You Say Tomayto, I Say Tomahto

The list goes on. I am not encouraged. I have a feeling I am on my own here.

The next term on the list is “Follower.”

What?

Why not Groupie? Fan Club Member? Disciple?

Or are we tweeting?

Please.

Friend – A good start but let’s not confuse matters. I have friends (AND YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!) who I would never date. Not even under duress.

Intimate – Is he an undergarment? The definition reads that it is someone with whom you are intimate, and part B, characterized by sexual relations. Why not just say that this is the guy you are sleeping naked with? You’d sound less ridiculous, and it is no less revealing.

Paramour – A little formal, but depending on the setting would be okay if its most common use were not “the lover of a married person.” If you want to really lay it all out there I suppose that is your business, but I am thinking “TMI.”

Partner – Tennis anyone? Is this my doubles partner? My partner in the 3-legged race? It sounds arranged. And sterile.

Soul mate – a little too hippy-dippy for my taste. Maybe we’ll have a love child together and name him Moonbeam and sing Joan Baez songs in the commune together. Peace, brother.

Steady – Sure, Fonz.

Suitor – By definition, one who courts or woos a woman. So far, not too offbase. But part B is “petitioner.” Sounds like one of us is trying too hard. See Admirer. Get enough signatures and I might let you be my boyfriend.

Swain – Aside from the fact that no one would know what the hell you were talking about if you introduced your boyfriend as your swain, it is a term for “male lover” that also is used to refer to a male servant. I am not saying that there isn’t any overlap there, folks, but who introduces someone like that and gets another date?

Sweetheart – A little girlish…what about Sweet Babboo? Or Wooby? And besides, what if he’s not sweet? What if what you like about him is that he is not sweet? What if you like him because he is dark and brooding and mysterious like that kid in the vampire movies?

Young man – My Young Man as opposed to My Old Man? Really? And I think we’ve been over this…we are not that young…which is the reason boyfriend sounds so ridiculous.

Time to put on my thinking cap. I have a word to invent. I may need to rally the girls for a night of cocktails.

Worn Out Phrases and Longing Gazes

I think we have established that I have a love affair with words.

I am always so pleased to find just the right obscure, white elephant word that conveys just the right meaning. Exactly the right spin. Where the accompanying facial expression can be visualized. For instance, to dislike something is a mundane thing. To loathe something comes with a grimace and a curled lip.

Could it be that the English language has the perfect word, and I am just incognizant of it? (Visual: Me clutching the pearls in abject horror, mouth agape, brow furrowed. Charlotte has seen it a thousand times.)

This is the kind of thing that keeps me awake at night. Really.

So to lay to rest the notion that the perfect word could be waiting out there for me to take notice and relieve the guilt of perhaps having left a stone unturned, I take to my Word of the Day Application on my Smartphone. It is my grown up wordsmith version of crack.

I carefully type in the word “boyfriend.” Place my thumb on the thesaurus key. And without a second’s hesitation it spews forth a laundry list of suggested replacement words. Some familiar, some not so much. And here they are:

Admirer – I should hope so! But doesn’t that sound a little one sided? My admirer. As in he likes me, but my jury is still in deliberations.

Beau – Not totally offensive in the scheme of things. It means “frequent or attentive male companion.” It also means “fop, or dandy.” I can say with the utmost certainty that if you are a fop and you pay more attention to your hair than I do, you will most definitely not be my boyfriend.

Companion – It sounds like something an old person has. It also can mean someone who is paid to assist. Images of Lassie come to mind. And I don’t want anyone thinking my mother pays Scott to hold my hand and make sure I get home in one piece.

Confidant – “Someone with whom secrets are shared and discussed.” No, that would be my therapist, and we most definitely are not dating.

Date – This word doesn’t feel right to me. It seems bound to an event. Your boyfriend can be your date, and your date can be your boyfriend, but the words are not interchangeable.

Escort – No. It suggests that one is paid. Or armed. And not there on his own terms. Next!

Fiance – Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Most boyfriends, if introduced as one’s fiancé would leave skid marks exiting the party.

Flame – “an object of one’s passionate love.” I don’t see it. “Hi, Grandpa. I’d like to introduce you to my flame, Scott.” Grandpa would suggest that you might both be committed.

I am not even half way through the conveniently alphabetized list and I am already very discouraged.

Words Of Love

I am on a mission.

I need to find a word. Or make one up. Or spatchcock a few meaningful syllables together to convey just the right meaning.

I need to replace the word “boyfriend.”

Don’t panic. I don’t want it removed from the lexicon altogether. Merriam and Webster can stop breathing into paper bags. I think it is perfectly appropriate for example, for Scott’s seventeen-year-old daughter to have a boyfriend.

It’s just that calling Scott my boyfriend makes me feel girlishly simple and coquettish.

I need a new word. I have a friend who passed along a new word of sheer brilliance. I was calling Lars my ex-husband. My ex. My first husband. My former husband. The kids’ father (and a few things not so acceptable to say in polite company…) The word I use now is “wasband.” As in “He was my husband.” Perfect. No one misunderstands and it does not completely giveaway all the acrimony. All it says is that he was my husband and is not now and I am not exactly crying about it, so let’s leave it at that, shall we?

It’s the first word of its kind that I’ve liked. Most words say too much. Too much about your business, your intentions. Even if you are very proud and quite excited about them. Who you are to another person is a relatively private matter in most cases. Does the car dealer need to know that person is going to be your spouse? Can’t he just be the guy who is helping you with all the red tape because he can?

I remember having to remind myself to call Lars my fiancé. I didn’t care for the word at all. We had wedding plans and I wore a diamond on my left hand…shouldn’t those clues and the way we treated each other be enough? Couldn’t I have just introduced him as “This is Lars?” and skip the labels?

Maybe that had more to do with Lars than labels. Who knows.

I remember my company president at an old job finding the love of his life, finally. He was a great guy and clearly in love. He’d had a few wives but he’d found himself a keeper. The real deal. He called her his “squeeze.” Cheeky, Chief. Very cheeky. Couldn’t we just use her first name? We’d probably piece the story together from the content and she’d still have a little dignity.

No disrespect to the guy, though. All the traditional words are all wrong. If not boyfriend or finace, what? Partner? Business partner? Same sex partner? Partner in the egg toss? You’d always end up explaining. And why?

Lover? Eeewww. Must everyone know you are sleeping together? Betrothed? No thank you, Your Highness.

Does “friend” do it? Aren’t we at least that? Who needs to know more?

Charlotte evidently committed the social crime of the decade last year when she’d bumped into J. while out with some folks. She’d introduce him as her “sister’s friend.”

Fightin’ words! J. expected to be described as someone with more clout. More social status. More inside track. A position of distinction.

Kiss my ass in Gimbel’s window! You are in a pretty distinct position now, aren’t you, J.?

So now, as I skid toward my 50s and so does Scott, I am, as I’ve said, on a mission. I need to find the word that says Scott is important. We belong to each other. We mean the world to one another and that’s all that matters. Whether we have plans to get married or not – we count, take precedence, have dibs. It’s no one’s business if we are sleeping together or what our future plans are. And darn it, we are old enough to have plans and keep them to ourselves if we want.

How can the English language lack such and important word?

I will take matters into my own hands. And onto my own lips.

Beer Goggles

There is a scene in the movie PS I Love You that defines the spirit of the couple in the story, one of whom has just been cremated.

It is the Fairytale of New York by the Pogues and it is a raucous irreverent song that even the priest joins in singing and turns the memorial scene into more of a rugby party.

That is the scene that Scott and I walked into that night - at a Pub called Murphy's and with an Irish vocalist who appeared to be the reason most of the patrons came calling.

We got a table near the stage with a great view of the crowd. It was the only one available at the time and we had no idea what good fortune it was until the singer took the stage.

The people watching was spectacular especially once the audience participation rugby songs began with all the drinking penalties and heckling.

There were exactly three brides-to-be celebrating last hurrahs with girl friends. Each one was fatter and sloppier than the bride preceding her. Each showed too much thigh, too much cleavage, and too much bra strap for my taste - and I have to say I have pretty liberal sensibilities about these things, especially when it comes to young people. I just think that bachelorette parties are more to go out and have a few laughs with your best girlfriends before your priorities shift forever more. Not to rock your inner ho-bag and parade around like a trollop with your forbidden fruit on display. And getting staggering drunk and potty-mouthed in the process. Just sayin'.

There was a fascinating Kardashian Wannabe (They must be selling Kardashian wigs now). This girl had the whole ensemble: Wig, fake eyelashes, over dressed for the venue with a black belted dress with her cleavage spilling out and sky-high heels when Levis, a Flogging Mollys T and a pair of Chucks would have been more the order of the day). And she had an overly assertive over-the-top personality to validate my general sense of wariness about her. She arrived alone and quickly glommed on to lots of little groups and infiltrated them, so long as there was a guy to flirt with and bat her eyes at. I secretly suspected that she was a pickpocket.

There was a pitiful drunk at the next table who could just not get the clapping thing down, couldn't figure out how to stay in sync with the other audience participants, but gamely played along when he wasn't busy picking his nose.

And speaking of picking -----

I am the first to admit that I have picked a bathing suit, a pair of panties or even a whole leg of my shorts out of my ass a time or two in my life. But I will follow that admission with a footnote that every time it was done in private, with discretion, and sometimes without the use of my hands (placing one's hand in one's back pocket and timing an artful stride will do the trick in some cases without having to duck into a phone booth) In any event, it is never going to be caught on tape and become a YouTube sensation.

The most flagrant Party Foul of the night came from an oaf who was so plastered, so completely unaware, that when faced with the fact that his high-waisted jeans had indeed become wedged a good way up between his considerable butt cheeks, stood in the middle of the bar, in a clearing by the stage, bent his leg and lifted it off the ground and did a full-fisted wrenching free of the shorts from his ass crack in full view of 100s of pairs of leering eyes.

Bar tender, I'll have another Guinness!

People Are People

The ride from the Mall to the hotel puts us in an even better mood. People can be so funny.

The couple sitting across from us was evidently expecting a baby. From the absence of other baby gear and an actual live child, I guessed this would be their first. From the looks of things she was about 6 months into the game.

And had waived the white flag. Given up on anything not expressly required by law to be done before going out into public. Hair in a sloppy knot on top of her head. Not a crumb of makeup (which made her “woe is me” grimace that much more appealing.) Hubby’s college fraternity sweatshirt. Oversized sweatpants (assumed to also belong to hubby). Bedroom slippers.

And hubby had taken this opportunity to relax his mojo as well. Attire from the same collection. Instead of hair in a knot, he was sporting a two day beard and a couple of stains.

I looked around half expecting the fashion police to be surrounding the car with weapons drawn. I can only imagine the depths they’ll reach by Junior’s full gestational maturity. Ain’t gonna be pretty.

We schlepped through the rain sharing an umbrella that strained not to invert. We were soaked to our knees and laughing our heads off and decided to stop for a drink and a few minutes of playoff hockey at the hotel bar. Maybe stay long enough to enjoy the Maitre D’s Happy Hour.

This may just be my opinion, but if you are in a position where your guests’ satisfaction depends almost entirely on your ability to understand and respond to their requests, you should have a fairly decent grasp on the language most of them are anticipated to communicate in.

Whoever hired the bar tender must feel otherwise.

When Scott and I sat down we were approached by Janet who placed cocktail napkins in front of us in anticipation of our bar order.

Which she evidently had enormous difficulty interpreting.

Scott ordered a “strong Tanqueray and tonic.” Not complicated. Janet looked at us quizzically.

Scott clarified. Double the gin, half the tonic.

A tentative nod. I was not inspired to be confident that Janet would whip up a drink where Scott could a) smell the juniper berries from an arm’s length or b) expect to have his nose hairs burned off with the first sip.

I was right to doubt.

Scott’s drink was watery. My chardonnay was warm enough to poach an egg.

Janet couldn’t find the hockey game. She refused to part with the clicker so we could.

The bill was $20.

We listened to her talk some other hockey fan patrons out of ordering the hummus (“People don’t like it enough to finish it.” What???) and into ordering the Blue Cheese Chips at a few dollars more.

We decided we’d try our luck at the Happy Hour. Declined a second round.

She protested claiming that the hotel “serves only bottom shelf drinks at Happy Hour.” How nice of her to give her employer such a ringing endorsement.

We’d take our chances. The $10 drinks were nearing the “unfit for human consumption” range. And besides we had plans for the night.

People...People Who Need People

We check into the hotel. Uneventful.

We park the car. We schlep our stuff into the hotel room. We get coffee. We head to the Metro.

Good grief. Idiots on parade.

Who gets to the bottom of a mile long escalator and just stops to get their bearings while countless people young and old with varying degrees of agility and sometimes using walkers or pushing strollers run into each other in some kind of cartoonish pile up not unlike a playground game called Squeeze the Lemon?

It is the train platform, ladies and gentlemen! The train only goes one way! It stops. You get on. There is not a lot to get a handle on.

Scott and I get on the next train and are headed for the National Museum for the History of Crime and Punishment. I can hardly wait. It is a fascinating place.

Medieval punishment - thumb screws, iron masks. Yikes.

Bonnie and Clyde. A lovely, however grisly, love story. Though the real Clyde looked nothing like Warren Beatty.

Unsolved crimes. It's astonishing how much better at this criminals have gotten since the hamhanded ways of the the mob have proven not to be very effective.

We sit down and are immediately struck by the antics of a family nearby. The matriarch had the most enormous pair of front teeth I have ever seen protruding from a human head. Made more noticeable by the fact that the two that are supposed to be on either side of them were long gone. And the fact that she had a nervous tick where she made a repetitious gnawing gesture that reminded me of Charlotte’s gerbil Daisy from when we were kids.

An the guy at the pub that I noticed while I was obediently following the very informative signs which read “This way to the Toilets.” He had on a regular T-shirt. Athletic shoes. Had a camera around his neck .

Was wearing a kilt.

Not other kilt-wearers milling about.

No telltale bagpipes.

I wondered if he was just a regular guy having some curiosity about cross dressing and was giving it a test drive.


Or the man who approached the Security line at the Old Post Office (it is DC – all your bags have to be checked and metal detectors make sure that gun-toting, belt-wearing, jewelry-laden folks are all appropriately detained).

When seeing the line of us fifteen deep seeking entrance and waiting to be called in in groups of 5, he walked up to the heavy wooden door, pushed it open and walked right in.

Only to be shouted at by the scanning, metal-detecting, bag-searching people whose idea it was to keep the door shut in the first place. They were mighty upset.

Did he think we were all waiting there secretly chanting “Open sesame?” Did he really think we’d all missed the clues? “Oh Right! I can open the door myself! Duh!”

But they all paled in comparison to the high comedy that was the lively little pub we patronized later that night.

I'm Late! I'm Late! For A Very Important Date!

A Dinner Afare was fabulous. Gourmet kitchen – simple instructions, lots of anticipation. The meals I’d selected were sure to please the kids and were interesting enough to break up what had become our routine.

The thing I liked best was that I’d get to try some new dishes with some pretty obscure ingredients without having to invest in an entire tub of Chinese Plums for the roast or without having to scramble to make the tuna steak recipe before my fresh cilantro became not so fresh.

And the wine and the company were of course quite good also.

I rave to Scott all about it that night on the phone when I get home, and although I was dying to make him one of my fancy new meals, he insisted that he keep his promise and drive 90 miles toward the setting sun to walk to our pub holding my hand, and enjoy dinner together.

We order beers. (I’ve had enough wine this week, thank you.)

We order our favorites.

Our waitress remembers us and calls us “lovebirds.”

My phone begins to buzz.

Once I’ve returned from the loo where I’ve done a juggling act trying to remove and rinse and stow my Invisalign plates with out anything touching anything in the public domain (eeeewww!) I open my purse to read a text from Charlotte.

“You are coming to CAbi, aren’t you?”

Of course. Has she gone mad?

I text back. “Yes, of course.”

And then “Can’t wait!”

Scott and I hold hands across the table and wait for our food. I can hear my phone buzzing.
I am reminded of J. and his incessant phone nagging and refuse to acknowledge. Scott drove 90 miles after work. I owe him the benefit of my full attention.

He leaves to go to the men’s room eventually and I peek at my phone.

Charlotte.

When?

“After work. Was my earlier message not clear?” I was baffled. I’d told her I’d be changing at work and coming to her house immediately after work tomorrow to help her set up. Have a warm up drink. And in the mean time, seeing Scott for dinner tonight.

And then I am alarmed.

I text again. “It is tomorrow isn’t it?”

She replies. “It’s right now!”

And then, “I just read your earlier text…”

Uh-oh.

Dinner has just arrived. And I am supposed to be at Charlotte’s.

I explain to Scott as my phone continues to heat up the interior of my purse that I have made a grave mistake. He says I should go. I hate to leave him for even a minute. He’s been in the car for hours. I am torn.

We're eating. I am fretting. Kate’s calling. Joy’s calling. Then Charlotte texts.

“Bring Scott. We have tons of food.”

I show it to him and like a sport, he pays the check and we head out to Charlotte’s while I text “Idiot sister and handsome boyfriend on the way.”

More wine and lots of shopping later, Scott has made fast friends with my two teenaged nephews while all the girls cluck about in various articles of clothing with tags attached and inspect each other’s choices. I’ve gotten a jumpstart on a Spring wardrobe and Scott has gotten a full report on my escapades from the boys’ point of view. They were not exactly kind about J.

And I don’t exactly care. I have the sweetest guy in the world holding my hand and forgiving me my space cadet planning SNAFU. All is right with the world.