Why?

Remember in high school how you'd go to baseball games because you liked a boy on the team?  That was often the case for me, but I also went because I liked baseball, and I took stats for the baseball coach.  This was because he was my favorite PE teacher, he needed them and I liked to do them.   And I did them well.  And, truth be told, I also took basketball stats for him.  Not football, though- I was a yearbook photographer when I wasn't marching in the band, so I was on those sidelines anyway.  I got to go to all the home and away games.  And I loved to watch sports up close, and still do.

Well, now in my middle age I've come full circle.  I've been attending softball games because I like a boy.

Ok, well, actually, he's a man and we've been dating, and he wants me to go to these games to watch him play, so I go.  Having always been a baseball slut, making the leap to softball slut isn't that much of a stretch, even though the games are actually quite different.  More men in the outfield, shorter distance between the bases, big ol' softballs instead of baseballs.  Funky underhanded pitching.  Shorter games, too, only seven innings.  The middle-aged men playing the game look a bit different than high-schoolers, or MLB players, but it's still fun to watch them get out there and hit and run and field and talk trash to each other.  Sunshine, the crack of a ball against a bat, the thunk of a ball in a glove, really, what can be better?

He introduced me to his teammates, and they seemed like really nice men.  Certainly they must be patient men because they put up with him.  Let's just say, he's a bit particular about his softball.  He's also incredibly particular about his stats so I haven't yet volunteered my services in that arena, as much as I like to do it, because heaven help me if mess up something.  I'm sure I would never hear the end of it.

So, the first afternoon I was sitting there after the game, and one of his teammates walked by.  "I just have one question,"  he said.  "Why?"  Then he laughed and left.

Why?  Good question.  I thought back to my original list of requirements in a man, after my divorce. In no particular order, it was:  Intelligence.  Sense of humor.  Physically fit.  Emotionally fit.  Honest.  Kind.  Willing to travel.  Willing to integrate lives.  Financially fit.  Not full of himself.

I had these words written down on a piece of lined paper, and I carried it around in my Day-Timer for years until the paper was so soft and creased that you couldn't even read the words any more.  Every man I met, he had to have at least seven out of the ten qualities.  Unfortunately, men lie about many things.  And some of the key things, like emotional issues, don't always reveal themselves right away.  Intelligence, kindness, a wicked sense of humor and a strong sense of the absurd are paramount for me.  Someone trustworthy, not too full of himself.  Someone that has bigger balls than me.  Some things that weren't even on my original list have become equally important to me, like wanting to drop everything to watch a baseball game together.  Having interesting conversation.  Sex.  Being happy to stay in, wearing pajamas.   Being happy to spend quiet evenings together, in pajamas, reading and writing.  And here's the most important thing:  feeding me.  I really like to eat, and I'm not the best cook, so he needs to do most of the cooking.  I'll grocery shop,  and I will happily do the dishes.

Honestly, there's nothing better than eating a fabulous meal that someone else made, dressed in your pajamas, then settling down to watch a game together.  Heaven.

Just call me Ms. Excitement.

So the answer to that "Why" question?  Well... why not?

Good-Bye

I had a coffee date not too long ago that was very encouraging.  While there were no real fireworks or supersonic explosions, he seemed like a decent, attentive guy.  He was well dressed and soft spoken, and though a little boring, really, seemed like a good guy.  We talked about our jobs, our kids, our workouts.  Movies we liked.  Food we liked.  After twenty minutes, we rose, and hugged good-bye, and went our separate ways.

I didn't hear back from him.  So, curious, after about a week or so, I sent him an e-mail:

"Hi.  Enjoyed meeting you.  I was wondering if you might be interested in having lunch?  One of those restaurants we talked about might be nice.  Let me know what your schedule is like.  Thanks."

He e-mailed me back:

"I enjoyed meeting you.  Good-Bye."

What exactly did that mean?  Did he want to have lunch? Was he kissing me off?  How oblique was he, and how obtuse was I?  I was a little confused.  I guess it was a kiss off, but I really wanted to make sure. Why not just say that I wasn't what he was looking for?  I'm nothing if not a wordy masochist.  So, of course, unwilling to leave well enough alone, I e-mailed him back:

"Hi.  I just needed a little clarification regarding your last e-mail.  Did you want to have lunch, or not?  Thanks."

I figured I wouldn't hear from him again.  After about a week, I received another e-mail from him:

"Good-bye."

Okay.  So the wordy masochist, whom, I might add, had manners, was dealing with a rude, arrogant man with none.  At least I was clear on where I stood.

I didn't respond.  Two weeks later, I got an e-mail from him:

"Hi.  Would you like to have lunch?"

I responded:

"Good-bye."

Character

For a brief mistake there, I dated a man who was a seriously depressed alcoholic.   I saw the error of my ways the weekend after my daughter moved out to go to college.  I had decided to downsize, and move with my son into a smaller place.  My best friend was coming for the weekend to help me  pack and clean up what was left of the junk in my daughter's room.  My daughter is a pack rat, she never, ever got rid of anything.  Actually, we all are; as my son pointed out, when we moved from our first house into our second one, we didn't get rid of anything, we just packed it and moved it.  This time, there was some serious culling going on.  I found it a bit overwhelming.  My best friend was quite organized, she was going to crack the whip and get me together.  Mr. Depressed Alcoholic was going to be there to help.  When I arrived home that Friday after work, she wasn't there yet, but he was, sniveling on the back deck.

I had seen this crying and whining thing from him once before.  One night after he had several glasses of wine with dinner, he started crying about how no one understands him.  Seriously, maybe I didn't understand him, but my thoughts at the time were something along the lines of, "You have got to be kidding me.  Please let this be temporary insanity."  I am not completely unsympathetic, but I can't stand crybabies.  Especially in men.  Yes, I know that's not the right attitude, but I'm sorry, it's the way I am.  I guess because I only cry when I have good reason;  typically I'm more logical than emotional.  I suck it up and get on with the task at hand.  But with this man, it almost ended right there.  I decided to give him another chance, hoping the crying jag was a temporary aberration.  And, what do you know, here we were:  The Crier, Part 2.

He was upset because apparently he had a bad conversation and then argument with his teenaged daughter, who lived with her mother.  His daughter thought he was a loser.  His sister thought he was a loser.  Maybe he should just take his father's Glock and end it all, free everyone from their misery.
I don't have a problem with sensitive men, but come on.  What the hell was he crying about?  He was here to help me pack and give me support.  I was feeling completely overwhelmed;  my daughter had left for college, and I missed her.  I was getting ready to move and had a house full of stuff to sort, pack, discard. He said, "I don't want anyone else to be here.  I just can't handle seeing anyone else this weekend.  It's a good thing that you got home when you did, because ten minutes later, I would have been gone."   I thought, "Oh jeeze.  Get a f&@king grip."  What I said was,  "I really need your help.  If you can't do that, then maybe you should just go."  I'm sure my disgust showed in my face.  He went.

Character speaks volumes.  Or lack, thereof.

About ten minutes later, I found the remains of what had been a previously unopened bottle of Chardonnay.  It had a few drops left in it.  The man had drunk an entire bottle of wine, then got behind the wheel of a car to drive three hours home.

Looking back on our very brief mistake, I realized he was always drinking, and it never showed.  I once caught him having a beer at 8:00 a.m., which, when I expressed surprise and disgust, he said was because he worked the night shift and his internal clock was all messed up.  At the time, I bought it, because as far as I knew, maybe he was right.  I didn't want to examine it too closely, probably because I knew what I would find.

His leaving that weekend was the end of the relationship.  Thankfully.

A month later,  I was still getting ready for the move.  The movers were coming the following weekend.  That said, I still had a house full of stuff.  I felt ahead of the game because I actually knew at this point what was coming with me, what was being sold, what was going into storage, and what was going to Goodwill.

One morning, early in the week of the move, I was at my office.  A very good friend of mine was in my house, measuring furniture I was getting rid of to see if any of it would work in her house.  She was upstairs in my daughter's old bedroom, when she heard someone enter the house through the family room.  She knew this was nothing unusual, because people were always coming and going in my house.  My friends, my kids, my kid's friends, you just never knew who would be there;  however, I was at work, my son was at school and my daughter had moved.  My friend is a very pretty woman, petite and athletic, with a quick smile and happy laugh, and she has bigger balls than most men.  She grabbed a piece of my daughter's disassembled bed to use as a weapon and stepped with it into the upstairs hall.
"Who's there?"  a male voice asked.  She wasn't having any of it.  "What the f*$k do you mean who's there?  Who the hell are you and what are hell are you doing here?"  "I'm -----," he said.  "I came for  my things."  "I'm ----," she replied.  He slowly climbed warily up the stairs, watching the piece of bed in her hand.    She let him pass, watching him intently.  Her pretty face belies the fact that she has the ferocity of a pit bull, one that never, ever lets anything go.  I'm sure the silence between the two of them was deafening.  This man was a puss.  She definitely intimidated him.  He got his things quickly and left.   Passive-aggressive until the end, he left the back door wide open when he left.  He and my cat mutually hated each other and I think he was hoping she would escape.  That really pissed my friend off, since she and my cat adore each other.   The cat actually just slept through all of this drama, since I think she sleeps nineteen out of twenty-four hours per day anyway.   My friend immediately called me and filled me in.  Then she proceeded to lecture me.  This was done, as usual, at the top of her powerful lungs.  This woman is a true friend, one who has always been there for me, and one that would do anything for me, but, really, she doesn't know when to just drop it.  Especially when she is right.  And I knew she was right.  So I let her get it all out, because she needed to, and because I'm as good of a friend to her as she is to me.  And, in this case, I deserved it, for letting myself be taken in.  The woman has character, and principles, and she is not afraid to stand up for them.

So, that was the end of depressed alcoholic.  Good riddance.  I found out a couple of months later from a mutual friend that in his previous job, he came into work every morning hung-over.  He would drink at least four glasses of wine every day at lunch, and return to his office completely hammered.  Our tax dollars at work!!!

 I sincerely hope he gets the help he needs.  Still, I can't help but feel that yet again, I dodged another bullet.

As far as men go, I think sensitivity is a really good thing.  However, there is a difference between being sensitive, and being a puss.  Also, I really think it takes dating some men with issues to know when you find a good one.  So, based on that, this will be my next personal ad:  Wanted.  A sensitive, intelligent man who is not a puss, and not an asshole.  No mental illnesses, please, and no substance abuse issues.  Long distance men need not apply.  No whining or clingy behaviour allowed.  Must love baseball, and like football.  Must love my cat.  Must allow me the freedom to swim, hike and weight train.  Must allow me freedom, period.  Also, please be prepared to adore me.

Believe me, I'll know a good one immediately.  So, for that matter, will my cat.  Maybe I'll just let her choose.

The Best Date She Never Had

My best friend has been working in some capacity since she was a teenager.  She worked as a fast food manager in college, to pay her way through.  She worked graveyard, which enabled her to go to class during the day, come home, do homework, get to work by 10:00 p.m., work until 3:00 a.m. and go home to sleep for a couple of hours before getting up to do it again.

One night during one of her shifts, a handsome, older man came to her drive-through window, ordered, and engaged in mild flirtation with her.  He soon became a regular at the late-night-drive-through, much to the delight of her staff, who teased her mercilessly about her "boyfriend."  He was "really old"- at least 40, which when you're 20 and cute is practically doddering.  He would stick around and talk to her- and for an old guy, he was pretty handsome.  Dark hair and eyes, well tailored clothes, expensive watch, expensive foreign sedan, well spoken, very, very attentive.  He owned a local bar, and liked to drive through on his way home after closing up.  Eventually, he started asking her out.  Each time, the scenario would get more elaborate.  First, he wanted to take her to dinner.  Then he wanted to take her to dinner and maybe home to his place for a massage because she worked so hard.  Then away to Tahoe for the weekend.  Then to Paris for dinner and a romantic week.  Venice, where he could sing to her in one of the gondolas, under the stars.  Eventually she got a little creeped-out by all the attention.  Why her?  What was up with the fact that he never actually came in to the restaurant?  Why all the pressure to go out when he had never really seen her in normal clothes and makeup?

Eventually, she and her roommate decided to do a little reconnaissance.  They knew the bar he owned.  They would dress up, go down there, hang out, watch him, and if then he came over to her, made a big deal over her and asked her out, maybe she'd go have dinner with him.  It never hurts to have a rich boyfriend, after all. 

She and her roommate got dressed up, did their hair, put on make-up, and went off to stake a place in the bar. 

It was a nice place, very busy, full of college students and older people, as well.  They got a table, and settled in to watch.

It was not encouraging. 

She spotted him immediately.  He was a bit shorter and stockier in person than he appeared in his expensive car.  He moved around, curtly barking out orders to his staff, which, they noticed, were all young, attractive women.  He never once glanced in their direction, but, it was noted, he never failed to glance at himself when he passed a mirror.   Just when she decided that she would never go out with him because he seemed to be rather full of himself, he grabbed one of his waitresses by the arm, threw her up against the wall, and started talking to her intently, holding her arm over her head, while she started to cry.  Every so often he would shake her arm, for emphasis.  My friend and her roommate had witnessed enough;  they left, still unseen, and went out to dinner to celebrate the near-miss of almost dating a misogynist asshole. 

After that, my friend let her other staff deal with him in the drive-through window;  their tete-a-tete was over.

A couple of years later, she read in the local paper that he had been sent to prision.  Apparently, he had a history of dating all his waitresses.  One of them got pregnant.  When she told him, he threw her down a flight of stairs.

Almost dating.  Sometimes, we just luck out.

Golden Years

I have a very good friend, a widow who's in her early seventies.  She swims and walks daily.  She still works, part time.  She's in great shape physically, mentally she's sharp as a tack,  she's  attractive and funny, and she loves baseball as much as I do, a rarity amongst my female friends.  She's been observing my dating trials for years.  I asked her if she was interested in dating, sex, companionship, etc.   She answered without hesitation, "Nope.  I'm done with all that stuff."  Did I mention that she's also quite outspoken and opinionated?  She has pretty much despised everyone I've ever dated.  I guess the "right one" will have to pass the litmus test of her approval, no easy feat.

Love still happens when you're older, it's just different.  I recently met the father of a man I was dating.  I found him quite charming, since he kept telling his son how great I was;  who wouldn't like that?  Obviously, being older had just honed the man's sense of taste and discernment.  At one point he looked at me and said, rather sternly, "There are more important things than sex."  Hmm.  All this during a first meeting.  It did get me thinking, however.  What is more important than sex in a relationship?
Companionship.  Conversation.  Comfort with each other.  Ability to be silent together.  And, let's face it, sex is important, if not for the act itself, then for the intimacy that the act brings.  Because once the intimacy is gone, you may as well hang it up.  So I guess that even if you are as comfortable together as a pair of old slippers, there better be some heat between you, or the relationship probably won't last.

A friend of mine was telling me about her mom, who's got Alzheimer's.  The woman can't remember what she had for lunch yesterday, but she can remember twenty years ago in minute detail.  This woman and her husband divorced acrimoniously about 45 years ago.  The woman was a real tartar.  Mean, nasty, vicious, scathing, violent temper.  Until she developed Alzheimer's.  The chip in her head switched over, and she became, with the onset of dementia, the sweetest, kindest, nicest person in the universe, albeit one who can't remember what day of the week it is or whether or not she took her pills.  Her ex-husband visits her weekly.  With dementia, she found herself falling in love with him all over again.  "You know," she confided in her daughter the other day, referring to her ex-husband, "he's just so handsome and charming.  I think I'm just going to go ahead and ask him to marry me.  After all, I'm not getting any younger."

If only it were all that easy.  Blink, wipe away your past and all the mistakes and all the lessons learned.  Start over.

Being older means, I have a past.  It's not always good, in fact there are some huge mistakes there.  But I just keep moving ahead, hoping to do a little better each time.  The nebulous Mr. Right, no doubt he has baggage as well.  Hopefully our baggage goes together.

Really, the truth of it is: when I find the man that my swimming/walking/baseball friend approves of, I'll know I've found the right one.

Friends With Benefits

This term, "friends with benefits" is a fairly new term for an really old phenomenon.  Not really dating someone, yet having sex with them.  When I was teaching middle school it was a common thing for my students to "hook up" casually with other kids for oral sex, which in their minds did not count as actual sex.  I figure, if you get off, and can catch a sexually transmitted disease from doing it, then it's sex.  They figured it wasn't sex unless intercourse was involved.  Many of the girls who gave out blow jobs, freely, considered themselves virgins, since technically they hadn't gone all the way.  Again- how can you really consider yourself a virgin if you've had someone's penis in your mouth???  Think about it.  Even though, I suppose, technically, they are virgins.  Just not innocent.  Let's not put too fine a point on it, shall we?

Like the hypocrisy that colors much of our society, having sex with someone you don't love or have a relationship with is considered wrong.  That said, I know many women stuck in loveless marriages, who have sex with their husbands because they are afraid that if they don't remain married, they will be out on the street, and have to work for a living.  These husbands and wives don't love each other- I don't even think they like each other- and yet the wives stay in the marriage out of fear.  They fear loss of income, lifestyle and prestige.  I've often thought of this as legalized prostitution.

So, is it better to have sex with someone you are married to but don't particularly like, or is it better to have sex with someone you like and are friends with but have no plans for anything more?  Or, will having sex with someone who is a friend simply muck up the friendship with an emotional overlay that the relationship may not be able to withstand?

It's all so complicated.  There are men out there who are looking for long term relationships, complete with love, emotion, and, dare I say it, sex.  They are eclipsed by the men out there who are looking for sex, but don't actually want to admit that sex is the primary goal.  They have to couch it in pretty phrases and empty promises, just to get to the end.  So- in many ways, a friend with benefits is a much more straightforward way of dealing with the whole situation.  Men who like you, and like to spend time with you, want to sleep with you, but don't want permanence.

You know, that just might describe my last couple of  boyfriends, come to think of it.....

Perhaps not Mr. Right, just Mr. Right Now.

San Quentin

Got the After-Easter blues.  This comes from being the Easter bunny, and consuming candy for the entire week before Easter, as I prepare baskets.  Then Easter itself, where I eat more candy.  And all this candy is in addition to regular food, of which I consume plenty.

So, basically, the blues come from not being able to get into my thin jeans.  Gotta wear my fat jeans.  And I am broken out.  Why am I battling zits at the same time as crows feet?  Is that really fair?  Oh, and I'm in a POISONOUS mood.  Wait- sounds like- PMS!  Or runaway hormones, whichever you would like to call it.  Also the huge crash that comes after consuming mass quantities of chocolate and Peeps and jelly beans.  It's pretty ugly, really, this body-detoxing stuff.

Out of the blue, I received a really nice e-mail from what seemed like a really nice man.  Good looking, according to his picture.  He wrote literate, well-formed sentences that actually made sense.  Only problem?  He's incarcerated.  For life.  Up the river.  In the big house.  I started thinking, what kind of woman goes to meet a man behind bars?  What kind of relationship could you possible have?  How could you trust someone like that?  And- how would you actually do the coffee-date-look-over?

My fertile imagination took over:

I picture myself going into the prison.  Leaving all my valuables and my epi-pen and my swiss army knife and anything else that could potentially be a weapon.  Dressed cute but not too cute- you don't want to be seen as trying too hard.  Maybe cute jeans that fit well- thin jeans, NOT the fat ones, and a flowey top that skims beautifully but doesn't cling, the kind that shows you have a shape.   Tough boots.  In other words- the usual.  I get to the visiting room, and go up to the greasy plexiglas, where he's waiting on the other side.  We both pick up our phones.  "Hi."  "Hi."

Where the hell does the conversation go from there?????  "So- whatcha in for?  Is murder all it's cracked up to be?  What do you do all day, in there?  Do you watch a lot of reality television?  Sports?  How 'bout those Giants?"   I just don't think I can make a love connection with someone behind bars.

Even though getting an e-mail from a new man interested in meeting you is a nice ego boost,  unfortunately I just have no interest in meeting him.  None.  Sorry.  Surprisingly enough, I do have some standards.

I think there are some Peeps left.  If not, right about now, all the Easter candy will be on sale for 75% off....

It's Just A Woman Thing

My daughter's birth was quite traumatic.  Most births are, it's really no picnic any way you look at it.  But at the end, you have this beautiful little baby, and you truly forget about all the pain associated with the event. 

My daughter was born on Christmas Eve, by cesarean section.  She was perfect, as c-section babies often are, forfeiting the battle of pushing their way out.  So, still being in the hospital on Christmas Day, I feasted on green jello for Christmas dinner.  I think my now-ex-husband feasted on candy bars from the vending machine.  I would have preferred candy bars, but I wasn't allowed to have them.  Recovering from surgery and all.

Because it was Christmas, and because I had given birth, my priest and my new daughter's godmother from my church brought me communion.  (My daughter got her middle name from her godmother.  And, coincidentally, my priest's name is also that of my brother and my father.)  We had a great visit, and as they prepared to leave I decided to walk down the hall to the elevator with them.  The nurses were all encouraging me to walk my lard-ass as much as possible.  I was still hugely bloated from birth, having gained seventy-five pounds.  Apparently twenty pounds is considered normal.  Unfortunately, when you gain more than that, the weight just doesn't disappear when the baby's born.  It becomes one with you.  I had fat folds.  I had honest-to-god-boobs, 38DD, and that was before my milk came in.  I hadn't seen my feet in months.  I still couldn't.  Truth be told, I still looked pregnant.  It took me a full year to lose that damn weight.  And then- pregnant again.  But that's another story.   Anyway, I was attractively attired in one of those gross hospital gowns, and hospital socks.  I was still retaining so much water that when I walked, the skin on my ankles slapped against themselves. My thighs, never small, were enormous and rubbed together when I walked.  I'm sure my hair was dirty.  No make-up.  Good times.
I was shuffling along with my friends, pushing my little wheeled rack that had my IV stuff on it, when suddenly, there was a whoosh sound.  I felt a sudden warm wetness on the back of my gown.  Oh, shit, was I so out of it that I pissed myself?   No.  It was worse than that.   I looked down, and to my horror, realized there was blood everywhere:  on my gown, on my legs, on my fat flapping ankles, on my ugly socks, and there was an enormous puddle growing underneath me.  I think I had even spattered blood on my poor priest's shoes.  I really wanted to die.  I thought the ground was supposed to open up and swallow you whole in moments like this.  Well, I'm here to tell you, no such luck.  My friends were horrified.  The embarrassment and horror of the situation just did me in.  I started to laugh.  I couldn't stop.  Because I'm a geek.  What else could I do?  If I didn't laugh, I'd cry.  "Oops," I said.  I've always had a gift for understatement.  "Are you all right?"  my priest asked.  "Just mortified," I answered, still laughing.  At this point a nurse came bustling over to take me back to my room and change my ugly gown and clean me up, and some poor orderly probably got to clean up my mess.  My friends hurriedly got on the elevator and left, no doubt relieved to be out of that situation.   Ah, the glory of childbirth.

Talk about a bonding incident.  They are still my good friends.  I am still a geek.  And amazingly, in spite of me, my baby is a beautiful, grown woman and a wonderful human being.

Boston

I love Boston.  Growing up a California girl, Boston seemed to have all the perfect components for me:  a rich history, a wealth of culture, literary lights, old buildings, and big city elements.  There was a romanticism about it that called to me.  I always pictured myself living there, until the reality of weather made me rethink my plan.  An east coast summer and the resultant mugginess and heat, and the cold, brutal winters made me realize what a west coast wimp I really was. So I just visited.  I fantasized about settling in Boston, or in Concord.  Absorbing US history out the door on a daily basis.  Looking at places where literary lights like Alcott, Emerson, Thoreau, Poe and Hawthorne lived and wrote.  Of course, California had literary lights, too.  London.  Twain.  Stevenson.  Steinbeck.  Stegner.  And a different sort of US history than the east coast.  The east coast is steeped in European history- here in California, we have Spanish history.  Mexican history.  Chinese history.  And our weather has it all over the east coast, sorry to say.

Several years ago, my daughter was back east for a summer program.  My son and his grandmother, my friend and former mother-in-law, decided to travel back east together for the gallery showing.  My ex-mother-in-law arranged the flight- a red-eye, landing in Boston a little before 6:00 a.m.  I am one of those rare individuals (in many ways) who can sleep anywhere.  Just give me a warm, quiet spot, and I'm gone.  So I had the window seat, got settled, strapped on my seat belt over my blankie and was gone.  Even before take-off.  My son and ex-mother-in-law, well, not so much.  The end result was that I woke up perky, and they got no sleep at all.  I knew where the Starbucks was, near our hotel on Beacon Hill, so we headed there to fuel up.  NOT Dunkin' Doughnuts.  For whatever reason, the entire Eastern Seaboard is enamored of Dunkin' Doughnuts coffee.  My only question is:  Why?  I prefer Peet's to Starbucks, but I wasn't sure there was one of those in Boston.  Starbucks is a perfectly acceptable substitute.

I had a fabulous day planned.  Concord-Lexington, stand on the replica of the bridge where the "shot heard round the world" was fired.   Walk around the grounds near the bridge.  Plymouth, to walk through the Mayflower replica, and look at Plymouth Rock, and most important, to eat a lobster roll.   Plimoth Plantation, which is a "living history" museum showing how the pilgrims and the Indians actually lived, complete with "authentic" little houses and wigwams to walk through, and actors in costume.  The Lizzie Borden house in Fall River, then onward to Providence, RI and RISD where my daughter was busy being talented.  I was looking forward to the nice walk in Concord, and  Plimoth Plantation, after the long sleep.  Er, flight. 

There is a huge difference in the energy level of someone who slept well, then drank espresso, and a couple of people who didn't really sleep at all.  I have a pretty high energy level, anyway, and I guess I can be pretty obnoxious, according to them.  They, on the other hand, were beat.  The humidity and heat was the final straw.  My son fell asleep in the car and didn't really wake up until we got to the B & B in Providence.  Both of them then retired to the room to take naps until dinner- I went off to take pictures and hang out with my daughter.

It's funny.  The whole time I was there on that trip, I kept thinking to myself that my nebulous dream man, the man I would ultimately end up with, would somehow have some connection to Boston and the surrounding area- either living there or growing up there.  I was just so positive, the intuition was that strong.

Oops! My Wife's Home!

A male friend offered to make me dinner one night.  I am not much of a cook, and during the week I actually don't cook too much.  Between work and swimming and weight training, and the occasional date, there just isn't much time.  This man is someone I knew casually, and when he offered I accepted.  It wasn't a weight training night, so why not?

He lived in a really nice neighborhood, in a huge house.  As he was giving me the tour, I noticed that there really was no furniture left in the place.  "That's because my wife took it all, when she moved out," he said.  He spent a lot of time talking about her.  She was professional, worked long hours, was capable of making a lot of money but was insisting on alimony.  He was reluctant to pay it, because he felt her earning potential was greater than his, and he apparently made quite a bit.  They were also fighting over the house.  She wanted him to sell it, and split the proceeds with her.  He wanted to hold onto it until the housing market improved somewhat.  They had apparently reached the proverbial impasse.  He seemed like he was still hung up on her, but he insisted that he was done and had moved on.  I hadn't really considered the possibility of actually dating him, but as I sat in the kitchen watching him cook, I decided that I could do much worse, if things moved in that direction.  One should never pass up a man who likes to cook.

We talked about the usual things.  Kids, pets, jobs, hobbies.  Since it wasn't really a date, it was pretty casual.  Suddenly, there was a key in the front door.  He looked up, then got this panic-stricken look on his face.  "Oh my god," he said.  "It's my wife.  Quick- go out onto the back deck.  It'll cause problems if she sees you."

Like a fool, I went out onto the back deck.  At first, it was fine.  But the fog was swirling in, and I get cold pretty easily.  After about forty minutes, I decided the hell with it.  I was leaving.  I tried the door- he had locked me out!  I started pounding and making a lot of noise.  He finally came to the door- greatly annoyed.  They were eating dinner.  My dinner.  I looked at his wife, who, I might add, was no great beauty, especially as she was eating my dinner.  She was stunned.  I grabbed my bag, turned and looked at him.  "Bye, honey," I said.  "Call me later."  As I left I could hear her voice, high-pitched and annoyed, asking him what that was all about.

I haven't spoken to the man since.  But, I must say- dinner sure smelled good.