Duplicitous Women

Friendships between women should be simple.  The other day, I was at the pool with my oldest friend.  She and I have been friends since we were five.  We were spending an afternoon kicking  in the water and catching up.  Sun, exercise, a good friend, and later, frozen yogurt.  What could be better?  We were discussing female relationships, and how they should be simple, but are often fraught with difficulty.

What is it with women, anyway?  Why is is so difficult for some of them to just be friends with other women?  Why can't they be willing to help each other?  Where did sisterhood go?  Are women really so threatened by other women that they need to resort to constant backstabbing?

I'm lucky;  I have a small group of really solid female friends who are always there for me.  But I'm sure I'm not the only one who has worked in a female environment that has been subject to the bitchy girl-games that a lot of woman play.  My daughter was exposed to those bitchy-girl-games in school from pre-school on;  she fortunately had a good group of friends and also didn't care too much what other girls thought, and so has come into adulthood relatively unscathed, my mothering aside.  But the girls playing the games?  They learned it somewhere, most likely from their own mothers.

I wasn't always such a stellar judge of character, male or female.  My intuition is working much better these days, or maybe I've become secure enough that I trust it when it tells me to beware of someone.

When I finished college I got a job, and worked with a friendly woman who became my friend.  We'd go out together after work, we'd talk, we'd go for bike rides, hang out.  My then-boyfriend didn't like or trust her, felt she was a drama queen and shallow.  I thought she was a lot of fun, especially compared to the incredibly serious musicologists I was used to associating with.  They were intellectual people, to be sure, but unfortunately not that much fun.  This woman had a great boyfriend who was totally in love with her, she was blonde and while not exactly pretty, she was vivacious, and had a way of making you feel like you were valuable.  She was fun.

The cracks in her veneer started showing one night at a party we all attended.  Her boyfriend was out of town, so she came alone.  The host had a friend of his staying with him, this hunky, gorgeous Australian rugby player.  At some point in the evening, the woman and the rugby player disappeared;  later they came in from the backyard.  She was disheveled, her eyes bright.  Later, she told me, that they had just messed around a bit, but it meant nothing, and was already forgotten.  I started spending less time with her, after that, because I really liked her boyfriend and felt really angry that she was messing around on him, even though, it was none of my business.  Eventually, they got married.  She left him for a married attorney, who left his pregnant wife for her.

Years later, I became friends with a woman at my gym, who in many ways reminded me of this other woman in my past.  My gym friend was vivacious, fun to be around, and while not really pretty, used what she had to great advantage.  She always had a different guy;  never anything long lived, even though once she actually dated someone for two weeks, which was kind of a record for her.  I felt a sense of unease, kind of a prickle, sometimes, when we were talking, because I wasn't sure how reliable she was in the loyalty department.  Not very, as it turned out.

She decided that she wanted to train with this one particular trainer.  I didn't care for this woman, she was a lousy trainer, and exceedingly arrogant.  But, whatever, it wasn't my dime.  One day I came into the locker room to leave my stuff before my workout, and this trainer was there.  I smiled at her and started putting my stuff in a locker.  "Oh!  So now you smile at me!  After talking all that shit behind my back!"  she said cuttingly.  "Who the hell do you think you are, anyway, to tell my clients that I don't know what I'm doing?"  I was speechless.  I wasn't going to deny it, because it was the truth.  I just rolled my eyes in a deprecating way, sighed, and went to lift.  You can't fight if you don't respond.  I never spoke to either of them again.  The faux-gym buddy, she never stopped trying to make pleasant small talk and smile and laugh with me, but I just shut her down;  she ceased to exist for me, and eventually she got the message and stopped trying.  A month later she left my gym and moved to a more chi-chi one.  I haven't seen her since.  As for the trainer?  She got that fish-pout thing done to her lips, and bought enormous breasts.  She landed a doctor, got married, had a baby, and then the doctor left her for another woman.  She's back at the gym,  after being "retired" for several years, and she always smiles at me, but I'm just not having it.  But at least she can smile again, her lips now back to normal.  

Tonight at the grocery store I was getting a cart.  There was a dumpy woman about my age, trying to figure out which cart she wanted.  I just took one, and passed her going into the store.  "Hey!"  she shouted, with a sour expression on her face.  I looked at her inquiringly.  "Why are you racing me?" she said, angrily.  I couldn't help myself;  I burst into laughter and moved ahead, while she glared at me.  I am a fast walker, and I was in my gym clothes, and maybe I shouldn't have laughed, but it was really funny.

Okay, I promise:  I won't walk faster than you, unless you get in my way.  I won't laugh at you, unless you take yourself too seriously.  I won't hate you for being sour, don't hate me for being happy.

Life goes on.  Why can't we women be kinder to each other?

Take Me Out To The Ballgame

Well, it finally happened.  The man I'm dating and I went to a ball game. Never mind that he insists that real baseball weather is sweating through your shorts at 10:00 p.m., and that we were huddled up, wearing down, covered by a blanket because the fog was swirling around and it was windy, cold and damp.  Never mind again that he was rooting for the wrong team, so we were both dressed head-to-toe in different logos and colors.  And really, does it matter that his team won?  And, that he gloated about it, for a bit?  I mean, he's insufferable when he's wrong.  Just imagine when he's right.

In spite of the right team losing, it was a great night.

We were seated up in nosebleed seats, which still gave us a pretty good view.  Not that my team gave me too much to watch, but I could see, nevertheless.  We were seated next to a couple of men, both supporting the right team, whom he chatted up when I went off in search of garlic fries.  Let's see if I can make their story clear.

They were both married to the same woman.  At different times, of course.  The first man, he had been married to her, and they had a fairly acrimonious divorce.  The second man, he married her after she divorced the first one.  It took ten years for the two men to actually become friends;  actually for the first man to tolerate the second man, and now they were best friends and went to ball games and such together.  They didn't know each other at all before the wife married the second one.

And- that's not all.

Soon a young man in his twenties showed up, to claim the remaining empty seat.  Much to my traitorous companion's delight, the kid was fully decked out in the other team's colors- jersey, cap, sweatshirt, etc.  The two of them had a pretty spirited conversation about how their team was one step away from God almighty himself.  Really, that kind of adulation gets a little old.

This kid was the son-in-law of the first man, married to his daughter.  This made him the step-son-in-law of the second man, married to his step-daughter.

I bet their holiday dinners are a blast, because they were all pretty fun.

Eventually, the son-in-law/step-son-in-law left, saying his wife wanted him home at a certain time.  The dads joked about him being whipped, all the men present guffawed in a knowing manner.  Later, it turned out that the kid had just used that as an excuse, and was partying with some other friends in a different section.  He just wanted to be rid of us old farts, I guess.

A good time was had by all.

Even though my team lost, my garlic fries were outstanding.  Some things never let you down.  Not only did the seats have a great view, they were around the corner from the concession stand that sold garlic fries, imagine the luck.  And- for all of our subsequent games, my traitorous companion and I are rooting for the same team, and dog that he is, he has a chance to redeem himself.  Even though, my best friend's husband told me that a real man doesn't change his team affiliation....

 

Motivation

I swim most mornings at the crack of dawn.  It's just a great way to start the day.  I swim in the deep end of the pool.  There are a few of us who like it down there, and it's like being in the back of the old school bus; instant party.

Most of us are middle-aged women, a few are seniors.  While men swim, too, most of them prefer the shallower water.  What we all share is a love of the water.  So we're there, in  all weather.  I'm a bit of a wimp;  I like warmer water so if the temperature is too cold I actually wear a really thin wetsuit. 

Comfort is tantamount at 5:30 in the morning.

So, you get in the water and go.  I swim in blocks, doing a total of 72 laps.  During a kicking block, I have my head out of the water and can see people on the edge coming and going.  If I'm lucky one of my swim buddies will be kicking at the same time as me and we can converse a bit.  I'm pretty good at conversing.

One morning five or six of us were kicking at the same time. A particularly young and fit male came to the side of the pool, adjusting his cap and goggles, ready to get in and work out.  As one, all of our heads swiveled, assessed him, then quickly and studiously turned our heads back again, facing forward.
I looked at the woman I was sharing a lane with, grinning.

"Well, we're not dead yet!" she replied, grinning back.

I have to say, one thing that we women seemed to perfect as we age is the art of checking out a boy without appearing to check him out.  Unlike men, who can be a bit obvious when looking.  And, let's face it, who doesn't look?  You can admire without being obnoxious about it.

Of course, not all women are subtle.  The other night I was going to a ball game with the man I was dating, and on the ferry ride over to the park, a woman who had maybe a few too many pre-game cocktails was all over him.  Wanted to know where he was sitting at the park, insisted on giving him a good-bye hug before she lurched off.   While he deflected her nicely, with a comment about me, since I was sitting there, she didn't quite get it, but maybe that was the alcohol talking.  I look at it as a validation of my choice when some other woman checks him out, but really, she could have toned it down a bit.  She was also with a guy, who stood by, and said nothing.  Husband?  Boyfriend?  Brother?  Friend?  Who knows, but maybe when she's as old as me, she'll learn to be a bit more discrete about her interest.  We all look.  Some of us are just better at hiding it.

I heard the local fire department will be starting pool workouts, soon.  I got a new swim cap in anticipation.

The Stars Are Aligning

Honestly, some days I wonder why I even bother to open my e-mail.  It's full of spam.  It's becoming like my regular mailbox, overflowing with junk mail.  Except that my regular mailbox wants me to have my curtains and blinds cleaned, and my e-mail wants me to buy Viagra.  I can't decide which is more irritating.

I got some great new matches on-line.  As tough as it is to find a good man, it's even tougher to quit an online dating service.   With the paid services, you can remove the credit card, then, usually, they get the point.  The free online dating services, well, they just keep on sending you men;  I haven't figured out how to get rid of them.  Being human, I am naturally curious, so of course I keep looking at the matches.  When you look, the service tracks, so they keep sending you more.  I'm not interested in dating anyone else, but I can't help myself; sometimes the amusement factor gets me through my workday.  I got some good ones this week.

My first match proclaimed himself a sensualist, open to any and all experiences.  He said he was bi, and interested in not just one-on-one experiences, but two-on-one or even three-on-one.

The second match is in an open marriage, with a wife who would like the opportunity to explore her secret desires while he watches and occasionally joins in. 

I'm not interested in threesomes.  However- do you think my cat counts?  Oops- I think that's a different kind of genre entirely.  (That was sarcasm, by the way.)

The third match was really young, in his twenties, and, believe it or not, was interested in sex without commitment.  Have you ever heard of such a thing?  Really, I was shocked.  (More sarcasm.)

I found out that these men qualify as my matches based on some algorithm.  I'm not sure how or why, but it has to do with the answers to these stupid questions that they ask you, deep yes-or-no stuff like,  "Do you think all is fair in love or war?" or "Would you consider sleeping with someone on the first date?" or "Would you date someone who does drugs?"  The dating site also shows you the people that checked out your profile, which you discover when you go look at the profiles of your matches. I discovered that if you change your status to "seeing someone," the site immediately sends you a note saying that if you continue trolling for dates, (my phrase, not theirs-) what your prospective dates will see when they look back at your profile is "single." Genius. They help you cheat.  (I admit it:  I am a very sarcastic person.)

My favorite e-mail was from a "free" astrologer who is also, apparently, my new best friend.  This one was my fault;  I was reading an online horoscope, and a window popped-up, telling me I could get a free, in-depth report, and much like the matches that show up in my inbox every week, I couldn't help but take a look.   Into the inbox of my e-mail came a really long description of the wonders of the universe that are coming my way this year.  It's confirmed, the stars are aligning in my favor.  Apparently nothing bad is going to happen to me, just a lot of good fortune, money, love and travel.  The astrologer used my name as punctuation throughout the narrative, to give the whole thing that personal touch.  She kept assuring me, using my name maybe twice in that particular sentence, that not only was she my personal astrologer, but also my friend.

Isn't is nice that she's my friend, and we've never even met?  This is much like that man who proclaimed that we were soul mates, based on looking at my picture.

At the end of this verbose report chronicling my wealth, love and good fortune for the upcoming year,  she warned me that my transit was coming.  That in fact, I missed my last one, way back in 2008, and I certainly didn't want to make that mistake again.  As my friend and personal astrologer, she wanted to guide me through this important time, helping me, paraphrasing the words of the Army, to be all that I can be.

How nice is that, considering we've never met, and don't know each other at all!  Those must be some pretty powerful stars I move.

Alas.  In the last paragraph, she told me to send her a credit card payment of $80, insinuating that if I didn't, heaven and earth might collapse on me, and civilization as I know it will cease to exist.

That was the end of a beautiful, albeit short relationship.

It reminds me of those sincere, illiterate, English-as-a-second-language letters I get from the fax in my office, from people wanting to give me a million dollars, just for helping them out a little by sending them a money order for three hundred dollars.  Boy, what a deal.

Well, gotta go.  I've got mail.

Grace, Part 2

It was brought to my attention that I forgot a recent klutzy incident.  Mea culpa, mea culpa.  So, to further embarrass myself, let me tell you a quick story.

It was a nice relaxing evening in with the man I'm currently dating.  If there's a ballgame on, we will happily curl up, and this was the case on this particular evening.  We ate a fabulous dinner that he made, the Giants were playing on the enormous high def tv that all men seem to possess... 

I'm sorry, I need to digress for a moment:  What is it about men and the size of their tv's?!! Why do they all have to have the biggest, flattest televisions available???  Even my gay boyfriend has an enormous flatscreen.  Honestly, most women could care less.  (I have to admit- it is great for watching baseball.)  Okay, done with my rant, and back to the evening.

I was wearing comfy flannel jammies and  Uggs.  (Sorry- nothing really sexy.)  I had a really good Cab in my glass.  Suddenly, something exciting happened in the game- and, just like that, I knocked over the entire glass of red wine.  To my credit, somehow, I miraculously managed to miss both the carpet and the couch- the wine landed on the hardwood floor, which I promptly cleaned up with the dishtowel, thus permanently staining it, and I'm sure, enduring myself in the heart of his roommate forever for ruining his towel but NOT his couch and rug.

The important facts:  The Giants won, and I missed the couch and the rug.

Grace.  Attractiveness.  Appeal.  Elegance.  Pulchritude.  Traits I hope to develop in the fullness of time.

Unfortunately, I wasted an really good glass of wine.

Grace

I am a geek.  And a klutz.  I'm the woman strutting along in high heels, looking and feeling pretty good, who will then trip and end up flat on her face.  Or catch the bottom hem of a long skirt on a heel and rip a hole in it.  I'll be happily driving along in my car, park and open the door only to find the belt of the coat I'm wearing has been dragging along the road for the last 15 miles.  I will laugh and flirt with a cute young guy, only to discover later that all along I had something green and gross in my front teeth.  I have found myself rocking out to the Partridge Family on my ipod and discovered that I've been singing the words out loud in my gym, and everyone nearby is looking at me pityingly. 

I'm trying to become less of a danger to myself, but unfortunately it hasn't happened yet.

What saves me is my pathetically oblivious attitude, which I prefer to think of as grace.

My daughter comes by her grace naturally;  she inherited it from me.

She was home from college for a visit.  I walked in to find the whole house reeking of burned bread.  She had attempted to defrost a bagel in the microwave, and it caught on fire, because unfortunately she was deep into some reality television.  Fortunately, the house was spared, even though I think the interior of the microwave will be forever charred.   And the whole place still smells faintly of burned bagel.  Especially when I use the microwave.  At least when I miss her, I can just go into the kitchen and breathe deeply.

I have scars on my knees, because when I was little, I had permanent scabs from falling down on the blacktop pretty much every day;   kickball is a well-known dangerous sport.  Later, as I became a runner, I wiped out badly at least a couple of times a year. And one memorable 4th of July, I was walking down my steep driveway with a huge salad to take to the neighborhood block party, when I tripped at the bottom and spilled everything, as well as made a bloody mess out of my poor knees.  The neighbors got Otter Pops that year, it was all I had at the last minute.  At least the kids liked them.

I recently got a cordless mouse, and in spite of the fact that I put the battery in right and set it up correctly, I couldn't get the darn thing to work properly.  Imagine my surprise when I discovered- I was trying to operate it upside down.  Who knew those damn things had a right and a wrong way?

I have no sense of direction.  I get lost with my Garmin, which just pisses her off to no end.  Have you ever noticed how she gets more irritated, the more you veer off course from her precise, prissy instructions?  She really sounds like she's going to have a stroke.

The best klutz event happened at the bridal shower of a good friend of mine.  Her sister, the-maid-of-honor, is a good friend of mine as well, and asked if I'd come over early and help her set up.  I was really helpful until I went to move the enormous container of ice tea from the kitchen to the back deck.  I grabbed the large container from the bottom, not realizing that the bottom wasn't attached- and when I moved it the whole vat of iced tea spilled all over the clean kitchen floor.  Worse, it was actually a vat of Arnold Palmer, and the lemonade made it really sticky.  Mortification.  The sister was so sweet and understanding;  as she threw a pile of old towels into the sea of sticky brown on the floor, she commented that I justified her family hoarding all the old towels, all these years.  She also said that it was good that the floor was sticky, because now the older guests didn't have to worry about slipping on the previously spotless floor.  She also said it was just as well, because the second batch- which I did successfully transfer from the kitchen to the back deck- was much better than the first one.

I have to say, anyone who can make a klutz feel better immediately is the epitome of grace.

That is another quality I'm striving for...  along with not tripping when I walk.

Jealousy

I have come to the unfortunate conclusion that I am a jealous person.
Since most of my family members are insane, it stands to reason that somehow, I too am a nutbag. Or, maybe it's not jealousy at all, maybe it's menopause, or PMS.

Years ago, when my kids were little, I stopped by my then boyfriend's house on the way out of town to drop off something that he had wanted.  A really attractive African American girl answered the door;  she was dressed rather provocatively, the lights were on low, and there was R & B playing in the background.  I asked who she was, and where he was, and she shrugged rather insolently, said she was his girlfriend and he wasn't home.  I asked that she tell him I stopped by, then left, pissed off as all hell.  I called and left a searing message on his cell phone, littered with expletives.  My poor damaged children just sat there, listening, wide eyed.  Later, he said she was his "niece", and she lived with him, and I should just get used to the arrangement.  He was angry with me for being rude to his poor little "niece," and for cussing him out.  I'm sorry to admit that we made up eventually and continued the relationship for a few more years.  Looking back, at the time I figured having him around beat having to go and find someone worthy;  My self-esteem was still pretty low after my divorce.  Eventually, though, I ended it with him.  Not soon enough, but at the time, hey! I figured I had all the time in the world.  No need to be hasty in either my judgement or my decisions.

Was the man trustworthy?  No.  Was he a liar?  Yes.   Also manipulative and a user.  And really stupid.  However, the fact is:  I wasn't dating him for his brains.  He was a very handsome man.  Did I learn?  Absolutely.  A few more bricks in the wall around my heart and defenses.

So, a few years down the road and now I'm infinitely wiser, right?  Of course.  I started dating a man who lied about a number of things- his age, the seriousness of our relationship, and the reality of where the relationship was actually heading.  Of course, all of these lies didn't come out until the end of our time together.  One weekend his phone rang.  He answered it on speaker phone, and since his house had a fairly open floor plan, I was able to hear the whole conversation.  It was a young woman. 

Her:  (Ditsy, young voice.)  "Hi, sweetie!  I missed you, and called to  say hello, and see what you were up to this weekend."
Him:  (Brusquely.) "I told you I had company this weekend."

(Note:  He said "company."  Not "my girlfriend."  This is a bad sign.)

Her:  (Giggle, giggle.) "Oh, that's right.  I didn't think you meant this weekend, I guess I got confused."  (Giggle, giggle.)

(Note:  This was getting good, even though it wasn't looking good for my relationship.)

Him: (Angrily and rudely.)  "I'll call you when I'm free."  (Ended the call.)

(Note:  Turns out this man also had major anger management issues.  Not a relationship meant to go the distance.  And, it didn't- it ended soon after this.)

Recently, I got mad at the man I've been dating.  Honestly, though, he really didn't do anything wrong.  A woman came on to him.  She made some inappropriate comments to him.  I believe he told her immediately that he was involved with someone, but she still made it very clear that she was willing and available.  I wasn't present, but he told me everything, because that's the way he is.  No subterfuge.  No secrets.  I'm really bad at reading men, but I'm really good at reading women, particularly if they pose any kind of a threat to me.   So, unfortunately, I took it out on him. We worked it out, talked it out, and made up rather gloriously.  He's a sexy man, and women are going to come on to him.  I just need to have more faith in his ability to brush them off.  And, just trust him.  I detest predatory women.  I've never understood how they can deliberately come on to unavailable men. These women just don't care that a man might be taken. And granted, some men just thrive on the attention of these women, the danger of being caught just making them seem more appealing. I've always believed that if a relationship is solid, no one is going to break through; there has to be cracks in the veneer for an outside person to insinuate themselves into the situation. And- you are either a cheater, or you're not. 

Really, I'm working on all this jealousy stuff.  It's tough, sometimes, even at my advanced age.

I can also press 360 pounds with my legs.  Just sayin...

Grooming a Baseball Bimbo

As an over-educated, underemployed aspiring writer, I worry about my impending old age and subsequent retirement.  At this point, I honestly think I'm going to have to work until I'm 126.  I've come up with a pretty ambitious plan for getting comfortable, and going off to live in my villa in Italy, or maybe on my private island in the Caribbean.

It started when I was pregnant with my son.  I thought, "Great!  He'll be a lefty.  He'll be a pitcher.  He'll turn pro after a brilliant college baseball career on full athletic scholarship.  He'll be set, and so, subsequently, will be his mother.  Season tickets for life."  Of course, the best laid plans go awry.  My son, who is a great kid, has absolutely no interest in baseball, and never has.  None.  Zippo.  Nada.  Zilch. 

I had to come up with a new retirement contingency plan, once it became clear that it wasn't going to happen the way I had so carefully planned. 

This morning while perusing the best of internet sports news, I saw an embarassing article about "Baseball Babes," and it hit me.  I have a daughter, too.  I can turn her into a baseball bimbo, she can marry a ball player, and she'll be set.  And, so, will her mother.  Season tickets for life.

My daughter is a talented artist.  However, she's serious, introverted, and totally focused on her work.  This doesn't bode well for turning her into a bimbo.  There's a little too much grey matter, and not enough fluff.  She's pretty, and she's carefully blonde, but otherwise, there's nothing bimbo about her.  I discussed it with her, and she just shook her head at me.  "You know, Mom," she said, "there's a lot of work to do here, to make that happen."   I pointed out to her that if she married a professional ball player, she could basically spend her days painting, and never have to worry about earning a living.  "I'm down with that," she said.  We laughed all the way to the gym. 

Can't be a bimbo without weight training.

Lottery tickets.  My new retirement plan includes lots of lottery tickets.