talk about John but share with her that I was a little concerned about his morning after 'tude in the hotel restaurant. "Please don't be a garden variety asshole," is the thought resonating through my little shrunken head.
Kate is the voice of reason. Go figure.
"Liza, it was just a kiss. A couple of kisses. It's not like you just went on a romantic European vacation and he's stopped calling."
"But I think I like him," I say.
"He's nice and he's cute. And he kissed you. No big deal. It's Saturday. A whole new night lies ahead. God only knows what will happen the rest of the day. Be cool. And if you never see him again I guarantee you he won't be the last cute, nice guy you kiss. Find someone else to kiss."
I wish I had her attitude. I am not accustomed to kissing just anybody. I should have been this discriminating when J. came along. My God the trouble I'd have saved myself.
"OK, " I said. "Scout for me. I promise I'll be just as delightful tonight."
"Liza, you have a great rack, the best legs in the world, a beautiful smile and you're loads of fun. What's not delightful? Especially to a guy?"
Oh, good. It must have been some other personal quality that sent him running screaming in the other direction.
Kate starts randomly pointing out cute guys we encounter on the beach and in the shops. "It could be him. Or him. This guy over here smells good. He has weird hair but he smells awesome. Maybe you could work on the hair." She is such a helpful, supportive friend.
We schlep back. Time for bathing suit ensemble number two. I am excited about this one. The whole thing rocks. I think for a moment that John will find it adorable. And then I push that thought out of my head and decide that someone else who isn't John needs to find it adorable, too. Better take a second look at the hair and the lip gloss situation.
Once our butts are on lounge chairs, I feel like taking a little nap, but I don't. It's lunch time and I have a feeling that the guys will be coming our way in their pursuit of lunch. Or beer. Men are predictable like that.
I do not want to fall asleep and miss it. I also don't want to fall asleep and then not miss it, Sleep Face and Morning Breath and all. Pretty.
I am facing the beach but am not the first to see them. Jill does. "There are the guys," she says. "Coming through the beach bar area. Liza, you going over?"
"No, she's going to play it cool. John needs to come to her," Kate says. "Keep your dark glasses on, Liza. He'll have no idea if you've seen him or not." I am too stupid to know to do this on my own.
I do keep them on. And I make sure I am sitting oh-so-pretty on my lounge. No double chin pose. Bathing suit covering what it is supposed to cover. Seated in a position where I can breathe but do not draw any unwanted attention to anything remotely flabby. Boobs hoicked up, not laying about randomly. Not exactly Marilyn Monroe, but not Roseann Barr either.
And suddenly the men are upon us. Mark, Chris, The Beave and John, walking between lounge chairs and approaching from all directions. There are lots of jovial hellos. A few jokes about the night before. A few questions about why Penny is on her laptop. They are on their way to get lunch but Joy invites them to sit a minute.
Oddly, Chris takes a seat on the end of my lounge chair by my feet, half turned to talk to me.
Odd thing to do. I would think that was John's spot. I am anxious to see where he sits. It will tell me a lot.
Mark remains standing. The Beave sits next to Joy. John sits on the end of Joy's chair. No one is about to encroach on Jill. She is a Goddess.
My heart sinks just a little. John should have sat on my chair. But Chris sat there first. Was that so John couldn't (in light of the conversation we'd had the night before) or so he didn't have to? A Guy Code favor. And if it were so he couldn't, why isn't John telling him to move his ass and sit somewhere else?
I tell myself not to overthink the situation. But apparently that's all I know how to do. It would be such a luxury to not notice every little nuance and every little subtlety all the time.
Chris has asked me a question. He wants to know who's the better band, The Beatles or the Rolling Stones."
"Stones," I say. Chris high fives me. As I look up to be high fived I see John get up.
And before I know it, he has pulled over a neighboring lounge chair, aligned it next to mine, and has sat down on it sideways, squarely facing me.
Quietly he says, in that voice, "I had fun last night. I'm glad it's only Saturday," and winks.
I take off my sunglasses. I want him to see me wink back when I tell him I had fun, too.
Every Saturday for every Girls Weekend to date, Kate and I have walked the beach, dodging the Beach Badgers to go to the next town over and do some shopping. Souvenirs for the kids and the men in our lives. A beer coozy to match the bathing suit du jour. A Snapple to wash down the ibuprofen. And maybe a little fun shopping. I have gotten some adorable things at end of summer sales. I have also gotten some things that look preposterous once I am no longer at the beach. Or tan. Or I remember that I'm not 25 anymore.
Kate asks more questions while we walk along the beach. I am happy to talk about John but share with her that I was a little concerned about his morning after 'tude in the hotel restaurant. "Please don't be a garden variety asshole," is the thought resonating through my little shrunken head.
Kate is the voice of reason. Go figure.
"Liza, it was just a kiss. A couple of kisses. It's not like you just went on a romantic European vacation and he's stopped calling."
"But I think I like him," I say.
"He's nice and he's cute. And he kissed you. No big deal. It's Saturday. A whole new night lies ahead. God only knows what will happen the rest of the day. Be cool. And if you never see him again I guarantee you he won't be the last cute, nice guy you kiss. Find someone else to kiss."
I wish I had her attitude. I am not accustomed to kissing just anybody. I should have been this discriminating when J. came along. My God the trouble I'd have saved myself.
"OK, " I said. "Scout for me. I promise I'll be just as delightful tonight."
"Liza, you have a great rack, the best legs in the world, a beautiful smile and you're loads of fun. What's not delightful? Especially to a guy?"
Oh, good. It must have been some other personal quality that sent him running screaming in the other direction.
Kate starts randomly pointing out cute guys we encounter on the beach and in the shops. "It could be him. Or him. This guy over here smells good. He has weird hair but he smells awesome. Maybe you could work on the hair." She is such a helpful, supportive friend.
We schlep back. Time for bathing suit ensemble number two. I am excited about this one. The whole thing rocks. I think for a moment that John will find it adorable. And then I push that thought out of my head and decide that someone else who isn't John needs to find it adorable, too. Better take a second look at the hair and the lip gloss situation.
Once our butts are on lounge chairs, I feel like taking a little nap, but I don't. It's lunch time and I have a feeling that the guys will be coming our way in their pursuit of lunch. Or beer. Men are predictable like that.
I do not want to fall asleep and miss it. I also don't want to fall asleep and then not miss it, Sleep Face and Morning Breath and all. Pretty.
I am facing the beach but am not the first to see them. Jill does. "There are the guys," she says. "Coming through the beach bar area. Liza, you going over?"
"No, she's going to play it cool. John needs to come to her," Kate says. "Keep your dark glasses on, Liza. He'll have no idea if you've seen him or not." I am too stupid to know to do this on my own.
I do keep them on. And I make sure I am sitting oh-so-pretty on my lounge. No double chin pose. Bathing suit covering what it is supposed to cover. Seated in a position where I can breathe but do not draw any unwanted attention to anything remotely flabby. Boobs hoicked up, not laying about randomly. Not exactly Marilyn Monroe, but not Roseann Barr either.
And suddenly the men are upon us. Mark, Chris, The Beave and John, walking between lounge chairs and approaching from all directions. There are lots of jovial hellos. A few jokes about the night before. A few questions about why Penny is on her laptop. They are on their way to get lunch but Joy invites them to sit a minute.
Oddly, Chris takes a seat on the end of my lounge chair by my feet, half turned to talk to me.
Odd thing to do. I would think that was John's spot. I am anxious to see where he sits. It will tell me a lot.
Mark remains standing. The Beave sits next to Joy. John sits on the end of Joy's chair. No one is about to encroach on Jill. She is a Goddess.
My heart sinks just a little. John should have sat on my chair. But Chris sat there first. Was that so John couldn't (in light of the conversation we'd had the night before) or so he didn't have to? A Guy Code favor. And if it were so he couldn't, why isn't John telling him to move his ass and sit somewhere else?
I tell myself not to overthink the situation. But apparently that's all I know how to do. It would be such a luxury to not notice every little nuance and every little subtlety all the time.
Chris has asked me a question. He wants to know who's the better band, The Beatles or the Rolling Stones."
"Stones," I say. Chris high fives me. As I look up to be high fived I see John get up.
And before I know it, he has pulled over a neighboring lounge chair, aligned it next to mine, and has sat down on it sideways, squarely facing me.
Quietly he says, in that voice, "I had fun last night. I'm glad it's only Saturday," and winks.
I take off my sunglasses. I want him to see me wink back when I tell him I had fun, too.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Saturday Morning Follies
The first morning is one of the best parts of Girls Weekend. (There are very few bad parts, actually. My favorite part seems to always be the current part.)
We wake up. Slowly. It usually starts with someone making a comment to the nothingness that is the dark, stillness of the room we are all packed into.
The snoring has stopped. Replaced by something that sounds like a yawn and the rubbing of one's eyes.
I am lying on my back and say, to no one in particular, "I think there may have been several minutes last night, in a row, where I was actually retarded."
Joy is apparently awake in the bed next to me (but not the snorer) and busts out laughing. "At least you didn't accidentally break dance!"
We both laugh and the snorer does too.
We are all awake. They are curious about John. Asking all kinds of questions. I am glad we are all lying there in the dark. They can not see that I'm beaming as I gush. I am trying to be cool but it is just not working. He's adorable. And he digs me.
I try not to dominate the conversation. Try not to be that girl that can not shut up about her shiny new crush. I refrain from working a cute little John story into every conversation.
But I want to.
But instead, we carry on as usual. We slowly get up. Slowly wash the black mascara smudges from under our eyes. Shake the sand from our shoes, (if we can find them) and brush our teeth. We need to look moderately presentable for breakfast. No one needs to do the walk of shame down the corridor and across the dining room. We place towels and magazines on lounge chairs in a strategic location on the pool deck. The sun is already glaring. We squint as we select the group of chairs and move them into a circle to optimize sunning and gossiping. We need to be near the pool but sufficiently far away from the baby pool and all of its noise and splashing. And no one wants to get the hairy eyeball from the young parents who don't appreciate a spicy story laced with a couple of F-bombs.
We also need to be reasonably close to the bar. Juuulia will need to be able to see us and get to us, and we need to be able to hear the musicians that start playing right around lunch time.
And a short walk to the room to use the loo. Peeing and fresh lip gloss are part of the routine.
We go into the dining room and are seated. Near the bar. No one is offended.
As we are about to sit, I glance across to the other side of the bar and think I see John and The Beave. I ask Joy if she thinks it's them. She does. We walk over. They have come to our hotel to get coffee before going to the beach (They are in a hotel across the street). We all say hello, and I am hoping I've given my appearance sufficient attention. We have a few laughs about the night before. Everyone is very cordial. I razz The Beave about drinking girly flavored coffee. Joy says we are holding Chris's shoes hostage. He left them at the pool near our chairs.
But there is nothing about the way John acts toward me that says he's really happy to have bumped into me (and frankly he could have planned to see me if he'd wanted to, not just hoped he'd bump into me. It wouldn't have been hard. He'd said goodnight just down the hall just a few hours before.) There is no kiss on the cheek, or private look. He doesn't squeeze my hand and say he'll see me later or even that he hopes to see me later. He doesn't ask what beach we'll be on. Joy volunteers that we'll be at the pool. I am a little miffed at the distance John is keeping but I keep up the good natured adorable act and razz The Beave a little more when he dribbles his coffee down his shirt.
"That'll teach ya to drink girly coffee, Buster Brown." He laughs. John laughs. They both turn without another word and walk away with the 4 coffees.
I'd better stop gushing about John. I think I'm about to make an ass of myself.
We wake up. Slowly. It usually starts with someone making a comment to the nothingness that is the dark, stillness of the room we are all packed into.
The snoring has stopped. Replaced by something that sounds like a yawn and the rubbing of one's eyes.
I am lying on my back and say, to no one in particular, "I think there may have been several minutes last night, in a row, where I was actually retarded."
Joy is apparently awake in the bed next to me (but not the snorer) and busts out laughing. "At least you didn't accidentally break dance!"
We both laugh and the snorer does too.
We are all awake. They are curious about John. Asking all kinds of questions. I am glad we are all lying there in the dark. They can not see that I'm beaming as I gush. I am trying to be cool but it is just not working. He's adorable. And he digs me.
I try not to dominate the conversation. Try not to be that girl that can not shut up about her shiny new crush. I refrain from working a cute little John story into every conversation.
But I want to.
But instead, we carry on as usual. We slowly get up. Slowly wash the black mascara smudges from under our eyes. Shake the sand from our shoes, (if we can find them) and brush our teeth. We need to look moderately presentable for breakfast. No one needs to do the walk of shame down the corridor and across the dining room. We place towels and magazines on lounge chairs in a strategic location on the pool deck. The sun is already glaring. We squint as we select the group of chairs and move them into a circle to optimize sunning and gossiping. We need to be near the pool but sufficiently far away from the baby pool and all of its noise and splashing. And no one wants to get the hairy eyeball from the young parents who don't appreciate a spicy story laced with a couple of F-bombs.
We also need to be reasonably close to the bar. Juuulia will need to be able to see us and get to us, and we need to be able to hear the musicians that start playing right around lunch time.
And a short walk to the room to use the loo. Peeing and fresh lip gloss are part of the routine.
We go into the dining room and are seated. Near the bar. No one is offended.
As we are about to sit, I glance across to the other side of the bar and think I see John and The Beave. I ask Joy if she thinks it's them. She does. We walk over. They have come to our hotel to get coffee before going to the beach (They are in a hotel across the street). We all say hello, and I am hoping I've given my appearance sufficient attention. We have a few laughs about the night before. Everyone is very cordial. I razz The Beave about drinking girly flavored coffee. Joy says we are holding Chris's shoes hostage. He left them at the pool near our chairs.
But there is nothing about the way John acts toward me that says he's really happy to have bumped into me (and frankly he could have planned to see me if he'd wanted to, not just hoped he'd bump into me. It wouldn't have been hard. He'd said goodnight just down the hall just a few hours before.) There is no kiss on the cheek, or private look. He doesn't squeeze my hand and say he'll see me later or even that he hopes to see me later. He doesn't ask what beach we'll be on. Joy volunteers that we'll be at the pool. I am a little miffed at the distance John is keeping but I keep up the good natured adorable act and razz The Beave a little more when he dribbles his coffee down his shirt.
"That'll teach ya to drink girly coffee, Buster Brown." He laughs. John laughs. They both turn without another word and walk away with the 4 coffees.
I'd better stop gushing about John. I think I'm about to make an ass of myself.
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
The Morning After The Night Before
I can hardly wait for the girls to wake up. And not just because the bed is sandy. Obviously Joy had gone for a walk on the beach at some point. And brought home half a dune to sleep on. Someone is on the other side of the room snoring. I can't tell who in the pitch blackness. But I am certain that I will never be able to get back to sleep now that I've gotten up to pee and there is a a slumbering rhinoceros in the the room.
I am dying to tell them about John.
I am dying to hear what I missed when John and I left the group in search of Snapple.
I am dying to know what they think of John. What Mark, Chris and The Beave have to say about their friend. Or am I really? I like him.
What if the girls think he is not worth my time? What if they think I can do better? What if they say that they looked him up on Facebook and it looks like he has a girlfriend? What if they say they think he's just a flirt on a guys weekend? What if they say that a friend of a friend of a friend works with him and he's a total asshole? Will that make me think differently? I never listened before and wound up married to Lars and then spent three years with J. when they knew in three weeks that he was not going to be good for me.
And what about the guys? What if the guys say he's a loser? Or a womanizer? Or has uncommonly bad hygiene on most days? Or has a girlfriend? Or is still in love with his ex-wife? Or cheated on his ex-wife? What will that tell me? And how much weight will I give it?
What if the guys diss me??? What if they think I'm too old? Or a clinger? Or not pretty enough? Or dance funny or talk funny or do anything funny except be funny?
Every opinion comes from somewhere. And that "somewhere" usually has a foundation on at least some kernel of truth. And I have not exactly been a shining star in when it has come to forming my own opinions. I have made some collossally bad choices. What if his friends think he has, too?
But I think everyone will be in favor. Something tells me I would have known if they weren't long before this morning.
Oh, wait. I did.
When the bell had rung for last call, and we'd all gottn our last drinks (for the moment), and the harsh department store lighting had come on (Who's adorable now...?), we'd all been in a group at the middle bar (as opposed to the far bar, the near bar, the back bar, the upstairs bar or the outside bar - to be specific). I had danced my tailfeathers off both with the girls and with the guys and specifically with John. I had hopped up on a bar stool at last call to enjoy my drink without the risk of falling down. (Joy had not been so lucky and took and Olympic ice skating caliber fall on the tiles. Bruised her ass, bruised her ego, but was not really hurt and did not destroy her outfit).
When the lights had come on, John had asked me to hold his drink for a moment, he was using the men's room. I'd turned to put it on the bar and Chris had materialized at my side.
"Hello," I'd said.
"Hello," he'd said with the same intonation.
"So you went with Plan B, huh?" I'd snarked. He'd laughed.
"You guys were not really Plan B," he'd admitted. "We were just teasing."
"Did you have fun?"
"Yes and no."
I'd looked at him like he was nuts.
He'd shaken his head like I'd missed something. "I had a great time. Band was great. The dancing. But my buddy got the girl."
I'd looked at him confused. He'd danced with lots of girls. Had gotten lots of attention. "But you are married. You can't really get the girl" I'd said, sounding like Sandra Dee, and still not getting it.
"You and John," he'd explained.
"Oh, THAT girl," I'd replied like a complete moron, getting it.
"Yes, my buddy got THAT girl."
I wasn't sure if that was a confession or an endorsement but whatever it was, it was clear that I was in favor. But was not at all clear if it was a good thing.
I am dying to tell them about John.
I am dying to hear what I missed when John and I left the group in search of Snapple.
I am dying to know what they think of John. What Mark, Chris and The Beave have to say about their friend. Or am I really? I like him.
What if the girls think he is not worth my time? What if they think I can do better? What if they say that they looked him up on Facebook and it looks like he has a girlfriend? What if they say they think he's just a flirt on a guys weekend? What if they say that a friend of a friend of a friend works with him and he's a total asshole? Will that make me think differently? I never listened before and wound up married to Lars and then spent three years with J. when they knew in three weeks that he was not going to be good for me.
And what about the guys? What if the guys say he's a loser? Or a womanizer? Or has uncommonly bad hygiene on most days? Or has a girlfriend? Or is still in love with his ex-wife? Or cheated on his ex-wife? What will that tell me? And how much weight will I give it?
What if the guys diss me??? What if they think I'm too old? Or a clinger? Or not pretty enough? Or dance funny or talk funny or do anything funny except be funny?
Every opinion comes from somewhere. And that "somewhere" usually has a foundation on at least some kernel of truth. And I have not exactly been a shining star in when it has come to forming my own opinions. I have made some collossally bad choices. What if his friends think he has, too?
But I think everyone will be in favor. Something tells me I would have known if they weren't long before this morning.
Oh, wait. I did.
When the bell had rung for last call, and we'd all gottn our last drinks (for the moment), and the harsh department store lighting had come on (Who's adorable now...?), we'd all been in a group at the middle bar (as opposed to the far bar, the near bar, the back bar, the upstairs bar or the outside bar - to be specific). I had danced my tailfeathers off both with the girls and with the guys and specifically with John. I had hopped up on a bar stool at last call to enjoy my drink without the risk of falling down. (Joy had not been so lucky and took and Olympic ice skating caliber fall on the tiles. Bruised her ass, bruised her ego, but was not really hurt and did not destroy her outfit).
When the lights had come on, John had asked me to hold his drink for a moment, he was using the men's room. I'd turned to put it on the bar and Chris had materialized at my side.
"Hello," I'd said.
"Hello," he'd said with the same intonation.
"So you went with Plan B, huh?" I'd snarked. He'd laughed.
"You guys were not really Plan B," he'd admitted. "We were just teasing."
"Did you have fun?"
"Yes and no."
I'd looked at him like he was nuts.
He'd shaken his head like I'd missed something. "I had a great time. Band was great. The dancing. But my buddy got the girl."
I'd looked at him confused. He'd danced with lots of girls. Had gotten lots of attention. "But you are married. You can't really get the girl" I'd said, sounding like Sandra Dee, and still not getting it.
"You and John," he'd explained.
"Oh, THAT girl," I'd replied like a complete moron, getting it.
"Yes, my buddy got THAT girl."
I wasn't sure if that was a confession or an endorsement but whatever it was, it was clear that I was in favor. But was not at all clear if it was a good thing.
Monday, January 6, 2014
*Sigh*
And he did. Well, not there in the bar or anything. Later. Once we'd all closed the bar, gone back to the pool deck, ordered pizza, gotten more beer and laughed our heads off.
And all that time, he is as attentive and adorable as I'd hoped. Holds my hand. Demonstrates exceptional manners, with me and my girlfriends. Tells a few good stories. Contributes to the group dynamic. Leans in an whispers in my ear when he has something to say just to me.
He and I peel off and take a walk. First to find a Wawa with a Snapple Iced Tea that we are both craving after 47 drinks. We talk a lot. He is 2 years younger than me. He is divorced and has 2 kids. They are a few years younger than mine, a boy and a girl. He asks as many questions as I do. Gathering up the intel. Meaningful stuff. Stupid stuff. Are your parents still alive? Still married? How many sibs do you have? Where are you in the pecking order? What's your middle name? Where did you go to school? Baseball or football? Candy or flowers? Little stuff that tells you what makes the person who they are.
eHarmony should be smart enough to know that this is the stuff compatibility is made of. Not entirely. There are the big rocks in the bucket that are absolute deal breakers, but these are the pebbles and sand that make the bucket full.
Snapples in hand, we sip and walk to the beach.
It would be wildly romantic with the nearly full moon but there is a breeze coming off of the ocean and I am freezing to the point of chattering. Which obviously interferes with my ability to speak. Like the ever-so-slight slur didn't already...And surely anything that impedes one's speech is going to interfere with kissing. I have the worst luck.
John offers me his coat. No, he doesn't offer it. He takes it off and helps me put it on.
It is one of those gestures that a man makes that I find absolutely irresistible. I have no idea why.
Warmer now, we walk along holding hands. I am chattering less so we continue to talk. We avoid the "why did you get divorced" taboo subject but dive into the custody arrangement and questions about how amicable we all are. I try to sound positive instead of bitter and toxic toward Lars. Although John can probably hear my lip curling up in disgust in the dark.
John is becoming more and more attractive as we walk and talk. He's smart. He's interesting. He's amusing. He contributes to the discussion without me making all the leading statements. He's dressed nicely...somehow pulling off the casual look without looking like a dork or a prep or a member of a bowling team. I like his shoes (which he's carrying in his other hand, the one not holding mine) And is in great shape. He's not really tall, but tall enough. And he has beautiful eyes and a pretty smile. His hands are nice. And he has a great voice. Reminds me of George Clooney, which always gets my vote. It is such a nice voice, I am torn between wanting him to keep talking to me and wanting him to stop talking and kiss me already.
And soon enough he does.
As we approach the block where my hotel is there is a huge blustery gust of wind. It kicks up sand and beach debris and stings our legs sends us running. We duck behind the lifeguard stand. And there, in the shadow of the wooden structure that he's pulled me behind to put protective arms around me, he lifts my chin and kisses me.
And there is that struck by lightening thing I love so much.
So much so that we decide to walk a few more blocks on the beach before he walks me to my hotel room door and gives me one last kiss.
I go inside and try not to disturb my roommates as I get ready for bed.
My phone dings as I close the bathroom door so I don't have to get dressed in the dark.
A text from John.
You really are adorable. Goodnight."
And all that time, he is as attentive and adorable as I'd hoped. Holds my hand. Demonstrates exceptional manners, with me and my girlfriends. Tells a few good stories. Contributes to the group dynamic. Leans in an whispers in my ear when he has something to say just to me.
He and I peel off and take a walk. First to find a Wawa with a Snapple Iced Tea that we are both craving after 47 drinks. We talk a lot. He is 2 years younger than me. He is divorced and has 2 kids. They are a few years younger than mine, a boy and a girl. He asks as many questions as I do. Gathering up the intel. Meaningful stuff. Stupid stuff. Are your parents still alive? Still married? How many sibs do you have? Where are you in the pecking order? What's your middle name? Where did you go to school? Baseball or football? Candy or flowers? Little stuff that tells you what makes the person who they are.
eHarmony should be smart enough to know that this is the stuff compatibility is made of. Not entirely. There are the big rocks in the bucket that are absolute deal breakers, but these are the pebbles and sand that make the bucket full.
Snapples in hand, we sip and walk to the beach.
It would be wildly romantic with the nearly full moon but there is a breeze coming off of the ocean and I am freezing to the point of chattering. Which obviously interferes with my ability to speak. Like the ever-so-slight slur didn't already...And surely anything that impedes one's speech is going to interfere with kissing. I have the worst luck.
John offers me his coat. No, he doesn't offer it. He takes it off and helps me put it on.
It is one of those gestures that a man makes that I find absolutely irresistible. I have no idea why.
Warmer now, we walk along holding hands. I am chattering less so we continue to talk. We avoid the "why did you get divorced" taboo subject but dive into the custody arrangement and questions about how amicable we all are. I try to sound positive instead of bitter and toxic toward Lars. Although John can probably hear my lip curling up in disgust in the dark.
John is becoming more and more attractive as we walk and talk. He's smart. He's interesting. He's amusing. He contributes to the discussion without me making all the leading statements. He's dressed nicely...somehow pulling off the casual look without looking like a dork or a prep or a member of a bowling team. I like his shoes (which he's carrying in his other hand, the one not holding mine) And is in great shape. He's not really tall, but tall enough. And he has beautiful eyes and a pretty smile. His hands are nice. And he has a great voice. Reminds me of George Clooney, which always gets my vote. It is such a nice voice, I am torn between wanting him to keep talking to me and wanting him to stop talking and kiss me already.
And soon enough he does.
As we approach the block where my hotel is there is a huge blustery gust of wind. It kicks up sand and beach debris and stings our legs sends us running. We duck behind the lifeguard stand. And there, in the shadow of the wooden structure that he's pulled me behind to put protective arms around me, he lifts my chin and kisses me.
And there is that struck by lightening thing I love so much.
So much so that we decide to walk a few more blocks on the beach before he walks me to my hotel room door and gives me one last kiss.
I go inside and try not to disturb my roommates as I get ready for bed.
My phone dings as I close the bathroom door so I don't have to get dressed in the dark.
A text from John.
You really are adorable. Goodnight."
Friday, January 3, 2014
Jackpot
It is like a scene from a movie. Perhaps a Jim Carrey movie. It borders on the ridiculous. Mark, Chris, John and The Beave walk by and wave, laughing. We turn and wave back, smiling in victory and "air toasting" them with our free drinks with young men all around us.
I am not sure if we waited an hour or not. We talked to dozens of people; learned dozens of new names and new back stories. Got breathed on by guys who hadn't seen a toothbrush in at least a week. Got leered at by ageing pro football has-beens with necks like utility poles. Had our personal space encroached upon by cute 30-somethings who would have been far cuter had they not out-kicked their coverage in the alcohol department. Did lots of impromptu dancing with men who are bold enough to make an approach but too shy for the dance floor. (I'll never completely understand what is so darn scary about a dance floor. It's not like anyone makes them take the stage with the Rockettes.)
We've lost sight of The Boys. The Saints. I keep wanting to call them Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. I am hoping they were not completely discouraged at having been upstaged by a bunch of bachelor party dudes. (And if you ask me, that wedding will never happen. The Groom evidently has misbehaved already and a bridesmaid who happens to be in the same bar is threatening to dish.) So far, they are the most appealing people we've met, even if nothing ever materializes with John. But in that magic hour they could have easily been preyed upon by much younger, much prettier women. They may have even gone to another bar.
So I buck up and decide to have fun and see what happens. The bar is filling up with interesting people and the band is roaring to life. Kate is in top air guitaring form and in the mood to dance. Eventually, we all find ourselves on the dance floor.
And just as the band rips into a great old 70s rollerskating tune and we start singing and dancing like a bunch of sorority girls on the crowded dance floor, we find that we are surrounded by The Boys. They've appeared out of nowhere, probably having struck out in every other section of the bar. And they've come to find us.
They are all decent dancers. Not a shy one among them. Together we are quite a spectacle. The lead singer is giving us shout outs. Joy is on stage at one point for reasons that have never been adequately explained. And each of us has a chance to dance with each of the guys.
And I get my chance to dance with John. He's a great dancer; I am not used to that. The world is not exactly brimming with guys who love to dance. And when the song is over, he stays close for the next song while the girls switch off again with The Beave and Chris and Mark (who is shockingly light on his feet for having legs that start above my navel.)
John stays close for the next two songs. And when the rest of the group peels off to the bar, he holds my hand. We are staying for one more dance.
This is when he starts the habit of telling me that I am delightful. It was delightful to hear.
After an Evelyn Champagne King tune we eventually decide to go to the bar. But not where everyone else is. We stay near the dance floor. We have a couple more dances in us. But for now, he is having trouble getting the bartender's attention. I take matters into my own hands and wave the bartender in. For some reason, John finds this enormously appealing. Looks at me like I've just landed a DC-10 on the roof.
"You're something special, did you know that?"
Special? Delightful AND special? I am just a font of appeal tonight, aren't I?
He tells me he wants to get my number and hands me his phone so I can put it in his contacts. (My God the world has changed...) I do, and hand him back his phone as he hands me my drink. He tells me he'll text me and then I'll have his number (thereby making matchbooks completely obsolete...).
He does. I look at my phone.
"Hi, Mary. It's John."
"Got it," I say. I'll add the details to the contact later, when I have better control of my faculties and therefore better dexterity.
My phone buzzes again.
John again.
"I am going to kiss you."
Jackpot.
I am not sure if we waited an hour or not. We talked to dozens of people; learned dozens of new names and new back stories. Got breathed on by guys who hadn't seen a toothbrush in at least a week. Got leered at by ageing pro football has-beens with necks like utility poles. Had our personal space encroached upon by cute 30-somethings who would have been far cuter had they not out-kicked their coverage in the alcohol department. Did lots of impromptu dancing with men who are bold enough to make an approach but too shy for the dance floor. (I'll never completely understand what is so darn scary about a dance floor. It's not like anyone makes them take the stage with the Rockettes.)
We've lost sight of The Boys. The Saints. I keep wanting to call them Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. I am hoping they were not completely discouraged at having been upstaged by a bunch of bachelor party dudes. (And if you ask me, that wedding will never happen. The Groom evidently has misbehaved already and a bridesmaid who happens to be in the same bar is threatening to dish.) So far, they are the most appealing people we've met, even if nothing ever materializes with John. But in that magic hour they could have easily been preyed upon by much younger, much prettier women. They may have even gone to another bar.
So I buck up and decide to have fun and see what happens. The bar is filling up with interesting people and the band is roaring to life. Kate is in top air guitaring form and in the mood to dance. Eventually, we all find ourselves on the dance floor.
And just as the band rips into a great old 70s rollerskating tune and we start singing and dancing like a bunch of sorority girls on the crowded dance floor, we find that we are surrounded by The Boys. They've appeared out of nowhere, probably having struck out in every other section of the bar. And they've come to find us.
They are all decent dancers. Not a shy one among them. Together we are quite a spectacle. The lead singer is giving us shout outs. Joy is on stage at one point for reasons that have never been adequately explained. And each of us has a chance to dance with each of the guys.
And I get my chance to dance with John. He's a great dancer; I am not used to that. The world is not exactly brimming with guys who love to dance. And when the song is over, he stays close for the next song while the girls switch off again with The Beave and Chris and Mark (who is shockingly light on his feet for having legs that start above my navel.)
John stays close for the next two songs. And when the rest of the group peels off to the bar, he holds my hand. We are staying for one more dance.
This is when he starts the habit of telling me that I am delightful. It was delightful to hear.
After an Evelyn Champagne King tune we eventually decide to go to the bar. But not where everyone else is. We stay near the dance floor. We have a couple more dances in us. But for now, he is having trouble getting the bartender's attention. I take matters into my own hands and wave the bartender in. For some reason, John finds this enormously appealing. Looks at me like I've just landed a DC-10 on the roof.
"You're something special, did you know that?"
Special? Delightful AND special? I am just a font of appeal tonight, aren't I?
He tells me he wants to get my number and hands me his phone so I can put it in his contacts. (My God the world has changed...) I do, and hand him back his phone as he hands me my drink. He tells me he'll text me and then I'll have his number (thereby making matchbooks completely obsolete...).
He does. I look at my phone.
"Hi, Mary. It's John."
"Got it," I say. I'll add the details to the contact later, when I have better control of my faculties and therefore better dexterity.
My phone buzzes again.
John again.
"I am going to kiss you."
Jackpot.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
The Starting Gate
With a fresh round of traveling drinks in hand, the girls and I head back to our room. We have a well orchestrated routine of showering, primping and outfit selection ironed out over all these years. Penny takes the longest. She showers first. The rest of us begin to make outfit choices and shoe decisions and trade articles of clothing and jewelry and such.
It is a shrill romp of girly frivolity. I am sure we're disturbing neighboring guests for miles. The hotel should know not to put us within earshot of any babies intending to sleep or couples looking for a quiet get away. Never. Gonna. Happen.
I have assembled a perfect outfit that masters the combined looks "Casually Sexy" and "Made No Effort At All" which in my opinion leads people to believe that I would probably look deliciously fabulous if my house caught fire and I had to run out in whatever I was wearing while unclogging the toilet.
But I can't find the belt. And the belt not only positions the shorts in exactly the right spot low on my hips but is the pop of pattern and color that brings the whole outfit together. (Even Hil said so. And she is a harsh critic.) So I mention that I can't find it, half expecting everyone to form a search party and Sherlock and Watson through every square inch of the premises. (They don't.) I mention it again. Probably 9 or 10 times more. I have become Rain Man. And then I decide to open and rifle through every drawer and closet that the belt may have wandered into, having grown legs while we were flirting at the pool.
I have become a nuisance, I am sure. There is a heavy collective sigh of relief when I find it. No one actually had to go through with knocking me out with the table lamp. I am sure the find was anti-climactic. The belt makes the outfit but it is not like it's the Hope Diamond. I am sure the girls are wondering what the big hairy deal is.
But the deal is this. I kind of like John. Sitting next to him at the table was fun. I liked the way he looked at me when I spoke. I like the way he seemed to thoroughly enjoy it when I gave one of his friends a ration of good natured crap. He'd told me I looked "adorable" in my hat. So when we run into them later (and ignore them for an hour) I want to look amazing. Since I won't be able to talk to him or dance with him (we are totally calling their bluff and doing this) I want him to see me across the bar and think I look smashing. And be tempted to break the one hour rule because I look smashing enough that surely some other male bar patron will think the same thing, and he won't have a one hour rule.
So my hair and makeup and outfit must be casually flawless. And that means I needed the damn belt.
When it is my turn to shower I turn every stone in the grooming department. It is nice to be excited to see someone. Nice to want to look nice for someone. I shave exactingly. I buff and slough off every cell that is more than a half a day old. I scrub meticulously. I use the best smelling hair products and repeat as directed. I use an unscented body oil so that my perfume stands out. I brush and floss and rinse with mouthwash (which won't matter for one minute once beer is involved).
And we all do similarly. Now that the Belt Crisis has ended.
I love the part when we all decide that we are the picture of perfection and ready to walk out the door. We are all complimenting each other and boosting one another's confidence. It is completely genuine. These are girls who won't let you walk out the door looking less than fabulous, and are thrilled for you when you've pulled it off. A girl on her game is another girls best friend.
We've decided to go to the old standby bar across the side street. The music is always great and we are likely to meet people we've met before. We have a way of collecting friends in far away places. Tonight is no different. The band is killing it and we make quite an appearance as we stride in single file.
We walk to the far bar and within a minute we are surrounded by men who are way too young but way too cute to ignore. It's someone's bachelor party and they are buying drinks. They outnumber us two-fold. We like the ratio. Why not enjoy their company and their generosity. New friends are fun.
And as the first couple of guys turn from the bar to hand us our first round of drinks, who do you think walks by?
Chris, John, Mark and The Beave.
They'll have to punt.
But I am hoping John doesn't.
It is a shrill romp of girly frivolity. I am sure we're disturbing neighboring guests for miles. The hotel should know not to put us within earshot of any babies intending to sleep or couples looking for a quiet get away. Never. Gonna. Happen.
I have assembled a perfect outfit that masters the combined looks "Casually Sexy" and "Made No Effort At All" which in my opinion leads people to believe that I would probably look deliciously fabulous if my house caught fire and I had to run out in whatever I was wearing while unclogging the toilet.
But I can't find the belt. And the belt not only positions the shorts in exactly the right spot low on my hips but is the pop of pattern and color that brings the whole outfit together. (Even Hil said so. And she is a harsh critic.) So I mention that I can't find it, half expecting everyone to form a search party and Sherlock and Watson through every square inch of the premises. (They don't.) I mention it again. Probably 9 or 10 times more. I have become Rain Man. And then I decide to open and rifle through every drawer and closet that the belt may have wandered into, having grown legs while we were flirting at the pool.
I have become a nuisance, I am sure. There is a heavy collective sigh of relief when I find it. No one actually had to go through with knocking me out with the table lamp. I am sure the find was anti-climactic. The belt makes the outfit but it is not like it's the Hope Diamond. I am sure the girls are wondering what the big hairy deal is.
But the deal is this. I kind of like John. Sitting next to him at the table was fun. I liked the way he looked at me when I spoke. I like the way he seemed to thoroughly enjoy it when I gave one of his friends a ration of good natured crap. He'd told me I looked "adorable" in my hat. So when we run into them later (and ignore them for an hour) I want to look amazing. Since I won't be able to talk to him or dance with him (we are totally calling their bluff and doing this) I want him to see me across the bar and think I look smashing. And be tempted to break the one hour rule because I look smashing enough that surely some other male bar patron will think the same thing, and he won't have a one hour rule.
So my hair and makeup and outfit must be casually flawless. And that means I needed the damn belt.
When it is my turn to shower I turn every stone in the grooming department. It is nice to be excited to see someone. Nice to want to look nice for someone. I shave exactingly. I buff and slough off every cell that is more than a half a day old. I scrub meticulously. I use the best smelling hair products and repeat as directed. I use an unscented body oil so that my perfume stands out. I brush and floss and rinse with mouthwash (which won't matter for one minute once beer is involved).
And we all do similarly. Now that the Belt Crisis has ended.
I love the part when we all decide that we are the picture of perfection and ready to walk out the door. We are all complimenting each other and boosting one another's confidence. It is completely genuine. These are girls who won't let you walk out the door looking less than fabulous, and are thrilled for you when you've pulled it off. A girl on her game is another girls best friend.
We've decided to go to the old standby bar across the side street. The music is always great and we are likely to meet people we've met before. We have a way of collecting friends in far away places. Tonight is no different. The band is killing it and we make quite an appearance as we stride in single file.
We walk to the far bar and within a minute we are surrounded by men who are way too young but way too cute to ignore. It's someone's bachelor party and they are buying drinks. They outnumber us two-fold. We like the ratio. Why not enjoy their company and their generosity. New friends are fun.
And as the first couple of guys turn from the bar to hand us our first round of drinks, who do you think walks by?
Chris, John, Mark and The Beave.
They'll have to punt.
But I am hoping John doesn't.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Table Talk
Every one of the guys is appealing in some way.
Chris is the bad ass who drew the short straw and came to the table. He's very clever and most hilarious. He's also wearing a wedding ring. Too bad.
Mark is 6'6" and absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful, even, pearly white teeth, good hair and enviable cheekbones. He also has lots and lots of family money. And a great sense of humor. And a wedding ring. Married a pageant queen years ago. I bet they are a striking couple.
John is a cable company exec and has the prettiest blue eyes I've ever seen. He's also very chatty, very funny, and has an unusually good sense of fashion. No wedding ring. Good sign. Joy is going to do some digging to find out what his situation is.
And The Beave. Probably the nicest guy among them, and the smartest, but whose name I could not remember. To me he looked like the Cleaver kid, and I just called him The Beave. I never even looked for a ring.
Perhaps the best part about meeting these guys was how much they were like us. They were lifelong friends and the ease among them was apparent. They razzed each other. They made each other laugh. They ganged up on each other. They knew each other's stories and secrets and wives and children and all about each other's careers. And every one of them could hold up their end of a conversation. My group of gals enters a room and takes over. Meets everybody there. Makes friends. These guys were cut from the same bolt of cloth. There is something so appealing about a man who socializes well.
And after another round of drinks (or was it two?) it is time for true confessions.
Chris tells us that the question about scoring pot was just an excuse to approach the table and talk to us. Their huddle, the one Jill had noticed as we'd sat down, was simply that. What play were they calling and who was going to be the quarterback? The question had to be designed to elicit a reaction that would tell them if we would be good company. Evidently we reacted as they'd hoped. I would love to have heard some of the other potential questions.
Yvette is the last of our girls to arrive for the weekend. She parks her car and comes straight to the bar. It is not hard to find us.
And within minutes, Yvette is having a cocktail, making good natured jokes with the guys and laughing along with us. It is an easy rhythm to get into.
But as it begins to get darker, our thoughts turn to the nighttime plans. Happy Hour is great, but the band is playing its last set, the crowd is thinning, and families are traipsing through on their way to dinner with toddlers and grandparents and babies who should have napped instead of made that last sand castle.
Chris leans in again. Like he's going to whisper. This time we are a little more attentive.
"OK, here's the deal. You ladies are our Plan B. When we all go out tonight and bump into each other again, we need to agree that we all ignore each other for an hour. And if nothing...if no...if a Plan A doesn't happen, then we can hang out. But only after we give it an hour. Deal?" He's laughing even as he says it. And so are we.
Jill and Joy and I look at each other as if to determine which of us is going to pounce. I am the de facto pouncer.
I stand. I lean across the table, take Chris's cigarette from his hand and take a drag (but don't inhale, because I'd be coughing for hours afterwards and not be able to deliver the crushing blow I need to deliver). I blow the smoke at him and get right in his face. Or my boobs do.
"We're YOUR Plan B? Are you high? We won't need an hour. We won't need ten minutes. If you think that we --- WE --- are going to be the ones that have to drop back and punt, you are woefully mistaken. Game on!"
Chris is laughing. He starts to speak and I interrupt. "Woefully!"
He laughs and starts again. I interrupt again. "Mistaken!"
They are all laughing now, and we get up from the table. The gauntlet having been thrown, we have primping to do.
Chris is the bad ass who drew the short straw and came to the table. He's very clever and most hilarious. He's also wearing a wedding ring. Too bad.
Mark is 6'6" and absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful, even, pearly white teeth, good hair and enviable cheekbones. He also has lots and lots of family money. And a great sense of humor. And a wedding ring. Married a pageant queen years ago. I bet they are a striking couple.
John is a cable company exec and has the prettiest blue eyes I've ever seen. He's also very chatty, very funny, and has an unusually good sense of fashion. No wedding ring. Good sign. Joy is going to do some digging to find out what his situation is.
And The Beave. Probably the nicest guy among them, and the smartest, but whose name I could not remember. To me he looked like the Cleaver kid, and I just called him The Beave. I never even looked for a ring.
Perhaps the best part about meeting these guys was how much they were like us. They were lifelong friends and the ease among them was apparent. They razzed each other. They made each other laugh. They ganged up on each other. They knew each other's stories and secrets and wives and children and all about each other's careers. And every one of them could hold up their end of a conversation. My group of gals enters a room and takes over. Meets everybody there. Makes friends. These guys were cut from the same bolt of cloth. There is something so appealing about a man who socializes well.
And after another round of drinks (or was it two?) it is time for true confessions.
Chris tells us that the question about scoring pot was just an excuse to approach the table and talk to us. Their huddle, the one Jill had noticed as we'd sat down, was simply that. What play were they calling and who was going to be the quarterback? The question had to be designed to elicit a reaction that would tell them if we would be good company. Evidently we reacted as they'd hoped. I would love to have heard some of the other potential questions.
Yvette is the last of our girls to arrive for the weekend. She parks her car and comes straight to the bar. It is not hard to find us.
And within minutes, Yvette is having a cocktail, making good natured jokes with the guys and laughing along with us. It is an easy rhythm to get into.
But as it begins to get darker, our thoughts turn to the nighttime plans. Happy Hour is great, but the band is playing its last set, the crowd is thinning, and families are traipsing through on their way to dinner with toddlers and grandparents and babies who should have napped instead of made that last sand castle.
Chris leans in again. Like he's going to whisper. This time we are a little more attentive.
"OK, here's the deal. You ladies are our Plan B. When we all go out tonight and bump into each other again, we need to agree that we all ignore each other for an hour. And if nothing...if no...if a Plan A doesn't happen, then we can hang out. But only after we give it an hour. Deal?" He's laughing even as he says it. And so are we.
Jill and Joy and I look at each other as if to determine which of us is going to pounce. I am the de facto pouncer.
I stand. I lean across the table, take Chris's cigarette from his hand and take a drag (but don't inhale, because I'd be coughing for hours afterwards and not be able to deliver the crushing blow I need to deliver). I blow the smoke at him and get right in his face. Or my boobs do.
"We're YOUR Plan B? Are you high? We won't need an hour. We won't need ten minutes. If you think that we --- WE --- are going to be the ones that have to drop back and punt, you are woefully mistaken. Game on!"
Chris is laughing. He starts to speak and I interrupt. "Woefully!"
He laughs and starts again. I interrupt again. "Mistaken!"
They are all laughing now, and we get up from the table. The gauntlet having been thrown, we have primping to do.
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