Dry Spell

Craig and I flirt until it is time to go to sleep (again) and then again when our respective alarms go off in our respective states.  Long distance cyber dating at its weird, detached best.

And then the weirdest thing happens.

For the next 3, almost 4 days, I hear nothing from him. 

Nada. Not one single word.  The last text was dripping with desire and then followed by a seemingly endless stretch of desert.  Dry and lifeless.

And you know, me, the nerveen. I assume the worst.

He's lost interest.

He's died in a horrific accident and his identity still not determined.

He has been swept off his feet by a darling 20 year old with perkier boobs and no pesky work and family demands.

I am simply not the priority I thought I might be.

To make matters worse, work is a totally hellacious shit storm of emergencies, last minute deadlines, SNAFUs and political no-win situations. By Thursday, I ready for a little at-home spa time. I pour a shaker of martinis. I head to the bathroom with the hair dye in my free hand.

I draw a hot bubble bath. I dye my hair. I sink into the tub with some candles lit and nothing but the sound of my own breathing.

Until my phone starts dinging. 

I dry my hands on the towel on the floor and reach for the phone. I still have 20 minutes left on the hair dye and my serenity is destroyed.

By what?  By texts from my former friend, turned stalker, turned traitor, turned lunatic.  Asking why we're not friends. What did she do?  How can she learn from her mistake if she does not know what it was?

She knows exactly what it was. I've told her so. In plain, straight forward blisteringly truthful English. She would just like the blame to lie elsewhere. So she asks. You can practically hear the screaming.

And while I am trying to figure out what exactly it is I need to say to her, if anything, to dial down the crazy, I get a text from Craig.

He wants to get together Saturday night. Am I free?

Old Friends and New

A few pints later and I have forgotten all about the fact that I am in my running gear (including the shoes, which are never to be worn anywhere but to the athletic event itself) and not exactly dressed for pubbing (I'd have planned a way better outfit for this!)  especially on St. Pat's (not a thread of green, and nary a shamrock to be found anywhere on me.) But I have stopped caring, stopped feeling like I stick out like a sore thumb, and have really begun to enjoy myself.

To the point where I am not at all fazed when Jan and Ken have to leave to go to dinner with relatives and suggest I stay with relative strangers. They don't feel like strangers anymore.  In fact the place feels like everyone knows my name (and they may by that point, we've been there a while).  I decide to stay and join my new friends for dinner.

I text Craig. He would so love this whole arrangement. Impromptu shenanigans, making friends of total strangers, the mini Guinness's and the traditional Irish dinner complete with bagpipes.  And to think I nearly stayed at home and cleaned the toilet today.

Not long after dinner, I've decided I have had my fill of revelry and head for home. It is just starting to get dark. I've spent an entire day in a pub.  I get home and crack open a book I've just started reading. I am committed to forming better reading habits; I got so far away from reading when I was with Scott. We were always DOING something.  I hardly ever found time to read. I should never have let that happen, although I'll admit it was lots of fun at the time.

This is probably not the most ideal set of circumstances to read under. I am asleep in under 5 minutes.

And an hour later, I am awakened by my phone dinging its familiar ding that it dings when I have a text message.

Several of them it would seem.

First one from Craig. Flirting with me.  I flirt back immediately. Smiling like a lunatic.

One from Scott. He's hoping I got home okay. 

I am baffled that he knows what I've been up to.  How did he know I wasn't home cleaning my toilet?

And then the dim little light bulb in my head shines just a wee bit brighter.

I look at my Facebook posts.  One when I join Jan at the bar.  One when I snap a cool photo of a guy in a Guinness shirt hours later.

That's how he knows.

Not that we've become friends on Facebook again. No, that has not happened and won't. Unfriending someone is a final act of war. You don't get a do-over.  And Scott famously unfriended me and Hil and Pat and almost everyone we have in common the night I changed my status to "single."  I understood his reason for doing so. He was not about to watch me live my life on Facebook in the wake of our disaster.

But I am sure he remains curious.  How hard would it be to check his kids' accounts or even ask what I've been up to.

I am annoyed at the sneakiness but don't say anything. I very soberly answer.

And resume flirting with Craig. 

Pub Crawl

Gotta love the power of exercise and fresh air. I am nearly human by the time I am half way into the woods. Feeling like a million bucks by the time I emerge from the trails a little later. The spring air being moved and freshened by the fast-moving creek water. I take some beautiful pictures. Post them  to Facebook as soon as I get into my car. Primarily for Craig's benefit. He always mentions that he likes them (after of course "liking" them on Facebook first).

My cousin Jan, who was one of the fine people who came to my rescue when Scott walked out has been in a charity run that morning. She posts that she is headed to a pub near the park with her running mates.

I check my appearance in the rear view mirror. Hair smoothed into a high pony. Not a glamorous look, but reasonably cute considering I am dressed for athletics, not the Debutante Ball. I had made sure my face was presentable when I'd left. God only knows when I am going to bump into Bradley Cooper at a Boy Scout Jamboree in the park. A little swipe of tinted gloss will be all I need. I am wearing a killer running outfit. It might actually defy the fact that I don't run if I don't slurp down 75 beers and inflate to epic proportions. And why am I worried anyway? I am meeting people who have just run a 5K and are bound to look just like I do.

I text Jan and ask if she is still there. No answer. It's a 5 minute drive. I take my chances.

I park the car and scurry to the pub, hoping they have not left. The pub is rowdy, even at 11 am. Irish musicians and lots of Guinness flowing. I order a pint, and in walks my cuz, her man, Ken, and a whole host of running mates, who have all showered and look fabulous. So much for blending in in my gear.

But a pint or two later, it just doesn't matter. And I am engrossed in conversation and laughter with Jan about Craig and about Scott and the youngster from the bar the night before and how I never imagined there would be such sit-com quality craziness in my life.

Jan says something that I must have known but never really put into words. If not for the balls out rotten way in which Scott broke up with me, we'd probably be able to move past all of it. Until he went over the wall without so much as a suicide note, I would have said he was the world's nicest, most dependable, kindest, most decent human being I'd known. But that one act, that one singular thing, told me he was capable of doing the unthinkable to someone he loved. Or claimed to. The dirty dog.

I tell Jan that I have a hard time imagining him completely absent from my life, but can't exactly identify a place for him in it either. We agree that he and I will most likely go off in different directions, like we did when we were young, spend the next 30 years madly in love with someone else, and when we are about 80, and widowed, we'll bump into each other somewhere, and spend our twilight years holding hands and walking on the boardwalk.

But it is St. Patrick's Day and not a day for deep thought. The bartender has placed 12 highball glasses on a tray on the bar and is pouring mini Guinness's for a table of girls behind us. I snap a photo and send it to Craig. He'll understand the joke.

He does, and I am feeling the luck o' the Irish return to my heart.

Mind Erased

The next day the wrath of the Mind Eraser takes hold of my head and places it firmly in a vice. I get myself upright ever so briefly, but long enough to find the Aleve, pry the childproof lid off, and swallow a few too many with a teensy cup of water before gagging and putting myself back into a reclining position.

I check my phone.

Yes, I had sent a drunken text to Scott. And one to Craig. 

The one to Scott was tame.  The one to Craig was not.

I should never drink and text. Ever. My phone should be programmed to shut down when my blood-alcohol content reaches a certain threshold.

Ding!  I get a Happy St. Pat's message from Craig.  I return the sentiment with a similar one and note that there is not enough hair on any dog to cure what ails me today. There would be a lot of bald dogs in the neighborhood today.

He suggests a Western Omelet and a Gin and Tonic just the same. Can't hurt.

I tell him that I had planned on a Western Omelet, and that the Bombay is conveniently already out on the counter.  Really, all that is missing is the lime, but I don't have the dexterity to use a knife at the moment.

I rest my eyes and wonder where the cats are. I get a text. I smile knowing it is from Craig.

Nope. Scott. Damn my drunk texting.  I need to make some numbers harder to find.

He is very nice, wants to talk.  Something happened and he needs a friend. I take a deep breath and tell him it's okay to call.

And when the phone rings I realize it is the first time I've heard his live voice in ages.

We have a nice conversation -- well, as nice as it can be when one of you is morbidly hungover and the other of you has had something hideous and freakish happen to you   (But that is not my story to tell, so I won't. Scott may want to start his own blog, however...) We chat amiably though it is hard not to fall into the same habits of endearing names and such. I have to concentrate and it makes my head throb to think that hard. It is not a long conversation but it is a step toward actual normal friendship. Friends talk on the phone. 

But I get a text while we're talking and I know it is Craig. I mean, there is a possibility that it is Hil or Pat sending me a cute picture of their dog, but in all likelihood, it is Craig.

And I feel guilty. Like I am cheating in some way.

And I am not. Even in the remotest sense. But I am not sure Craig or any other man would understand me lying in bed having a very personal conversation with a man I'd once planned to marry and who everyone knew I was madly in love with not long ago. Especially while we are texting ourselves.

I am distracted as I get off the phone and immediately look at the text. It is from Craig. I feel worse now. So I cheerfully reply and mention that if I am ever upright long enough, I will go for my long walk in the State Park. He enjoys my check ins and pictures on FB.  And maybe THEN have the G&T.  He says I should probably abstain until after the threat of falling into the stream has passed. 

But still, I feel rotten about texting with one man and talking to another.  My God I sometimes have the sensibilities of a nun. 

I make the omelet and get my running gear on.  Not that I run, mind you. I walk. I just want to look good while I am running. 

And while my omelet is cooking. I erase the entire text conversation with Scott. Nothing on the record. Nothing to remind me. Nothing to make me wonder what in Hell I am doing with my life.

Let's Get This Party Started

At least the neighbor kid is an ally.

He's a decent kid, Jack, whose mother used to make him shovel my sidewalk. He's just a little shocked to be sharing a corner of the bar at the Pub with me.  And now that we've established that I am he lady who peeled off bills to pay him for clearing my walk while burping a gassy infant on my shoulder, he's appropriately respectful. Buys me a drink.

It is called a Mind Eraser.  Oh, to be in my 20s again.

The other kid, Logan, is trouble. He can't decide whether to choose the path of sending me his resume and pursuing employment or flirting with me and pursuing a one night stand.

I'll entertain the first idea.  A recruiter is always recruiting.

The second idea is just ridiculous.

Never. Gonna. Happen.

Not. That. Desperate.

Logan has been out for a cigarette (which would be a deal breaker even if he were my age, single, gorgeous and independently wealthy. Mama's not a fan.) but returns shortly after I've downed my Mind Eraser and bought a round of beers for Jack and me. Least I can do for the kid who took on 300 feet of sidewalk completely against his will because his mother made him.

He begins to flirt with me.

I tell him that he's just asked me for a job opportunity and he would be wise to treat the rest of our conversation like I am his potential employer. 

He decides to tell me that I am hot. A cougar.

Now I have heard everything. I tell him that he really needs to look around the bar for someone his own age.
He tells me he is 39 (which would still be too young) and asks the female bartender to corroborate his story.

She's my kind of girl. She tells him to get over himself and tells me he is 27. 

I try to put things in perspective for him.  I remind him that I was probably having a perfectly legal drink in this very pub he night his mother brought him home from the hospital in a diaper and onesy. 

But he is undeterred. Tells me that when he returns from the men's room, he's going to kiss me.

I tell him that that is how I'd know he's not my age. No one in their 40s would ever try to double up and get a date and a job out of the same pick up situation on a Saturday night in a bar.  A or B. Never all of the above.

He walks (staggers) in the general direction of the men's room and I look at Jack.

"That's my cue. Cover me." And with that, I walk out the door and head for home. There are girls in tight jeans and Mardi Gras beads dancing on the bar.  The crowd is lively, laughing. My hair still looks fabulous.
But I am cutting through the municipal parking lot to disappear into the shady dark neighborhood I live in.

I am asleep before Charlotte texts me asking if she should come to the pub. 

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

I walk the 4 blocks to the pub. I give myself a pep talk the entire time.  I will find friends. I will not be the 40-something loser standing alone at the bar for more than a minute. I will be welcomed into the warm embrace of friends or neighbors (or both!) in seconds. 

I walk in the door. I hate the way this bar is laid out.  When you walk through the door, everyone's back is to you. You feel like a first class loser.

I walk directly to the empty spot at the bar directly across from the door. It would normally be a little too close to the musicians, but tonight, praise The Lord, there aren't any and I need not venture all the way into the bar.  I order a beer. An IPA. The bartender is a young girl I have seen here before. Her bar partner is a guy who used to wait on me and Scott. He seems confused that I am alone. He needs to get over it. But all in all, it is a pretty comfortable scene.

I am immediately approached by a young man. He says he won a couple of free drinks and offers me a shot. I refuse for the moment. He offers me some Mardi Gras beads instead. Those I accept.

We start to talk. At least there is someone to talk to, even if he is wearing a two-foot tall hat designed to look like a pint of Guinness with the requisite Bishop's collar. 

He is clearly half my age. So I start a conversation about work. A safe, simple question asking what he does for a living.

He decides to tell me about how famous his parents are and why he's not working at the moment. Given the economy, I bet this conversation is not so different from countless others happening across the nation.

He asks me what I do for a living and I tell him. He is immediately gunning for a job. So, being in Talent Acquisition, I start to screen him like I would anyone else. Subtle, nonthreatening questions that tease out what a person is made of. He seems like he has the chops. At least I have someone to talk to while I wait for all those friends and neighbors to show up!

And then we are approached by his friend; a guy he went to prep school with. A guy who grew up across the street from me. 

"Mrs. Royal?"

I cringe. And then I explain. 

This is about to get very weird.

Wild Irish Rose

So I wait patiently and look for the signs that there is some Universal, On High, Grand Plan for my life. It would be so nice to see the signs up front rather than figuring it all out after the horse has left the barn. Or the man has left your life. 

And the signs are all very confusing. Stop. Go. One way. Forget it. Share the road.  Low flying plane. I have no idea what I am doing.

And I am getting bored again.

As the next weekend rounds the corner, Craig and I begin to chat about the possibility of seeing each other. Rollercoaster up!

Who would have thought that I would have the more predictable life?  I have the whack-job ex-husband. The unheard of custody schedule. The hellish work demands. The home and garden obligations that rival a labor camp. I can keep a lot of plates in the air. I just can't seem to find a way to work this plate into circulation. And when I can, it often flies off in another direction and sometimes smashes to smithereens. Rollercoaster down.

St. Patrick's day is coming. On a weekend to boot. I would love to show him the pubs in the neighborhood on the high holiday. All the traditions.  All the colorful locals. Wear the drinking gloves.

On Friday night, I am out with work friends celebrating someone's (long overdue) retirement when Craig texts something flirty and adorable.  I am so wildly attracted to him I ask him which one of us is getting into the car and driving in the other's direction. I can no longer even pretend to care that the retiree is leaving forever.

Craig admits to family obligations.  Wishes he could see me, but can't. 

I flirt a little and tell him he needs to find a way to escape soon.  I won't put my heart on ice for long.

He flirts back. It is almost enough.

Except that Saturday night comes and I am bored. And I am inside-out thinking that the High Holiday was passing me by and would not fall on a weekend for another 5 years. I'd be in my 50s. The thought gives me the vapors.

I text Charlotte. She tells me to get dressed and go to the Pub.  I think going alone is icky.

She reminds me that it is a neighborhood pub and statistically it is a given that I will know about 25% of the people in the bar.

I agree but still think it is icky.

She tells me she will join me there after the dinner gig she has been invited to.

I consider the idea. I am showered and looking fabulous. I have great jeans and a green shirt on. My hair is stunning. I can't fathom wasting this good a hair day on a rerun of Dirty Dancing. I will not put Baby in a corner.

Scott texts me. I don't remember the reason. But I tell him I am wigging about going out by myself. He tells me that he goes out by himself all the time (I bet). I say I tell him I never do. He says with a little notice he'd have joined me. I am not sure how I feel about that exactly, but it sounds a lot less lonely than what I am about to do. And it sounds a lot like something Charlotte would strangle me with her purse straps over.

But I put on a little perfume and walk out the door and put my feet on the road to perdition.