NOTE BEFORE READING: The author apologizes for posting something she wrote seven years ago. What can I say? It's been that kind of a week...)
Salt Lake City can't understand why the world's media, in preparation for the 2002 Olympic games, has come, seen, and left with an impression of the city as being 'a little off' at best and 'back in the dark ages' on a good day. Salt Lakers are disappointed by the world's impression of them as 'conservative', and wonder where that impression came from.
Maybe they should read their own newspaper.
I've lived here before, so I shouldn't have been surprised by the story in yesterday's Salt Lake Tribune, front page of the Utah section. If you're a local you know which article I'm talking about. It's the story which appears under the large color photo of the woman (who looks twenty-one) with long, wispy, flowing brown hair (that rivals the knock-out brunette's hair in the latest Physique shampoo commercial) gently blowing in a light breeze and she's poised on her front porch, arms lightly folded across a very flat stomach, serene smile on her face as she gazes off into the distance and from this description you'd think it's a picture of yet another happy Utah housewife looking off into the distance on a summer afternoon and wondering how much longer the dough needs to rise for tonight's dinner bread until I tell you that I left out a fairly important detail or two: The woman has a figure that would stop a clock. She might look twenty-one, but she's (you'll never in a million years guess this) forty, and she's wearing a bikini. A little one. I mean everything's covered, but covered in the way that you throw a tarp over a Porsche, you know the Porsche is under there. You can see the smooth lines of the body, sense the bright glow of the paint, even imagine what it looks like careening down an open road!
Which brings us back to the paper. All this imagining, I mean. This woman apparently had the unmitigated gall to undertake a risqué activity such as gardening, in the privacy of her own yard, in this outfit which covered everything. Granted, she was on her own (private) property. Granted, she wasn't playing loud music while she gardened, wasn't shouting at the top of her lungs or even singing off key. She wasn't disturbing the peace of a very hot afternoon at all. She wasn't, truth be told, doing anything but taking the sensible course around pulling a few weeds on a day where temperatures hovered somewhere around one hundred degrees. I'm sure this happens all the time out in California. Maybe even gets overlooked in the back woods of Idaho, or the remotest areas of Montana. But to be so bold in Utah? At the risk of sounding a bit like Paul Harvey, let's get to the rest of the story (although you might already have guessed how it comes out).
The problem wasn't really with the woman, it was with her neighbors. One of whom repeatedly drove by, snapped her picture (and doesn't photography while you're driving rank right up there with being just as reckless as yakking on your cell phone in traffic?), and hollered inappropriate suggestions to her out his car window. Which she ignored because let's face it, she was obviously smart enough to know that time spent gardening is time well spent, and time spent reasoning with an idiot may as well be deducted from your life and tossed directly into the garbage can. The rest of her neighbors were busy, too. Busy calling the local police force to complain about her lewd activities there in the privacy of her yard. Like bending down to pull weeds, I guess. Or maybe it was the sensuous bend of her wrist as she cranked on the water for the sprinkler, I don't know.
So the police arrived and read the woman the great state of Utah's lewdness statute or some such thing. This statute was conveniently reprinted in the newspaper so that I, and everyone else who read the article, could clearly see exactly what the police must have figured out once they finished reading it to her: That she wasn't in violation of a darned thing. Her suit covered what it was supposed to. She was actually wearing more, she pointed out (and I hope she managed to keep a straighter face when she did it than I was able to in reading about it), than the NBA's Utah Jazz dancers, and the Utah Bikini Team, wore when they performed in public. It wasn't even as if she was 'visually offensive,' she reminded them, and went on to point out that most people thought she was much, much younger than forty (Please count me in this group. It was all I could do, three years her junior, not to clip her picture, adhere it to the fridge with several Pepsi can magnets and scrawl "No More Twinkies Forever" across the front of it in vibrant green permanent marker).
Most stories have happy endings but here on planet Jell-O (yes, earlier this year the state legislature actually took the time to proclaim the green version the official state snack. So, you see? Our tax dollars really are working. Jiggling right along, This Is The Place for the odd and ridiculous. Today's paper carried a follow-up article (but no pictures this time) announcing that the woman's attire had been deemed appropriate and no charges had been filed. However, the police department had been deluged with phone calls since the woman's story hit the news, from people calling in to report other rampant instances of reckless gardening in bathing attire.
You'll have to pardon me if I find this whole thing ridiculous, but I'm clipping that story and adding it to what I call my "Only In Utah" file. This file grows at an alarming rate, but fortunately I found a file box that doubles nicely as an ottoman. I grew up, for the most part, in Berkeley, California. I don't think you could get arrested for gardening in your bikini in Berkeley (unless, of course, what you were growing was illegal). Actually, I don't think you could get arrested for doing much of anything in your bikini in Berkeley, and I'm pretty well convinced there are certain beaches, campgrounds and even a grocery store or two where any kind of clothing is completely optional. So pardon my broadmindedness (which I keep secured under a baseball cap most of the time so that I don't stand out too badly in this beautiful country with the very strange views on right and unforgivable) but we're talking about a woman in a bathing suit here, and that should never have been news.
It will be interesting to see what the world writes about Salt Lake City, once they've come for the games, lived among the natives for a bit, and gotten up close and personal to the local lifestyle. I hope they're kind, because it truly is a wonderful place to live. We're surrounded by beautiful country. The cost of living is a welcome change from the pressures of many other states, and while the crime rate is not Mayberry, R.F.D., a barking dog generally works as well as the most elaborate alarm set-up. It would be nice if the media came for the games and departed after deeming the place something other than 'conservative', the "C" word that makes so many cringe (even as they're running to the phone to report suspicious cleavage on their neighbor's back patio).
I'll keep a positive thought that it might just happen. But we could go a long way toward making it reality by keeping stories about women's gardening attire off the front pages of the Utah section (or any section) and in the editor's wastebasket, where they really belong.
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Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Acceptable Cleavage and Other Impossibilities
There was discussion in this morning's staff meeting about negotiations slated for soon among Those Who Make The Decisions regarding certain aspects of our company dress code as published. Note that this has no bearing and bears no resemblance to our company dress code as actually practiced.
This is a clear indicator to me that warm weather has arrived because we have this same pronouncement every year at about this time. We may couch it in whatever terms we like, whether they be, 'dress code update', 're-evaluation of grooming standards', or 'policy review', but those who have worked here long enough (more than ten minutes) can pretty neatly slice through the semantics and see the real issues:
a)Are naked legs OK? The dress code states a need for stockings. Conversely, it stipulates no tights. Nobody bats an eyelash when tights appear throughout the year (although I very thankfully haven't gone near a pair since the third grade) but the minute the naked legs turn up -- as they do every year at this time, generally in the form of a particularly attractive salesperson whose nickname is 'Legs' for a reason, the debate opens. As if naked legs were horrible. As if they led to all types of evil when in fact they generally only lead to strappy open-toed shoes and those are only really a safety hazard in certain departments.
But because we are an organization and because dissussing, creating, revising, and mandating absurd policies is what organizations do, a decision must be made. Hence the discussions upcoming.
By the time any resolve is reached, I'm confident the warm weather will be long over and very little leg will remain to be seen, naked or not. Therefore, we should police ourselves by our own discretion. Ask yourself a simple question when getting dressed for work: Are your legs naked-worthy? If yes, feel free. If not, cover up. Ever on the fence personally about this issue, I generally compromise and wear thigh high stockings. Not as constricting as nylons but really only a semi-naked approach.
b) The sleevless shirt remains a hot topic. As if it truly matters whether your arms are bare for those scant few minutes you're in your office with the door partially closed and make a move so bold as to remove your jacket. Because jackets are an unalterable MUST. Must be worn at all times when in a public area. Always. I've worked in this industry so long I often wear the jacket with no blouse underneath, not seeing the point, frankly, of the wasted second item of clothing. Removing my jacket to go to bed at night, I've even felt vaguely guilty.
Yet jackets pale in significance when discussed next to Plunging Necklines and Acceptable Cleavage. This too, is revisited each year and I have yet to see a universally applicable standard of acceptable cleavage devised. Speaking personally, I'll accept any kind of cleavage I can pull together because it doesn't come that easily to me. I have several colleagues who have invested a lot of time and even more money into creating their own and I look at it this way: If I put five grand into granite countertops (which I would before I'd put it elsewhere but that's just me), I sure as heck wouldn't cover them up so nobody could see their full impact. And honestly -- I may be going out on a limb here-- but any man who tells you he doesn't want to look at cleavage or scantily-clad breasts is just lying to you.
Bottom line, it's hot outside, we're very busy and running around inside and we should all be conscious of the need to keep as many clothes on as possible while in the workplace.
I'm confident that by December a policy will be drafted to that effect. I am not either holding my breath or worrying too much about it, not having a tendency to under-dress except when going to my condo's pool. Which is fine until you consider that the pool is three buildings to the north and accessed by walking through the center courtyard. I try to remind myself that if I must make the trip in just a towel (the swimsuit doesn't have enough fabric to count as an actual item of clothing) it should be a beach towel and not a skimpy bath towel. All I'm concerned with on my own time is that I'm comfortable. I worry enough about what I'm wearing during the work week that on my own time it's not so much on my radar, if at all. So I have to remind myself that even in situations where there is no dress code you should maintain the semblance of one and even if, being a woman, you intuitively know how to remove your bra without removing your shirt when the day is finally over and you're stuck in traffic, it's probably not the best idea to actually do so.
All that said, I will await the unveiling of our revised dress code, my favorite existing clause being, "No un-natural hair colors" because I can't think of one woman here over the age of thirty who's not in violation of the literal translation on that one. "Natural" does not cost $120 and four hours in a salon every six weeks. Likewise the enforcement of an 'acceptable nail length and color," and 'hair conservatively styled'. That's ambiguous and confusing. I don't know whether to switch to a Republican hairstylist or default to a coiled bun forever.
I'm quite convinced this revision of policies will not happen overnight. Not for those areas petaining to females.
The men's section has been in place for years and I can see no changes needed. While we receive a multi-chapter manual, their dress code is imprinted on a tie tack and simply reads, "Tuck your shirt in and get back to work."
This is a clear indicator to me that warm weather has arrived because we have this same pronouncement every year at about this time. We may couch it in whatever terms we like, whether they be, 'dress code update', 're-evaluation of grooming standards', or 'policy review', but those who have worked here long enough (more than ten minutes) can pretty neatly slice through the semantics and see the real issues:
a)Are naked legs OK? The dress code states a need for stockings. Conversely, it stipulates no tights. Nobody bats an eyelash when tights appear throughout the year (although I very thankfully haven't gone near a pair since the third grade) but the minute the naked legs turn up -- as they do every year at this time, generally in the form of a particularly attractive salesperson whose nickname is 'Legs' for a reason, the debate opens. As if naked legs were horrible. As if they led to all types of evil when in fact they generally only lead to strappy open-toed shoes and those are only really a safety hazard in certain departments.
But because we are an organization and because dissussing, creating, revising, and mandating absurd policies is what organizations do, a decision must be made. Hence the discussions upcoming.
By the time any resolve is reached, I'm confident the warm weather will be long over and very little leg will remain to be seen, naked or not. Therefore, we should police ourselves by our own discretion. Ask yourself a simple question when getting dressed for work: Are your legs naked-worthy? If yes, feel free. If not, cover up. Ever on the fence personally about this issue, I generally compromise and wear thigh high stockings. Not as constricting as nylons but really only a semi-naked approach.
b) The sleevless shirt remains a hot topic. As if it truly matters whether your arms are bare for those scant few minutes you're in your office with the door partially closed and make a move so bold as to remove your jacket. Because jackets are an unalterable MUST. Must be worn at all times when in a public area. Always. I've worked in this industry so long I often wear the jacket with no blouse underneath, not seeing the point, frankly, of the wasted second item of clothing. Removing my jacket to go to bed at night, I've even felt vaguely guilty.
Yet jackets pale in significance when discussed next to Plunging Necklines and Acceptable Cleavage. This too, is revisited each year and I have yet to see a universally applicable standard of acceptable cleavage devised. Speaking personally, I'll accept any kind of cleavage I can pull together because it doesn't come that easily to me. I have several colleagues who have invested a lot of time and even more money into creating their own and I look at it this way: If I put five grand into granite countertops (which I would before I'd put it elsewhere but that's just me), I sure as heck wouldn't cover them up so nobody could see their full impact. And honestly -- I may be going out on a limb here-- but any man who tells you he doesn't want to look at cleavage or scantily-clad breasts is just lying to you.
Bottom line, it's hot outside, we're very busy and running around inside and we should all be conscious of the need to keep as many clothes on as possible while in the workplace.
I'm confident that by December a policy will be drafted to that effect. I am not either holding my breath or worrying too much about it, not having a tendency to under-dress except when going to my condo's pool. Which is fine until you consider that the pool is three buildings to the north and accessed by walking through the center courtyard. I try to remind myself that if I must make the trip in just a towel (the swimsuit doesn't have enough fabric to count as an actual item of clothing) it should be a beach towel and not a skimpy bath towel. All I'm concerned with on my own time is that I'm comfortable. I worry enough about what I'm wearing during the work week that on my own time it's not so much on my radar, if at all. So I have to remind myself that even in situations where there is no dress code you should maintain the semblance of one and even if, being a woman, you intuitively know how to remove your bra without removing your shirt when the day is finally over and you're stuck in traffic, it's probably not the best idea to actually do so.
All that said, I will await the unveiling of our revised dress code, my favorite existing clause being, "No un-natural hair colors" because I can't think of one woman here over the age of thirty who's not in violation of the literal translation on that one. "Natural" does not cost $120 and four hours in a salon every six weeks. Likewise the enforcement of an 'acceptable nail length and color," and 'hair conservatively styled'. That's ambiguous and confusing. I don't know whether to switch to a Republican hairstylist or default to a coiled bun forever.
I'm quite convinced this revision of policies will not happen overnight. Not for those areas petaining to females.
The men's section has been in place for years and I can see no changes needed. While we receive a multi-chapter manual, their dress code is imprinted on a tie tack and simply reads, "Tuck your shirt in and get back to work."
Anything For The Dog
About a month ago I came across a very intriguing profile on Match.com, forgot everything I'd learned by being on that site (see below) and sent an 'electronic wink' into the universe thus making the acquaintance of someone who has quite frankly turned and continues to turn my world upside down in an entirely wonderful way.
The wink itself, fortuitous as it wound up being, would never have happened had I taken a moment to reflect upon my experiences with Match com dates. Without rehashing too many details I will simply list a few things I learned along the way:
a) Beware of any man who lists his height as 5' 7", 5'8", or 5'9". This man is 5'5" with very few exceptions (the most notable of which being the man who is even shorter than your own 5'2"). Note that I am not prejudiced against short people, having been one my entire life. What I am against are outright fabrications such as lying about your height. Sooner or later, say -- the moment you meet -- the truth is coming out, so why not just be honest in the first place? I don't go around saying I am 5'4" or have ever been able to see what's on top of my fridge without a stepladder.
b) Never meet for dinner unless you're planning to pick up the check. Or at least insisting on it. Maybe this should be rephrased, something like, 'be careful with the man who insists on paying, orders for both of you, and says more than once that he really enjoys paying the expense of a truly fine meal. It could just be my less than stellar luck but I experienced this a few times and each time, although I read the menu quite thoroughly and did not see myself listed, my dates erroneously assumed that somehow I was to be served up with the coffee.
c) Do not go out with the man who is 'still processing' a past relationship. While this may initially strike you as a sensitive statement clearly demonstrating he is not a 'love them and leave them' guy but honestly cares to insure full closure before moving forward, this is not what it is. What it is is the man who will be nearly in tears before the entree arrives and who will inspire you to offer what little you know -- not knowing either him or his lost love that well and at all -- about how to patch things up, move forward, and ride off together into the proverbial sunset. You will pick up the check because you feel like it's at least a nice gesture. You will return home and be sorry you missed a great Heather Locklear movie on Lifetime while you were out.
d) Do not agree to meet the man whose profile pictures are 'a little out of date' unless you are prepared to meet his grandfather outside the coffee house. I'm OK with dark hair that is gray in reality. Dark hair that has disappeared altogether is another story.
I could go on but those are probably the key points. I don't want to make it appear all bad because nothing is all bad. There were some enjoyable dates. Give or take the one who was married and the one or two who really just wanted to date as many women as possible.
I was maybe a little disillusioned when I sent that wink but not for one minute was I entirely skeptical. I put the same faith into romance that I put into every Michener novel I read: It may bog down a bit in the beginning but there's always a good chance the story may be great in the long run.
I had dinner with this person, whom I will call Roy mainly because I would like the name to be limited to one syllable and preferably to begin with an R. This was a little over one month ago (I can even tell you the exact date, the location, what I ate and what I was wearing right down to accessories but if I do that you might start thinking -- and deservedly so -- that I am one of those hopeless romantics who remembers such things) and as I mentioned, it's been wonderful but also in many ways, completely out of character.
I have missed more than one Monday night book club and finally emailed Sara today, letting her know I would need to alter my schedule and attend only one Monday per month. Which she was perfectly OK with and the only caveat she held me to is that I will have to host that meeting at my place, it will cost me an extra bottle of wine, and for sure there would be no excuse for ever not finishing a book, not even if she picked another Norman Mailer to put me to sleep in the first two chapters.
Wednesday nights are Emmanuel's and now are becoming Tuesday nights because Holly's babysitter schedule changed. These nights are important. Not only do I refresh my own understanding of kindergarten vocabulary words and update my checker playing strategies, I get to spend a few hours with a wonderful friend and have the universe -- or parts of it -- explained to me by her kids. Taken altogether it's not quite as awesome as say, Christmas mornings, but it comes very close.
Wednesday night is now unscheduled. If, that is, you remove laundry, shopping, and other errands.
Thursday is writer's group. I can miss here or there -- but can't imagine ever giving it up.
Then you factor in the Basic Work Schedule as opposed to the Work Schedule Determined by Client Needs (aka the 'forward your mail to the office until the program concludes schedule) and I find myself facing not a dilemma but a situation I haven't encountered in years. Nearly nineteen of them:
Much as I can tend to be somewhat of a creature of habit and upholder of routines, I very much would like to have more time available to spend with Roy. Because I have enjoyed every moment of the time I have spent with him, blocks of time so long in duration and so out of character for me that Lainie has taken to calling me "Ms. Never Home" on the rare occasions we meet in the foyer. The last several weeks of my life have been so uncompletely like me that even Holly asked where in the world I'd put my personal space and then added she hoped it stayed missing for a long time.
I can't really speak to that but I will say it's been, and continues to be, a happy time for me. And as I'm constitutionally endowed with not just a right but a patriotic obligation to pursue happiness, I fully intend to continue doing so.
Not just for me, but for Basil who, much as she loves me, has been a bit down in the dumps when not in the company of the man who shares not only his furniture but his cheeseburger and fries.
I can't blame her, just console her with Beggin' Strips and Chicken Jerky. A lot of Beggin' Strips and a lot of Chicken Jerky. So with that in mind, anyone can clearly see a rearrangement of my schedule and routines is needed. I'd do just about anything to keep my dog from getting fat and she can really only handle so much consolation.
The wink itself, fortuitous as it wound up being, would never have happened had I taken a moment to reflect upon my experiences with Match com dates. Without rehashing too many details I will simply list a few things I learned along the way:
a) Beware of any man who lists his height as 5' 7", 5'8", or 5'9". This man is 5'5" with very few exceptions (the most notable of which being the man who is even shorter than your own 5'2"). Note that I am not prejudiced against short people, having been one my entire life. What I am against are outright fabrications such as lying about your height. Sooner or later, say -- the moment you meet -- the truth is coming out, so why not just be honest in the first place? I don't go around saying I am 5'4" or have ever been able to see what's on top of my fridge without a stepladder.
b) Never meet for dinner unless you're planning to pick up the check. Or at least insisting on it. Maybe this should be rephrased, something like, 'be careful with the man who insists on paying, orders for both of you, and says more than once that he really enjoys paying the expense of a truly fine meal. It could just be my less than stellar luck but I experienced this a few times and each time, although I read the menu quite thoroughly and did not see myself listed, my dates erroneously assumed that somehow I was to be served up with the coffee.
c) Do not go out with the man who is 'still processing' a past relationship. While this may initially strike you as a sensitive statement clearly demonstrating he is not a 'love them and leave them' guy but honestly cares to insure full closure before moving forward, this is not what it is. What it is is the man who will be nearly in tears before the entree arrives and who will inspire you to offer what little you know -- not knowing either him or his lost love that well and at all -- about how to patch things up, move forward, and ride off together into the proverbial sunset. You will pick up the check because you feel like it's at least a nice gesture. You will return home and be sorry you missed a great Heather Locklear movie on Lifetime while you were out.
d) Do not agree to meet the man whose profile pictures are 'a little out of date' unless you are prepared to meet his grandfather outside the coffee house. I'm OK with dark hair that is gray in reality. Dark hair that has disappeared altogether is another story.
I could go on but those are probably the key points. I don't want to make it appear all bad because nothing is all bad. There were some enjoyable dates. Give or take the one who was married and the one or two who really just wanted to date as many women as possible.
I was maybe a little disillusioned when I sent that wink but not for one minute was I entirely skeptical. I put the same faith into romance that I put into every Michener novel I read: It may bog down a bit in the beginning but there's always a good chance the story may be great in the long run.
I had dinner with this person, whom I will call Roy mainly because I would like the name to be limited to one syllable and preferably to begin with an R. This was a little over one month ago (I can even tell you the exact date, the location, what I ate and what I was wearing right down to accessories but if I do that you might start thinking -- and deservedly so -- that I am one of those hopeless romantics who remembers such things) and as I mentioned, it's been wonderful but also in many ways, completely out of character.
I have missed more than one Monday night book club and finally emailed Sara today, letting her know I would need to alter my schedule and attend only one Monday per month. Which she was perfectly OK with and the only caveat she held me to is that I will have to host that meeting at my place, it will cost me an extra bottle of wine, and for sure there would be no excuse for ever not finishing a book, not even if she picked another Norman Mailer to put me to sleep in the first two chapters.
Wednesday nights are Emmanuel's and now are becoming Tuesday nights because Holly's babysitter schedule changed. These nights are important. Not only do I refresh my own understanding of kindergarten vocabulary words and update my checker playing strategies, I get to spend a few hours with a wonderful friend and have the universe -- or parts of it -- explained to me by her kids. Taken altogether it's not quite as awesome as say, Christmas mornings, but it comes very close.
Wednesday night is now unscheduled. If, that is, you remove laundry, shopping, and other errands.
Thursday is writer's group. I can miss here or there -- but can't imagine ever giving it up.
Then you factor in the Basic Work Schedule as opposed to the Work Schedule Determined by Client Needs (aka the 'forward your mail to the office until the program concludes schedule) and I find myself facing not a dilemma but a situation I haven't encountered in years. Nearly nineteen of them:
Much as I can tend to be somewhat of a creature of habit and upholder of routines, I very much would like to have more time available to spend with Roy. Because I have enjoyed every moment of the time I have spent with him, blocks of time so long in duration and so out of character for me that Lainie has taken to calling me "Ms. Never Home" on the rare occasions we meet in the foyer. The last several weeks of my life have been so uncompletely like me that even Holly asked where in the world I'd put my personal space and then added she hoped it stayed missing for a long time.
I can't really speak to that but I will say it's been, and continues to be, a happy time for me. And as I'm constitutionally endowed with not just a right but a patriotic obligation to pursue happiness, I fully intend to continue doing so.
Not just for me, but for Basil who, much as she loves me, has been a bit down in the dumps when not in the company of the man who shares not only his furniture but his cheeseburger and fries.
I can't blame her, just console her with Beggin' Strips and Chicken Jerky. A lot of Beggin' Strips and a lot of Chicken Jerky. So with that in mind, anyone can clearly see a rearrangement of my schedule and routines is needed. I'd do just about anything to keep my dog from getting fat and she can really only handle so much consolation.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Sleepless On Sunday
I wish I was my dog.
I'm looking at Basil right this minute and she's curled up at the foot of the bed with her head tucked over her Blue Monkey, her Most Loved Stuffed Animal Du Jour, and she's sleeping. Really sleeping hard. Sleeping so hard she didn't even move when I threw the bedspread over the top of her, crawled out of bed and went in search of something to read a few minutes ago. Sleeping so hard she didn't budge when I crawled back in two minutes ago carrying last week's People magazine, a Newsweek from last month, and Maureen McCormick's very sad tell-all book (as if anybody other than myself really cares to hear the story about someone from the Brady Bunch cast of the late nineteen sixties)published last year.
I would like to wake my dog and ask her to clue me in on just how it is that she sleeps so well on a Sunday night. So I poked her with my foot and she responded by snuggling closer to my foot, stretching in her sleep, and letting loose with a long, slow snore that told me as clearly as if she could speak that any inquiries I had needed to wait until the snooze alarm woke us both.
Sleep eludes me.
I normally sleep -- pardon the tired pun -- like a rock. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. It doesn't matter what I'm doing, where I am, or what I'm thinking or not thinking about. There's something that just happens when my head hits a pillow, and I'm out.
It's really kind of nice.
Everything changes on Sunday.
On Sunday evenings, I think about sleep. I even plan for sleep, quite often configuring my schedule so that by late afternoon I'm home, I have nothing on my schedule, and I'm free to read, watch TV...free really to do anything at all that will keep my mind quiet and allow me to think about sleep. Having already laid out something to wear to work on Monday morning, right down to the earrings, I have nothing on my mind to distract me and you'd think I'd sleep like...
Well, like the Monday through Saturday rock.
Quite often, I do.
The problem being, I do sometime after five p.m and prior to eleven p.m, when I inevitably fall asleep in a chair or on the couch, reading a book or watching TV and sometimes doing both simultaneously. Which means once I wake up it's time to go to bed and I'm as awake as if the alarm had just clanged six a.m. and it's Monday morning.
This evening is no exception.
Nearly midnight on a Sunday night is no time to be dead awake in the Old Dutch Village Condominiums. There's just nothing to listen to. Even with the bedroom window wide open the traffic noise from the boulevard is minimal. Chad upstairs takes Sunday nights off, or seems to, from serial dating, so there's no laughter, dropped wine glasses, or hysterical tears from the third floor or the stairwell to keep my ears awake. I find myself faced with a series of choices:
I can log into Netflix, and watch a TV show or movie;
I can wake Basil up, and take her for a walk;
I can read;
I can pretend I'm tired and hope that eventually, I am.
I choose, as I always do, the latter. Mainly because I've already watched everything on Netflix that can be watched free of charge (as I mentioned, this Sunday night insomnia is not a new thing), Basil is grouchy and therefore no fun on a walk she was awaken to take and never fails to pay me back by pacing back and forth across my stomach at four a.m., when I've finally gotten to sleep, the book I'm reading is boring enough to make me sad that I bought it but not boring enough to put me to sleep, and I've always been a big believer that if you toss and turn long enough eventually this will result in sleep and as an added plus provides a low-impact aerobic workout that just has to be good for you.
So I commence tossing and turning.
It's midnight.
In about three hours, if I hold true to past behavior, I will be asleep. I will gladly wake when the alarm goes off, stumble to the shower and begin the work week, very glad it's Monday.
Because Monday Day means Monday night isn't far behind, and Monday night means I will sleep like the proverbial rock.
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday I will do the same.
It's just Sundays that throw me and I may never know why.
At least at this point, with a boring book beside me and a tossed and turned pillow under my head, I know I have all night to think about it.
I'm looking at Basil right this minute and she's curled up at the foot of the bed with her head tucked over her Blue Monkey, her Most Loved Stuffed Animal Du Jour, and she's sleeping. Really sleeping hard. Sleeping so hard she didn't even move when I threw the bedspread over the top of her, crawled out of bed and went in search of something to read a few minutes ago. Sleeping so hard she didn't budge when I crawled back in two minutes ago carrying last week's People magazine, a Newsweek from last month, and Maureen McCormick's very sad tell-all book (as if anybody other than myself really cares to hear the story about someone from the Brady Bunch cast of the late nineteen sixties)published last year.
I would like to wake my dog and ask her to clue me in on just how it is that she sleeps so well on a Sunday night. So I poked her with my foot and she responded by snuggling closer to my foot, stretching in her sleep, and letting loose with a long, slow snore that told me as clearly as if she could speak that any inquiries I had needed to wait until the snooze alarm woke us both.
Sleep eludes me.
I normally sleep -- pardon the tired pun -- like a rock. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. It doesn't matter what I'm doing, where I am, or what I'm thinking or not thinking about. There's something that just happens when my head hits a pillow, and I'm out.
It's really kind of nice.
Everything changes on Sunday.
On Sunday evenings, I think about sleep. I even plan for sleep, quite often configuring my schedule so that by late afternoon I'm home, I have nothing on my schedule, and I'm free to read, watch TV...free really to do anything at all that will keep my mind quiet and allow me to think about sleep. Having already laid out something to wear to work on Monday morning, right down to the earrings, I have nothing on my mind to distract me and you'd think I'd sleep like...
Well, like the Monday through Saturday rock.
Quite often, I do.
The problem being, I do sometime after five p.m and prior to eleven p.m, when I inevitably fall asleep in a chair or on the couch, reading a book or watching TV and sometimes doing both simultaneously. Which means once I wake up it's time to go to bed and I'm as awake as if the alarm had just clanged six a.m. and it's Monday morning.
This evening is no exception.
Nearly midnight on a Sunday night is no time to be dead awake in the Old Dutch Village Condominiums. There's just nothing to listen to. Even with the bedroom window wide open the traffic noise from the boulevard is minimal. Chad upstairs takes Sunday nights off, or seems to, from serial dating, so there's no laughter, dropped wine glasses, or hysterical tears from the third floor or the stairwell to keep my ears awake. I find myself faced with a series of choices:
I can log into Netflix, and watch a TV show or movie;
I can wake Basil up, and take her for a walk;
I can read;
I can pretend I'm tired and hope that eventually, I am.
I choose, as I always do, the latter. Mainly because I've already watched everything on Netflix that can be watched free of charge (as I mentioned, this Sunday night insomnia is not a new thing), Basil is grouchy and therefore no fun on a walk she was awaken to take and never fails to pay me back by pacing back and forth across my stomach at four a.m., when I've finally gotten to sleep, the book I'm reading is boring enough to make me sad that I bought it but not boring enough to put me to sleep, and I've always been a big believer that if you toss and turn long enough eventually this will result in sleep and as an added plus provides a low-impact aerobic workout that just has to be good for you.
So I commence tossing and turning.
It's midnight.
In about three hours, if I hold true to past behavior, I will be asleep. I will gladly wake when the alarm goes off, stumble to the shower and begin the work week, very glad it's Monday.
Because Monday Day means Monday night isn't far behind, and Monday night means I will sleep like the proverbial rock.
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday I will do the same.
It's just Sundays that throw me and I may never know why.
At least at this point, with a boring book beside me and a tossed and turned pillow under my head, I know I have all night to think about it.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Five Emails
Less than a month ago I said a few words about my oldest sister who in the course of one phone call disowned me completely and swore never to speak to me again. At the time I observed that this was not a new occurrence and I fully anticipated that at some point I would hear from her again.
Because I always do.
She tends to pop up in my life with all the persistence and regularity of those 'Absolutely Last Chance to Renew' notices I get in the mail from various magazines.
My sister popped up this afternoon.
I was taking a moment to check home email from work and there they were: A string of five emails, sent yesterday within a half hour of each other.
Email Number One was pleasant enough but not what you'd expect from someone who had disowned you. She loved me, she wanted to know how I was.
Email Number Two was still pleasant but slightly less so. Perhaps I hadn't responded to Email Number One because I didn't love her quite as much as she loved me.
Email Number Three took the gloves off. Short and pointed, it let me know I was selfish, self-centered, and had been since birth.
Email Number Four reminded me again that I was selfish, thoughtless, and moreover not even a nice person but she would always love me regardless and always had. If I didn't recognize what a good friend she was to me, I was just a total (all caps for emphasis) fool.
Email Number Five invited me to to drop dead and hinted not so subtly that my parents had always loved her best, anyway.
I scrolled through to Email Number One and replied that it was good to hear from her. All was well with me and I hoped she was enjoying a nice east coast spring.
I was never so happy to return to work email. Clients who want me to write menus and stage four hundred people in a room with a max capacity of seventy-five are issues that make sense to me.
Deciphering a Drama Queen is not.
Oddly enough, I've discovered I'm not alone in this familial quandary, as there seems to be at least one person in every family who remains addicted to their own self-created turmoil. Diane makes me feel much better by sharing tales of her own sister's inter-family grudges and laments of mistreatment. Lainie has a brother who is only on speaking terms with the family two weeks pre and post every holiday or event that involves the receipt of gifts or the possibility of a gratuitous meal.
My sister's behavior baffles me but doesn't necessarily bother me and what dawned on me today as I realized I felt no inclination whatsoever to respond to any but Email Number One is that you come to a certain point in life where you've done all you can for people and just because they're family doesn't obligate you to give them much of your energy.
I feel sad for my sister.
But not so sad that it's going to carry over into my life.
It's a wonderful thing to frankly be too busy to bog down in the ridiculous.
As previously observed, there will always be a part of me that believes my sister truly was left on my parent's doorstep in 1962 and accidentally brought inside with that day's dairy delivery, but I know better. We're related. We even look alike to a certain extent (give or take five bra sizes. I like to say my brain is larger and thus compensates for where I was otherwise shorted). I've got some great memories of growing up with her, everything from playing Barbies for hours on end to having her show me how to apply eye make-up in the seventh grade (Dad just as quickly showed me how to un-apply it when I turned up at the dinner table looking like a sad cross between Phyllis Diller and Rocky Raccoon). My big sister was my guardian angel when I started high school. Just as she had always been. She looked out for me and there truly was a time we were the best of friends.
I'm not sure when that changed but choose not to dwell on it. People grow up and people grow apart and this is true whether you have the same parents or not.
I have a feeling I'm officially disowned again but to be honest, I'd like for her to read my response to Email Number One and somehow forget she sent the other four. They weren't very pleasant to receive so I can only imagine how unhappy they were to send.
That, I don't wish on her.
What can I say, she's still my sister.
Because I always do.
She tends to pop up in my life with all the persistence and regularity of those 'Absolutely Last Chance to Renew' notices I get in the mail from various magazines.
My sister popped up this afternoon.
I was taking a moment to check home email from work and there they were: A string of five emails, sent yesterday within a half hour of each other.
Email Number One was pleasant enough but not what you'd expect from someone who had disowned you. She loved me, she wanted to know how I was.
Email Number Two was still pleasant but slightly less so. Perhaps I hadn't responded to Email Number One because I didn't love her quite as much as she loved me.
Email Number Three took the gloves off. Short and pointed, it let me know I was selfish, self-centered, and had been since birth.
Email Number Four reminded me again that I was selfish, thoughtless, and moreover not even a nice person but she would always love me regardless and always had. If I didn't recognize what a good friend she was to me, I was just a total (all caps for emphasis) fool.
Email Number Five invited me to to drop dead and hinted not so subtly that my parents had always loved her best, anyway.
I scrolled through to Email Number One and replied that it was good to hear from her. All was well with me and I hoped she was enjoying a nice east coast spring.
I was never so happy to return to work email. Clients who want me to write menus and stage four hundred people in a room with a max capacity of seventy-five are issues that make sense to me.
Deciphering a Drama Queen is not.
Oddly enough, I've discovered I'm not alone in this familial quandary, as there seems to be at least one person in every family who remains addicted to their own self-created turmoil. Diane makes me feel much better by sharing tales of her own sister's inter-family grudges and laments of mistreatment. Lainie has a brother who is only on speaking terms with the family two weeks pre and post every holiday or event that involves the receipt of gifts or the possibility of a gratuitous meal.
My sister's behavior baffles me but doesn't necessarily bother me and what dawned on me today as I realized I felt no inclination whatsoever to respond to any but Email Number One is that you come to a certain point in life where you've done all you can for people and just because they're family doesn't obligate you to give them much of your energy.
I feel sad for my sister.
But not so sad that it's going to carry over into my life.
It's a wonderful thing to frankly be too busy to bog down in the ridiculous.
As previously observed, there will always be a part of me that believes my sister truly was left on my parent's doorstep in 1962 and accidentally brought inside with that day's dairy delivery, but I know better. We're related. We even look alike to a certain extent (give or take five bra sizes. I like to say my brain is larger and thus compensates for where I was otherwise shorted). I've got some great memories of growing up with her, everything from playing Barbies for hours on end to having her show me how to apply eye make-up in the seventh grade (Dad just as quickly showed me how to un-apply it when I turned up at the dinner table looking like a sad cross between Phyllis Diller and Rocky Raccoon). My big sister was my guardian angel when I started high school. Just as she had always been. She looked out for me and there truly was a time we were the best of friends.
I'm not sure when that changed but choose not to dwell on it. People grow up and people grow apart and this is true whether you have the same parents or not.
I have a feeling I'm officially disowned again but to be honest, I'd like for her to read my response to Email Number One and somehow forget she sent the other four. They weren't very pleasant to receive so I can only imagine how unhappy they were to send.
That, I don't wish on her.
What can I say, she's still my sister.
The End of Something That Wasn't
So Claire and Max, never mind I predicted they'd be great together, aren't together. Today or ever.
There you have it: I'm no expert at calling how these things will work out and I hereby advise Claire to disregard any further predictions that I make.
The first date had been good, as I mentioned. They met for drinks, laughed a lot, and although his texts and calls were a little off-putting (they came by the dozen) Claire, being a fair-minded person, gave him another chance.
"If you feel he's moving too fast," I told her, "tell him so. If you like him. Just be honest."
So they met for drinks, and it was OK. Until he reached across the table, she said, to comment on her bracelet and somehow took hold of her wrist and then her hand in a way that was, she said, "just creepy" after a few minutes.
She retrieved her wrist and the conversation resumed and everything went well enough that she accepted his offer to see his house and meet his dog.
Being a dog-lover myself, I can see why she went.
Seemed safe enough.
Until once inside his house he was, she said, more or less immediately 'in her face' and apparently attempting to also put his face down her throat.
So she brought forth the honesty again and told him that was a little much and somehow managed to settle herself into a recliner while he brought the dog in and sat on the couch.
Which would have been OK because the dog was cute and the conversation resumed and I guess at about the time she thought the evening may be OK after all it more or less hopped the express bus to hell.
Having let him know again that she was uncomfortable moving at high speeds and having received his assurance that he understood completely and would absolutely not rush her in any way, she was disappointed when moments later he'd left the couch, settled himself on the floor next to her chair and was fondling her leg with the same dedication he'd recently shown her bracelet.
"It dawned on me," she said, "that this could end badly."
Claire is not a dumb woman and I personally applaud her next move, which was to look at her watch, appear surprised at the time it revealed and get out the door and to her car with as minimal a goodbye as possible.
Which isn't to say that Max didn't exhort her many times over to call when she got home and let him know when they could see each other again, and it isn't to say she didn't have four texts from him in the ten minutes it took her to drive home.
"Yuck," I said when the story ended. It pretty much summed it up better than any word I knew or could manufacture.
So Claire and Max are done.
I reminded her there were good men out there (unless I've managed to find the last one, that is. I hope not, for her sake).
But Claire is 'over it' as she put it and I understand that very well, having experienced the same thing myself and having decided one Friday evening to delete all emails I had from Match and hang it up for a while.
I have no idea why, that same weekend, I spent five minutes on my own search (my criteria was simple and basically translated as, 'male actually over 5'6", single, within 25 miles of my zip code') and I may never understand why the universe answered my request with someone so wonderful. Even unflappable Holly is shocked. "He's really real," she said again today, as if someone with his personality and demeanor couldn't actually exist but must be a figment of both of our imaginations.
I thought about encouraging Claire to try again but decided against it. My 'good advice' had her giving Max a second chance in the first place.
I think even I know when it's time to keep my mouth shut.
So I just reminded her we were overdue for one of our late Sunday breakfasts at the cafe and changed the subject to our upcoming Lake Powell trip and what we needed to bring.
Debating the relative merits of OFF! vs. Skin So Soft is easy.
Deciphering men and women is something completely different.
There you have it: I'm no expert at calling how these things will work out and I hereby advise Claire to disregard any further predictions that I make.
The first date had been good, as I mentioned. They met for drinks, laughed a lot, and although his texts and calls were a little off-putting (they came by the dozen) Claire, being a fair-minded person, gave him another chance.
"If you feel he's moving too fast," I told her, "tell him so. If you like him. Just be honest."
So they met for drinks, and it was OK. Until he reached across the table, she said, to comment on her bracelet and somehow took hold of her wrist and then her hand in a way that was, she said, "just creepy" after a few minutes.
She retrieved her wrist and the conversation resumed and everything went well enough that she accepted his offer to see his house and meet his dog.
Being a dog-lover myself, I can see why she went.
Seemed safe enough.
Until once inside his house he was, she said, more or less immediately 'in her face' and apparently attempting to also put his face down her throat.
So she brought forth the honesty again and told him that was a little much and somehow managed to settle herself into a recliner while he brought the dog in and sat on the couch.
Which would have been OK because the dog was cute and the conversation resumed and I guess at about the time she thought the evening may be OK after all it more or less hopped the express bus to hell.
Having let him know again that she was uncomfortable moving at high speeds and having received his assurance that he understood completely and would absolutely not rush her in any way, she was disappointed when moments later he'd left the couch, settled himself on the floor next to her chair and was fondling her leg with the same dedication he'd recently shown her bracelet.
"It dawned on me," she said, "that this could end badly."
Claire is not a dumb woman and I personally applaud her next move, which was to look at her watch, appear surprised at the time it revealed and get out the door and to her car with as minimal a goodbye as possible.
Which isn't to say that Max didn't exhort her many times over to call when she got home and let him know when they could see each other again, and it isn't to say she didn't have four texts from him in the ten minutes it took her to drive home.
"Yuck," I said when the story ended. It pretty much summed it up better than any word I knew or could manufacture.
So Claire and Max are done.
I reminded her there were good men out there (unless I've managed to find the last one, that is. I hope not, for her sake).
But Claire is 'over it' as she put it and I understand that very well, having experienced the same thing myself and having decided one Friday evening to delete all emails I had from Match and hang it up for a while.
I have no idea why, that same weekend, I spent five minutes on my own search (my criteria was simple and basically translated as, 'male actually over 5'6", single, within 25 miles of my zip code') and I may never understand why the universe answered my request with someone so wonderful. Even unflappable Holly is shocked. "He's really real," she said again today, as if someone with his personality and demeanor couldn't actually exist but must be a figment of both of our imaginations.
I thought about encouraging Claire to try again but decided against it. My 'good advice' had her giving Max a second chance in the first place.
I think even I know when it's time to keep my mouth shut.
So I just reminded her we were overdue for one of our late Sunday breakfasts at the cafe and changed the subject to our upcoming Lake Powell trip and what we needed to bring.
Debating the relative merits of OFF! vs. Skin So Soft is easy.
Deciphering men and women is something completely different.
(Don't Wait To Be Asked), Just Tell
If you spend any time at all on match.com and have any girlfriends at all who do the same, eventually the inevitable happens and you find yourself exchanging email swith someone who has also exchanged emails with a girlfriend of yours. When this happens you have an immediate irrefutable obligation to share any pertinent information you have about this person, up to and including voicing a clear and succinct, "Friends do not let friends go out with this guy."
Lainie was very clear about this when I let her know last winter about some emails I had received and a date planned for a Tuesday evening.
"There's no way you're going out with him. The man's got more hands than an octopus and less brain cells than a hamster."
Not quite believing an octopus had actual hands and entirely sure she'd never audited a hamster's brain cells, I had to push the issue. "He seems very nice. I should give him a chance."
"You should give him a whack upside the head," she said, "and if you go out with him I've got one for you. Trust me."
"But I still think - "
This warranted a dramatic rolling of the eyes which is what Lainie does when she's just about at the end of her patience. I'd seen the look many times on weeks where she had her two pre-teen boys at home. "OK, fine. I wasn't going to tell you this but here you go. He's married. He's just not real up front about that."
"Well why didn't you just say so?"
"I didn't want to discourage you. You know, have you start questioning your judgment or anything."
As if that would happen. Unless, of course, she suggested that it might.
I went home, sent off a fictionalized, 'sorry, but I've met someone and would really like to see where it goes...' to Mr. Married Man and avoided logging onto that site for the next three weeks. Bad enough I couldn't intuit those who were actually 6' as listed and turned out to be 5'6" and the borderline manic depressives whose profiles referenced them as 'upbeat' and 'positive' and then cried during dinner, from those actually upbeat and positive. Apparently now I couldn't even discern the married from the single.
Still, I appreciated the advance warning.
Having met someone incredible, I am no longer on the dating site but still respect the unwritten rule of information sharing otherwise known as 'Don't Wait To Ask, Just Tell'. So when Claire came by my office last Friday and mentioned she had a date lined up that evening with an athletic coach at the nearby university, I immediately said, "You're going out with Max?"
"How do you know?" But she did know, and gave me a look that said, 'spill it'.
"He's very cute," I offered. "I think you two would be cute together."
She waved that off. "And--?"
"Well, I only went out with him once," I said. "We met for breakfast on a Saturday." I shrugged, trying to pull anything remarkable from the morning and retrieving nothing. "I don't think I was his type, Claire. I mean, he never emailed again, his texts stopped and honestly, it didn't hurt my feelings. I think the only thing we really had in common was our dogs."
"The pug." She produced her cell phone and there he was.
"The pug who goes to Little Dogs Day Care."
"What else?"
I really couldn't think of anything. "Claire, you'll like him."
"He texts -- a lot. And emails a lot. And he calls a lot."
OK, that rang a bell. I remembered that part and it was fine, albeit past a certain point felt more like surveillance than an actual expression of interest.
"Go and have fun," I finally said. "Like I said, I think you'll like him."
Friday came and went and when I saw her Saturday she seemed upbeat enough. They'd met for a drink, laughed -- a lot -- and he'd wanted to see her that night too, but she had plans to go to a barbecue.
Today's update was a bit bleaker. He'd called, she said, nine times while she was at the barbecue. Texted fifteen times. They were meeting for drinks tonight and she didn't know what to tell him.
"Get an unlimited plan with your cell phone or give me some room?" I offered, and then added, "if you like him, let him know you're feeling a little..."
"Stalked?"
"Overwhelmed," I corrected. "You do like him, right?"
"Well, I could like him. I really could."
I digested that because I'd been there myself. Claire may not yet have reached the point I came to that a second date was a great idea, but not if I hadn't really been struck by someone. Maybe I'd become cynical, overly picky or skeptical (Lainie said all three) but life was too short and I did have a lot of books at home I hadn't read yet. Claire wasn't there yet but she was a smart woman and she'd figure it out. If you never settle for anything less than that connection you'd like to find, it'smuch more apt to find its way to you.
Hence my current situation of being not on that site and therefore of little help in dispensing my thoughts on various profiles to my friends who are.
I don't miss it.
But I don't regret having been on there in the first place. As I said, I've met someone. I haven't written anything, really, about him and in all honesty perhaps there's a part of me that doesn't want to jinx the happiness the universe has besowed by putting him into words. Even Holly gets only limited details and she's about the most persistent person I know and expert at interrogation. I can't even have Diet Coke for fear of her reaction, let me put it that way.
We will see how this evening works out for Claire. I hope she and Max can come to an understanding. And if not, I'm sure eventually she'll be found by what she's looking for.
Call me a romantic, but I think the universe kind of rolls that way.
Lainie was very clear about this when I let her know last winter about some emails I had received and a date planned for a Tuesday evening.
"There's no way you're going out with him. The man's got more hands than an octopus and less brain cells than a hamster."
Not quite believing an octopus had actual hands and entirely sure she'd never audited a hamster's brain cells, I had to push the issue. "He seems very nice. I should give him a chance."
"You should give him a whack upside the head," she said, "and if you go out with him I've got one for you. Trust me."
"But I still think - "
This warranted a dramatic rolling of the eyes which is what Lainie does when she's just about at the end of her patience. I'd seen the look many times on weeks where she had her two pre-teen boys at home. "OK, fine. I wasn't going to tell you this but here you go. He's married. He's just not real up front about that."
"Well why didn't you just say so?"
"I didn't want to discourage you. You know, have you start questioning your judgment or anything."
As if that would happen. Unless, of course, she suggested that it might.
I went home, sent off a fictionalized, 'sorry, but I've met someone and would really like to see where it goes...' to Mr. Married Man and avoided logging onto that site for the next three weeks. Bad enough I couldn't intuit those who were actually 6' as listed and turned out to be 5'6" and the borderline manic depressives whose profiles referenced them as 'upbeat' and 'positive' and then cried during dinner, from those actually upbeat and positive. Apparently now I couldn't even discern the married from the single.
Still, I appreciated the advance warning.
Having met someone incredible, I am no longer on the dating site but still respect the unwritten rule of information sharing otherwise known as 'Don't Wait To Ask, Just Tell'. So when Claire came by my office last Friday and mentioned she had a date lined up that evening with an athletic coach at the nearby university, I immediately said, "You're going out with Max?"
"How do you know?" But she did know, and gave me a look that said, 'spill it'.
"He's very cute," I offered. "I think you two would be cute together."
She waved that off. "And--?"
"Well, I only went out with him once," I said. "We met for breakfast on a Saturday." I shrugged, trying to pull anything remarkable from the morning and retrieving nothing. "I don't think I was his type, Claire. I mean, he never emailed again, his texts stopped and honestly, it didn't hurt my feelings. I think the only thing we really had in common was our dogs."
"The pug." She produced her cell phone and there he was.
"The pug who goes to Little Dogs Day Care."
"What else?"
I really couldn't think of anything. "Claire, you'll like him."
"He texts -- a lot. And emails a lot. And he calls a lot."
OK, that rang a bell. I remembered that part and it was fine, albeit past a certain point felt more like surveillance than an actual expression of interest.
"Go and have fun," I finally said. "Like I said, I think you'll like him."
Friday came and went and when I saw her Saturday she seemed upbeat enough. They'd met for a drink, laughed -- a lot -- and he'd wanted to see her that night too, but she had plans to go to a barbecue.
Today's update was a bit bleaker. He'd called, she said, nine times while she was at the barbecue. Texted fifteen times. They were meeting for drinks tonight and she didn't know what to tell him.
"Get an unlimited plan with your cell phone or give me some room?" I offered, and then added, "if you like him, let him know you're feeling a little..."
"Stalked?"
"Overwhelmed," I corrected. "You do like him, right?"
"Well, I could like him. I really could."
I digested that because I'd been there myself. Claire may not yet have reached the point I came to that a second date was a great idea, but not if I hadn't really been struck by someone. Maybe I'd become cynical, overly picky or skeptical (Lainie said all three) but life was too short and I did have a lot of books at home I hadn't read yet. Claire wasn't there yet but she was a smart woman and she'd figure it out. If you never settle for anything less than that connection you'd like to find, it'smuch more apt to find its way to you.
Hence my current situation of being not on that site and therefore of little help in dispensing my thoughts on various profiles to my friends who are.
I don't miss it.
But I don't regret having been on there in the first place. As I said, I've met someone. I haven't written anything, really, about him and in all honesty perhaps there's a part of me that doesn't want to jinx the happiness the universe has besowed by putting him into words. Even Holly gets only limited details and she's about the most persistent person I know and expert at interrogation. I can't even have Diet Coke for fear of her reaction, let me put it that way.
We will see how this evening works out for Claire. I hope she and Max can come to an understanding. And if not, I'm sure eventually she'll be found by what she's looking for.
Call me a romantic, but I think the universe kind of rolls that way.
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