So in spite of it all I had a delightful Christmas.
Scott and I opened a bottle of wine, laughed our heads off, exchanged lovely, meaningful gifts. He wrote me a beautiful card. Talked way past midnight. Made an effort to get to know each other as adults, and parents, and career people, and friends, as opposed to teenagers, and progeny and members of the marching band and college bound boneheads. And listened critically to each other's stories about our once happy marriages and how they little by little, year over year, incident after episode disintegrated to the point of bonds being put asunder. How we arrived at this place where only Facebook could connect our dots after so much disillusioned wandering of the Earth’s crust.
He did not seem like a stranger, even after looking like one for the better part of 30 years. Sure, I’d have stopped him on the street if I’d seen him – and did think about knocking on the door of his parents’ beach house when I’d walk past (not knowing they’d moved to another when I was still in college…) and would have been thrilled to have seen him at another of our friend Roger’s magnificent Christmas parties if Roger had been inclined to throw one once he found the love of his life and settled into married-no-party-throwing life. But none of that happened. At least not very often. And certainly not in the last dozen years.
Marriage and motherhood and moneymaking had consumed me. And on most days, I felt like I was challenged to put one foot reliably in front of the other without doing a face plant, and was silently and solitarily enduring the miseries of a marriage in disintegration. It's hard to reach out and find old friends when you don't have a friend in your marriage and reaching out would surely get your hand slapped.
Every day was the same: Get up, get groomed and dressed, get little people groomed and dressed while Daddy takes care of himself singularly and without distraction, pack lunches I’ve made or diaper bags I’ve packed and other essentials I’ve thought to bring into the car, and drive to the day care that I found and engaged to care for our children and/or the schools I dealt with teachers and principals about. Work all day accomplishing executive level achievements and cultivating meaningful, lucrative, important relationships, occasionally giving thought to what I’d need to do to get dinner on the table and what my sweet children might be doing while I toiled away at something I hoped would be rewarding, or what housework could be shoehorned into the fading hours of day, or what appointments the children might have that I’d need to attend before putting on my pajamas and checking backpacks and packing lunches. Give baths, comb out tangly hair, read stories and sing songs and play little learning games with each child to wind down their days before placing them lovingly into crib or bed with lovey toys and butterfly kisses and smooches on chubby, freshly washed cheeks before retiring to the kitchen to begin the prep for the next day’s round of Working Mom’s Hell. The only consolation being a glass of chardonnay while smearing peanut butter on bread that I’d cut into the shape of a heart or a smiley face.
Who would have known that Scott was on that same hellish ride too – and that when his second marriage seemed to be a far more horrible sequel to the first, and they were strangers in their own home, that he had started looking for me?
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Moscow Rule 10 - Keep Your Options Open
This is hard for me to do. Before I pour myself a glass of chardonnay - or in this case, a Jack Rabbit Slim, (the brilliant low carb cocktail that combines Jack Daniels and sugar-free lemonade, yum) I want to know the game plan and switch to auto-pilot. Otherwise, I am not at all relaxed, and high strung neurotic people tend to make crappy party hostesses. Just sayin'.
So I awaken on Christmas Eve when my children do...excited beyond description are they. Too cute. We'd gone through the motions of placing cookies and milk and an apple for the reindeer near the fireplace the night before, and I'd dutifully eaten a bunch, and left a few telltale partially eaten cookies to make the scene more convincing...even though no one wants to admit they still want to believe. They are happy to see that.
"Christmas" is a frenzy of colorful paper and ribbons and tags and tissue paper and squealing at the top of our lungs. What has taken weeks to purchase and artfully prepare has taken moments to unravel and spread across the floor plan of the first floor living space. Christmas music is on. Lights are lit. Cinnamon buns are baking. Coffee is brewed and being guzzled. Children are assembling and placing batteries and giving new things a whirl. All is right with our little world.
At about mid day, we all shower and dress to receive our first visitors. Wine is chilled, ice buckets filled, beer is in tubs on the porch by the outdoor Christmas tree. I've set a lovely table of all manner of nosh. All on festive plates and platters with holiday napkins and dishes. I intend to eat a millions grams of fat and carbs one small plate at a time.
Charlotte and her gang arrive. Drinks are poured and gifts are opened. This is how it should be. We are soon joined by more friends and then more friends and then a few more and there is lots of fa la la la la-ing all about the house.
But no Mom.
Dare I ask?
I do.
Charlotte has seen Mom. However briefly.
Evidently, the evening before, there arose such a clatter at the Lush household that there has been a change of plans.
Mr. and Mrs. Lush are evidently on the proverbial skids. On the back nine. In the final turn.
And though Estelle swears on her Mr. Bostons Bartending Guide that she and Bill and Mr. Lush had had nothing ("Nothing! Nothing I tell ya!") to drink, (was this party at 8 am?) leaving us to assume that Mrs. Lush had had more than her fair share from the mini-bar, (one of these things is not like the others...), it sounds like they wound up in the kind of argument that can only be born of gross over consumption of all manner of wine and spirits by people who could easily swing from laughing drunks to crying drunks to nasty drunks to fighting drunks.
My mother's explanation is that they had to get out of there pronto. (Mrs. Lush in reality probably told them to scram and flung a half empty bottle of Southern Comfort end-over-end at the backs of their retreating heads.) They grabbed their Vera Bradleys and vamoosed. But not to the safety of Charlotte's home, and certainly not to mine. To some other friends, the Snoots. So upset and scorched by indecency are they (the Lushes, according to my mother, had a wildly inappropriate conversation in their company...as if my mother would recognize propriety if it ever bit her on the ass...and that's how the chaos began) that they have taken refuge at the home of their other second tier friends, and will remain there licking their wounds and probably smothering them with Crown Royal.
So no Mom after all. No call to say Merry Christmas and we're so sorry we can't join you. Just more nothing.
As it should be, I suppose.
And my holiday party went on quite merrily. And my children transitioned from party to Mass to lair without incident, so joyous was the day. And upon my return home, I reflected on the day, what was and what might have been, and was in a truly peaceful place when Scott came to my door bearing lovely unexpected gifts.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
So I awaken on Christmas Eve when my children do...excited beyond description are they. Too cute. We'd gone through the motions of placing cookies and milk and an apple for the reindeer near the fireplace the night before, and I'd dutifully eaten a bunch, and left a few telltale partially eaten cookies to make the scene more convincing...even though no one wants to admit they still want to believe. They are happy to see that.
"Christmas" is a frenzy of colorful paper and ribbons and tags and tissue paper and squealing at the top of our lungs. What has taken weeks to purchase and artfully prepare has taken moments to unravel and spread across the floor plan of the first floor living space. Christmas music is on. Lights are lit. Cinnamon buns are baking. Coffee is brewed and being guzzled. Children are assembling and placing batteries and giving new things a whirl. All is right with our little world.
At about mid day, we all shower and dress to receive our first visitors. Wine is chilled, ice buckets filled, beer is in tubs on the porch by the outdoor Christmas tree. I've set a lovely table of all manner of nosh. All on festive plates and platters with holiday napkins and dishes. I intend to eat a millions grams of fat and carbs one small plate at a time.
Charlotte and her gang arrive. Drinks are poured and gifts are opened. This is how it should be. We are soon joined by more friends and then more friends and then a few more and there is lots of fa la la la la-ing all about the house.
But no Mom.
Dare I ask?
I do.
Charlotte has seen Mom. However briefly.
Evidently, the evening before, there arose such a clatter at the Lush household that there has been a change of plans.
Mr. and Mrs. Lush are evidently on the proverbial skids. On the back nine. In the final turn.
And though Estelle swears on her Mr. Bostons Bartending Guide that she and Bill and Mr. Lush had had nothing ("Nothing! Nothing I tell ya!") to drink, (was this party at 8 am?) leaving us to assume that Mrs. Lush had had more than her fair share from the mini-bar, (one of these things is not like the others...), it sounds like they wound up in the kind of argument that can only be born of gross over consumption of all manner of wine and spirits by people who could easily swing from laughing drunks to crying drunks to nasty drunks to fighting drunks.
My mother's explanation is that they had to get out of there pronto. (Mrs. Lush in reality probably told them to scram and flung a half empty bottle of Southern Comfort end-over-end at the backs of their retreating heads.) They grabbed their Vera Bradleys and vamoosed. But not to the safety of Charlotte's home, and certainly not to mine. To some other friends, the Snoots. So upset and scorched by indecency are they (the Lushes, according to my mother, had a wildly inappropriate conversation in their company...as if my mother would recognize propriety if it ever bit her on the ass...and that's how the chaos began) that they have taken refuge at the home of their other second tier friends, and will remain there licking their wounds and probably smothering them with Crown Royal.
So no Mom after all. No call to say Merry Christmas and we're so sorry we can't join you. Just more nothing.
As it should be, I suppose.
And my holiday party went on quite merrily. And my children transitioned from party to Mass to lair without incident, so joyous was the day. And upon my return home, I reflected on the day, what was and what might have been, and was in a truly peaceful place when Scott came to my door bearing lovely unexpected gifts.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Moscow Rule 9 - Pick the Time and Place for Action
The time and place for action was any other time but the present and any other place than on the phone.
I know from decades of experience that Mom can be counted on for very little, except for drama and a lot of yelling. Keeping a plan, not so much. As unpredictable as a summer storm, Mom can move in a thousand directions at top speed, and is as hard to follow as a cockroach when the lights have just some on.
The planner in me wants to get it all ironed out in advance. Tell Mom - OK, tell Charlotte since Mom and I aren't exactly speaking (I repeat, this is so stupid) - that Mom is of course (Duh!) welcome in my home at Christmas. With bells on! But that I am going to wind down the evening at 6 pm when I take my children, and anyone who wants to grab a Road Coke and go, to Mass at Our Lady of Condemnation for Christmas Eve Mass before depositing them tearfully at their father's for what remains of the holiday double header. And then, I will return home, run a comb through my hair, gargle with something minty, reapply lipstick, spritz with perfume and do any other szhszhing that needs to be done (Thank you Carson, for the most excellent word!) and await the arrival of my Christmas present to me, Scott.
So Mom needs to be in her vehicle, Road Coke and all, and en route to the Lushes before Scott darkens my door, and not padding around my house in her Ooomphies and flannels remarking about all the decor that has changed since the last visit, pouring wine and popping in the family videos.
But that is ill advised. A planner and a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pantser are always at odds with how to handle anything more than 10 seconds in the future.
Chances are, Mom will change her plans, or even has changed her plans without notification to Charlotte, 3 or 4 times since their last confab. I could go and make sure that everyone's expectations about Christmas Eve are calibrated correctly (and with sensitivity and respect) and inadvertently create a shit storm of rants about my selfishness and self absorption completely unnecessarily.
So for now, I will do nothing.
Nothing except keep my ear to the ground, await intel from Charlotte, and keep my fingers crossed.
I know from decades of experience that Mom can be counted on for very little, except for drama and a lot of yelling. Keeping a plan, not so much. As unpredictable as a summer storm, Mom can move in a thousand directions at top speed, and is as hard to follow as a cockroach when the lights have just some on.
The planner in me wants to get it all ironed out in advance. Tell Mom - OK, tell Charlotte since Mom and I aren't exactly speaking (I repeat, this is so stupid) - that Mom is of course (Duh!) welcome in my home at Christmas. With bells on! But that I am going to wind down the evening at 6 pm when I take my children, and anyone who wants to grab a Road Coke and go, to Mass at Our Lady of Condemnation for Christmas Eve Mass before depositing them tearfully at their father's for what remains of the holiday double header. And then, I will return home, run a comb through my hair, gargle with something minty, reapply lipstick, spritz with perfume and do any other szhszhing that needs to be done (Thank you Carson, for the most excellent word!) and await the arrival of my Christmas present to me, Scott.
So Mom needs to be in her vehicle, Road Coke and all, and en route to the Lushes before Scott darkens my door, and not padding around my house in her Ooomphies and flannels remarking about all the decor that has changed since the last visit, pouring wine and popping in the family videos.
But that is ill advised. A planner and a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pantser are always at odds with how to handle anything more than 10 seconds in the future.
Chances are, Mom will change her plans, or even has changed her plans without notification to Charlotte, 3 or 4 times since their last confab. I could go and make sure that everyone's expectations about Christmas Eve are calibrated correctly (and with sensitivity and respect) and inadvertently create a shit storm of rants about my selfishness and self absorption completely unnecessarily.
So for now, I will do nothing.
Nothing except keep my ear to the ground, await intel from Charlotte, and keep my fingers crossed.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Moscow Rule 8 - Don't Harass the Opposition
What is so odd about Mom’s change of heart is that she asks Charlotte if it would be okay to come to my house at Christmas.
Who needs the Big Girl Panties now?
So far as Mom knows, I know nothing of her lunatic rantings about the horrible person I’ve always been to all manner of audiences. I am sure Joe didn’t call her and sarcastically thank her for dragging him into it and thereby leaving him without a resume writing source.
Our last genuine interaction was weeks ago. She left a message and then I wrote a letter. My letter clearly stated that she was welcome at my house. As far as she would know, nothing has changed, except if she is genuinely giving some thought to the fact that she may have really dug her own grave this time.
A girl can hope.
Maybe things will all turn out just ducky?
What if they turn out too ducky?
What if I tell Charlotte to tell Mom (this is really so stupid…) that of course she is welcome at Christmas. Duh, Mom and Bill have always been welcome.
And what if she comes and has a great time and enjoys everyone’s company and manages to keep her trap shut on the subject of politics and between the wine and the song feels so warm and fuzzy that she offers to uphold the original plan and spend Christmas Eve and Christmas morning holding my hand while I boo hoo hoo through the holiday?
I HAVE A DATE!
So if Mom has her Grinch/Whoville transformation and makes the suggestion, what do I do?
Tell her thanks but no thanks? I am sure that will put her feet right back on the Road to Perdition and begin a bench-clearing brawl the neighbors will talk about for years to come.
But I don’t want to cancel Scott. It’s his Christmas, too.
This is my fork in the road.
Who needs the Big Girl Panties now?
So far as Mom knows, I know nothing of her lunatic rantings about the horrible person I’ve always been to all manner of audiences. I am sure Joe didn’t call her and sarcastically thank her for dragging him into it and thereby leaving him without a resume writing source.
Our last genuine interaction was weeks ago. She left a message and then I wrote a letter. My letter clearly stated that she was welcome at my house. As far as she would know, nothing has changed, except if she is genuinely giving some thought to the fact that she may have really dug her own grave this time.
A girl can hope.
Maybe things will all turn out just ducky?
What if they turn out too ducky?
What if I tell Charlotte to tell Mom (this is really so stupid…) that of course she is welcome at Christmas. Duh, Mom and Bill have always been welcome.
And what if she comes and has a great time and enjoys everyone’s company and manages to keep her trap shut on the subject of politics and between the wine and the song feels so warm and fuzzy that she offers to uphold the original plan and spend Christmas Eve and Christmas morning holding my hand while I boo hoo hoo through the holiday?
I HAVE A DATE!
So if Mom has her Grinch/Whoville transformation and makes the suggestion, what do I do?
Tell her thanks but no thanks? I am sure that will put her feet right back on the Road to Perdition and begin a bench-clearing brawl the neighbors will talk about for years to come.
But I don’t want to cancel Scott. It’s his Christmas, too.
This is my fork in the road.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Moscow Rule 7 - Lull Them Into A Sense of Complacency
Now I really had my plate full:
Lots of gifts yet to wrap.
A couple little items yet to buy for Scott.
An open house to shop and prepare food for.
My house to finish decorating and to clean for goodness sake.
An outfit to select. It will take some doing to find something that transitions from Christmas party to church to date without much stepping into a nearby phonebooth.
And Mom.
So about her change of heart, however small. (The change, not the heart.) She mentioned to Charlotte that she'd like to come to my house at some point in her visit.
I assume it is not due to any big transformation a la the Grinch and the citizens of Whoville. I assume it is simply to continue to conceal the rift from Bill or to see my children. Or some combination of the two obligations.
By now, enough distance and time passed can allow for the objectivity I would have loved to have had a few weeks ago when all of this began.
I am in a great place now. I have a great holiday planned for the kiddos. I have a sweet, attentive, adorable new Someone in my life. I am feeling good about holding my ground. Of course Mom can come.
And of course I will escort her to the door on her tippy toes if she so much as attempts to continue the battle in my home. Or brings my brother with her. Or stirs up any other manner of crap by waving her broomstick around.
Don't think it can't happen. It can.
I can see how it would all unfold.
I am happy as a clam that my kids have had a lovely Christmas morning complete with piles of gifts and ooey gooey cinnamon buns.
My table is set and the food is scrumptious.
My guests begin to arrive and the music is festive and the cocktails are flowing - even at lunch time.
We are all laughing and mistletoeing and fa la la la laing .
Mom arrives. Hugs and kisses and gifts all around.
More wine and spirits.
Mom makes an off color political joke no one finds funny and nearly everyone is offended by.
Charlotte politely mentions to her that Christmas is not the time to discuss healthcare reform OR the NRA.
Mom lashes out indiscriminately and has everyone scrambling to find their coats so they can leave before the fur really begins to fly.
In my head I can visualize this happening.
But somehow, I am not at all daunted.
Lots of gifts yet to wrap.
A couple little items yet to buy for Scott.
An open house to shop and prepare food for.
My house to finish decorating and to clean for goodness sake.
An outfit to select. It will take some doing to find something that transitions from Christmas party to church to date without much stepping into a nearby phonebooth.
And Mom.
So about her change of heart, however small. (The change, not the heart.) She mentioned to Charlotte that she'd like to come to my house at some point in her visit.
I assume it is not due to any big transformation a la the Grinch and the citizens of Whoville. I assume it is simply to continue to conceal the rift from Bill or to see my children. Or some combination of the two obligations.
By now, enough distance and time passed can allow for the objectivity I would have loved to have had a few weeks ago when all of this began.
I am in a great place now. I have a great holiday planned for the kiddos. I have a sweet, attentive, adorable new Someone in my life. I am feeling good about holding my ground. Of course Mom can come.
And of course I will escort her to the door on her tippy toes if she so much as attempts to continue the battle in my home. Or brings my brother with her. Or stirs up any other manner of crap by waving her broomstick around.
Don't think it can't happen. It can.
I can see how it would all unfold.
I am happy as a clam that my kids have had a lovely Christmas morning complete with piles of gifts and ooey gooey cinnamon buns.
My table is set and the food is scrumptious.
My guests begin to arrive and the music is festive and the cocktails are flowing - even at lunch time.
We are all laughing and mistletoeing and fa la la la laing .
Mom arrives. Hugs and kisses and gifts all around.
More wine and spirits.
Mom makes an off color political joke no one finds funny and nearly everyone is offended by.
Charlotte politely mentions to her that Christmas is not the time to discuss healthcare reform OR the NRA.
Mom lashes out indiscriminately and has everyone scrambling to find their coats so they can leave before the fur really begins to fly.
In my head I can visualize this happening.
But somehow, I am not at all daunted.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Moscow Rule 6 - Vary Your Pattern and Stay Within Your Cover
So I had a distraction. A distraction that would minimize the importance of the horror show my mother was bent on making of the holidays.
And as it turns out, Mom was having an ever so slight, almost imperceptible change of heart.
Maybe I have Leona to thank for that. Perhaps I should send her a Christmas card.
So while I was enjoying the exhilarating, butterflies-in-my-stomach, giddy, squealing with delight newness of Scott, and all the hopeful anticipation and possibility that brings to one's life, Mom was taking a detour from the Road to Perdition and planning to, perhaps, make a brief stop in my life at the holidays.
I am not really sure how to feel about that.
We've already established that divorce changes everything. And while a lot of the changes are good, like the complete absence of the presence of the one person in the world who rankles you and leaves your nerve endings in shreds, there are some pretty significant losses. Christmas really takes a beating. It did for me as a child, and it did for me as a divorcee. The wholeness and peacefulness of it are dented and dinged and even though you somehow create something beautiful and memorable out of what remains and what you can add from a new life, it is not the same.
This year, like only one year since Lars finally fell through the booby hatch, I will spend Christmas Eve night alone and wake up on Christmas Day without my children. They will awaken that morning with Lars. Joy Noel.
The last time this happened, things with me and Mom were considerably better terms. For reasons that don't compute, she and Bill returned from the Lush's to my house, which was newly quiet from the kids' recent departure. Bill stumbled of to bed, Mom and I put on our PJs and poured some wine. We sat and looked at old family films and laughed at all the stories they made us remember.
This was the plan again this year - at least until my psychotic break and subsequent railing against my mother and the atrocities she has visited upon us for decades.
Make no mistake. I was fully aware that after all that transpired, I could not expect her to keep me company and hold my hand while I boo hoo hooed away the holiday without my beloved cherubs. It was an emotional risk I'd be willing to take. A change of plans that I could not avoid.
Charlotte suggested I join them overnight.
I thought about it. I know I am family and would be welcome for anything. I also want to respect that their family unit deserves to enjoy their traditions as well. I would put on my Big Girl Panties and drink alone.
Charlotte suggested that I join them for their annual pilgrimage to Aunt Paula's house in the afternoon of Christmas Day.
That I could do. Perfect. Someone else's family dysfunction to observe and roll eyes about.
And as it turns out, Scott has custody issues of his own. His ex-wife will have his girls on Christmas Eve too, and he will pick them up on Christmas morning. He'll be alone with his wine and a couple of pooches.
Not if I can help it.
I suggest we spend our lonely Christmas Eves being less lonely together.
And as odd as it sounds, before you know it, I had a date for Christmas Eve.
And as it turns out, Mom was having an ever so slight, almost imperceptible change of heart.
Maybe I have Leona to thank for that. Perhaps I should send her a Christmas card.
So while I was enjoying the exhilarating, butterflies-in-my-stomach, giddy, squealing with delight newness of Scott, and all the hopeful anticipation and possibility that brings to one's life, Mom was taking a detour from the Road to Perdition and planning to, perhaps, make a brief stop in my life at the holidays.
I am not really sure how to feel about that.
We've already established that divorce changes everything. And while a lot of the changes are good, like the complete absence of the presence of the one person in the world who rankles you and leaves your nerve endings in shreds, there are some pretty significant losses. Christmas really takes a beating. It did for me as a child, and it did for me as a divorcee. The wholeness and peacefulness of it are dented and dinged and even though you somehow create something beautiful and memorable out of what remains and what you can add from a new life, it is not the same.
This year, like only one year since Lars finally fell through the booby hatch, I will spend Christmas Eve night alone and wake up on Christmas Day without my children. They will awaken that morning with Lars. Joy Noel.
The last time this happened, things with me and Mom were considerably better terms. For reasons that don't compute, she and Bill returned from the Lush's to my house, which was newly quiet from the kids' recent departure. Bill stumbled of to bed, Mom and I put on our PJs and poured some wine. We sat and looked at old family films and laughed at all the stories they made us remember.
This was the plan again this year - at least until my psychotic break and subsequent railing against my mother and the atrocities she has visited upon us for decades.
Make no mistake. I was fully aware that after all that transpired, I could not expect her to keep me company and hold my hand while I boo hoo hooed away the holiday without my beloved cherubs. It was an emotional risk I'd be willing to take. A change of plans that I could not avoid.
Charlotte suggested I join them overnight.
I thought about it. I know I am family and would be welcome for anything. I also want to respect that their family unit deserves to enjoy their traditions as well. I would put on my Big Girl Panties and drink alone.
Charlotte suggested that I join them for their annual pilgrimage to Aunt Paula's house in the afternoon of Christmas Day.
That I could do. Perfect. Someone else's family dysfunction to observe and roll eyes about.
And as it turns out, Scott has custody issues of his own. His ex-wife will have his girls on Christmas Eve too, and he will pick them up on Christmas morning. He'll be alone with his wine and a couple of pooches.
Not if I can help it.
I suggest we spend our lonely Christmas Eves being less lonely together.
And as odd as it sounds, before you know it, I had a date for Christmas Eve.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Moscow Rule 5 - Go With the Flow, Blend In
Charlotte goes with the flow. I go with the flow. We are all flowing.
No one is rattling anyone else’s cages. At least not noticeably.
Mom has widened the path of destruction to include people from other states. She’s infiltrated the Sunshine State to complain to her friend Leona about me. Leona has known me since childhood, and frankly, the last time Mom and I saw Leona, Leona looked at me a few times like “Aren’t you going to throw a bag over her head and race on over to the local Looney Bin? This woman has clearly lost her grasp on reality!” So Leona, who is pretty level headed and open minded, and not about to be loyal to anyone for loyalty’s sake, is not a threat to me. It is just a little sad that Mom has gone to such great lengths to rally troops for her cause.
I have begun to care less and less.
I have a fabulous new Someone.
The fabulous date from days before? Him!
OK – maybe it isn’t entirely truthful to say he’s new. He’s new again. The truth is I went to High School with him.
Before you roll your eyes, and I know that you are, I am well aware of the fact that I am supposed to be meeting NEW people. As in shiny, unbeknownst-to-me-prior-to-this-day people. I get that. If I keep repeating the same dates I will doom myself to repeating the same mistakes.
J. was someone I new from childhood. And while that was largely a lovely experience, it was eventually doomed to failure. Poof. Up in smoke. Flamed out.
And Casey was someone I met in Junior High School. Had potential from the start. But since it was clear that he was still the adolescent I’d known in 7th grade, and sealed the deal with breath that could shatter glass, that blew up in no time. Boom. Gas Bomb. Incinerated my face off.
Third time’s a charm?
Scott was The Guy in High School. Adorable. Different. Not a jerk. Dated lots of people. Offended no one. OK, it's a good bet that the people he unceremoniously dumped were offended at first, I am sure. I know. I was one. Maybe it’s unfair to say it was unceremonious. I am not sure 5 or 6 dates requires much ceremony. Anyway, he did what any 17 year old with women throwing themselves at him should do. He tried a lot on for size.
He tried me on twice. Once in the beginning of my sophomore year when I had the good fortune to be in the drill team formation which lined up on the field just behind the trumpet line he was in. I got to stare at Scott’s rear view for a good 20 yards at the beginning of every halftime show. He was handsome. Handsome enough that I could ignore the dorky spats and Royal Order of Buffalos Grand Poobah hat. He smiled a lot. He was funny. He was cool in a way that was neither too Star Athlete Snobby nor too Burnout Troublemaker Morose. He had a cool car.
And he liked me.
And as soon as that cat was out of the proverbial bag, women of all shapes and sizes flocked to my side to be my friend because I momentarily had his attention. It was daunting. I was in over my head. I liked him a lot but was panicked about how in the world I would ever keep him with all the high drama. Put him in a pumpkin shell? When he moved on to the next girl I was heartbroken in my 15 year old way, but in some ways relieved. I was not equipped for a social crisis. I could barely dress myself.
We'd become friends and we stayed friends.
We had a few more dates late in my sophomore year before he met another girl and took her to prom. Even then, my Sweet 16 self was still not equipped for the social crisis. The other girl had her hands full with all the other girls suddenly trying to be her friend just to occupy the same space with her boyfriend.
He's a good guy. We’d stay friends.
And we did. For a while. And then college and careers and other loves moved the friendship from the top of the priority list for both of us. He’d resurface in my life every so often. And I would resurface in his. At the beach. At a party. He was still special in a way that set him apart from other guys his age, but my life and his were spinning in different directions. Who knew what the other was thinking?
We each got married. We each had kids. We both lost track of one another. We both divorced. We both attempted to alternately rejuvenate and wreck our lives a few times. Decades flew by.
And then, Facebook happened. God bless Mark Zuckerberg and his penchant for making things that help people connect and share what’s important to them. This was his finest hour.
No one is rattling anyone else’s cages. At least not noticeably.
Mom has widened the path of destruction to include people from other states. She’s infiltrated the Sunshine State to complain to her friend Leona about me. Leona has known me since childhood, and frankly, the last time Mom and I saw Leona, Leona looked at me a few times like “Aren’t you going to throw a bag over her head and race on over to the local Looney Bin? This woman has clearly lost her grasp on reality!” So Leona, who is pretty level headed and open minded, and not about to be loyal to anyone for loyalty’s sake, is not a threat to me. It is just a little sad that Mom has gone to such great lengths to rally troops for her cause.
I have begun to care less and less.
I have a fabulous new Someone.
The fabulous date from days before? Him!
OK – maybe it isn’t entirely truthful to say he’s new. He’s new again. The truth is I went to High School with him.
Before you roll your eyes, and I know that you are, I am well aware of the fact that I am supposed to be meeting NEW people. As in shiny, unbeknownst-to-me-prior-to-this-day people. I get that. If I keep repeating the same dates I will doom myself to repeating the same mistakes.
J. was someone I new from childhood. And while that was largely a lovely experience, it was eventually doomed to failure. Poof. Up in smoke. Flamed out.
And Casey was someone I met in Junior High School. Had potential from the start. But since it was clear that he was still the adolescent I’d known in 7th grade, and sealed the deal with breath that could shatter glass, that blew up in no time. Boom. Gas Bomb. Incinerated my face off.
Third time’s a charm?
Scott was The Guy in High School. Adorable. Different. Not a jerk. Dated lots of people. Offended no one. OK, it's a good bet that the people he unceremoniously dumped were offended at first, I am sure. I know. I was one. Maybe it’s unfair to say it was unceremonious. I am not sure 5 or 6 dates requires much ceremony. Anyway, he did what any 17 year old with women throwing themselves at him should do. He tried a lot on for size.
He tried me on twice. Once in the beginning of my sophomore year when I had the good fortune to be in the drill team formation which lined up on the field just behind the trumpet line he was in. I got to stare at Scott’s rear view for a good 20 yards at the beginning of every halftime show. He was handsome. Handsome enough that I could ignore the dorky spats and Royal Order of Buffalos Grand Poobah hat. He smiled a lot. He was funny. He was cool in a way that was neither too Star Athlete Snobby nor too Burnout Troublemaker Morose. He had a cool car.
And he liked me.
And as soon as that cat was out of the proverbial bag, women of all shapes and sizes flocked to my side to be my friend because I momentarily had his attention. It was daunting. I was in over my head. I liked him a lot but was panicked about how in the world I would ever keep him with all the high drama. Put him in a pumpkin shell? When he moved on to the next girl I was heartbroken in my 15 year old way, but in some ways relieved. I was not equipped for a social crisis. I could barely dress myself.
We'd become friends and we stayed friends.
We had a few more dates late in my sophomore year before he met another girl and took her to prom. Even then, my Sweet 16 self was still not equipped for the social crisis. The other girl had her hands full with all the other girls suddenly trying to be her friend just to occupy the same space with her boyfriend.
He's a good guy. We’d stay friends.
And we did. For a while. And then college and careers and other loves moved the friendship from the top of the priority list for both of us. He’d resurface in my life every so often. And I would resurface in his. At the beach. At a party. He was still special in a way that set him apart from other guys his age, but my life and his were spinning in different directions. Who knew what the other was thinking?
We each got married. We each had kids. We both lost track of one another. We both divorced. We both attempted to alternately rejuvenate and wreck our lives a few times. Decades flew by.
And then, Facebook happened. God bless Mark Zuckerberg and his penchant for making things that help people connect and share what’s important to them. This was his finest hour.
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