I have not posted to this blog all summer long, and I will excuse myself by saying: I've been busy. With work, as always. With good books, and even better movies, and girlfriends, and my Wheaton Terrier Co-Pilot, and even two surgeries, (a new experience for me, but there again, that's what life is about), the final of which is...well, Thursday.
Which I'm not terribly concerned over at this point, probably because I have just returned from the most amazing week of my life, at the most amazing destination of my life, and I felt compelled to post and quite simply say:
If life affords you the opportunity to spend even one minute, let alone an entire week, in St Thomas, US Virgin Islands, at the Sugar Bay Resort and Spa All Inclusive....do not blink, do not think....just go.
It was worth every moment of the 15 hours flight time, including layovers, even that dreadful, screaming baby filled flight out of SLC UT at one in the morning.
Most.
Beautiful.
Place.
Ever.
Undiscovered.
Private beach. Ocean view from the balcony of the most amazing room in the world.
I've been back for a week, and still can't get into stress mode, even after someone cut me off in traffic today and nearly caused me to not make my freeway entrance.
Yep, that's a vacation.
I can't wait for next year.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The Thus Far Non-Summer of 2011
I find it hard to believe that it's been this long since I posted on my own blog, but apparently, it has been. Therefore, even if I'd like to post something witty or interesting, I don't have either, and will have to suffice for just a quick catch up on what the heck it is that's been going on with me since December. After which, I'm assuming, I will at a minimum post once a week, if for no other reason than that the weekly writer's group demands it, and my 'chapter in progress's with which I have been obtaining a weekly out are no longer cutting it.
OK, when I left off, it was December.
December was great, nice holiday with my neighbor downstairs and her darling three year old who all too glady opened everything I had in the house. I realized, it's better than the present, really, to watch how much joy kids get out of opening presents.
2011 work wise picked up where 2010 left off. We're busy. Very busy. So busy, in fact, that we hired a 'mini us', a smaller version convention manager. I love her. Her name is Bailey, and she's twenty-five, very fun, very not Utah conservative. She was hired on at a time when we had an actual office for her to 'live' in, but since that time, we've relocated some salespeople, so her 'office' is right outside my office. The place where my assistant sat, back in the better economic days when things such as assistants existed. Suffice it to say, I am more than happy to mentor Bailey in the world of, 'take this ridiculous contract and make it actually work,' and be her refuge from the , "is everyone in this office a gossip??' world that she lives in, in the hallway. I told her Friday: If you need to make a phone call, use my office. I am always more than happy to step out, and let you have that most craved of all things in the work world: Privacy.
Homewise: It is still me and Basil, she being the Dog Who rules My World, without question. She's a bit older than I had originally imagined, and when this was recently confirmed by the vet, made me a bit sad. Basil and I have, you could say, maybe five, maybe seven more years together and I for one plan to live a whole lot longer than that. Which makes that entire topic something I really don't want to think about.
Technology: My computer finally died. Finally and completely. So I went without, for a month. Just to see if I really did miss the Internet, or not. To see if I really even wanted a home computer. The result? I bought an HP laptop. With a built in camera, and moe capabilities than my mind can wrap itself around. I love it. Yes, I did miss the Internet. I missed being able to reach out to one of my sisters in Berkeley, and get an immediate answer to a technology question.
Technology II: I installed a wireless router. Gosh. Now I can surf the net when I'm sitting in the tub. Great. So long as I don't drop the laptop in the tub. And truly, so long as I don't accidentally hit the camera button, because I wouldn't want to blind anyone on the receiving end.
Technology III: I have an IPOD Shuffle and I downloaded Itunes. Might seem simple enough for people who are actual technology savvy, but for me, it was completely amazing. Still can't believe I have 20 CDs on something smaller than my work name tag.
Just Do It I: Having realized that if I didn't make a trip home soon, my parents were going to come up here and visit me again like they did last spring, I booked a flight home next month, which is fine because it's a very short flight, the drive from Sacramento to their place seems easy enough, and I took advantage of a low rate and booked myself an overnight stay in Placerville at a historic hotel filled with antiques that I've wanted to stay in since I was a kid, but...
Just Do It II: ...I was only planning to take one trip this summer, and that one's already booked, too. I am beyond excited, even willing to overlook the red eye flight out of here into Atlanta, and the 12 hour total journey. Too worth it. Me, in an all inclusive resort in the Virgin Islands, for an entire week. I have already shopped for the entire wardrobe, and it will fit in a make up case :). Still. For the money, it was perfect. Everything included, right down to my sailboat, my snorkeling gear, and my room, food, and drinks. The three pools are bigger than the zip code I reside in, and there's miniature golf, too. Best yet? It's three thousand miles away from home and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to get emails while I'm there. OK, I'm taking grief at work. I don't know who started it, but someone said, 'It's just like How Stella Got her Groove Back,' so now the closer we get to the date I have to go to work and hear, 'Hey, Mad's getting her groove back,' but that's OK, too. Maybe I am. And maybe that's long overdue, too. I promise to take the laptop and take a lot of pictures.
Well, that's that. I think I'm up to date. Otherwise, not much more has changed. I still work too many hours to fall in love, and love to sleep in late on the weekends too much to get out there and meet someone. My dog still rules my world, and my cats still keep my dog sane. Not entirely exciting, but it's not a bad way to be, either.
OK, when I left off, it was December.
December was great, nice holiday with my neighbor downstairs and her darling three year old who all too glady opened everything I had in the house. I realized, it's better than the present, really, to watch how much joy kids get out of opening presents.
2011 work wise picked up where 2010 left off. We're busy. Very busy. So busy, in fact, that we hired a 'mini us', a smaller version convention manager. I love her. Her name is Bailey, and she's twenty-five, very fun, very not Utah conservative. She was hired on at a time when we had an actual office for her to 'live' in, but since that time, we've relocated some salespeople, so her 'office' is right outside my office. The place where my assistant sat, back in the better economic days when things such as assistants existed. Suffice it to say, I am more than happy to mentor Bailey in the world of, 'take this ridiculous contract and make it actually work,' and be her refuge from the , "is everyone in this office a gossip??' world that she lives in, in the hallway. I told her Friday: If you need to make a phone call, use my office. I am always more than happy to step out, and let you have that most craved of all things in the work world: Privacy.
Homewise: It is still me and Basil, she being the Dog Who rules My World, without question. She's a bit older than I had originally imagined, and when this was recently confirmed by the vet, made me a bit sad. Basil and I have, you could say, maybe five, maybe seven more years together and I for one plan to live a whole lot longer than that. Which makes that entire topic something I really don't want to think about.
Technology: My computer finally died. Finally and completely. So I went without, for a month. Just to see if I really did miss the Internet, or not. To see if I really even wanted a home computer. The result? I bought an HP laptop. With a built in camera, and moe capabilities than my mind can wrap itself around. I love it. Yes, I did miss the Internet. I missed being able to reach out to one of my sisters in Berkeley, and get an immediate answer to a technology question.
Technology II: I installed a wireless router. Gosh. Now I can surf the net when I'm sitting in the tub. Great. So long as I don't drop the laptop in the tub. And truly, so long as I don't accidentally hit the camera button, because I wouldn't want to blind anyone on the receiving end.
Technology III: I have an IPOD Shuffle and I downloaded Itunes. Might seem simple enough for people who are actual technology savvy, but for me, it was completely amazing. Still can't believe I have 20 CDs on something smaller than my work name tag.
Just Do It I: Having realized that if I didn't make a trip home soon, my parents were going to come up here and visit me again like they did last spring, I booked a flight home next month, which is fine because it's a very short flight, the drive from Sacramento to their place seems easy enough, and I took advantage of a low rate and booked myself an overnight stay in Placerville at a historic hotel filled with antiques that I've wanted to stay in since I was a kid, but...
Just Do It II: ...I was only planning to take one trip this summer, and that one's already booked, too. I am beyond excited, even willing to overlook the red eye flight out of here into Atlanta, and the 12 hour total journey. Too worth it. Me, in an all inclusive resort in the Virgin Islands, for an entire week. I have already shopped for the entire wardrobe, and it will fit in a make up case :). Still. For the money, it was perfect. Everything included, right down to my sailboat, my snorkeling gear, and my room, food, and drinks. The three pools are bigger than the zip code I reside in, and there's miniature golf, too. Best yet? It's three thousand miles away from home and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to get emails while I'm there. OK, I'm taking grief at work. I don't know who started it, but someone said, 'It's just like How Stella Got her Groove Back,' so now the closer we get to the date I have to go to work and hear, 'Hey, Mad's getting her groove back,' but that's OK, too. Maybe I am. And maybe that's long overdue, too. I promise to take the laptop and take a lot of pictures.
Well, that's that. I think I'm up to date. Otherwise, not much more has changed. I still work too many hours to fall in love, and love to sleep in late on the weekends too much to get out there and meet someone. My dog still rules my world, and my cats still keep my dog sane. Not entirely exciting, but it's not a bad way to be, either.
Friday, December 31, 2010
....And there goes 2010
To be extremely brief...I bid adieu to 2010.
And thank God that a friend of mine survived a plane crash,
and thank him again that a lone, misguided derailed military person didn't ever actually open fire in my workplace.
I am thankful that my former spousal unit seems to have gotten his proverbial stuff together, and no longer calls me for advice or assistance;
I am sad, in my own fashion, that someone I was seeing, for four years off and on, is finally and totally an off. Unless, that is, I want to wake up and be fifty years old and decide to go on match.com. In short, he has let me know that his life is hermetically sealed, well planned, and no changes, no thanks.
Well, hell.
Four years ago, that would have been great to hear.
Anyway....starting out a new year.
I have vowed not to date, in 2011.
This is not difficult.
I don't meet anyone, in the 'real' (i.e., non-Internet dating) world.
Very boring, ubiqutious, final post for the year.
Well, let's just cross fingers 2011 is more productive.
Yours, Madeileine
And thank God that a friend of mine survived a plane crash,
and thank him again that a lone, misguided derailed military person didn't ever actually open fire in my workplace.
I am thankful that my former spousal unit seems to have gotten his proverbial stuff together, and no longer calls me for advice or assistance;
I am sad, in my own fashion, that someone I was seeing, for four years off and on, is finally and totally an off. Unless, that is, I want to wake up and be fifty years old and decide to go on match.com. In short, he has let me know that his life is hermetically sealed, well planned, and no changes, no thanks.
Well, hell.
Four years ago, that would have been great to hear.
Anyway....starting out a new year.
I have vowed not to date, in 2011.
This is not difficult.
I don't meet anyone, in the 'real' (i.e., non-Internet dating) world.
Very boring, ubiqutious, final post for the year.
Well, let's just cross fingers 2011 is more productive.
Yours, Madeileine
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Does This Burka Make My Butt Look Big?: On Not Being Shot (But Theoretically Coming Too Damned Close To It)
Where to begin…
I had such a great weekend. Went to a soiree at Holly’s on Friday, and I only stayed until nine. Got the dogs, went home, and went to bed (Just like a responsible adult )
Saturday, did something like four loads of laundry. Went to a birthday party at the hotel (partying in a hotel room, just like we don’t allow guests to do) and left after only a glass and a half of wine, a shot of champagne, much deep-fried food, and a little under two and a half hours (Just like a responsible adult)
Had a great Monday today (Perhaps not being hungover contributed)
Diane had returned from vacation. Completely wiped, and immediately overwhelmed. I loaded her up with chocolate (gift from my recently departed group) and some kind of their special herbal elixer that cracked me up because the label read, “Relaxation, in one shot.” Yeah, like this is even possible.
When I left tonight, she was wearing earphones for her Ipod and had the most vacuous stare on her face. “No vacation,” she announced, “goes unpunished.”
Casey wasn’t happy with her because she kept blowing off what happened on Friday, mainly because she hadn’t been there, so ‘it didn’t apply to her’. Wow. Case took offense to that, saying it applied to everyone, because basically, there but for the grace of God, we’re all dead.
It was Friday afternoon that the man in full military attire, carrying an assault rifle, was driven out of our hotel by a very wonderful security person (ex-street cop), and what the guy had been trying to do was to get to the roof. Obstensibly, if you consider the fact that he was more than a little bit armed and loaded for some very big bear with all the rounds he was wearing, because he wanted to check out the view, or – and it’s a very big ‘Or’ – he wanted to pick off a bit of humanity person by person. I finally got out about four-thirty. The cops had already shot him dead, right there on the bus turn around lot. I still cross myself (call me a die hard Lutheran convert, ex-wannabe serious Catholic or whatever, but it’s comforting, you know, to think you might not live to see tomorrow, but you crossed yourself so there, take me to the Which Other Side I’m Headed To) every day when I pull into the parking garage. I mean, somebody died there. Right there, by the new shrubbery we had put in last year.
Ew.
And scary as hell.
I guess I missed the bomb scare. That happened right afterward. I guess by that time, I was busy at the boutique market by my condo, picking up a couple of baquettes and some cheese dip and spinach dip for the soiree, and Holly said later, I brought the best food ever.
For some weird reason, that made me feel better.
Maybe it was just great to be one of eight women, not all of us really aquainted (but that’s the point of her monthly get togethers, you go there and you get to know new friends) and realize, wow, we didn’t get shot today. So it’s a good day.
Sanya…years back, I worked with her. She’s moved on, but that night she showed up with a couple of magnums of champagne, and although it was first expressed in Swedish (as most things are, at Holly’s house) it was later translated into English, about the time Sanya popped the cork on the first magnum, the force of the cork blowing off and richocheting off the ceiling nearly taking out a skylight, “Sanya has her own apartment!” and we all toasted her new beginning, because we’d all, in one form or another, been there. We’d all lost someone. Or given up on someone. And we’d started over. And the first and most important part of that was finding a place we could call home.
I thought about Owen, then. He was probably on the beach as I thought, toes buried in the sand. As it turned out, he called me later. He did make the beach, you know, in between rounds of golf, and had found my seashells. That’s all I ever ask that he brings me from the beach, and when I talked to him tonight he wasn’t yet satisfied with the ones he found. “They’re shells,” he said. “I want to find one with color.”
Well, OK. It gives him a mission.
I left him a huge bag of sugar and carb-laden chips, donuts, chocolate bars, and every variety of M and M’s known to man courtesy of my departed group on the dining room table, when I picked up the dogs tonight. Basil, because I always pick her up and bring her home. His dog, the pocket sized dog, the purse dog, because he’s had so much fun here, for the past weekend. Kind of like Doggy Disneyland, is how I put it. And I’ve enjoyed it, too. Having his mini-dog here, I’ve managed to put away all the laundry I did last week when I worked all week. For heaven’s sake, I couldn’t say that without him. I made no progress until he was here, his mini-Chewbacca Yorkie face staring at me from the foot of my bed, his stump of a tail wagging. So perhaps, in some entirely weird twist of fate, I owe this little dog that I can finally see the top of my dresser, and feel like I have an actual bedroom. Stranger things, I suppose, have happened. I’m just not entirely sure when.
Anyway, it’s been a great weekend, but back to this whole I’m Not Dead Yet thing.
Owen, five hundred miles away, was concerned. I was fine, I told him, but again, every the practical one, made him promise that…if the situation ever evolved (it won’t; this is once in a lifetime stuff) that I wasn’t OK, he had to promise to come and get Basil. And take her home. And love her forever, because the dog is…well, she’s everything to me. If you know me, you get that. If you don’t, just take my word on it.
“How’s this,” he said, “I’ll just come get both of you.”
That’s Owen. If it’s ever something he doesn’t want to happen, it just doesn’t.
Not an entirely bad way to go through life.
The guy…the Shooter, if you will…he was twenty eight years old, AWOL from the war, you know, and he’d actually made a reservation to stay at the hotel, but cancelled it. Well, gosh. First, I’m thinking, “why would we let him make a reservation?” and then it dawns on me, we are in the hotel business, he did have a Visa or whatever card, and that’s kind of what we do.
Then he cancels the reservation (for whatever reason for that, let me just say, “Yay!”)
He could have opened fire inside, and he waited until he was outside. So, OK. Thank you, God, and thank you to whatever was going through his mind. I mean, a shooting in your parking lot, you can recover from. A shooting INSIDE your establishment and you’re going to be looking at a very low occupancy rate for a while.
So you shrug it off. That’s what we do. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Still, it doesn’t make it feel much better. I mean, it still feels strange. Very strange. Very odd, and kind of like, “can’t we just come up with a new policy, and say, like, you’re welcome to the hotel, but if you’re wearing camouflage in public areas, we’re going to ask you to leave?”
Sure.
Effective.
And today the threat level is Orange.
(Hmm…I wonder if my purple twinset will go with that, or I ought to just throw on a go-with-everything-black-blazer)
You just don’t think about it.
A couple of guests saw him in the parking garage, at the elevator. They asked him what he was doing there and he replied, “I’m on a training mission.”
They thanked him for his service.
I would have done the same thing.
You just don’t know.
Odd and ironic twist, but today on the site visit, one of the people (contract signers) said she had two grandsons who had been in the war. “What they don’t tell you,” she said, dramatically hovering for emphasis over her chef’s salad, (note: I detest people who order a chef’s salad because it comes with no appetizer, therefore I can’t properly start on my appetizer until after her salad arrives, at which time my smoked tomato soup is beyond cold), “is that they medicate them. You know, to keep them hopped up and ready for whatever it is they do over there. Then they come home, and they’re not on these drugs, and…”
Thank God about this time we changed the subject to how fast I could come up with diagrams for their meeting space because they needed them, preferably, yesterday.
I thought about Trent.
I was just trying to figure it out, and I guess I whirled that around in my mind for maybe a minute or maybe ten, however long it took me to nod and smile and hide the grimace that wanted to come out that we could spend what was supposed to be a working lunch, you know, talking about our medicated troops…instead of looking at meeting space and figuring out the winter program, because at that moment, that’s all I really wanted to do. Because sometimes (all the time), figuring out how many people, if three per eight foot table, will fit in one third of a ballroom, is much more comforting than contemplating some AWOL twenty eight year old who came thisclose to ending my life and many others on Friday, and chose not to.
It never really made the news that he was in the hotel.
“It wasn’t germane,” Owen explained, in the calm, rational, facts-only tone reserved to those who once made their living in television news.
Yes, I knew that.
What was germane was that he shot at a cop, and the cops shot back (all twenty of them, did we mention that? I guess they hit him at least a half dozen times…) and that’s the story and the news is sticking to it.
And that’s all good at the end of the day, because I happen to work in that building, and that hotel is a huge part of my life.
I’m glad he didn’t fire off even one shot, inside.
Yet, I’m sorry for him. Because I think the same guy who died from one (or six?) gunshot wounds in the parking lot I’ll see every day when I go to work was as lost as the guy who once threw pasta at the ceiling of my rental house to see if it was done yet. Neither make sense to me, yet in an odd way, I respect them both for being where they had to be (Iraq/hell/Afghanistan/take your pick they’re all the same thing) so I could continue to do what I do: Worry about how many people, three per eight foot, I can fit into my ballroom, instead of gosh, does this Burka make my butt look big?
Both of them, if you want my humble opinion, would have been better served to have keeled over in old age, instead.
In a perfect world.
And that, as if we haven’t yet noticed, isn’t exactly what we’re living in.
I had such a great weekend. Went to a soiree at Holly’s on Friday, and I only stayed until nine. Got the dogs, went home, and went to bed (Just like a responsible adult )
Saturday, did something like four loads of laundry. Went to a birthday party at the hotel (partying in a hotel room, just like we don’t allow guests to do) and left after only a glass and a half of wine, a shot of champagne, much deep-fried food, and a little under two and a half hours (Just like a responsible adult)
Had a great Monday today (Perhaps not being hungover contributed)
Diane had returned from vacation. Completely wiped, and immediately overwhelmed. I loaded her up with chocolate (gift from my recently departed group) and some kind of their special herbal elixer that cracked me up because the label read, “Relaxation, in one shot.” Yeah, like this is even possible.
When I left tonight, she was wearing earphones for her Ipod and had the most vacuous stare on her face. “No vacation,” she announced, “goes unpunished.”
Casey wasn’t happy with her because she kept blowing off what happened on Friday, mainly because she hadn’t been there, so ‘it didn’t apply to her’. Wow. Case took offense to that, saying it applied to everyone, because basically, there but for the grace of God, we’re all dead.
It was Friday afternoon that the man in full military attire, carrying an assault rifle, was driven out of our hotel by a very wonderful security person (ex-street cop), and what the guy had been trying to do was to get to the roof. Obstensibly, if you consider the fact that he was more than a little bit armed and loaded for some very big bear with all the rounds he was wearing, because he wanted to check out the view, or – and it’s a very big ‘Or’ – he wanted to pick off a bit of humanity person by person. I finally got out about four-thirty. The cops had already shot him dead, right there on the bus turn around lot. I still cross myself (call me a die hard Lutheran convert, ex-wannabe serious Catholic or whatever, but it’s comforting, you know, to think you might not live to see tomorrow, but you crossed yourself so there, take me to the Which Other Side I’m Headed To) every day when I pull into the parking garage. I mean, somebody died there. Right there, by the new shrubbery we had put in last year.
Ew.
And scary as hell.
I guess I missed the bomb scare. That happened right afterward. I guess by that time, I was busy at the boutique market by my condo, picking up a couple of baquettes and some cheese dip and spinach dip for the soiree, and Holly said later, I brought the best food ever.
For some weird reason, that made me feel better.
Maybe it was just great to be one of eight women, not all of us really aquainted (but that’s the point of her monthly get togethers, you go there and you get to know new friends) and realize, wow, we didn’t get shot today. So it’s a good day.
Sanya…years back, I worked with her. She’s moved on, but that night she showed up with a couple of magnums of champagne, and although it was first expressed in Swedish (as most things are, at Holly’s house) it was later translated into English, about the time Sanya popped the cork on the first magnum, the force of the cork blowing off and richocheting off the ceiling nearly taking out a skylight, “Sanya has her own apartment!” and we all toasted her new beginning, because we’d all, in one form or another, been there. We’d all lost someone. Or given up on someone. And we’d started over. And the first and most important part of that was finding a place we could call home.
I thought about Owen, then. He was probably on the beach as I thought, toes buried in the sand. As it turned out, he called me later. He did make the beach, you know, in between rounds of golf, and had found my seashells. That’s all I ever ask that he brings me from the beach, and when I talked to him tonight he wasn’t yet satisfied with the ones he found. “They’re shells,” he said. “I want to find one with color.”
Well, OK. It gives him a mission.
I left him a huge bag of sugar and carb-laden chips, donuts, chocolate bars, and every variety of M and M’s known to man courtesy of my departed group on the dining room table, when I picked up the dogs tonight. Basil, because I always pick her up and bring her home. His dog, the pocket sized dog, the purse dog, because he’s had so much fun here, for the past weekend. Kind of like Doggy Disneyland, is how I put it. And I’ve enjoyed it, too. Having his mini-dog here, I’ve managed to put away all the laundry I did last week when I worked all week. For heaven’s sake, I couldn’t say that without him. I made no progress until he was here, his mini-Chewbacca Yorkie face staring at me from the foot of my bed, his stump of a tail wagging. So perhaps, in some entirely weird twist of fate, I owe this little dog that I can finally see the top of my dresser, and feel like I have an actual bedroom. Stranger things, I suppose, have happened. I’m just not entirely sure when.
Anyway, it’s been a great weekend, but back to this whole I’m Not Dead Yet thing.
Owen, five hundred miles away, was concerned. I was fine, I told him, but again, every the practical one, made him promise that…if the situation ever evolved (it won’t; this is once in a lifetime stuff) that I wasn’t OK, he had to promise to come and get Basil. And take her home. And love her forever, because the dog is…well, she’s everything to me. If you know me, you get that. If you don’t, just take my word on it.
“How’s this,” he said, “I’ll just come get both of you.”
That’s Owen. If it’s ever something he doesn’t want to happen, it just doesn’t.
Not an entirely bad way to go through life.
The guy…the Shooter, if you will…he was twenty eight years old, AWOL from the war, you know, and he’d actually made a reservation to stay at the hotel, but cancelled it. Well, gosh. First, I’m thinking, “why would we let him make a reservation?” and then it dawns on me, we are in the hotel business, he did have a Visa or whatever card, and that’s kind of what we do.
Then he cancels the reservation (for whatever reason for that, let me just say, “Yay!”)
He could have opened fire inside, and he waited until he was outside. So, OK. Thank you, God, and thank you to whatever was going through his mind. I mean, a shooting in your parking lot, you can recover from. A shooting INSIDE your establishment and you’re going to be looking at a very low occupancy rate for a while.
So you shrug it off. That’s what we do. That’s what we’re supposed to do. Still, it doesn’t make it feel much better. I mean, it still feels strange. Very strange. Very odd, and kind of like, “can’t we just come up with a new policy, and say, like, you’re welcome to the hotel, but if you’re wearing camouflage in public areas, we’re going to ask you to leave?”
Sure.
Effective.
And today the threat level is Orange.
(Hmm…I wonder if my purple twinset will go with that, or I ought to just throw on a go-with-everything-black-blazer)
You just don’t think about it.
A couple of guests saw him in the parking garage, at the elevator. They asked him what he was doing there and he replied, “I’m on a training mission.”
They thanked him for his service.
I would have done the same thing.
You just don’t know.
Odd and ironic twist, but today on the site visit, one of the people (contract signers) said she had two grandsons who had been in the war. “What they don’t tell you,” she said, dramatically hovering for emphasis over her chef’s salad, (note: I detest people who order a chef’s salad because it comes with no appetizer, therefore I can’t properly start on my appetizer until after her salad arrives, at which time my smoked tomato soup is beyond cold), “is that they medicate them. You know, to keep them hopped up and ready for whatever it is they do over there. Then they come home, and they’re not on these drugs, and…”
Thank God about this time we changed the subject to how fast I could come up with diagrams for their meeting space because they needed them, preferably, yesterday.
I thought about Trent.
I was just trying to figure it out, and I guess I whirled that around in my mind for maybe a minute or maybe ten, however long it took me to nod and smile and hide the grimace that wanted to come out that we could spend what was supposed to be a working lunch, you know, talking about our medicated troops…instead of looking at meeting space and figuring out the winter program, because at that moment, that’s all I really wanted to do. Because sometimes (all the time), figuring out how many people, if three per eight foot table, will fit in one third of a ballroom, is much more comforting than contemplating some AWOL twenty eight year old who came thisclose to ending my life and many others on Friday, and chose not to.
It never really made the news that he was in the hotel.
“It wasn’t germane,” Owen explained, in the calm, rational, facts-only tone reserved to those who once made their living in television news.
Yes, I knew that.
What was germane was that he shot at a cop, and the cops shot back (all twenty of them, did we mention that? I guess they hit him at least a half dozen times…) and that’s the story and the news is sticking to it.
And that’s all good at the end of the day, because I happen to work in that building, and that hotel is a huge part of my life.
I’m glad he didn’t fire off even one shot, inside.
Yet, I’m sorry for him. Because I think the same guy who died from one (or six?) gunshot wounds in the parking lot I’ll see every day when I go to work was as lost as the guy who once threw pasta at the ceiling of my rental house to see if it was done yet. Neither make sense to me, yet in an odd way, I respect them both for being where they had to be (Iraq/hell/Afghanistan/take your pick they’re all the same thing) so I could continue to do what I do: Worry about how many people, three per eight foot, I can fit into my ballroom, instead of gosh, does this Burka make my butt look big?
Both of them, if you want my humble opinion, would have been better served to have keeled over in old age, instead.
In a perfect world.
And that, as if we haven’t yet noticed, isn’t exactly what we’re living in.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Lucky People Part II: Trent Babcock, One Year Later
Today is Sunday.
It is a holiday here, and fireworks abound.
On or about a year ago Friday, or some such thing, Trent Babcock killed himself.
It hardly feels like a year ago that I wrote “Lucky People”, and yet it has been.
This year, I’m not quite so prolific. On realizing the anniversay, I texted his better half, his twin, my own ‘better half of years gone by’, and I did that not because of any anniversary but because I am, and remain, one of those silly humans who, once they have given their heart to someone may legally yank it back but who will forever keep the feelings where they were to begin with and just find some way to live with that..
I love his better half.
I always have.
I always will.
I have just since then…not last year, but the time before that, when other things fell apart, …found a way to move forward. Beause when, at the end of the day, that is all that is left to you, …that’s what you do.
I’m not so odd, you know, in that.
At the end of the day, we both miss him. I can speak for myself, anyway. I can’t speak for Brent any longer, but I’m willing to wager he misses him, too.
Trent, I’m thinking.
I’m thinking, it’s been one year and I should say something. And yet, at the end of the day, this is it. This is all I can say, and I would think it’s what he would appreciate. As he used to put it when we grocery shopped, in Broomfield, those nights when Brent was working until all hours, just say what you think. Whether it was about the brands of macaroni on aisle five of the Broomfield Safeway or my deepest thoughts about whether or not we ever really went to the moon or it was a Hollywood hoax, there he was. Trent. With his ridiculous car. Standing in the soup aisle. Dawdling over cereal.
Crack me up.
Everything comes to mind, my friend.
These things stand out.
1. My dog used to scratch under his door, about a half hour before he was due to wake up. My dog loved him, and dogs can’t tell time, I know this…but it happened, day after day after day…at always the same time.
2. I used to get far too mad at him because his bathroom was never clean. It was always a serious study in ‘black body hair left behind after a shower’.
3. When his brother was sad, he always found some way to distract him, and make him laugh. This was his gift alone; no one else could do it.
4. When his brother and I fought, he always had the good grace to pretend that he hadn’t noticed.
5. To see if spaghetti is done, toss it at the ceiling. If it sticks, it is.
6. Don’t want to eat the entrée/vegetables? Toss a matchbox car on top of the serving dish
7. Want to make someone’s day? Show up in their parking lot at the end of a work day, their dogs hanging out the windows, and greet them after work with, “the kids just wanted to know where Mommy worked.” Follow you to the grocery store after that and not only help you shop, but help you put stuff away.
8. Be late with the rent but always at the ready with a joke and a smile
9. Ask, “what’s for dinner,” as if there’s supposed to be one.
10. Bother to come over and say hello, before you ship off to Iraq, and say hey to your soon to be ex sister in law. Laugh your ridiculous laugh and be you for what…as it turns out,….is the very last time.
Rest in peace, Uncle Waddy.
So now and always so alive to those of us, four footed and two, who keep you alive still. I guess you could say we’re…
Lucky People.
It is a holiday here, and fireworks abound.
On or about a year ago Friday, or some such thing, Trent Babcock killed himself.
It hardly feels like a year ago that I wrote “Lucky People”, and yet it has been.
This year, I’m not quite so prolific. On realizing the anniversay, I texted his better half, his twin, my own ‘better half of years gone by’, and I did that not because of any anniversary but because I am, and remain, one of those silly humans who, once they have given their heart to someone may legally yank it back but who will forever keep the feelings where they were to begin with and just find some way to live with that..
I love his better half.
I always have.
I always will.
I have just since then…not last year, but the time before that, when other things fell apart, …found a way to move forward. Beause when, at the end of the day, that is all that is left to you, …that’s what you do.
I’m not so odd, you know, in that.
At the end of the day, we both miss him. I can speak for myself, anyway. I can’t speak for Brent any longer, but I’m willing to wager he misses him, too.
Trent, I’m thinking.
I’m thinking, it’s been one year and I should say something. And yet, at the end of the day, this is it. This is all I can say, and I would think it’s what he would appreciate. As he used to put it when we grocery shopped, in Broomfield, those nights when Brent was working until all hours, just say what you think. Whether it was about the brands of macaroni on aisle five of the Broomfield Safeway or my deepest thoughts about whether or not we ever really went to the moon or it was a Hollywood hoax, there he was. Trent. With his ridiculous car. Standing in the soup aisle. Dawdling over cereal.
Crack me up.
Everything comes to mind, my friend.
These things stand out.
1. My dog used to scratch under his door, about a half hour before he was due to wake up. My dog loved him, and dogs can’t tell time, I know this…but it happened, day after day after day…at always the same time.
2. I used to get far too mad at him because his bathroom was never clean. It was always a serious study in ‘black body hair left behind after a shower’.
3. When his brother was sad, he always found some way to distract him, and make him laugh. This was his gift alone; no one else could do it.
4. When his brother and I fought, he always had the good grace to pretend that he hadn’t noticed.
5. To see if spaghetti is done, toss it at the ceiling. If it sticks, it is.
6. Don’t want to eat the entrée/vegetables? Toss a matchbox car on top of the serving dish
7. Want to make someone’s day? Show up in their parking lot at the end of a work day, their dogs hanging out the windows, and greet them after work with, “the kids just wanted to know where Mommy worked.” Follow you to the grocery store after that and not only help you shop, but help you put stuff away.
8. Be late with the rent but always at the ready with a joke and a smile
9. Ask, “what’s for dinner,” as if there’s supposed to be one.
10. Bother to come over and say hello, before you ship off to Iraq, and say hey to your soon to be ex sister in law. Laugh your ridiculous laugh and be you for what…as it turns out,….is the very last time.
Rest in peace, Uncle Waddy.
So now and always so alive to those of us, four footed and two, who keep you alive still. I guess you could say we’re…
Lucky People.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Thirty-Five Things I Know For Sure: Miscellaneous Lessons in Love
1. Be aware that if your second date is an afternoon trip to the zoo, and two tortoises choose to have sex when you stop in front of their aquarium, you have received a sign from the universe that your relationship is doomed. Not to mention, you’re standing around more than a little embarrassed. This sign is irrefutable, as much an omen of bad luck as rain on a wedding is an omen of good luck. You should abandon all hope of proceeding further. Especially once you realize he’s failed to notice you’ve walked quickly away from the aquarium, so focused is he on leaning in further for a closer view;
2. Know that dating someone you met on a train is not reason enough to believe you’re ‘fated to be together’. It only means you have a slightly more interesting ‘How We Met’ story to tell at parties than that several times removed cousin of yours who met her spouse while dancing in a cage in a southern California ‘Gentlemen’s club’;
3. If you first visit to his home reveals neon signs shaped like tropical trees displayed on the mantle and more twinkle lights on his houseplants – all lit up and consecutively blazing and twinkling – than adorn the local mall every December 24th, you’re probably not compatible. Even if neon is your thing;
4. If by his own admission none of his marriages lasted as long as a car loan, this just isn’t going to work;
5. If he claims to want to 'be a big part of your life’ but interrupts you with, “you shouldn’t be telling me this, it’s too personal,” when you begin recounting your day at work, you can safely assume it’s not a love connection;
6. The man who asks you to ‘have the movers rearrange my stuff so it’s comfortable, I mean they’ll be here anyway,” as you’re moving out at his suggestion is not the one you should have married;
7. If his idea of preparing for the future is to secure a nominal life insurance policy – in lieu of an actual savings account or 401k – you’re probably not on the same page financially. Unless, of course, your savings ‘account’ is ‘deposited’ in an old sock in your t-shirt drawer;
8. A lesser known but equally serious side effect to the sleep aid Ambien is this: If after taking it you go not to bed but to the computer terminal, absolutely inappropriate matches appear to have potential;
9. A man who types with two fingers may have possibility. A man whose idea of a sincere approach is, ”Let’s chat,” does not.
10. If he views texting as, ‘talking , and getting to know each other,” he’s probably more suited to a relationship with an I-Phone than with a human being;
11. If he doesn’t like your dog, or vice versa, the odds for success are slim;
12. If his profile pictures are ten years old, their age is in direct proportion to his possibility as someone to consider;
13. If any situation in a Lifetime TV movie even remotely resembles a recent situation in your life, it’s time to make some serious changes;
14. The man who says, with all sincerity, “Look, I’ll make you a deal. If you have a dress or a skirt on, I’ll get the door for you, but otherwise, you can open it yourself,” was probably not the man to have married;
15. If he proudly shows you the high school track team uniform he ‘just found’ in his closet, he may have some issues with letting go of the past. Especially if there’s a very small amount of years between his next birthday and the one that entitles him to some serious dining discounts at Denny’s;
16. If his mood swings make your PMS look like, ‘a minor bad day’, cease all contact. Even if he’s still crying;
17. If he’s still wearing engraved jewelry from an ex-spouse, one of two things are going on: a) he has an emotional commitment to the ex-spouse, or: b) He likes the jewelry and has never been told about the existence of department stores/jewelry stores where it could be replaced. Not something you want to be involved with. You should not have to explain the concept of Macy’s to anyone;
18. It is perfectly acceptable to temporarily lose your mind and date the wrong person. It is never acceptable to lose your sense of humor about it afterward;
19. It’s OK if he wants to split the check. It’s weird if he wants to take your leftovers home;
20. When he says, “This may sound like creating drama, but…” he’s creating drama;
21. Even if he said, “It’s not you, it’s me,” when ending it, he could have meant it really was you, and not him, and just not said so. This generally turns out to be a blessing at the end of the day;
22. Never trust a man with a buzz cut who has two blow driers and a flatiron under his bathroom sink. This never bodes well;
23. Any man who lists, ‘cuddling’ as ‘something I am passionate about’ should be looked at funny;
24. Beware the man who claims, “I have no problem being alone. None!” and then reactivates his match.com profile while you’re still dating because, “Well, we were probably eventually going to break up.”
25. Anyone can buy a gift. Not everyone can give of themselves. Note the difference (even if you’re keeping the toaster oven);
26. There’s a difference between the heady exuberance of a true connection and the heady exuberance of three glasses of a fabulous Pinot Gris (note: only one costs $45);
27. It’s OK to disagree on religion. It’s weird if he thinks Jesus ‘just needs a catchy theme song, and I’m the one to find it for him,”;
28. It’s OK if he wants to get to know your friends. It’s weird if he emails them saying they should continue the friendship, ‘regardless of what happens’ with you and him. Bonus weird points when this occurs within the first month;
29. Run (like Forrest, only faster) from anyone who explains his three marriages as, “One, she was smart and I wanted smart kids, Two, She wanted to have sex all the time, and Three, I thought I was in love. Plus she was smart and wanted to have sex a lot.” Run. File entire experience under “E” for “Ew”;
30. The man who exclaimed, “Cheat on you? I would never cheat on you! But even if I did, you’d be the last one to find out!” was likely, a) cheating on you, and b) not the man you should have married;
31. It’s OK if he doesn’t have a car. It’s not OK if you live anywhere other than New York or San Francisco;
32. Any man who claims to , ‘read a lot! I just LOVE reading!’ and thinks Michener is a knock-off of a good brand of tires is just flat out lying to you;
33. Those who say, “I’ll never forget you! NEVER!” will be the first to forget you;
34. If he’s got a knack for flower arranging, there’s a reason. You’re not the first he’s done it for;
And finally…
35. If you can’t find the humor when it’s over, you shouldn’t have started it up in the first place.
2. Know that dating someone you met on a train is not reason enough to believe you’re ‘fated to be together’. It only means you have a slightly more interesting ‘How We Met’ story to tell at parties than that several times removed cousin of yours who met her spouse while dancing in a cage in a southern California ‘Gentlemen’s club’;
3. If you first visit to his home reveals neon signs shaped like tropical trees displayed on the mantle and more twinkle lights on his houseplants – all lit up and consecutively blazing and twinkling – than adorn the local mall every December 24th, you’re probably not compatible. Even if neon is your thing;
4. If by his own admission none of his marriages lasted as long as a car loan, this just isn’t going to work;
5. If he claims to want to 'be a big part of your life’ but interrupts you with, “you shouldn’t be telling me this, it’s too personal,” when you begin recounting your day at work, you can safely assume it’s not a love connection;
6. The man who asks you to ‘have the movers rearrange my stuff so it’s comfortable, I mean they’ll be here anyway,” as you’re moving out at his suggestion is not the one you should have married;
7. If his idea of preparing for the future is to secure a nominal life insurance policy – in lieu of an actual savings account or 401k – you’re probably not on the same page financially. Unless, of course, your savings ‘account’ is ‘deposited’ in an old sock in your t-shirt drawer;
8. A lesser known but equally serious side effect to the sleep aid Ambien is this: If after taking it you go not to bed but to the computer terminal, absolutely inappropriate matches appear to have potential;
9. A man who types with two fingers may have possibility. A man whose idea of a sincere approach is, ”Let’s chat,” does not.
10. If he views texting as, ‘talking , and getting to know each other,” he’s probably more suited to a relationship with an I-Phone than with a human being;
11. If he doesn’t like your dog, or vice versa, the odds for success are slim;
12. If his profile pictures are ten years old, their age is in direct proportion to his possibility as someone to consider;
13. If any situation in a Lifetime TV movie even remotely resembles a recent situation in your life, it’s time to make some serious changes;
14. The man who says, with all sincerity, “Look, I’ll make you a deal. If you have a dress or a skirt on, I’ll get the door for you, but otherwise, you can open it yourself,” was probably not the man to have married;
15. If he proudly shows you the high school track team uniform he ‘just found’ in his closet, he may have some issues with letting go of the past. Especially if there’s a very small amount of years between his next birthday and the one that entitles him to some serious dining discounts at Denny’s;
16. If his mood swings make your PMS look like, ‘a minor bad day’, cease all contact. Even if he’s still crying;
17. If he’s still wearing engraved jewelry from an ex-spouse, one of two things are going on: a) he has an emotional commitment to the ex-spouse, or: b) He likes the jewelry and has never been told about the existence of department stores/jewelry stores where it could be replaced. Not something you want to be involved with. You should not have to explain the concept of Macy’s to anyone;
18. It is perfectly acceptable to temporarily lose your mind and date the wrong person. It is never acceptable to lose your sense of humor about it afterward;
19. It’s OK if he wants to split the check. It’s weird if he wants to take your leftovers home;
20. When he says, “This may sound like creating drama, but…” he’s creating drama;
21. Even if he said, “It’s not you, it’s me,” when ending it, he could have meant it really was you, and not him, and just not said so. This generally turns out to be a blessing at the end of the day;
22. Never trust a man with a buzz cut who has two blow driers and a flatiron under his bathroom sink. This never bodes well;
23. Any man who lists, ‘cuddling’ as ‘something I am passionate about’ should be looked at funny;
24. Beware the man who claims, “I have no problem being alone. None!” and then reactivates his match.com profile while you’re still dating because, “Well, we were probably eventually going to break up.”
25. Anyone can buy a gift. Not everyone can give of themselves. Note the difference (even if you’re keeping the toaster oven);
26. There’s a difference between the heady exuberance of a true connection and the heady exuberance of three glasses of a fabulous Pinot Gris (note: only one costs $45);
27. It’s OK to disagree on religion. It’s weird if he thinks Jesus ‘just needs a catchy theme song, and I’m the one to find it for him,”;
28. It’s OK if he wants to get to know your friends. It’s weird if he emails them saying they should continue the friendship, ‘regardless of what happens’ with you and him. Bonus weird points when this occurs within the first month;
29. Run (like Forrest, only faster) from anyone who explains his three marriages as, “One, she was smart and I wanted smart kids, Two, She wanted to have sex all the time, and Three, I thought I was in love. Plus she was smart and wanted to have sex a lot.” Run. File entire experience under “E” for “Ew”;
30. The man who exclaimed, “Cheat on you? I would never cheat on you! But even if I did, you’d be the last one to find out!” was likely, a) cheating on you, and b) not the man you should have married;
31. It’s OK if he doesn’t have a car. It’s not OK if you live anywhere other than New York or San Francisco;
32. Any man who claims to , ‘read a lot! I just LOVE reading!’ and thinks Michener is a knock-off of a good brand of tires is just flat out lying to you;
33. Those who say, “I’ll never forget you! NEVER!” will be the first to forget you;
34. If he’s got a knack for flower arranging, there’s a reason. You’re not the first he’s done it for;
And finally…
35. If you can’t find the humor when it’s over, you shouldn’t have started it up in the first place.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
In Hopes Of The Return of The Awkward Silence
Two weeks ago, I re-upped on the dating site, taking my plunge back into the dating world yet a step further by signing up for a second site, this one alluding to the vast numbers of available ‘fish’ in the sea of romance anxiously waiting to meet me. What can I say except membership was free, photos were much easier to upload, a friend had enjoyed pretty good luck with the site, and another friend was ready to give the whole thing another try herself, just didn’t want to go it alone.
I spent the two weeks reading and exchanging emails, sharing the misadventure, if you will, with the girlfriend who had also recently hurled herself and her attributes into cyberspace, hoping to meet Mr. Wonderful or, barring that, Mr. Halfway Intriguing, or even Mr. Somewhat Still Interesting by The Time The Check Comes For Coffee. Friday nights she’d arrive at my apartment bearing organic tortilla chips, preservative-free salsa, fresh made guacamole, a bottle of white wine, and her dog, clad in his flannel monkey print pajamas complete with hoody. I’d add more chips, a cheese plate, more wine, and my own dog, who was significantly more scantily clad, sporting nothing but a Vancouver bandana. She’d catch up on all her electronic messages, “winks”, and Ims. The dogs chased each other through the apartment and made repeated futile attempts to reach the cats, who were sequestered behind the closed door of the den. We’d offer each other our individual commentaries on the various possibilities (as well as on the obvious, “are you kidding me?”s) in our email boxes. The evenings wrapped up long after midnight but a good few hours, anyway, shy of the start of the morning weekend news shows. I found I was getting used to finding her on my couch on Saturday late-mornings. It was comforting, somewhat, to know I wasn’t the only person in the universe who believed it was possible to meet someone feasible through a computer screen.
Something intangible yet integral remained missing for me, though. I received innumerable text messages, “chatted” through extensive IMs, answered who knows how many emails, and accepted a date for, but due to the work schedule couldn’t make it to, an art gallery opening. As the days went on I felt more and more that I simply wasn’t, as they say, “into it,” and not just because I wasn’t finding what I’d hoped for, which was a man my age or up to five years older. No, instead I ran to the opposite extreme. I’m still getting emails and the occasional call from the man eight years younger and – strange as it feels to say it – the man (boy? Yes, boy is what I meant to say) twenty-three years younger. Otherwise, it’s the man twelve years older, fifteen years older, who wants to talk about his retirement plans. One wanted to insure me ‘lifetime visitation to his retirement villa in Costa Rica,” and here I’ve never even been to Connecticut and would frankly rather see that first. So this, I’m thinking, is middle-age dating.
“It was so much easier,” my girlfriend observed, “when I was young, and drunk.”
A friend through work decided I needed to go out with a friend of her friend, so I did. We had dinner and drinks downtown and he was truly nice, if a decade older. Someone I’d decided I’d see again. Yet when a detail came to light I nixed that idea. He’s still married, it seems, although he’s been separated for two decades. Somehow I’m not yet willing to rule out the possibility that I may marry again. I’d at least like to keep the door open to the idea. Hard to keep the door open when you’re dating someone already married.
My leap right back out of the dating pool came yesterday, the decision forming itself in my mind with one simple call to our sales office, a little banter with a fellow divorcee who’s just a few steps past forty herself (wink wink nod nod). I asked, how’s your love life? She laughed, and it was heartfelt, not disappointed. “Oh, I’m over all that,” she said. “Life is much easier without all that to deal with.”
I digested that, because it was true. Did I really want to make the time to answer emails and read profiles and pretend to be witty and interesting on a Saturday night when I’d rather be home with a great movie, my sweat pants, and my dog? Maybe at some point, but that point isn’t now.
So I pulled the plug on both sites last night, becoming magically ‘invisible’ on one and disappearing altogether on the other. I have to say, I felt immediate relief. Real conversations I can handle. What was becoming exhausting was responding to, “Tell me more about yourself.” If this was supposed to be real life, why did it feel more like a flash back to Advanced Composition?
I know it can be said that these days, if you aren’t willing to date electronically you’ll never meet anyone. I’m sure I don’t believe that. Twenty years ago, on a rain-drenched four a.m. morning in Seattle, I met Brent in a train station. I was dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, and a ponytail. I was not trying t be witty, or charming, or articulate. Twelve months later we were married, and although it was hardly Forever After, it was absolutely a whole lot of years and a whole lot of interesting, and we’re still friends.
I’m choosing to believe in that kind of kismet, or whatever you choose to call it. Even to go so far as to say yes, I met an incredible person online this time last year. I went on to have one of the most memorable spring and summers of my life, the irony being – we’d met previously – without the Internet. So in a roundabout way that tells me I should have been a bit less preoccupied with other things during that initial encounter, and ‘meeting’ later on the Internet was just the universe’s way of giving the whole thing a second chance. Again, from that came a very good friendship, and one I appreciate.
So I told my girlfriend, the couch is always available. And my dog will be disappointed if hers quits coming to visit. Ironically, two terrier mutts wound up being the hearts who found a match out of the whole thing. For myself though, I’m going back to stepping away from the whole thing. It’s spring, summer’s coming, and if Mr. Right For Me is destined to meet me, he’ll just have to make that discovery at the dog park, or in the library, because I’m opting out of the pool. I think I’m ready to return to reality, where a ‘wink’ involves your eyelid, not the semi-colon and right parenthesis keys on a keyboard, and where a ‘chat’ involves your vocal chords, not an IM box flashing on your screen. True, eliminating the technology removes the barrier against awkward silences and pauses in conversation, but ironically, those are what I miss the most when it came to ‘meeting’ people.
I spent the two weeks reading and exchanging emails, sharing the misadventure, if you will, with the girlfriend who had also recently hurled herself and her attributes into cyberspace, hoping to meet Mr. Wonderful or, barring that, Mr. Halfway Intriguing, or even Mr. Somewhat Still Interesting by The Time The Check Comes For Coffee. Friday nights she’d arrive at my apartment bearing organic tortilla chips, preservative-free salsa, fresh made guacamole, a bottle of white wine, and her dog, clad in his flannel monkey print pajamas complete with hoody. I’d add more chips, a cheese plate, more wine, and my own dog, who was significantly more scantily clad, sporting nothing but a Vancouver bandana. She’d catch up on all her electronic messages, “winks”, and Ims. The dogs chased each other through the apartment and made repeated futile attempts to reach the cats, who were sequestered behind the closed door of the den. We’d offer each other our individual commentaries on the various possibilities (as well as on the obvious, “are you kidding me?”s) in our email boxes. The evenings wrapped up long after midnight but a good few hours, anyway, shy of the start of the morning weekend news shows. I found I was getting used to finding her on my couch on Saturday late-mornings. It was comforting, somewhat, to know I wasn’t the only person in the universe who believed it was possible to meet someone feasible through a computer screen.
Something intangible yet integral remained missing for me, though. I received innumerable text messages, “chatted” through extensive IMs, answered who knows how many emails, and accepted a date for, but due to the work schedule couldn’t make it to, an art gallery opening. As the days went on I felt more and more that I simply wasn’t, as they say, “into it,” and not just because I wasn’t finding what I’d hoped for, which was a man my age or up to five years older. No, instead I ran to the opposite extreme. I’m still getting emails and the occasional call from the man eight years younger and – strange as it feels to say it – the man (boy? Yes, boy is what I meant to say) twenty-three years younger. Otherwise, it’s the man twelve years older, fifteen years older, who wants to talk about his retirement plans. One wanted to insure me ‘lifetime visitation to his retirement villa in Costa Rica,” and here I’ve never even been to Connecticut and would frankly rather see that first. So this, I’m thinking, is middle-age dating.
“It was so much easier,” my girlfriend observed, “when I was young, and drunk.”
A friend through work decided I needed to go out with a friend of her friend, so I did. We had dinner and drinks downtown and he was truly nice, if a decade older. Someone I’d decided I’d see again. Yet when a detail came to light I nixed that idea. He’s still married, it seems, although he’s been separated for two decades. Somehow I’m not yet willing to rule out the possibility that I may marry again. I’d at least like to keep the door open to the idea. Hard to keep the door open when you’re dating someone already married.
My leap right back out of the dating pool came yesterday, the decision forming itself in my mind with one simple call to our sales office, a little banter with a fellow divorcee who’s just a few steps past forty herself (wink wink nod nod). I asked, how’s your love life? She laughed, and it was heartfelt, not disappointed. “Oh, I’m over all that,” she said. “Life is much easier without all that to deal with.”
I digested that, because it was true. Did I really want to make the time to answer emails and read profiles and pretend to be witty and interesting on a Saturday night when I’d rather be home with a great movie, my sweat pants, and my dog? Maybe at some point, but that point isn’t now.
So I pulled the plug on both sites last night, becoming magically ‘invisible’ on one and disappearing altogether on the other. I have to say, I felt immediate relief. Real conversations I can handle. What was becoming exhausting was responding to, “Tell me more about yourself.” If this was supposed to be real life, why did it feel more like a flash back to Advanced Composition?
I know it can be said that these days, if you aren’t willing to date electronically you’ll never meet anyone. I’m sure I don’t believe that. Twenty years ago, on a rain-drenched four a.m. morning in Seattle, I met Brent in a train station. I was dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, and a ponytail. I was not trying t be witty, or charming, or articulate. Twelve months later we were married, and although it was hardly Forever After, it was absolutely a whole lot of years and a whole lot of interesting, and we’re still friends.
I’m choosing to believe in that kind of kismet, or whatever you choose to call it. Even to go so far as to say yes, I met an incredible person online this time last year. I went on to have one of the most memorable spring and summers of my life, the irony being – we’d met previously – without the Internet. So in a roundabout way that tells me I should have been a bit less preoccupied with other things during that initial encounter, and ‘meeting’ later on the Internet was just the universe’s way of giving the whole thing a second chance. Again, from that came a very good friendship, and one I appreciate.
So I told my girlfriend, the couch is always available. And my dog will be disappointed if hers quits coming to visit. Ironically, two terrier mutts wound up being the hearts who found a match out of the whole thing. For myself though, I’m going back to stepping away from the whole thing. It’s spring, summer’s coming, and if Mr. Right For Me is destined to meet me, he’ll just have to make that discovery at the dog park, or in the library, because I’m opting out of the pool. I think I’m ready to return to reality, where a ‘wink’ involves your eyelid, not the semi-colon and right parenthesis keys on a keyboard, and where a ‘chat’ involves your vocal chords, not an IM box flashing on your screen. True, eliminating the technology removes the barrier against awkward silences and pauses in conversation, but ironically, those are what I miss the most when it came to ‘meeting’ people.
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