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.
Monday, May 31, 2010
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.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
A Period of Co-Opted Insanity
If the definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over again, expecting a different result, when I look back (as I will, I’m human) on my time with a certain person I’m going to have to call it not so much a relationship as a period of co-opted insanity. A period of time in which we mutually agreed to ignore the fact that certain integral areas of disagreement were never quite going to resolve themselves, just continue to crop up as regularly as dandelions in a lawn and serve to cause frustration. This we probably should have seen from the outset and perhaps we did but as we were, at that time, happily ensconced in our mutual delusion, we chose to see only what we wanted to see. Sometimes people do that.
Over time we became so adept at seeing only what we wanted to see that we were able to coexist in blissful acceptance of our communal near-sightedness, pairing it after a time with an almost pleasant and certainly ubiquitous Alzheimer’s-like ability to forget the obvious and have no recall of anything beyond the past five minutes or so which, for the most part, had generally been pretty nice. Perhaps it was the combination of these two impairments that drove us right back together whenever circumstances, in their infinite wisdom, threw roadblocks in our way to serve as flashing red lights in the cosmos advising us to stop immediately as we were definitely going in the wrong direction. Blindly and happily amnesiac, we might pause to separately consider the roadblock but always, without question, wound up together again, racing forward in the wrong direction. Without putting too fine a point on it, may I just say we were, in our time, the Toyota Prius of romance.
I suppose when I look back on it (and I will, I’ve already said that), I may find myself tempted to linger a bit longer than is wise on a memory, settling far too comfortably into the darkened confines of the movie theater of my mind, refusing to leave my seat after the film has run its course, content to simply wait for the second showing and perhaps, if time permits, a third or fourth. I may find myself thinking the movie wasn’t all that bad. The sets were stunning, the cinematography amazing and the acting as passionate as any I’d ever dreamed of seeing, no matter the plot fell as flat as my hair in humidity. I may, in my weakened and semi-delusional state, find myself wishing at that time that a sequel could be made, if for no other reason than that in addition to everything else, my dog’s part in the film had been darling and something I would love to see recreated. I may find myself tempted, and sorely so, to reach for one or the other of those two dangerous contraptions, the dial of a Blackberry or the keyboard of my computer, that oft-times dangerous portal to the Internet, where nothing you say can ever really be taken back. This is the time I will need to remind myself, to do so would be to personify insanity, and in the sometimes cold, oft-times warm and generally consistently pleasant light of reality, this would be a very bad idea.
We fell for each other too hard and too fast so I can’t be surprised at the ending. I’ll keep the memories but try not to wear out the film with constant viewing, and perhaps the next time I feel I’m ‘crazy about someone’ I’ll pause to consider if perhaps that particular choice of verbiage could be a possible warning to myself. Crazy was a bit much, a bit out of control and unpredictable, and more than a little disconcerting. I suppose when I look back on it (and I will, I think we all know that by now), I should remind myself to remember that.
Over time we became so adept at seeing only what we wanted to see that we were able to coexist in blissful acceptance of our communal near-sightedness, pairing it after a time with an almost pleasant and certainly ubiquitous Alzheimer’s-like ability to forget the obvious and have no recall of anything beyond the past five minutes or so which, for the most part, had generally been pretty nice. Perhaps it was the combination of these two impairments that drove us right back together whenever circumstances, in their infinite wisdom, threw roadblocks in our way to serve as flashing red lights in the cosmos advising us to stop immediately as we were definitely going in the wrong direction. Blindly and happily amnesiac, we might pause to separately consider the roadblock but always, without question, wound up together again, racing forward in the wrong direction. Without putting too fine a point on it, may I just say we were, in our time, the Toyota Prius of romance.
I suppose when I look back on it (and I will, I’ve already said that), I may find myself tempted to linger a bit longer than is wise on a memory, settling far too comfortably into the darkened confines of the movie theater of my mind, refusing to leave my seat after the film has run its course, content to simply wait for the second showing and perhaps, if time permits, a third or fourth. I may find myself thinking the movie wasn’t all that bad. The sets were stunning, the cinematography amazing and the acting as passionate as any I’d ever dreamed of seeing, no matter the plot fell as flat as my hair in humidity. I may, in my weakened and semi-delusional state, find myself wishing at that time that a sequel could be made, if for no other reason than that in addition to everything else, my dog’s part in the film had been darling and something I would love to see recreated. I may find myself tempted, and sorely so, to reach for one or the other of those two dangerous contraptions, the dial of a Blackberry or the keyboard of my computer, that oft-times dangerous portal to the Internet, where nothing you say can ever really be taken back. This is the time I will need to remind myself, to do so would be to personify insanity, and in the sometimes cold, oft-times warm and generally consistently pleasant light of reality, this would be a very bad idea.
We fell for each other too hard and too fast so I can’t be surprised at the ending. I’ll keep the memories but try not to wear out the film with constant viewing, and perhaps the next time I feel I’m ‘crazy about someone’ I’ll pause to consider if perhaps that particular choice of verbiage could be a possible warning to myself. Crazy was a bit much, a bit out of control and unpredictable, and more than a little disconcerting. I suppose when I look back on it (and I will, I think we all know that by now), I should remind myself to remember that.
Monday, March 15, 2010
On Pink Fog and Changes In The Seasons
I couldn’t help myself. When the email came through of ‘amazing’ photos of submarine races recently held in Canada, I had to forward them to Lainie. I had to do this because she, like me, is pretty gullible, and I didn’t want to feel like the only person in the world who would spend way too much time scrutinizing all three photos, scrolling down and believing I was going to see something other than wide, empty expanses of ocean before getting the big, “Well what did you EXPECT to see?” notation that the joke’s on me at the end of the email. She didn’t let me down. I think she might even have scrutinized for longer than I did.
“I’m such an idiot,” she emailed back. “I really expected to see something.”
Note that Lainie’s no idiot but the fact she would think she might be made me feel immensely better. I wasn’t in fact the only one feeling that way. Her email went on to say we needed to get together and ‘catch up’ soon, which is true. I haven’t seen Lainie for weeks. I haven’t seen her since she disappeared into the pink cloudy haze of sunshine and flowers that settles around you like coastal fog when you’ve met a New Man and are about two months into a new relationship, which she is. I’ve yet to meet him. Maybe that’s why the rest of her email disturbed me more than a little, raising all my inner red flags, red flags so much a part of all overly concerned (read: nosy) and caring (read: bossy) girlfriends such as myself.
“So Bill asked me to move in with him last weekend,” she wrote. “What do you think?”
What bothered me about that was, she’d asked and now I’d have to tell her. So I did. As she knew I would. Because she knows if you ask my opinion, you’re going to get it. At least three times. I wrote back and at first was vague. This was something they both had to think about. This could be a very big step to be taking so soon in such a new relationship. This seemed a little rushed, and I wondered what the urgency was.
She wrote back and explained they were together all the time, anyway. He traveled a great deal, and as she already spent so much time with his kids, this way she could spend all her time with them. It would help him with babysitting and it would help them both financially, significantly reducing not one but two rents. With that in mind, what did I think?
Well, she’d asked again so I finished out my thoughts. I was going to support her in any decision she made and I wanted the best for her and for her to be happy. There was just a lot to consider. She would also, like it or not, be going from The Girlfriend to She Who Is Here All The Time And Was Supposed To Take The Garbage Out This Time, and I advocated against making the move so fast. Sixty days is a long time in dog years but in people time, it’s rather a blip. A really, really small blip. A blip so unformed it can’t cross the street by itself, has to take a nap after lunch and is definitely not tall enough to ride even the tamest stuff at the amusement park.
I had to question what you really know about a person in sixty days, even when you’ve spent nearly every one of them together. Call me romantic and stupid (because let’s face it, when it comes to matters romantic I’m definitely not the smartest woman out there), wouldn’t you want to take your time discovering these things about someone else? Would you truly want to combine dresser drawers before the new is even faded, even a little bit, from the relationship? Call me skeptical but I think there’s something to be said for the old adage that familiarity breeds contempt, only contempt is a stronger word than I’m looking for. I’m just saying 24/7 familiarity when you’re both used to having your own space is a bit of a big load to put on a brand new pony when you expect him to carry it on a very long journey.
OK, I’ll step away from the animal analogies before some PETA person tears me up for writing such bad ones. I finally simply condensed it and asked her to really evaluate her motivations. Be very careful mixing your romances with your finances, basically. Because if finances are the primary motivator in being together, that’s some rather shaky ground. Kind of like a plywood board balanced on two sawhorses with a Great Dane chasing a cat around on it….OK, I promised. No more animal stuff.
She wants to get together one night this week so we can catch up and talk things over. I’m all for the idea. I’m all for the idea and I think I can even free up a night here in a few days. My schedule, other than making time to see Roy, is pretty wide open. Yes, I just wrote that. Seeing Roy. It must be spring time.
There I go sounding cynical again, but Casey recently told me what I needed was a man for all seasons, not just two. She had a solid point because if you think about it (and you don’t even have to think very hard), Owen was the Fall and Winter Man who disappeared in the spring and summer (I’m not sure where he goes but think it’s either a golf course, a racquetball club, a beach in southern California and generally a combination of all three) and Roy disappeared once winter hit almost as fast as the grass turned brown under the first couple of snows. He reappeared at the first signs of spring, as persistent as dandelions in the lawn and I’m not complaining. I’m just wondering if, once this season’s vegetable garden is plowed under and gone, he’ll disappear like all those zucchini squash and tomatoes.
I wonder about that, but am still willing to give us a chance. Which begs the question, if you think about it, why Lainie thinks any advice I have to give would be worth anything, as in all the time I’ve been single I’ve yet to be in any relationship like the one she’s apparently in, because the idea of giving up my home and moving in with someone else has never been anything that impelled a sense of urgency or a feeling that I needed to decide on it right away.
So I could either be skeptical, too independent, too set in my ways, overly hesitant, or gosh help me all of the above and I think it’s all of the above. Yet I’m still willing to laugh at local news stories with this German and see how many seasons we can get through this time. There’s a part of me that remains that impulsive, and romantic at heart. Which is good.
Knowing I still have that part of myself will make me feel much better when I’m letting Lainie know that brakes are put on cars for a reason, and even if you choose not to use them you should never forget they’re there. Even though I understand in a very elementary way why she’d want to be with him all the time. I think I understand what it’s like to be with someone who thinks like you do, shares your sense of humor, supports the things you’re interested in, enjoys your home décor (even all those faded antique family photos of people who are actually your real relatives)and understands your work hours. Until Roy came along, Basil was the only one who really ‘got’ all that.
Yet I still wouldn’t move in with him tomorrow and certainly didn’t consider it an option at two months into the relationship last spring. I still think we’re trying a different route, one of more friends than those overpowered by the pink fog of romance and this time, I think that’s a good thing. So whatever I tell Lainie she’ll just have to understand is coming from someone a little older, and maybe someone who still believes in the weather forecasts, just likes to let time take time and see for herself how they turn out.
Kind of like how a dog can sit for hours, just staring at the cabinet door behind which reside the Milk Bones, waiting for it to magically open….Sorry. Couldn’t resist one more bad animal analogy. If PETA calls, tell them I’ll try to be a better writer next time.
“I’m such an idiot,” she emailed back. “I really expected to see something.”
Note that Lainie’s no idiot but the fact she would think she might be made me feel immensely better. I wasn’t in fact the only one feeling that way. Her email went on to say we needed to get together and ‘catch up’ soon, which is true. I haven’t seen Lainie for weeks. I haven’t seen her since she disappeared into the pink cloudy haze of sunshine and flowers that settles around you like coastal fog when you’ve met a New Man and are about two months into a new relationship, which she is. I’ve yet to meet him. Maybe that’s why the rest of her email disturbed me more than a little, raising all my inner red flags, red flags so much a part of all overly concerned (read: nosy) and caring (read: bossy) girlfriends such as myself.
“So Bill asked me to move in with him last weekend,” she wrote. “What do you think?”
What bothered me about that was, she’d asked and now I’d have to tell her. So I did. As she knew I would. Because she knows if you ask my opinion, you’re going to get it. At least three times. I wrote back and at first was vague. This was something they both had to think about. This could be a very big step to be taking so soon in such a new relationship. This seemed a little rushed, and I wondered what the urgency was.
She wrote back and explained they were together all the time, anyway. He traveled a great deal, and as she already spent so much time with his kids, this way she could spend all her time with them. It would help him with babysitting and it would help them both financially, significantly reducing not one but two rents. With that in mind, what did I think?
Well, she’d asked again so I finished out my thoughts. I was going to support her in any decision she made and I wanted the best for her and for her to be happy. There was just a lot to consider. She would also, like it or not, be going from The Girlfriend to She Who Is Here All The Time And Was Supposed To Take The Garbage Out This Time, and I advocated against making the move so fast. Sixty days is a long time in dog years but in people time, it’s rather a blip. A really, really small blip. A blip so unformed it can’t cross the street by itself, has to take a nap after lunch and is definitely not tall enough to ride even the tamest stuff at the amusement park.
I had to question what you really know about a person in sixty days, even when you’ve spent nearly every one of them together. Call me romantic and stupid (because let’s face it, when it comes to matters romantic I’m definitely not the smartest woman out there), wouldn’t you want to take your time discovering these things about someone else? Would you truly want to combine dresser drawers before the new is even faded, even a little bit, from the relationship? Call me skeptical but I think there’s something to be said for the old adage that familiarity breeds contempt, only contempt is a stronger word than I’m looking for. I’m just saying 24/7 familiarity when you’re both used to having your own space is a bit of a big load to put on a brand new pony when you expect him to carry it on a very long journey.
OK, I’ll step away from the animal analogies before some PETA person tears me up for writing such bad ones. I finally simply condensed it and asked her to really evaluate her motivations. Be very careful mixing your romances with your finances, basically. Because if finances are the primary motivator in being together, that’s some rather shaky ground. Kind of like a plywood board balanced on two sawhorses with a Great Dane chasing a cat around on it….OK, I promised. No more animal stuff.
She wants to get together one night this week so we can catch up and talk things over. I’m all for the idea. I’m all for the idea and I think I can even free up a night here in a few days. My schedule, other than making time to see Roy, is pretty wide open. Yes, I just wrote that. Seeing Roy. It must be spring time.
There I go sounding cynical again, but Casey recently told me what I needed was a man for all seasons, not just two. She had a solid point because if you think about it (and you don’t even have to think very hard), Owen was the Fall and Winter Man who disappeared in the spring and summer (I’m not sure where he goes but think it’s either a golf course, a racquetball club, a beach in southern California and generally a combination of all three) and Roy disappeared once winter hit almost as fast as the grass turned brown under the first couple of snows. He reappeared at the first signs of spring, as persistent as dandelions in the lawn and I’m not complaining. I’m just wondering if, once this season’s vegetable garden is plowed under and gone, he’ll disappear like all those zucchini squash and tomatoes.
I wonder about that, but am still willing to give us a chance. Which begs the question, if you think about it, why Lainie thinks any advice I have to give would be worth anything, as in all the time I’ve been single I’ve yet to be in any relationship like the one she’s apparently in, because the idea of giving up my home and moving in with someone else has never been anything that impelled a sense of urgency or a feeling that I needed to decide on it right away.
So I could either be skeptical, too independent, too set in my ways, overly hesitant, or gosh help me all of the above and I think it’s all of the above. Yet I’m still willing to laugh at local news stories with this German and see how many seasons we can get through this time. There’s a part of me that remains that impulsive, and romantic at heart. Which is good.
Knowing I still have that part of myself will make me feel much better when I’m letting Lainie know that brakes are put on cars for a reason, and even if you choose not to use them you should never forget they’re there. Even though I understand in a very elementary way why she’d want to be with him all the time. I think I understand what it’s like to be with someone who thinks like you do, shares your sense of humor, supports the things you’re interested in, enjoys your home décor (even all those faded antique family photos of people who are actually your real relatives)and understands your work hours. Until Roy came along, Basil was the only one who really ‘got’ all that.
Yet I still wouldn’t move in with him tomorrow and certainly didn’t consider it an option at two months into the relationship last spring. I still think we’re trying a different route, one of more friends than those overpowered by the pink fog of romance and this time, I think that’s a good thing. So whatever I tell Lainie she’ll just have to understand is coming from someone a little older, and maybe someone who still believes in the weather forecasts, just likes to let time take time and see for herself how they turn out.
Kind of like how a dog can sit for hours, just staring at the cabinet door behind which reside the Milk Bones, waiting for it to magically open….Sorry. Couldn’t resist one more bad animal analogy. If PETA calls, tell them I’ll try to be a better writer next time.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Metaphorical Dryer Sheets: Notes on Men, Women, Cyberspace, and Weirdos in the Produce Aisle
“Do you want to help me?”
This from Abby yesterday as she plopped into a chair in my office, and it was the way her eyes lit up, illuminated by the force of some mysterious Grand Plan That Just Had To Be A Lot Of Fun, and the fact that it’s my nature to reply, “Of course” whenever a friend says “Help”, that caused me to hesitate not a second but just nod my head, already thoroughly caught up in the excitement of whatever it was we were about to do.
“Will you write a profile for me for Match dot com?”
I suppose the smart decision would be to say no, of course not, that’s entirely too personal and you should write your own. My writing it would be wrong on many levels, kind of like writing a recipe with actual measurements in it when my true method of cooking is a handful of this and two shakes of that and a cooking time of somewhere around a half hour and whenever it smells done. It would be unethical and I suppose I should have said no but I didn’t because I will write anything requested by any of my friends and as a result I’ve written everything from obituaries to 50th birthday poems to speeches to ‘personalized thoughts’ in parents’ birthday cards, and that’s only been in the last couple of months. Besides, Abby’s got good reason to give Match dot com a chance, if for no other reason than the comic relief of reading some of the profiles out there but more importantly just to have affirmed that yes, she’s attractive, and she’s desirable, and there are articulate, interesting men in the universe who would like to meet her (there are, it should be noted, also a lot of geeks, freaks, and flat-out weirdos but the same can be said about the produce aisle of any supermarket in any city in the country, so it’s OK. You just arm yourself with a sense of humor and a delete key).
In short, she needs affirmation that all men are not like The Last Guy. Not all men are going to date you seriously and exclusively for over a year and then for no reason at all, simply stop calling. Stop emailing. Stop all communication and simply walk away without letting you know why they’ve come to the conclusion that this would be a good thing to do. It was the last thing she expected (it generally is, with all of us who’ve had the experience of it and perhaps the most difficult part of that is the point at which you consult your calendar and realize the weeks have flown by and you haven’t heard a thing from someone who was allegedly a pretty big part of your life. It’s at this point that you apply: a) éclairs, b) Sauvignon Blanc, c) a mad, unbridled shopping spree at Macy’s, or d) a marathon of Lifetime Television for Women movies after you’ve done all of the above, directly to the pain that has become what once was known as your heart. And is, from a physiological standpoint, still known as your heart, it just feels like an oversized, unbearable, “Ouch!” that’s taken up residence in your chest that you’re pretty sure isn’t either a heart attack or the ill effects of picking up lunch at the local taco cart). It was, in the final analysis, “Rude!” as she put it, capturing its essence with one four letter word (not, I’m sure, the only four letter word that entered her mind when ruminating on the entire situation, but one of the most repeatable in a public place). Having been dutifully dumped, it’s time for Abby to move on, to launch herself into Cyberspace where the worst thing that might happen is The Last Guy might pull up her profile in one of his own searches and have pause to reflect on what exactly it was that he let go of (note that in a perfect world he pulls up her profile at the exact moment he’s holding onto someone new who isn’t half as attractive or an iota as intelligent and who speaks with an unmistakable lisp that almost but not quite detracts your attention from the fact that she has all the curves and bulges of your basic Buddha statue, only with a chest that makes Kate Hudson look downright voluptuous and to top it all off she’s incapable of anything but a bad hair day, especially on her upper lip. Yep, it’s a worthy cause if for only that reason).
So we’ll get together on Saturday and we’ll write this profile and launch her out there. Maybe she’ll find Mr. Wonderful. Alternatively, she’ll have something to do on those rare evenings when boredom overtakes her (as it does from time to time with anyone living alone) and she’ll have plenty of emails to print out and correct the grammar on (I’m sure she’d do that. I can’t be the only one that obsessed with punctuation and vocabulary. On second thought, if I am the only one that obsessed, I’d rather not know it). She’ll step out into that strange world known as ‘being in a relationship’ and I’m quite sure, while I will be wishing her the best of everything in that pursuit, there will be some small part of me (or, who am I kidding? There will be some big part of me) standing at the sidelines thinking, “What is she thinking?”
That small/large part of me seems to be very much at the forefront of much of my thinking of late, because when it comes to relationships I’m batting about….well, about like that grade school kid with the astigmatisms and the wimpy arms who was always picked last for the softball teams. My ‘relationships’ seem to have all the longevity of your basic dryer sheet, and I’m not sure why this is (Brent is very sure why this is, and he’s espoused his theory with all the assurance of any man who was married to the same woman for fifteen years and is now happily ensconced in a friendship with that woman which makes much more sense and entails no sharing of the television remote and definitely no more angst over whether the toilet paper properly rolls from the top or from the bottom. Brent would say I am too independent. Men don’t want independent. Men want to feel needed. I am too outspoken, as well, and perhaps it doesn’t entirely help my case that I’d rather read a book than watch a movie, especially any movie where the only action seems to be buildings blowing up and maidens being ravaged). I just know that lately, (lately being looking over last year and the start of this one), the relationships I begin to trust as ‘Gosh, this is great and I’d be happy to stay in this relationship forever,’ turn out to be those relationships with men much like Abby’s own The Last Guy, who simply and confoundingly disappear like the mate to the one solo sock the dryer consistently spits out. Or there’s the relationship with someone who really seemed to get it, finally, why I stopped seeing him once before, only to suddenly remember why I stopped seeing him once before and exhibiting that same irritating behavior when I’ve finally settled in to the whole routine of seeing him again, thus leaving us at the ridiculous point that so far, the only real conclusion we’ve come to is that we now understand why we broke up in the first place.
Sally (Formerly known as The Strange Girl Downstairs, but no longer. I’m not sure what’s happened to her in the past several months since Lainie moved, but she’s started making actual eye contact in the foyer, calling out a ‘hello’, or a ‘have a great day’, and gabbing at me with little gossipy details about her life and the lives of the other residents in the building that simply make my day) has a theory, and she espoused it last night, after listening to the tail end of a conversation I was having with He Whom I Already Broke Up With Once Before and realizing it wasn’t exactly a happy moment.
“Girl,” she said, with all the flair of either a southern belle or a Vegas ‘escort’ (wink wink nod nod) I couldn’t be immediately sure, “you need to forget the whole relationship thing and get yourself a man friend with benefits.” She seemed so sure of herself I didn’t have the heart to tell her I already had a man friend with benefits. He had a chop saw, and a DeWalt drill, and an uncanny knack for completing home improvement projects. Those were the only benefits I was capable of allowing myself in order to keep from finding myself in another ‘relationship’ that was pretty much doomed from the outset, kind of like any diet I start when I have PMS.
So while obviously, I’m hardly The Poster Child For Believing In Romance Forever right now, I am sincerely rooting for Abby, and happy to assist with this profile and her debut in cyberspace. Romance simply eludes me right now, like directions for any appliance I’ve ever purchased, or the location of that blue sweater I’ve been wanting to wear for months. As for myself, I’m limiting my own venturing to the produce aisle at the market, and maybe – and it’s a slim maybe – actual eye contact with someone at the gas pumps or at the dog park. Not to say that I’m over romance forever. I prefer to think of it merely as a sabbatical of sorts, more of a manbatical, if you will. A step back until I can figure out how to extend the longevity of that metaphorical dryer sheet.
This from Abby yesterday as she plopped into a chair in my office, and it was the way her eyes lit up, illuminated by the force of some mysterious Grand Plan That Just Had To Be A Lot Of Fun, and the fact that it’s my nature to reply, “Of course” whenever a friend says “Help”, that caused me to hesitate not a second but just nod my head, already thoroughly caught up in the excitement of whatever it was we were about to do.
“Will you write a profile for me for Match dot com?”
I suppose the smart decision would be to say no, of course not, that’s entirely too personal and you should write your own. My writing it would be wrong on many levels, kind of like writing a recipe with actual measurements in it when my true method of cooking is a handful of this and two shakes of that and a cooking time of somewhere around a half hour and whenever it smells done. It would be unethical and I suppose I should have said no but I didn’t because I will write anything requested by any of my friends and as a result I’ve written everything from obituaries to 50th birthday poems to speeches to ‘personalized thoughts’ in parents’ birthday cards, and that’s only been in the last couple of months. Besides, Abby’s got good reason to give Match dot com a chance, if for no other reason than the comic relief of reading some of the profiles out there but more importantly just to have affirmed that yes, she’s attractive, and she’s desirable, and there are articulate, interesting men in the universe who would like to meet her (there are, it should be noted, also a lot of geeks, freaks, and flat-out weirdos but the same can be said about the produce aisle of any supermarket in any city in the country, so it’s OK. You just arm yourself with a sense of humor and a delete key).
In short, she needs affirmation that all men are not like The Last Guy. Not all men are going to date you seriously and exclusively for over a year and then for no reason at all, simply stop calling. Stop emailing. Stop all communication and simply walk away without letting you know why they’ve come to the conclusion that this would be a good thing to do. It was the last thing she expected (it generally is, with all of us who’ve had the experience of it and perhaps the most difficult part of that is the point at which you consult your calendar and realize the weeks have flown by and you haven’t heard a thing from someone who was allegedly a pretty big part of your life. It’s at this point that you apply: a) éclairs, b) Sauvignon Blanc, c) a mad, unbridled shopping spree at Macy’s, or d) a marathon of Lifetime Television for Women movies after you’ve done all of the above, directly to the pain that has become what once was known as your heart. And is, from a physiological standpoint, still known as your heart, it just feels like an oversized, unbearable, “Ouch!” that’s taken up residence in your chest that you’re pretty sure isn’t either a heart attack or the ill effects of picking up lunch at the local taco cart). It was, in the final analysis, “Rude!” as she put it, capturing its essence with one four letter word (not, I’m sure, the only four letter word that entered her mind when ruminating on the entire situation, but one of the most repeatable in a public place). Having been dutifully dumped, it’s time for Abby to move on, to launch herself into Cyberspace where the worst thing that might happen is The Last Guy might pull up her profile in one of his own searches and have pause to reflect on what exactly it was that he let go of (note that in a perfect world he pulls up her profile at the exact moment he’s holding onto someone new who isn’t half as attractive or an iota as intelligent and who speaks with an unmistakable lisp that almost but not quite detracts your attention from the fact that she has all the curves and bulges of your basic Buddha statue, only with a chest that makes Kate Hudson look downright voluptuous and to top it all off she’s incapable of anything but a bad hair day, especially on her upper lip. Yep, it’s a worthy cause if for only that reason).
So we’ll get together on Saturday and we’ll write this profile and launch her out there. Maybe she’ll find Mr. Wonderful. Alternatively, she’ll have something to do on those rare evenings when boredom overtakes her (as it does from time to time with anyone living alone) and she’ll have plenty of emails to print out and correct the grammar on (I’m sure she’d do that. I can’t be the only one that obsessed with punctuation and vocabulary. On second thought, if I am the only one that obsessed, I’d rather not know it). She’ll step out into that strange world known as ‘being in a relationship’ and I’m quite sure, while I will be wishing her the best of everything in that pursuit, there will be some small part of me (or, who am I kidding? There will be some big part of me) standing at the sidelines thinking, “What is she thinking?”
That small/large part of me seems to be very much at the forefront of much of my thinking of late, because when it comes to relationships I’m batting about….well, about like that grade school kid with the astigmatisms and the wimpy arms who was always picked last for the softball teams. My ‘relationships’ seem to have all the longevity of your basic dryer sheet, and I’m not sure why this is (Brent is very sure why this is, and he’s espoused his theory with all the assurance of any man who was married to the same woman for fifteen years and is now happily ensconced in a friendship with that woman which makes much more sense and entails no sharing of the television remote and definitely no more angst over whether the toilet paper properly rolls from the top or from the bottom. Brent would say I am too independent. Men don’t want independent. Men want to feel needed. I am too outspoken, as well, and perhaps it doesn’t entirely help my case that I’d rather read a book than watch a movie, especially any movie where the only action seems to be buildings blowing up and maidens being ravaged). I just know that lately, (lately being looking over last year and the start of this one), the relationships I begin to trust as ‘Gosh, this is great and I’d be happy to stay in this relationship forever,’ turn out to be those relationships with men much like Abby’s own The Last Guy, who simply and confoundingly disappear like the mate to the one solo sock the dryer consistently spits out. Or there’s the relationship with someone who really seemed to get it, finally, why I stopped seeing him once before, only to suddenly remember why I stopped seeing him once before and exhibiting that same irritating behavior when I’ve finally settled in to the whole routine of seeing him again, thus leaving us at the ridiculous point that so far, the only real conclusion we’ve come to is that we now understand why we broke up in the first place.
Sally (Formerly known as The Strange Girl Downstairs, but no longer. I’m not sure what’s happened to her in the past several months since Lainie moved, but she’s started making actual eye contact in the foyer, calling out a ‘hello’, or a ‘have a great day’, and gabbing at me with little gossipy details about her life and the lives of the other residents in the building that simply make my day) has a theory, and she espoused it last night, after listening to the tail end of a conversation I was having with He Whom I Already Broke Up With Once Before and realizing it wasn’t exactly a happy moment.
“Girl,” she said, with all the flair of either a southern belle or a Vegas ‘escort’ (wink wink nod nod) I couldn’t be immediately sure, “you need to forget the whole relationship thing and get yourself a man friend with benefits.” She seemed so sure of herself I didn’t have the heart to tell her I already had a man friend with benefits. He had a chop saw, and a DeWalt drill, and an uncanny knack for completing home improvement projects. Those were the only benefits I was capable of allowing myself in order to keep from finding myself in another ‘relationship’ that was pretty much doomed from the outset, kind of like any diet I start when I have PMS.
So while obviously, I’m hardly The Poster Child For Believing In Romance Forever right now, I am sincerely rooting for Abby, and happy to assist with this profile and her debut in cyberspace. Romance simply eludes me right now, like directions for any appliance I’ve ever purchased, or the location of that blue sweater I’ve been wanting to wear for months. As for myself, I’m limiting my own venturing to the produce aisle at the market, and maybe – and it’s a slim maybe – actual eye contact with someone at the gas pumps or at the dog park. Not to say that I’m over romance forever. I prefer to think of it merely as a sabbatical of sorts, more of a manbatical, if you will. A step back until I can figure out how to extend the longevity of that metaphorical dryer sheet.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Good Hands: Notes on Letting Go
Years ago, in the early nineties, back in the days when I foolishly scoffed at under-eye moisturizers as something I would need ‘one of these days, but surely not now’, Cosmopolitan magazine published an article called, “Women Who Love Their Dogs Too Much.”
I read it, riveted. I Identified with every word. Yes, I was one of these women. One of these women who would spend their entire lunch hour driving home to make sure the dog was ‘in a good mental place’ while left at home during my work day. Yes, I was one of those women who would forego any kind of a blind date that didn’t entail my dog’s being able to tag along. Call me codependent if you must and call me completely beyond hope if you will but I was what I was and I still am. Still. The article left a huge impression, and since reading it nearly a decade ago, I’ve strived to make positive change. I’ve realized that my dog, like me, needs time away from the one who loves them the most. Occasionally, I make this possible. I take Basil regularly to a doggy day care facility. On a regular basis, I walk up to my local convenience store and buy groceries* (*I’m single. Groceries means a loaf of bread, a six pack of Bud Light, a jar of peanut butter, and a pound of cottage cheese) and leave her tethered outside, unattended. Sometimes, I return a library book and leave her in the car. With these small gestures I console myself that I am not truly one of those women who love their dogs too much and cannot stand simple separation anxiety.
In short, I lie. Like a rug. To myself. Case in point being recently* (*’recently’ meaning: today).
Recently, I promised Roy that I would allow him to have my dog as a ‘therapy animal’ while he recovered from surgery. You all remember Roy, yes? Oh, wait a minute. I suppose not. You see, Roy was someone I dated through the entire summer and thought I would spend the rest of my life with and long story short I wound up deleting every post I wrote about Roy because Roy frankly and honestly told me, he’d prefer not to be written about on my blog. So, I deleted every post. Hence most of what you read that I wrote this summer seemed as if it skipped around and it did because I literarily deleted everything he and I experienced together. In the long run, this was an OK thing. Putting myself in his shoes, I wouldn’t have wanted to be in someone else’s blog, either, so it was easy for me to not write about Roy during the duration of what was, and/or appeared to be, our ‘relationship’.
Uh, hum. Anyway. Being as we’re no longer in a relationship, let me make a long story short and say that we are friends. And where Roy and I may not exactly meet in the middle, he and Basil absolutely connected on more than a fur-deep level. I’ve often pondered how tough it is for single parents (Lainie goes through this a lot. She’s the world’s greatest mom, and yet when you’re a single mom even that isn’t always good enough) and if you want to know the truth, when I first heard from Roy again, after he’d sort of gotten back together with me then not really and then disappeared again and then turned up again and then told me he was having major major surgery (yes, I wrote ‘major’ twice, and I meant to) the first thing that came to mind was, gosh, it would be great if you had a therapy animal.
Which is to say, gosh Roy, since I can’t be there for you any longer because we’re not together but because I still really do care for you (I wasn’t, in the long run, the one who pulled the trigger on the whole thing) you are more than welcome to have Basil come out and stay with you for a few days, if you like…or longer, if you like, because there’s a lot to be said for a therapy animal.
And there is, really.
Roy is supposed to take three to four walks a day. Much easier to do with a dog, especially a dog who wants to take these walks. So today, with heavy heart I took Basil out to the west side of the valley, with a carefully packed bag. I left her The Essentials:
Dog food
Dog treats
Dog sleeping quilt (which she likes to be covered with when she sleeps)
Leash
Dog food (two bags. That’s it. I’m not committing beyond that)
Mom’s shirt ( for sleeping on. If she misses me, it is immersed in Estee Lauder’s Cinnabar, so she’ll remember me)
Dog brush (Who am I kidding? I don’t use it on her, so doubt he will, either)
Leash (Complete with red LED flashing light to alert other cars and dogs to her presence after dark)
So Roy and I had a brunch today, eggs over easy and lots of bacon, and I left my life’s companion with him, and I said, see how it goes, and I can come get her tomorrow, or the day after. Already they’ve taken a walk, and probably gone to bed. “I feel bad,” he said. “I know you will miss her, and you will be sad.”
“Are you kidding?” I said. “I have the cats.”
Yeah, the cats.
So far, they haven’t been quite that entertaining.
It has been a matter of hours now since I left Basil with him, and I know she is in good hands. He and I may not have worked out so well, but I do know that he loved her, and still does. So I console myself with an evening on my own. My cats are nothing but thrilled that they have my sole and complete attention. Perhaps tomorrow, Basil will come home.
Or maybe not.
Maybe Basil will stay several days with Roy, which he said he would enjoy very much, and I can hardly begrudge her that. She loves his yard, she loves the fact that he walks three, four times a day and enjoys it, while her ‘mother’ drags herself out maybe half that on a good day and really would rather be inside watching Lifetime Television for Women.
“When you come back,” he said today, “your dog will be a Nazi. She will be a German Shephard. She will salute you and say, ‘Heil Hiltler!”
Yikes. Given Roy’s German heritage and Basil’s proclivity to believe any doctrine coated in bacon, I have something very real to worry about.
But, what the heck.
At one point, I truly loved that German. I made him a huge part of my life, and in the same vein, of my dog’s life. Holly would have my head if she knew we were even in contact let alone that he had my dog, but at the same time, I have to let go of that, too. Roy told me, he could have died, during that surgery. And a lot of things became clear to him while he was waiting to ‘go under’. Things that were probably and for the most part of the variety of ‘too little too late’.
OK.
We’ve all moved on.
I do love my dog too much.
But I can, despite what Cosmopolitan writes, let go.
Every once in a while.
In the case of necessity, or triple neck fusion, whichever comes first.
And that’s all I have to say, and all (Holly) I’m going to say, about that.
It’s just that I know Basil is sleeping very well. And she is in, if not my first choice, in ultimately the very best choice, of good hands for her.
I read it, riveted. I Identified with every word. Yes, I was one of these women. One of these women who would spend their entire lunch hour driving home to make sure the dog was ‘in a good mental place’ while left at home during my work day. Yes, I was one of those women who would forego any kind of a blind date that didn’t entail my dog’s being able to tag along. Call me codependent if you must and call me completely beyond hope if you will but I was what I was and I still am. Still. The article left a huge impression, and since reading it nearly a decade ago, I’ve strived to make positive change. I’ve realized that my dog, like me, needs time away from the one who loves them the most. Occasionally, I make this possible. I take Basil regularly to a doggy day care facility. On a regular basis, I walk up to my local convenience store and buy groceries* (*I’m single. Groceries means a loaf of bread, a six pack of Bud Light, a jar of peanut butter, and a pound of cottage cheese) and leave her tethered outside, unattended. Sometimes, I return a library book and leave her in the car. With these small gestures I console myself that I am not truly one of those women who love their dogs too much and cannot stand simple separation anxiety.
In short, I lie. Like a rug. To myself. Case in point being recently* (*’recently’ meaning: today).
Recently, I promised Roy that I would allow him to have my dog as a ‘therapy animal’ while he recovered from surgery. You all remember Roy, yes? Oh, wait a minute. I suppose not. You see, Roy was someone I dated through the entire summer and thought I would spend the rest of my life with and long story short I wound up deleting every post I wrote about Roy because Roy frankly and honestly told me, he’d prefer not to be written about on my blog. So, I deleted every post. Hence most of what you read that I wrote this summer seemed as if it skipped around and it did because I literarily deleted everything he and I experienced together. In the long run, this was an OK thing. Putting myself in his shoes, I wouldn’t have wanted to be in someone else’s blog, either, so it was easy for me to not write about Roy during the duration of what was, and/or appeared to be, our ‘relationship’.
Uh, hum. Anyway. Being as we’re no longer in a relationship, let me make a long story short and say that we are friends. And where Roy and I may not exactly meet in the middle, he and Basil absolutely connected on more than a fur-deep level. I’ve often pondered how tough it is for single parents (Lainie goes through this a lot. She’s the world’s greatest mom, and yet when you’re a single mom even that isn’t always good enough) and if you want to know the truth, when I first heard from Roy again, after he’d sort of gotten back together with me then not really and then disappeared again and then turned up again and then told me he was having major major surgery (yes, I wrote ‘major’ twice, and I meant to) the first thing that came to mind was, gosh, it would be great if you had a therapy animal.
Which is to say, gosh Roy, since I can’t be there for you any longer because we’re not together but because I still really do care for you (I wasn’t, in the long run, the one who pulled the trigger on the whole thing) you are more than welcome to have Basil come out and stay with you for a few days, if you like…or longer, if you like, because there’s a lot to be said for a therapy animal.
And there is, really.
Roy is supposed to take three to four walks a day. Much easier to do with a dog, especially a dog who wants to take these walks. So today, with heavy heart I took Basil out to the west side of the valley, with a carefully packed bag. I left her The Essentials:
Dog food
Dog treats
Dog sleeping quilt (which she likes to be covered with when she sleeps)
Leash
Dog food (two bags. That’s it. I’m not committing beyond that)
Mom’s shirt ( for sleeping on. If she misses me, it is immersed in Estee Lauder’s Cinnabar, so she’ll remember me)
Dog brush (Who am I kidding? I don’t use it on her, so doubt he will, either)
Leash (Complete with red LED flashing light to alert other cars and dogs to her presence after dark)
So Roy and I had a brunch today, eggs over easy and lots of bacon, and I left my life’s companion with him, and I said, see how it goes, and I can come get her tomorrow, or the day after. Already they’ve taken a walk, and probably gone to bed. “I feel bad,” he said. “I know you will miss her, and you will be sad.”
“Are you kidding?” I said. “I have the cats.”
Yeah, the cats.
So far, they haven’t been quite that entertaining.
It has been a matter of hours now since I left Basil with him, and I know she is in good hands. He and I may not have worked out so well, but I do know that he loved her, and still does. So I console myself with an evening on my own. My cats are nothing but thrilled that they have my sole and complete attention. Perhaps tomorrow, Basil will come home.
Or maybe not.
Maybe Basil will stay several days with Roy, which he said he would enjoy very much, and I can hardly begrudge her that. She loves his yard, she loves the fact that he walks three, four times a day and enjoys it, while her ‘mother’ drags herself out maybe half that on a good day and really would rather be inside watching Lifetime Television for Women.
“When you come back,” he said today, “your dog will be a Nazi. She will be a German Shephard. She will salute you and say, ‘Heil Hiltler!”
Yikes. Given Roy’s German heritage and Basil’s proclivity to believe any doctrine coated in bacon, I have something very real to worry about.
But, what the heck.
At one point, I truly loved that German. I made him a huge part of my life, and in the same vein, of my dog’s life. Holly would have my head if she knew we were even in contact let alone that he had my dog, but at the same time, I have to let go of that, too. Roy told me, he could have died, during that surgery. And a lot of things became clear to him while he was waiting to ‘go under’. Things that were probably and for the most part of the variety of ‘too little too late’.
OK.
We’ve all moved on.
I do love my dog too much.
But I can, despite what Cosmopolitan writes, let go.
Every once in a while.
In the case of necessity, or triple neck fusion, whichever comes first.
And that’s all I have to say, and all (Holly) I’m going to say, about that.
It’s just that I know Basil is sleeping very well. And she is in, if not my first choice, in ultimately the very best choice, of good hands for her.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
How To Run An Office
When Abby rolled in a half hour late this morning, nobody was surprised to see an email two minutes later simply stating, “Donuts in the break room,” because this is the rule. Fifteen minutes and you’re late. Anything over sixteen minutes and you bring breakfast. This was one of the first ‘rules’ Liz put in place after taking over as department director, and it works well. Keeps us all on schedule for the most part because even if it’s just a couple dozen donuts, nobody wants to buy breakfast for eight other people on any kind of regular basis. I know I don’t. The closest bakery for me when I’m running late is Petra’s, and eight breakfast croissants can set me back $40.
We have a lot of rules in the office, none of which are written down officially, but they’re no less in place and ruthlessly enforced and all things considered, they constitute a nice way to effectively run an office peopled by eight women of various ages and diverse personalities. I’d have to say the majority of them center around use of the bathroom. There’s the toilet paper rule. If you’re the last one to use the bathroom and you leave anything less than 20 squares of tissue on the roll without changing it, you’re going to get an email from someone if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, you’re more apt to find someone standing in your office doorway announcing to you (and everyone else within earshot) that you forgot to change the toilet paper.
Likewise nobody wants to be called out for splashing water all around the sink so the next person who happens to lean against it while washing their hands gets to walk out with a lovely water stain across the band of their skirt.
It’s not an official rule that you must be an animal lover, but if you absolutely don’t like animals it is understood you will keep your opinions to yourself. This is largely due to the fact that between the eight of us, there are 3 dogs and 6 cats, respectively.
The lower right hand cabinet in the bathroom is a veritable mini-Costco of hair products and if you’re in the throes of a notably bad hair day and about to meet with a client, it’s perfectly acceptable to pilfer a spritz or two of someone else’s Tresemme to get you through. More than the occasional spritz and it’s an unspoken understanding that you’ll buy your own product or at a minimum, the next can of what you borrowed.
Everyone has free use of the bathroom, but setting up camp in there to apply your make-up, do your hair, or do anything else that requires more than five minutes will find you receiving the same kind of talking to. I think we’re all trying to stay conscious of this one, and the only person who actually does a wardrobe change in there is Casey, when she changes before her nightly sessions at the gym. This can be a problem when I’m waiting to use the bathroom because I know if I don’t I’m going to wish I did when I’m sitting in traffic that (Murphy’s law being the inevitable it is) will back up and make me twenty minutes late getting home just because I didn’t.
Everybody eats at their desk sometime and that’s fine, it’s what you’re eating that matters. We’re collectively OK with just about anything except onions. Onions are the gift that keeps stinking up the office long after the sandwich/salad is gone. The only offense worse than eating onions in your office is eating them in the boardroom, because that makes the daily 2pm meeting stink, too. I think this rule evolved years ago when one of our admins insisted on buying her lunch from the local taco cart every day at 11am, and from 11:15 until closing, the whole office smelled like the inside of an old burrito. I remember driving home and catching stray whiffs of red pepper and salsa that seemed to somehow have infiltrated my hair and my clothes, too.
It’s not a rule but an accepted fact that we have a comprehensive in-office recycling program. You’re free to bring in your old magazines, books, DVDs, and all those make-up samples you get at the Clinique counter when buying moisturizer, and put them in the break room, the unofficial ‘recycling area’. By the end of the day, they’ve been pretty much guaranteed a new life and a new home. Likewise you can bring in just about anything from your refrigerator and count on it being consumed. With all the weekend entertaining Jules does, she pretty much keeps us in veggie crudités every Monday, which is nice. There’s generally always a bag of tortilla chips in the break room and salsa in the fridge and without question, it’s open for anybody who wants it. But we do rigorously enforce the whole ‘double dipping’ thing, and ask that any utensil that’s been in your mouth doesn’t get put near or in anything that’s likely to go in anyone else’s.
I suppose it’s a given that you can also bring any homeless animals to us and we’ll give them homes, as well. Jules wound up adopting the feral cat from the loading dock, and Holly’s now the proud owner of the black tabby discovered wandering the east end of the parking lot. I adopted Gus because Casey routed pictures of him in an office email, thus weakening my defenses and finally slapping the kybash on them altogether by telling me how happy Basil would be to have ‘a brother’. I like to say with that, I ‘gave at the office’ and can absolve myself of the inclination to ever adopt another animal again.
We keep a coffee pot in the back and if you drink the coffee, you’re on the rotation for replacing it when it’s gone. I personally stick with cafeteria coffee, because as time goes on I’m less and less of a coffee drinker. I seem to require one cup in the morning and occasionally a cup in the afternoon and it makes no difference to me if it’s instant, canned, or liquid concentrate, I just need the caffeine. The office coffee pot can apparently only process bags of coffee with a starting price of no less than $12, so it’s understandable there are really only about three people who are still drinking it.
I suppose the final and handiest rule is that of absolute honesty. It’s just a given around here that nobody’s going to lie to you about anything, and if you ask an opinion you’re going to get (at least)one. I personally enjoy this one, although I’ve learned long ago never to ask, “Does this skirt make my butt look big?” when I’m having one of those days where I feel like my butt is big, and I can see in the mirror that it’s big, so why set myself up for being told I need to somehow make it smaller. I have also saved money by employing this rule when it comes to salon appointments. Just last weekend I stopped into Liz’s office and announced I was going to hit the salon Saturday and have my color done again. “Uh, no,” she said, glancing up at me. “You’re not ready yet.” I then bent down so she could inspect the top of my head and she said again, “couple more weeks,” which was great because it saved me not only cash but a few hours of my Saturday that otherwise would have been spent in a salon chair.
My very favorite of all the ‘rules’, however, is that for the most part, what happens in the office stays in the office, to borrow from the old Vegas slogan. Let’s just say we’re not always Human Resources Correct, but that’s OK. Maybe it’s because we’re not that we’re able to handle stress as well as we do, and spend so many hours together every day, year round, and consistently get along. It’s our unspoken ‘Code’, and it’s never broken.
Never.
No matter who’s asking.
When Liz received her fifteen year service award recently, our General Manager asked if anyone had any ‘stories they’d like to share’. Well, nobody did, or at least none they wanted to share in the executive boardroom in front of the General Manager. “What about you, Madeleine?” he asked, “anything you want to share?”
I didn’t hesitate a second. “Nothing,” I said, and held up a hand against his protest. “Let’s just say we have a code.”
And I’m very glad we do, or at least I know I will be when my own service anniversary next comes around.
We have a lot of rules in the office, none of which are written down officially, but they’re no less in place and ruthlessly enforced and all things considered, they constitute a nice way to effectively run an office peopled by eight women of various ages and diverse personalities. I’d have to say the majority of them center around use of the bathroom. There’s the toilet paper rule. If you’re the last one to use the bathroom and you leave anything less than 20 squares of tissue on the roll without changing it, you’re going to get an email from someone if you’re lucky. If you’re unlucky, you’re more apt to find someone standing in your office doorway announcing to you (and everyone else within earshot) that you forgot to change the toilet paper.
Likewise nobody wants to be called out for splashing water all around the sink so the next person who happens to lean against it while washing their hands gets to walk out with a lovely water stain across the band of their skirt.
It’s not an official rule that you must be an animal lover, but if you absolutely don’t like animals it is understood you will keep your opinions to yourself. This is largely due to the fact that between the eight of us, there are 3 dogs and 6 cats, respectively.
The lower right hand cabinet in the bathroom is a veritable mini-Costco of hair products and if you’re in the throes of a notably bad hair day and about to meet with a client, it’s perfectly acceptable to pilfer a spritz or two of someone else’s Tresemme to get you through. More than the occasional spritz and it’s an unspoken understanding that you’ll buy your own product or at a minimum, the next can of what you borrowed.
Everyone has free use of the bathroom, but setting up camp in there to apply your make-up, do your hair, or do anything else that requires more than five minutes will find you receiving the same kind of talking to. I think we’re all trying to stay conscious of this one, and the only person who actually does a wardrobe change in there is Casey, when she changes before her nightly sessions at the gym. This can be a problem when I’m waiting to use the bathroom because I know if I don’t I’m going to wish I did when I’m sitting in traffic that (Murphy’s law being the inevitable it is) will back up and make me twenty minutes late getting home just because I didn’t.
Everybody eats at their desk sometime and that’s fine, it’s what you’re eating that matters. We’re collectively OK with just about anything except onions. Onions are the gift that keeps stinking up the office long after the sandwich/salad is gone. The only offense worse than eating onions in your office is eating them in the boardroom, because that makes the daily 2pm meeting stink, too. I think this rule evolved years ago when one of our admins insisted on buying her lunch from the local taco cart every day at 11am, and from 11:15 until closing, the whole office smelled like the inside of an old burrito. I remember driving home and catching stray whiffs of red pepper and salsa that seemed to somehow have infiltrated my hair and my clothes, too.
It’s not a rule but an accepted fact that we have a comprehensive in-office recycling program. You’re free to bring in your old magazines, books, DVDs, and all those make-up samples you get at the Clinique counter when buying moisturizer, and put them in the break room, the unofficial ‘recycling area’. By the end of the day, they’ve been pretty much guaranteed a new life and a new home. Likewise you can bring in just about anything from your refrigerator and count on it being consumed. With all the weekend entertaining Jules does, she pretty much keeps us in veggie crudités every Monday, which is nice. There’s generally always a bag of tortilla chips in the break room and salsa in the fridge and without question, it’s open for anybody who wants it. But we do rigorously enforce the whole ‘double dipping’ thing, and ask that any utensil that’s been in your mouth doesn’t get put near or in anything that’s likely to go in anyone else’s.
I suppose it’s a given that you can also bring any homeless animals to us and we’ll give them homes, as well. Jules wound up adopting the feral cat from the loading dock, and Holly’s now the proud owner of the black tabby discovered wandering the east end of the parking lot. I adopted Gus because Casey routed pictures of him in an office email, thus weakening my defenses and finally slapping the kybash on them altogether by telling me how happy Basil would be to have ‘a brother’. I like to say with that, I ‘gave at the office’ and can absolve myself of the inclination to ever adopt another animal again.
We keep a coffee pot in the back and if you drink the coffee, you’re on the rotation for replacing it when it’s gone. I personally stick with cafeteria coffee, because as time goes on I’m less and less of a coffee drinker. I seem to require one cup in the morning and occasionally a cup in the afternoon and it makes no difference to me if it’s instant, canned, or liquid concentrate, I just need the caffeine. The office coffee pot can apparently only process bags of coffee with a starting price of no less than $12, so it’s understandable there are really only about three people who are still drinking it.
I suppose the final and handiest rule is that of absolute honesty. It’s just a given around here that nobody’s going to lie to you about anything, and if you ask an opinion you’re going to get (at least)one. I personally enjoy this one, although I’ve learned long ago never to ask, “Does this skirt make my butt look big?” when I’m having one of those days where I feel like my butt is big, and I can see in the mirror that it’s big, so why set myself up for being told I need to somehow make it smaller. I have also saved money by employing this rule when it comes to salon appointments. Just last weekend I stopped into Liz’s office and announced I was going to hit the salon Saturday and have my color done again. “Uh, no,” she said, glancing up at me. “You’re not ready yet.” I then bent down so she could inspect the top of my head and she said again, “couple more weeks,” which was great because it saved me not only cash but a few hours of my Saturday that otherwise would have been spent in a salon chair.
My very favorite of all the ‘rules’, however, is that for the most part, what happens in the office stays in the office, to borrow from the old Vegas slogan. Let’s just say we’re not always Human Resources Correct, but that’s OK. Maybe it’s because we’re not that we’re able to handle stress as well as we do, and spend so many hours together every day, year round, and consistently get along. It’s our unspoken ‘Code’, and it’s never broken.
Never.
No matter who’s asking.
When Liz received her fifteen year service award recently, our General Manager asked if anyone had any ‘stories they’d like to share’. Well, nobody did, or at least none they wanted to share in the executive boardroom in front of the General Manager. “What about you, Madeleine?” he asked, “anything you want to share?”
I didn’t hesitate a second. “Nothing,” I said, and held up a hand against his protest. “Let’s just say we have a code.”
And I’m very glad we do, or at least I know I will be when my own service anniversary next comes around.
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