Home and Away Games

The next morning I am refreshed and feeling much zippier. Though I had had a crazy dream about Craig, that at once made me feel confused but happy to have seen him, even though I hadn't.  Dreams are strange that way. Even wide awake you can't always be sure there isn't some grain of truth to them.

I leave early as I have to stop at the store for muffins and flowers and a card for the office. A coworker is leaving and I want to give her a nice send off. Don't ask me where the good will has come from.

I pull into the lot at the store and check my phone as I am unhooking my seatbelt.  Three texts.  Craig, Scott and Mac? 

All Mac. He'd sent them after I'd gone to bed. They were all very nice. 

I text back before I get out of the car. "Sorry to have missed you last night. I was out of gas and went to bed early. Slept well and am back in the game today. Have a great morning!" Send.

I walk the 20 steps into the store and my phone dings. Probably Mac saying good morning back. I look at the phone just to make sure it is not one of the kids saying that they left their project worth half their grade on the back seat of the car.

Craig!  He'd just woken from a dream about me! 

And suddenly I am smiling from ear to ear like a lunatic in the bakery aisle.

I stop by the bagels to reply.  "Did you now?? I had one about you too!"

"Good or bad?" he writes.

"You would not kiss me, so very bad."

And what follows is a dozen or so very cute and flirtatious texts that later I will find myself re-reading over and over.

But the fallout is this: Until, in a later text, Craig and I establish that there is no possible way for us to get together that next weekend, I am plotting what to say to Mac to get out of going anywhere or doing anything with him in favor of any time I can spend with Craig.

Pink eye.

Leprosy.

Death in the family.

Gravely ill family member in another state.

I know where my heart is. And it is not with Mac.

Monday Blahs and Blechs

Monday comes way too soon and I am cranky.  I instantly regret having stayed up to watch the very last second of the Oscars and having skimped on my much needed beauty sleep. 

And after having a a brief chat with a few ladies in the office about who looked fabulous and whose dress flopped and why on Earth George Clooney would cover up even one square inch of that face with a beard is beyond all of our comprehension, I take to my desk.  I feel like I am made of lead.

And my phone is instantly ringing.  Hello, Monday.

I answer as cheerfully as I possibly can.  No one is convinced. 

It's Mac. And he says something bossy and snarky that he intends to be funny, but isn't. I am not sure it's not funny because it is just not funny or if it's not funny because Monty Python would not even be funny this morning.

He asks if instead of Miami or NYC we could go to Clearwater and watch some Spring Training games. We could stay someplace nice and his broker could get us great seats behind the home dugout.  Asks which airport is easier for me, how early can I get out Friday, can I take Monday off.

This is going to be some first date.

And although I answer each of those questions honestly, it is not as though I am mentally packing my bag.  I am not clearing my appointments late Friday or all day Monday.  I am not at all convinced that Mac is not still all smoke and mirrors.

He sends a few texts during the day. Some of them cute, some of them annoying.  I get the sense he is trying to figure out who he needs to be with me.  So far the Sybil act is just confusing. 

And a few times, he suggests that I call him.  And he seems to mean it.  So I joke.

"Some of us actually have to produce something for a living."

And arrogant as ever, he says, "I provide guidance, leadership and insight, Liza." 

What does he think I do all day?  Deliver pizza?  I snark back. "I make shit happen."  And I add a little figure of a face with its tongue out.

He remarks that he thinks I have a big attitude and condescends that he thinks it's cute. A verbal pat on the head. Asswipe.

I decide to snuggle up with the kids for a little TV after dinner and turn in early.  No need to be available when Mac calls or texts. My patience and my fortitude are waning.

A Walk on the Red Carpet

As the day goes on, Mac quiets down. Craig is silent. Scott texts a few times.

Does anyone else worry that someday they will send the wrong text to the wrong person?

I can see it now. A baffling text erroneously sent to Craig about NY or Miami plans.  A misguided note to Mac intended for Scott asking about the dogs. A foul ball text to Scott remarking about an inside story only Craig would understand.

This is not my MO.  I am a one man woman.  I make my mistakes one man at a time.  Now the potential for error has exponentially expanded. I am doomed from the start.

But Scott and I carry on a lovely conversation about J.'s girls. It is nice that he's even interested. He'd never met them.  But kids are special when their parents are or were special to you, so whose womb they actually flew out of tends not to matter.

And later, as the Oscar buzz is hitting a fever pitch, I pour a glass of wine, take a seat on the sofa next to Hil and watch the Red Carpet pageantry unfold.

This is where Facebook and texting hit their stride. The banter on Facebook is immediate and spot on. It is like being there with your friends and having sidebar conversations. Realtime.  This would never have happened before the advent of the social network.

And at the same time, Mac is texting. He's sitting watching the Red Carpet with his sister and niece. It strikes me as a very tender thing to do.  I am sure Mac is not big on fashion. But he does have some very sweet things to say (and very respectful things, I might add...) about some of my faves.  Anne Hathaway melts his heart. He loved Charlize Theron's new short do.  He things Renee Zellweger is adorable and has a knockout figure.  He likes Hallie Berry's dress (I didn't.)

And during the Oscars show itself, he had thoughtful comments about some of the movies and some of the skits (though he missed "We Saw Your Boobs" which is just criminal to have been deprived of). 

I am actually starting to think I could like him. 

He then asks me to turn on a computer (I take to the iPad) so he could show me a few hotel choices.  He seems to know what he is talking about and I am thrilled that he's even planning.

But still, I am not about to start packing a bag. 

There is something that tells me this is all a smoke screen.

A leopard rarely changes his spots. Seven years could have resulted in a lot of changes (including baldness and obesity, which remain to be seen.)  but a complete transformation? Not likely.

We end the evening of chatting with him asking if he can take me to lunch one day this week. He'd like to see me so our big weekend adventure is not the first time he sees me.

I am flattered. I am cautious. I am agreeable. I am in big trouble. Lunch will be my big walk on the red carpet.

Rise and Shine

Craig and I exchange a few e-mails that evening.  And then poof!  He's gone. Vanished. And I wonder to myself if this is just exactly what I should expect of him. He's trying to wedge a lot of things into his life and I will get his attention when he has it to give. Which will be somewhat unpredictable. 

I make a wonderful dinner and brownies and set a beautiful table to welcome J.'s girls.  Hil and I catch up with them for hours. Pat misses out on all the girl talk because he's at Scout camp.  Probably just as well. But we have a lovely time--- and as I've said, we'll get to that.

Mac texts a few times. And each time I hope it is Craig. I hate when the text is from the wrong guy. Though his texts, I must admit, showed signs of good-natured humor, maturity and sweetness. Instead of the Alpha Dog mentality I expect. 

The next day Hil and I decide to take to the nature trail at a local college. We gather up all the bread, rolls and crackers whose expiration dates have come and gone and hope the geese and ducks have returned to the lake at the end of the trail. It's a gorgeous day. I am anxious to take pictures.

As we leave, I get and ignore a call from Mac. I am spending the morning with my girl and no one will intrude. What does this say about the viability of the Mac thing?  Nothing good.

Hil and I chat and walk and chat some more and are thrilled that the geese and ducks are there in masses.  They come right to the edge of the lake and don't seem to mind at all that we are big scary humans.  Starvation will do that, I guess.  After the goods are gone and we've walked all around the lake and laughed at memories we hold of the place, we decide to take a short detour to a local coffee shop for some muffins and hot chocolate (okay, a latte for me...) 

I look for signs of life from Craig on Facebook.

I get signs of life instead from Mac (who is not on Facebook, which I find very convenient).

He texts that he is off to the gym (another departure from the Mac I once knew) and he'll talk to me later. The text was about 30 minutes old...so I answer, thinking I can get away with a one way conversation.

No such luck. He calls.

And truth be told, he's very nice. Says he likes that I am spending quality time with my daughter (though not at the moment, she's reading the New York Post while I am yakking on the phone, Bucko) and likes that side of me. Tells me that the last time we were together, the "kid thing" sort of scared him.  He seems to be unafraid now. Asks a lot of questions about each of them. It's sort of nice.

But I am probably becoming a nuisance in the coffee shop, and Hil is done with the gossipy section of the paper, so I end the conversation. He sends a text about the geese.  He seems to be genuinely engaged in getting to know me.

He sends another text. He says he thinks we could be great friends. And adds that friendship is the basis of every good relationship. He's enjoying getting to know me. 

So why am I not thrilled to hear this? 

Maybe it is just like it was with Scott in the beginning. I had doubts in the days that led to our first date. What if too much had changed?  What if we had become too different? What if there was no spark? And that had all evaporated the moment I'd seen him. Maybe the moment I see Mac, I'll remember why I was attracted to him? 

Let's hope so. Otherwise it's going to be a very long, hellish date.

You Say Goodbye, And I Say Hello

He sends a few texts throughout the afternoon. It stops just short of me wanting to kill him.  What I don't need is another J.

And speaking of J., I can not spend all damn day on the phone. I have arranged to have J.'s girls over for dinner. I am making a favorite recipe of theirs and need to get busy.  We'll get to that later.

But he does eventually back off and I enjoy the afternoon - and find myself looking forward to the possibilities. I am not feeling especially attracted to him, but need to push myself to give people a chance. One date will not kill me. Will not mean anything. Will not go on forever.  Even the worst date of my life (Casey) did not last as long as my worst day in the office.

He sends me a text at about 4 pm asking me to call him. Weird, but I do. (I mean the phone is in his hand, just dial for Chrissake.)  Turns out he's about to take a nap. Another routine. I think this makes him sound ancient. But I do, on the flip side, think a nap sounds fabulous.

We talk for a few minutes and my phone is buzzing the entire time.  Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz. Like some cosmic call waiting telling me that this is a bad idea.

I think as I get off the phone that it must be Hil texting from the attic asking what is for dinner and when Abby and Moira are arriving. 

But no.

I get off the phone to find that I have several texts.

Not from Hil.

Not even from Pat.

From Craig. And from Scott.

And I realize that there is not some cosmic call waiting feature out there telling me not to go out with Mac.  There is a cosmic radar alarm clock that lets all the men in your life know the precise moment when they've lost your attention and alerts them that they have to jump up and down and wave their arms in your face again. Maybe just for laughs.

I want to open Craig's first. But I am disciplined. I read them in order.  Scott first.

"What's for dinner?" 

I tell him that I am making a Pennsylvania Dutch recipe of my grandmothers and describe it. And suddenly I wonder why I never made them for him and his girls.

He is clearly frothing at the mouth. Miss me, miss my cooking. That's part of the price you pay.

I tell him how to make them. He laments that no one in his house will make the effort. I actually do feel sorry for him.  But not that sorry. Hello, grown ups, learn to feed yourselves!  I have texts from Craig to read.

"What are you doing tonight?"

And now I am really regretting having invited Mac back into my life. I am willing to give him a chance but Craig would clearly win the coin toss any day of the week.

It's amazing how the simplest things can change the course of my heart.

Return of the Mack

I reply.

"Hello, Mac. That would be lovely."

"What are you doing tonight?"

"I have my kids this week. Next weekend?"

"Great. New York or Miami?"

I am sure he's exaggerating. I tell him both sound great. But if he isn't exaggerating, it would appear that Mac has learned that you need to part company with a dollar or two on a proper date. He was big on dates that required none of that. Parties.  Quiet evenings at home. They don't qualify as dates in my book. And certainly not first dates.

He says he's at an art museum downtown.  A very prestigious art museum.  Seems Mac has become somewhat cultured.  When I'd met him he was as cultured as a bottle of Boone's Farm. Maybe the seven years in between our last contact was productive for Mac. Maybe he's finally gone to Charm School.

He calls me.  Still very funny. Same over the top attitude, but I am more comfortable with sparring now. He's met his match from a verbal fisticuffs perspective. It is actually fun to talk with him.

He wants to stop over. Right now. Pushy little thing.

I am just off the treadmill, and therefore a sweathog, so I say no. He says he doesn't care if I am hot and stinky.

What?  I haven't seen you in seven years and you think I should be OK grunging on our first meeting? Eeew.

I flatly refuse. He says he's taking his mother to lunch anyway and backs down, thank God.  She's 85 and his steady Saturday lunch date. I think that is cute. I'll forgive the weirdness about seeing me sweaty.

Then he tells me that he was on a date at the museum and was glad to have gotten the text telling him to call me. 

What?  He was on a date?

That means two things to me.

One - He is mature enough to plan a Saturday morning date that will not end in nudity.

Two - He is self-centered and rude enough to text another woman while on said date, and perhaps that is because said date will not end in nudity. (perhaps due to the standing lunch date with his mother.)

I tell him if I ever find that he is texting other women while we are on anything that resembles a date, I will kill him in public. And he will be screaming like a girl. It will not be pretty.

He  laughs heartily.

I am regretting this already.

Hello, I Must Be Going

Days go by. I send one last ditch text.  Tell him that I miss chatting and hope he is well.

A day goes by and I get a text. One text. It explains a lot, but not enough. I give him a pass but still, it nags at me that he's not at least just sending a quick hello.  How busy can he be?  It speaks volumes about where I fall in the pecking order of priorities.  Some priorities I understand. Others may be more problematic.

A week goes by. It is the weekend again.  I decide not to be a fool and pine over something that all indications say has run its course. I need to push myself to move on. I consider my options.

Scott? Not. We've been over this...

Find someone new?  Harder than it sounds. And there is no way I am doing the online dating thing.

Consider someone old. Not older, just from the past. I rifle through the Rolodex in my brain, reviewing and discarding almost everyone in the pile. 

I review my Facebook friend list for hidden gems. Zippity doo-dah.

And then Jackie's husband puts something on Facebook that reminds me - Mac!

Mac was the dude I went on a few ill-fated dates with when I was newly separated. Still so newly separated that the ink on the file wasn't dry, and sadly, I was still living under the same roof with Lars. (Which really cramps one's dating style, I might add.) He was larger than life...too large for my life at the time. Big personality. Large and in charge. I needed sweet and tender and nurturing at the time. Hence, my attraction to J. made sense.

But I am much more confident now. He was entirely too much for me then, but I have a lot more gumption now. And in spite of all his big-ass arrogance, I do remember being attracted to him.

But he was given my number by Jackie's husband before Christmas. All the high holidays with gift requirements have passed and he still hasn't called.  Maybe he has someone in his life?  Or maybe he is a big chicken?

I text Jackie's hubby.  "Tell your friend Mac he is a big, fat chicken. I can hear him clucking from here."

He texts right back. "Do you want him to call you?"

"Well, I'd answer the phone..."

"Booty call!!!"

"Ha ha. You're hilarious. This is not a booty call. I am bored and he's entertaining."

I get a text from Mac ten minutes later. "Hello, Liza. Shall we try again?"

He's Just Not That Into You

And at the same time, I am finding it easier to entertain the notion of being Scott's friend.

He sends me a  picture of a sunrise (Asunset? who knows?) via text.

I ask about it and remark that it is beautiful. 

He says it was taken at a favorite familiar spot of ours.

It doesn't actually make me cringe to learn that.

We talk about how it is stormy and snowy at the moment - so nowhere near as beautiful.

I remark that I've delayed a trip to the mountains with the kids to visit my favorite cousin because of the weather. He's been there before and makes a nice comment.

He also says the weather should clear enough for us to drive; he's just checked the weather app on his phone.

I say I am not worried; the Tank can get through anything.

He asks if "a pretty girl ever managed to get new tires on the Tank."

And I say yes, as advised.  In November to the tune of $1,000 thank you very much LOL.  (but of course that was after the vanishing act and he'd have to be clairvoyant to know that) And we move on to other benign subjects like my wicked cats, the fact that I want a Mini Cooper as a second car, and that both of us are getting old and can't see worth a damn without somekind of glasses.

And in the end he says goodnight and remarks that it is nice to be able to talk.

And he's right. It is.  I think I can do this. Maybe.

But what is weird is that I haven't heard much from Craig.  All week.  What is the deal with that?

He's been scarce on Facebook. Has let a few texts go unanswered and has generally vanished from sight.

OMG he hated the second date. He must have!  There could be no other reason. And he's clarivoyant and knows I 'm talking to Scott and is putting our thing on ice.

Hil asks me why I am making a face (while I drink my wine one night) and I remark that I think that Craig is not interested in me and I am sad.

She asks what makes me think that, and I tell her about the noticeable drop off in contact.

She rolls her 8th grade eyes and tells me that her crush has not called her in a month so what am I complaining about a week for? 

She has a point. But I know a thing or two about men.

Men are practical. Men set priorities and can be very driven.  They will put work first or family first or whatever blows their skirts up first and make the social thing last priority  in favor of the thing they value most.  But with one exception.  If a man wants your time and attention, he'll make the effort. He'll call.  He'll flirt. He'll drop you a line that says, "Really crushed at the office at the moment. Chat later? How late will you be up?"  And Craig hasn't.

So maybe he's just not that into me?

Boundaries, Schmounderies

It's funny how some people are driven by a singular ambition. In this case, my old friend was so morbidly curious about my life that I could not have so much as a hang nail without it becoming national news.

Literally.  I was hearing about my life from all manner of people. From all over the country. As if each one of them was tasked with confirming some little seemingly harmless detail and the puppeteer would put it all together.  She had all her puppets with their strings up...and all the players were probably not even aware that they were puppets.  But it was insane what people would ask me about. The mundane details. The speculation about my whereabouts. The good natured curiosity expressed by friends who remained curious about how I was piecing my life together post-Scott.

But the common threads among them had my old friend's fingerprints all over them. Most of these people were people I rarely heard from. Many of them were people I rarely shared any relevant details of my life with. People on the periphery of my life who would know no more about me than what was printed in the college alumni magazine. So my radar was on a finely tuned frequency from all the chatter. I was careful not to reveal anything.  If someone took a guess at something, I'd dodge the issue, and avoid saying anything that would confirm or deny anything. I felt like I was a spy being interrogated by authorities.

And admittedly, sometimes I toyed with the whole situation. Floated a vague story to someone with just enough detail to get them all salivating.  I would dangle something out on Facebook that would create mystery and intrigue.  And vanish from view on Facebook for a few days to amp up the curiosity.  Reappear like nothing happened. Maybe drop something that could be considered a wink, wink to someone that would not go unnoticed but could never be confirmed. 

But the infiltration into my life became unbearable and it stopped being even remotely funny. And after about a week of incessant drilling down, and things that made me go "Hmmm" and random questions from odd people, and an ever widening pool of people who seemed to be talking about every single aspect of my life, I took action.

In an unprecedented move, I decided not to trust that my former friend would abide my boundaries, or even have a reflective moment or two about her conduct. In fact, it was apparent that her response was going to be to just find more clever, creative, stealth ways to dig into my life, which had only recently become so fascinating for reasons I could not begin to explain. 

So I went onto my laptop to the full application of Facebook and unfriended and blocked her. And a few of her acquaintances to seal off any possible penetration.

The whole thing made my heart race. So final.  So brutal.  So public.  And I wondered how that would change the game.  And frankly, was a little worried.

Two Steps Forward, Two Steps Back

Could it be possible that my writing this blog and blogging my most painful, gut-wrenching moments was as good for Scott to have read as it was for me to have written? 

He had unfriended me and all of our connections when he'd left...a brutally painful thing, I recall. But I had taken it as a gesture that said, "I don't want you in my life anymore but I don't care to watch yours unfold on Facebook either.  Go live your life...I just don't want to bear witness."  Maybe he'd been afraid I'd openly snark. Maybe he was not all that jazzed about watching me move on and posting away as I did. Maybe he just wanted a clean break. Maybe that's what people do. 

But now, he'd gone and voluntarily read things I'd never express on FB and he seems completely fine with all of it.

When he'd finally said something to me as he exited our relationship, he'd mentioned that he hoped we could some day be friends. And I thought that was insane. I didn't want a friend. I wanted what I'd had. All of it. Not some diluted, low-fat, pasteurized version of it.

Had that day finally come?  I mean, I don't envision us meeting for coffee or going shopping together, but would an occassional friendly text be out of the question?  It's not like we live near one another. I won't be making any impromptu suggestions that we run out and grab a beer.  And I know we won't be talking about each other's dating fiascos. And I am certainly never going to sit in a pew in church watching him get married to someone for whom I've just bought and wrapped a nice Osterizer food processor and written a card wishing them a happy everafter.

But keeping in touch seems to make sense, sort of. Doesn't it?  Or does it?

Facebook has changed all the rules of engagement (and breaking an engagement, actually) and I am not sure what the etiquette is on this type of thing. In the absence of FB and smartphones, would Scott and I be exchanging cards and letters?  Doubtful. But years ago, we did once in a while. What do we do now in the parameters of friendship?

I am not at all sure how to use Facebook or texting on this landscape. I am not sure of what is known as Proper Use.

But I do know one thing.

I know what improper use looks like. And my old friend that I'd sent the frosty text to was rearing her ugly little warped head again.  Apparently, untying was not going to be enough to get her to cease and desist.  Something just might have to be cut.

I will spend a few days sharpening the scissors before I do anything.

Read It and Weep

And it just doesn't seem to go on long enough.  Like all really great things, it seems to end far too soon. But it's all good, believe me.

We enjoy each other's company. Conversation is effortless. We make each other laugh. He's quick and witty. He thinks I am a riot. We understand each other. We talk about everything, not just the typical get-to-know-you date stuff. We don't even feel like we have to be on our best behavior, necessarily. It is really kind of fun. Seems like we are good for each other.

And there are buying signs that I note. Plans for future things. An offer to help with my labor camp of a yard.  Talk of "next time."

And the next day there are cute texts. Flirty. Complimenting me. I flirt back. It would be hard not to. I can not stop smiling. It is so nice to have someone to think about.

But like the date, the weekend grinds to a halt and Monday rears its ugly little horned head, beyotch that she is. 

I work. I blog. I clean. I labor in the yard. I run all the errands I don't want to bother with when I have the kids with me. No need to intrude on their time with things like my hair cut or my eyebrow wax or the all important run to the hardware store by way of the beer distributor.

I touch base with a few old friends some of whom have begun to read my blog.  And as they contact me about some of the things that I've written that struck them, I find myself rereading some of my more raw and painful moments of agonizing heartache.

And I start to feel badly.

Badly about Scott having read them.

And since I should know well enough to never have a goblet of wine in one hand and the phone in another but do not, I text him.  I tell him that I have begun to feel badly about how he must feel having read all the harsh things I'd had to say about the weeks following his genie-in-a-bottle vanishing act.

And he writes back right away. "No worries, dear. We're fine. Have a good night."

What?

The Song in my Heart

And now back to the story.

My second date with Craig.  The all important second date.

Hot mess that I was getting ready, I had evidently chosen the perfect outfit (he'd commented right away) and right out of the gate things went beautifully.

He's an attentive date. We have enormous amounts of things to talk about. He listens. He remembers. He's interesting. I find myself listening attentively and asking questions.

He goes out to bars like my friends and I go out to bars. He's engaging. We collect friends along the way.  He doesn't mind if I chat people up and he does his best to widen our social circle too. All that is missing is Joy getting everyone's full names, telephone numbers and Facebook handles.

It is such a refreshing change.  Lars was never one to be open to other people. He had friends, who needs more? J. would have been a nut watching people come and go from our company. He's have convinced himself that everyone was a predator and plotting to steal me from him. Every man, woman and child a thief in the night. He'd have worked up a hairy eyeball for each of them. Frosted anyone who dared strike up a conversation. Listened attentively but suspiciously to every word. Would have read between the lines and suspected some covert nefarious agenda.  He'd have been pissed that I didn't chase everyone away immediately. My friendliness a sure indication that I was about to take flight. Run off with another man. Leave him standing there with a giant L scrawled on his forehead with my lipstick. 

It is an ideal date. We laugh. We hold hands. We flirt. We play darts.  We compete with other people.  We dance. A musician works my name into a song and we dance some more. We get scolded by some old hag for sitting so close to talk that we appear to be kissing. Too bad, you old bag. You wish you were me.

And I am thrilled to be me.

It has been just a few short months since my world went up in smoke and I can not believe how my heart is singing. And singing a song I love.

A King Among Men

Today would be my Dad's 85th birthday.  Eighty-five. I can hardly imagine.

As the years have gone by everything has mellowed.

Things I would have been so angry about as a young person have faded into nothingness in his absence.  His stubbornness has become quaint. His ailing end-of-life years cling only to the very edge of my memory. The man I remember loved his job, coached baseball, was the life of the party, loved yard work and the Phillies and washing and waxing the cars.

Not that he's never far from my mind, I do think about him more often as his birthday approaches.  I wonder what he'd be like now if only he'd had a chance to grow old gracefully and had not been plagued by so many major health problems. I'm sure he'd be less active. I am sure he'd watch more TV. I'm sure he'd be even more set in his ways.

But maybe, just maybe, he'd have found a different path as well.

Perhaps he'd have met someone special.  Had the company and companionship that a partner provides. Someone to laugh with, whose hand he could hold. Someone to make him a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup on a rainy day. Someone to buy chocolates for and call cute little pet names.

They'd have their regular place for dinner where the waitstaff would stop asking how they'd like this or that prepared and already know that Dad likes his salad swimming in blue cheese dressing.  They'd have their Sunday breakfast at the local diner after Mass. They'd drive to the shore for the day and walk along the boardwalk holding hands. They'd buy macaroons and fudge and maybe watch the little kids on the bumper cars before driving home.

Or maybe Dad would have found some fellow singletons - divorcees or widowers - and they'd have all retired to a life of afternoon baseball games, golf, Saturday matinees or bowling followed by a few cold beers.

Or maybe he would have jumped into grandfatherhood with both feet clad in spikes and spent countless afternoons with Charlotte's boys and with Pat throwing around a football or learning how to throw a perfect strike. Or teaching every kid on the block how to ride a two wheeler, or making sure Hil never once threw like a girl.

But those are the dreams I'd have for him. Dreams never to come true.

But I dream them because in my mind, that is exactly the man my Dad was.  Just an older version with a different ending to the story. And those are the gifts I give back to him now, in return for all of his love and adoration, his guidance and his humor, his patience and his firmness. I imagine a life for him that he only halfway got to live. Happy Birthday, Pop.

And in Retrospect

And I wonder who it was that suggested to Scott that he read this blog. It was a curious statement to make.  I don't doubt for a moment that it is true. He wouldn't have any reason to make that up.

I have my suspicions. Several potential suspects, actually. 

One who would be interested, for her own selfish reasons, in getting us back together so that I would be removed at once from the competitive game of dating, which frankly seems like a roller derby to me now.  And she'd have access. And the nerve.

So ask him about that. He says he hasn't heard from her at all.

And that could be true. But she's dumb like a fox, she would have told him to say that.

And there is the former teacher that Scott and I both have in common. Great guy. Was a remarkable teacher. And hilarious.  I could see Scott reaching out to him and him saying, he should man up and call me or if that is too much to bear, read the damn blog, idiot.

I reach out the the teacher and mention the whole episode to him. He does not seem to have known in advance but is glad to know that Scott is now completely aware of the havoc he caused simply because he could not face breaking up with me responsibly.

All the conversations I wanted to have with him. The questions I had. The confusion from my children. 
He knows it all. And he knows that all of the discussions I wanted to have with him I instead had with Charlotte. And Kate and Priscilla and Joy and Jill.  And Rocky and Christopher and Jane and Craig.
And myself. Because he could not find it in his heart to avail himself.

And look where it has gotten him. And me.

He says he's happy I've met someone. I am not so sure he is, but what else is he going to say?  And he had to let me know he knew. 

And further, he knows my thoughts on ever turning back. I love with all my heart. If there was ever any lingering doubts or fears that he would turn tail and scram again, I'd forever want to hold something back. And I'd never be able to be happy like that.

And the fact of the matter is, I have moved on. I want to move on.  I need to move on. I will keep moving on. I never thought I would say so, but I have put this horror show in my past.

And Now He Knows

And here is why.

Scott's gone looking for information. He has figured out the my blog would be the way to get information simply. Effortlessly. Without my knowing.

When a few months ago he could have parted his lips and simply asked. I hold nothing back. I will always talk with you. If it's on your mind it should be on mine...so let's chat, shall we?

Or he could have, at the time, asked Charlotte. Or any one of my close friends that he'd come to know.  But no, in a rash carpet bombing gesture (one of so many, I'd find) he defriended us all on Facebook. I don't think anyone would entertain a conversation with him now. Or at least one that did not start with them saying something like "You big fat dickhead! Of all the lousy, chicken-shit things to do..." Nope. Not gonna happen.

So he turned to the blog - presumably in a moment of desperate curiosity.  Very ingenious of him. Of course it was there in his list of preferred websites on his computer. And he read my heart.

And I am a little worried about what he might decide to do with that information. 

On one hand it is a relief that he's read all that I wrote.  All of my most raw, painful, moments. How I reacted to his cruelty. How my children felt so jilted. How they cried for me in my sadness. My horror as the week unfolded and I realized he was breaking up with me and not actually telling me.

The desperation. The sleeplessness. He must feel like a heel knowing how my friends reacted. Responded to my grief with such unexpected gestures and kindness. To have made so many enemies of perfect strangers and friends alike in one broad sweeping act of biting disrespect. 

There is a sense of satisfaction that I did not overtly chastise him. That I took the high road and didn't lambaste him in my anger.  That he's been able to read in black and white the consequences of his behavior.  He could not envision having a conversation, and could further not imagine the aftermath. Now he doesn't have to.

And now instead of using this twist of fate for something healing and good. I twist the knife it's put in his side just a half turn.

And I am not at all sure that was the right thing to do.

The Pre-Game Show

But it's important to me that we've done this little dance. I've taken a position, which is more meaningful that having taken no position at all. Like Switzerland.

And it's important to have done this before my second date with Craig.  I don't know what he's thinking exactly - but I can't imagine that any man wants to throw his heart into the ring if there is the slightest possibility that the ghost of a past serious relationship will come roaring back to life. Any man would question the power of that gravitational pull. And I want to be able to say with absolute certainty and honesty that there is no threat of that happening.  Even if he's not threatened at all. Why chance it. Take it right off the table before it rears its ugly little head.

And even though it may seem odd to invest even one second of any date talking about any Ghost of Love Lives Past, it isn't odd in the case with Craig. Because it was Scott's vanishing act that brought so many of my oldest and dearest and even some newer friends to my side. And Craig was among them. I was so lucky to have so many people give the slightest damn about my bad breakup. SO that door closing has led to this window opening. So it is not an out-of-bounds conversational topic. However unorthodox that may seem.

And the week plods on --- I a planning what I will wear. What to wear if we do this. What to wear if we decide to do that instead. Trying it all on for fabulousness. Outfit. Foundations. Shoes. Jewelry. Perfume. I love this part.

And Craig is a perfect date in the days that lead to the actual date. Attentive. Charming. Flirtatious. All good stuff. I am so looking forward to seeing him that I have convinced myself that something is going to come along and piss all over it. Prevent us from seeing each other. Blizzard. Nuclear Holocaust. Alien invasion.

But the day finally comes and I am on pins and needles. First dates are important (just ask Casey). Second dates are crucial. The second date determines whether there is a third date, and the third date is the tipping point as relationships go.

It needs to be perfect. I am giddy. I am nervous. I am fabulous. I am a hot mess.

Your Mailbox Is Full (of It)

But there is one little unexpected wrinkle.

After I have the text conversation with Scott and put it to rest a little less gracefully than I'd like to have, I feel sort of crappy. 

Not guilty about a date with someone new.
Not badly that I've pushed him away, sort of.
Not flumoxed by the fact that I've made contact.

It is hard to explain.

I feel like I had an opportunity to talk to Scott and didn't.  I could have shared and I could have asked and I could have railed against him. And I didn't.

And I don't know why, but I just didn't feel like going down that road. It would be a long, dark, rocky road and I'd be on a unicycle.

I feel like I had a chance and didn't take it. And I am not sure that won't someday come back to haunt me.

But then a few days later something strange happens. 

I get an email from Scott. Not a text. An actual email. 

"Liza - Someone suggested that I read your blog. And I have. I'm glad I did. Wonderful writing. It's a shame Scott turned out to be such a jerk. I'm sorry. I'm glad you've met someone. I wish you the best."

It took me completely by surprise. He'd always known about the blog. It was no secret. He'd never been interested.  Or maybe it wasn't that. He said it was my private space - not that it was very private at all. 

When I first read it it seemed like he had gone digging through my purse. Like he'd gone looking for something in my diary and had confirmed his suspicions.  I almost felt guilty. Busted.

And I responded in kind.

"Scott, you were always welcome to read my blog. And you shocked everyone with your vanishing act. I deserved better than that after making you the center of my life and my childrens' lives for two years.  Even if I never actually had a place in yours.

I had a million things I'd wanted to talk with you about when you left. I wrote instead. 

I wish you the best as well. I hope you find whatever it is that will make you happy.

Liza"

Send.

And almost immediately, I regret it.

I'll Say Goodbye to Love

But the whole exchange sticks with me.

I have done so much healing in these last few months.

Two months earlier I was a wreck. Leaning into my freinds when I thought I'd collapse. Wishing Scott would change his mind, change his heart. Hoping I'd someday wake up and what went wrong would not be the first thought to plague me. Getting physically ill at the idea of actually going on a date with someone new.

And now I was strong. Feeling capable and in control. Enjoying the attention I've been getting from other men. Not throwing up at the thought of trying them on for size. I can actually listen to the entire playlist on my iPod again. Inclusive of the Adele songs.

Scott approaching me was the thing I'd hoped would happen. And he has. And I can't go back.

And what is a little bit sad - no, a lot sad - is the finality of it. 

Our whole lives we've dabbled in each other's lives. As we moved from milestone to milestone we stayed in touch. We deftly avoided inviting each other to our weddings. There was always an attraction - something unacknowledged and unspoken. Something that drew us together. And as we dated people and married and divorced and meandered through the paths of our lives, we stayed loosely tethered to one another. There was always possibility.

And now that we'd had our time, loved big and been torn assunder, it is different. He left. And now seems open to the possibility of another chance.

And I have pushed him away and avoided any real talk about it.

And when I actually have to say the words -- when I actually have to say no -- that will be the end. The end for good. No further chances.

For now he won't actually ask and I won't actually answer. We both avoid what we know it will mean.

For that final place is a place I haven't been to in 30 years.  And I am sad all over again. In an entirely different way.

Running with Scissors

And the next day things were relatively quiet. Craig was traveling and I was looking forward to a chat later that night. And as soon as the chatting began, just as before, Scott texted.

A photo of one of the dogs, looking sad. And an inquiry.  How was I doing, aside from him hurting me? And an apology. He really is sorry.

I told him the honest truth. A little more detail this time.

I am fine. It took a while. I have spent time with myself and my friends and immersed myself in work, which has paid off with a nice opportunity. I have had some work done on the house and am feeling good about things. But to be completely truthful, I added, though I have truly forgiven him, it is hard to forget how he treated the kids and me when it counted. Send.

And he says he's not forgotten. He's worried himself sick about it. Lost a lot of weight.

I tell him to go eat some ice cream. He was certainly not suffering from a weight problem at all. Did he lose a limb?

And what happened next made me sad. He told me that he was kind of on a health kick, in so many words. Eating right, going to the gym. Looking better than he ever has.

I suggest that that must make him happy.

And he says it would, but he's still alone.

And it sounds like he's trying to - I don't know - attract me to him.

And that is what is sad. My attraction to him was certainly helped by the fact that he was handsome and sexy, but that was just the candles on the cake. I loved his soul. His heart. The way he loved his girls, his dogs. His mechanical genius. His kindness. His willingness to fix anything that broke in my world. His sense of adventure. How much fun we had. His tenderness toward me. His unflinching respect. He could have had crossed eyes and buck teeth and I would have loved the things I saw with my heart.

So I made a snappy remark out of desperation and stopped texting.

Later he sent me a goodnight text. And used my name. Like I'd always asked.

But Let's Not Get Ahead of Ourselves

But let's get back for a moment to Scott, like I said I would. 

But first, we have to get back to Craig. Because he's part of the reason I even responded to Scott. And this goes back a few weeks.

Craig had been a little scarce for a while and I was wondering if the next date would materialize.  But he never completely lost touch, just faded a little. Work, home, whatever.  I know all the words to that song.  Life is a juggling act when you have a lot to care about.

And so one day as I drove home from work he sent me a lovely text and suggested some plans. And of course I accepted. The first date was so wonderful, of course I wanted a second one.  And as soon as we had the game plan set, he did exactly as I'd hoped. He was flirty. He was attentive. He was sweet. He was accessible. I was loving every minute of it.

And I began to feel badly about Scott out there flapping in the breeze wondering if I'd gotten his message and wondering if I had anything to say. If I had vanished into thin air. If I was depressed and disturbed and having trouble getting out of bed or if I had instead gone on a wild dating spree and was being wined and dined by everything in a pair of pants.

So I responded finally, simply saying that I just really didn't know what to say to his message. Which is the truth. The unembellished, not elaborated upon, not particularly detailed, un-footnoted, not particularly informative, yet informative enough, vague, mysterious, flatly-affected truth.

And he replied pretty quickly.  Unexpected on a Friday night. I was home with the kids but assumed he'd be out. Out with the guys, or out with a girl, or out looking for a girl, or doing something that would preclude him from responding so quickly.

But he did. "I'm sorry for what I did. Please don't hate me forever."

And I simply replied that I don't hate him. I'd forgiven him months ago. 

And I had. It had not been easy, but I am not about to carry the weight of a grudge for the rest of my life. My soul would be crushed under the weight of it for sure. I need to have good vibes out there in the universe.

Hating someone and not forgiving them their transgressions is so taxing.  Like someone said once, on that never-ending river of advice, Facebook, "Holding a grudge is like drinking poison and expecting the other guy to die."  Not I, she said, as my mother would say.

And perhaps that was all he'd needed to hear. He was forgiven. Everyone who struggles with regret wants to be forgiven. Flogs themselves until they get it. It pokes a hole in a person's soul.  Living a life without reason for regret is a mantra I'd encourage everyone young person to subscribe to.  It is freeing.

Perhaps I'd set him free. And now we were truly free from each other. Perhaps.

The Dog Ate My Homework, Or Something Lame Like That

Having slept the sleep of the dead, I awaken refreshed and renewed with a new attitude. 

I check my phone. No messages. Of any kind. Anywhere. Good news!

I put my feet on the floor and begin my day. Hog the bathroom for a bit while the teenagers are still snoozing.

And as I brush my teeth I think I hear the familiar ding of my iPhone.

Oh no. A message.

Maybe not. I turn off the water so I can hear if there is the customary second reminder ding.

And there it is.

Toothbrush dangling from my mouth, I dry my hands and race to the bedroom.  I click my little screen to life and see that I do indeed have a reply to my blistering, weapons-grade message from the night before.

"I will do as you say, but first let me say that whatever you heard that I did, I didn't do it."

An idiot texts what???

I nearly laugh out loud. I know 5 year olds that would have produced a more clever reply. Made a more compelling argument. Told a more convincing tale. She can't possibly think that a blank check denial of wrong doing is actually going to "make it all better," could she?  When did she decide I was stupid? 

As a rule, I never forward anything, but since I'd kept Charlotte abreast of this completely bizarre and unanticipated little social crisis, I feel compelled to at least copy and paste the two messages to her in a separate text.  Her reply is simple.

"Brava!  Good for you Are you going to reply to that insipid message?"

"No," I write back. "I told her I did not want to hear from her so I really shouldn't engage, even though I am dying to tell her exactly what I have learned and call her on exactly what she is doing that she thinks no one knows. I will refrain. Let her twist herself into a pretzel trying to figure it all out. Make her sweat. She deserves a wee little taste of Hell for this."

And I return to the bathroom to finish brushing my teeth and have the first morning completely free of drama in a long time.  It will be nice to live my Facebook life without interference.

Or so I think.

Telling It Like It Is

It was really beginning to bug me.

I'd always considered her my very fun but sort of fragile friend. But fragile in a good way. A little overly sensitive, but almost childlike in her optimism.  Funny as Hell, and game for almost any antic at all. Laughs at your jokes, makes jokes of her own. So what if she was largely regarded as a kook. She was delightfully nutty. Somewhere between Lucille Ball and Gallagher.

But sinister and self-serving?  I never would have guessed. And even if I had figured out that she had the potential for evil, I never would have thought that I'd be the target. Or maybe not the target, exactly.  The collateral damage.  Something she'd happily sacrifice in pursuit of her real target.  All the years we'd known each other out the window - at the first ever coin toss.

The evening was relatively quiet.  I guess she had run out of clever ideas designed to ferret out information from unsuspecting friends.  Or maybe she was catching up on all the work she neglected during the business day while she was torturing me within an inch of my sanity. 

And then, shortly after I'd cleaned up the dinner dishes, signed all the permission slips and packed lunches and folded two loads of laundry and finally logged onto Facebook to chat a little with some friends, I got a text.

"Liza, you are freaking me out. You are completely not you. I am not sure what is going on.  We have been friends for so many years."

I let that sit there for a while. I was not going to answer. I was sure not answering was the right thing to do. I should just start not answering and stick to not answering until she was certain she was being frosted for all eternity.

But I went to bed and couldn't sleep. It had come to that.

So I picked up my phone and replied.

"You're right. We have been friends for years. That's why I don't understand what you are getting out of all of this. You are shamelessly looking for information, which you then blab hither and yon with such indiscretion that it eventually makes its way back to me.

Don't text me. Don't message me. And do not dare call me.  I will not respond. Go ahead, light up the social network trying to figure out who sang to me. Just don't make another ounce of trouble for me. Your conduct is appalling. The years of friendship make it so.
Liza"

Send. And off to sleep like a lamb.