Love Bites

A woman I know was going through a rough time.  Her boyfriend broke up with her, and she wasn't taking it very well.  She kept obsessing about all the "what-might-have-beens" and the "where-did-it-go-wrongs" and the "how-can-I-get-him-backs" and the "oh-my-god-how-can-I-live-without-hims."  She also lost her dog about the same time.

It's not that I am completely unsympathetic to her plight.  I feel for her, I do.  I've been through bad breakups, and I've lost beloved pets.  I cried like crazy when I had to put my last dog to sleep. 

Dubbed "Wrong Dog" by the woman who rescued her and then left her with me "until we could find a home for her," I had her for the rest of her life.  She was about fifteen when I had to put her down.  True, she was terrified of everyone except me, she HATED men, and was really afraid of my cat. (Actually, everyone's afraid of my cat.)   But my dog was a good girl, and truly gentle.  And big enough that when I would run with her at 5:30 in the morning, no one bothered us in the dark.  I knew she was losing it when she would go to the hall closet door and patiently wait to go outside.  Or stand for a while under the piano, staring at the wall. Best of all, she'd ask to go out to do her business, I'd go out with her and she'd forget why we went out there to begin with, so we'd come back in and she'd of course turn around and have to go out again, and this pattern would repeat itself at least four times.  Always a runaway in her youth, one day towards the end of her life she bolted and ran off at 5:30 a.m.  And didn't come back.  I had a long talk with the Animal Control Officer of the Day at 6:00 a.m., and he assured me if she was found, he'd call me.  Around noon I got a call from the local police department;  a nearby neighbor heard whimpering in the creek and saw her, trapped on a rock by deep and rapidly moving water, scared, shivering and disoriented.  By the time I got there, the local Fire Department as well as the Animal Control Officer of the Day I had spoken with and a couple of local Policemen were all there.  (I live in a small town;  a dog trapped in the creek is a big happening.)  It was the Animal Control Officer who jumped into the creek and carried her out.  I dried her off, took her home and she went upstairs to the floor on the right side of the bed, which was her favorite side, and slept there, exhausted, for the rest of the day.  That night her hind legs collapsed going down the steps on the back deck, and I knew it was time.

She was a really good dog.  She loved me, and would have never done anything to me or my children, or even the cat, who she may have ultimately loved more than me.  Or the Guinea Pig- they were always communing, nose-to-nose.  Animals are so funny.

The woman I was talking about at the beginning had this Rottweiler that she loved.  He was her baby.  Gentle, she said.  Loving.  Harmless.  One night, her boyfriend was in the kitchen near the dog's dish.  He dropped something, perhaps startling the dog, I don't know.  When he bent over to pick up whatever it was he dropped, the dog took a good part of his face off.

When the ambulance came for him, the EMT called the police, who confiscated the dog.  She wanted the dog released- insisted that the dog was really quite gentle, that it was a just a terrible misunderstanding.  She refused to put the dog down.  Meanwhile, her boyfriend had a nervous breakdown and surgery on his face in an attempt to repair it.  She didn't understand why their relationship faltered, especially when he wanted the dog destroyed and she refused.  He moved out.  After his second facial surgery, he told her he couldn't continue seeing her, that every time he looked at her he was reminded that she chose the dog over him.  She felt he was unreasonable.  She begged him to come back, and he refused.  So, she had the dog put down, thinking that then he would move back in and all would be well again, even though, her heart was broken over the death of her baby.

Of course, it didn't happen. 

She honestly didn't understand why he ended it, and why he wouldn't resume with her once the dog was gone.  I tried to explain to her, that there's a difference between a dog and a human.  That the man had been hurt very badly- physically, mentally and emotionally.  That, yes, he had loved her, but was too traumatized to continue on with her, because every time he looked at her, he was reminded of the horrific attack, and the fact that she didn't immediately take his side, that she chose his attacker over him.

She just didn't get it.  She sat and wondered, "Why did he leave me?  Why won't he come back?  Why doesn't he love me any more?"

While it's obvious that she really needed professional help, I stopped spending time with her.   I found the whole story and the pathology behind it too disturbing.  Meanwhile, she continued to call her ex, and beg him to come back to her.  Eventually he stopped taking her calls, so she would leave long, tearful messages on his phone.

Today, I found out- she's dead.  She killed herself.

I felt sadness.  Could a better friend than I have prevented it?  Probably not.  She was deeply troubled, may she rest in peace.  I hope she's in a better place.

The Blonde Hopper

An acquaintance just laid it out there for me:  "Men," she said, "just prefer blondes.  It's the truth."  This woman is in her sixties, and honestly, she's not really very attractive.  She's short, pushy, rude and a bit hefty.  She bought into the whole "blondes have more fun" recently.  And, just like that, she started having sex.  Not a boyfriend, per se, but encounters.  Hooking up.  Action.  She's getting it like crazy, and if it's not the hair, it must be the attitude the hair gives her.  She looked at me, disapprovingly per usual.  "You should try it," she said.  "It could help you."

I've been blonde.  While it does give me a slightly exotic look when it's summer and my skin is tanner, in the winter when I'm pale, I just look beige.  I suppose with the help of self-tanners I could be bronze year-round, and as I get more grey in my hair the blonde might look more natural, but the truth is, a lot of those self tanners are so highly perfumed that they give my sensitive skin a rash.  Nothing more attractive than applying self-tanner before you go to bed, and waking up the next morning swollen, blotchy, red and itchy.  Also, when your hair is as naturally dark as mine is, well, there would be more upkeep involved, and honestly, I don't have the time or energy.  I will remain a boring brunette until I have so many grey hairs that I have to make a decision about what to do.  And, really, as far as male attention goes, I haven't noticed much of a difference.  Blonde, brunette, it's all the same for me.

I know one man who definitely prefers blondes.  My daughter calls him the Blonde Hopper.  This is a man somewhere in his mid-fifties, no great shakes in the looks or personality departments.  Exceedingly arrogant.  He likes women from former soviet-block countries.  I don't know for sure what arrangement he has with them, but he meets them on line, and brings them over for a time.  The first one was about six feet tall, legs longer than my entire body, probably about twenty, long, waist length platinum blonde hair, and she dressed like a hooker- booty shorts with suspenders over a bikini top, over-the-knee-platform-boots with 4 inch heels.  She was exceedingly anorexic looking, and had a bad case of acne on her cheeks.  She lasted about three months.   The next one was closer to my age- about forty, mid-length blonde hair, dumpy.  She lasted a month.  The next one was a little younger, maybe mid thirties. Otherwise she was much like the previous dumpy one.  Again, she lasted about a month.  He went through about eight of these women, and the only common denomination besides the blonde hair was the thick accent.  His most recent one has been here about six months.  She's young- twenties, I guess, and very pretty.  Long legs, long blonde hair, pretty face, vacuous.  She giggles loudly and incessantly, and whenever they're together she rubs up against him and they get x-rated in public pretty quickly.  And- recently she's sporting sparkles on her left ring finger.

So the moral that I take away from all this?  If you are young enough, blonde enough, and stupid enough, you can land a gem like the Blonde Hopper.

Maybe I'll dye my hair black.

Faith

I recently got an e-mail from an old friend from high school,  reminding me that our thirty-fifth reunion is fast approaching.  Considering that I haven't attended a single reunion yet, I'm not sure why he thought I should know about this.  Got me to thinking about high school, and dating.

Dating when you're young can be stressful, but at least you're young.  When you are middle aged, it's always stressful and you're not young.  The rules are totally different than back when we were kids.
I was trying to remember dates when I was young.  They were all pretty routine, or maybe I'm just so old I can't think that far back into the mists of time.  Little snippets of different things come back to me.  Movies.  Going to the beach.  Hiking.  A picnic on a warm day,  sun on my face.  The smell of the ocean.  The sound of water.  Mostly I remember the feeling of having my whole life ahead of me, of being invincible.  Usually there was water involved, a pool or the ocean.

I've had some memorable adult dates in the last couple of years.

It was a beautiful early summer day.  The guy picked me up on his motorcycle, and we rode out to the coast.  The weather at the beach was beautiful, just as warm and clear as it had been at home.  We walked on the beach for hours, holding hands, talking, laughing, and enjoying the sunshine.  Later, we had dinner in a small restaurant.  He let us eat at the bar so I could watch the game while we ate.  After dinner, he took me home.

I got an e-mail from a platonic friend.  He was someone that I had once been involved with, but was now just a friend.  He said, "Tonight is the height of the Perseid's Meteor shower.  Do you want to go see them?"  He picked me up at two in the morning, and we each brought our sleeping bags.  We drove up into the watershed, parked, and hiked in a bit, laid out our bags, laid down next to each other in our separate bags, and laid there for the rest of the night, talking and watching the meteors. 

I was meeting a man for lunch and a walk.  It was our first date.  We met outside a Mexican restaurant.  He kissed me immediately, and we started making-out right there.  Eventually we went inside, and had a great lunch.  After lunch, we drove down to the water and parked, walked along the water and out onto this rocky peninsula,  It was a beautiful afternoon, warm with a light breeze.  We settled ourselves on a rock, and talked and made-out for the rest of the afternoon.

As painful as dating can be, I think it's a process you just have to go through if you really want to find the right person.  I have a friend who has in her head the picture of the perfect man.  This perfect man also makes a tremendous amount of money.  She will make no deviations in the dating world from her own falsely inflated sense of expectation.   As a result, she has been alone for ten years, and fumes that "there just aren't any good ones out there."  I told her, half jokingly, that she should just marry some rich old man.   She replied, half jokingly, that rich old men want perfect young things.  She has a point; I do know younger women who would gladly be with a really gross old man if the price was right.  Of course, I have always thought of that as prostitution, but that's an entirely different subject.  The majority of us are not perfect young things, or gross old men, and where does that leave us?  Searching for the one.  Alone.  Morose.  I've just decided, if you want it, just get out there.  Sometimes you need to take a leap of faith.  Take a chance on someone you ordinarily wouldn't.  He could be Mr. Right, you never know.  If at first, or second, or third, or fourth etc. you don't succeed, well, the next one's around the corner.

You just never know where you're going to find your someone.  It's not easy.  And then, you find them, and suddenly- it's easy.

Transit of Venus

The Transit of Venus won't occur again in our lifetime.  It is the planet Venus crossing in front of the sun, much like a cosmic beauty spot.  I suppose my good friend and personal astrologer could tell me the significance of this event, but unfortunately, I never paid her the money she wanted to maintain our deep and undying friendship.  She did let me know that for a short time only, she would lower her price for me since the information she needs to give me is so important, and requires her expert guidance.  Except for this very kind offer, she and her friendship have mysteriously disappeared out of my inbox.  Guess I'll have to muddle through without her.

When I think about Venus, I think about love, probably because when I was a little girl, I remember a movie about Venus, with Zsa Zsa Gabor as a beautiful Venusian woman.  The female-only planet  was ruled by this evil Queen who had been disfigured by radiation and blamed men.  So love was illegal.  Of course, these handsome male astronauts land on the planet and fall in love with Zsa Zsa.  It was a really hokey movie, but here I am, a grown woman and I still remember the green planet, and all these really beautiful women in flowing, green dresses.  They were all looking for love, but of course, the evil Queen had made it impossible.  I pictured my dumpy little body in one of those sexy green dresses- gave me something to aspire to.  I just knew, someday Prince Charming would come flying in, riding in his silver rocket ship.  Then, that would be love.  Hollywood told me so.

My best friend lives with her husband in a small town in another state.  The man I'm dating and I decided to take a road trip and go visit them.  In spite of inclement weather- unexpected snow, heavy rain, high winds-  time flew by in the car, and we had a lot of fun.  We are comfortable together, and we never run out of things to talk about.  Traveling together can be a real test, and I think we passed, even though he did ban my ipod, because for some reason my music makes him crazy.  He brought all these snacks, however, which are a road trip essential, and he took me out for a trucker's breakfast before we left, so not liking some of my fabulous pop music is okay, I guess.  He's also a socially liberal Democrat.   Sometimes I'm liberal, sometimes more moderate, and often just Libertarian.    This makes our political discussions interesting, in spite of the fact that I think he just hates politics in general.  We've had several discussions about guns. He's thinks they're dangerous, and that there are too many of them on the street. I believe that it's a personal choice, one that shouldn't be dictated by government, but if it is, then along the lines of the second amendment.  I've actually wanted one for a couple of years.  We agree to disagree.

The town my best friend lives in is small and really pretty, a green gem in the high desert.  It's ranching, farming and mining country.  My best friend's husband is another socially liberal Democrat.   He owns a restaurant in their town, and as a business owner is on good terms with everyone.  When the local chapter of the NRA held a fund-raising raffle, he bought a ticket, and unbelievably won second prize, which was essentially an arsenal.  A couple of shotguns, something like an elephant gun, a couple of handguns.  Ammo for days.  It is a pretty impressive display of firepower.  He suggested we take the arsenal and go to the shooting range.  He and my best friend go regularly, and are crack shots.  The man I'm dating had never shot a gun in his entire life.  I hadn't shot a gun since college.  So, of course, off we went.

We had a blast.  (I had to say that, sorry.)  Who knew that shooting at a couple of orange rubber cubes could be so fun?  And who knew that the man I'm dating was such a good shot?  He's got that hand-eye coordination that I lack, because I was pretty awful.  It was a lot of fun, however.   

My best friend and her husband have been married twenty-two years and are still madly in love.  This gives me great hope- love is out there, and you can find it.  Sometimes Prince Charming doesn't come riding in on a big white horse, or fly in on a silver rocket ship.  Sometimes he drives a riding lawnmower.  Sometimes he comes riding in on a motorcycle with an oil leak.  You just never know.