Labels and the Perfect Wedding

I am finally dating a man who calls me his girlfriend.

This is new territory for me.  I'm used to commitment-phobes.  I once dated a man who, after six months, referred to me as his "very, very, very very good friend." I dated another who said that one couldn't just call someone a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, that you had to come to some kind of consensus about it all, that it took time, and that we had only been seeing each other for a year.  And, I've had many bad dates that really went nowhere.  So putting a name on anything is a huge development for me.  And, here I am with a man who is secure enough and committed enough in our relationship to give me a label.  What a feeling!

A couple of weeks ago, we both attended one of the biggest labels of all- a wedding.

The wedding was at a beautiful winery in the wine country.  The bride is a good friend of mine; the bride's sister/maid of honor is a good friend of mine, and their Dad is a good friend of mine.   My boyfriend came along for the party.

The weather was perfect.  Sunny, warm but not sweltering, breezy at first but the wind eventually died down.  The setting was spectacular;  shuttle buses picked us up at the parking lot of the winery, and transported us up to the top of this magical hill, where everything was set up:  a place for the service, lots of comfy chairs and couches with a bar nearby, tables for dinner, a dance floor with a DJ.  Even the bathrooms were perfect, at least on the women's side, because inside was a huge case full of anything you might need- hairspray, bobby pins, safety pins, double tape, feminine protection, breath mints, Kleenex, hand creme, etc.  You name it, it was probably in there.   The view from the hilltop was amazing; 360 degrees of rolling hills and vineyards stretching away into the distance.

The ceremony was perfect.  Just long enough to be meaningful, but thankfully not a full-blown Catholic Mass,  which, when attached to a wedding can take several hours.  The bride was absolutely gorgeous, and when I saw the way she and the groom looked at each other I started to cry. 

The whole day was perfect.  The service, the wedding dress, the bridesmaid's gown, the wine, the food, the cake and gelato, the coffee. 

The groom got up and made a speech about how peaceful and beautiful our surroundings were, and how his bride made him feel like that at the end of every day, no matter how crazy it had been and how much his head was spinning.  And if we should find a person like that, we should hang on to them.

When the groom made his speech, there was a collective sigh from the entire assemblage.  The women all sighed, because it was quite possibly the most romantic thing any of us had ever heard.  The men all sighed because now they all had to live up to impossible standards; the ante had been upped.
My boyfriend turned to me and held my hand.

As the twilight descended, lanterns came on, and a roaring fire was started in the fire pit.  Lots of dancing.  The party went on until long after dark.  It was the best wedding I've ever been to- in fact, it was perfect.

I saw the father of the bride yesterday.  He asked after my boyfriend, remarked that he seemed like a really nice guy, wanted to know his intentions, and was I planning to move in with him soon?

Don't rush things, here.  I'm still getting used to calling him my boyfriend.

Road Trip

After almost a year of living in her own apartment, my daughter called me the other day and asked me how to clean a bathroom.

Well.  No sense in being hasty about these things.

I'm sure this impromptu housekeeping was due to the fact that I recently visited her.  I really, really tried to restrain myself but after viewing the kitchen and bathroom the words just exploded out of me, much like the new life forms growing in the kitchen trashcan, which, judging from the smell, was apparently last emptied the week the girls moved into the place.  She has a kitchen door that leads to a porch;  she could bag the trash and leave it out there until she puts it in the trash can.  Someone might think it's valuable and steal it, and boy, what a shock that would be for the thief.
But at least it would be out of the house. 

We were there because my boyfriend and I decided to take a road trip.  Stay with a friend of his from high school, visit my daughter.  Use the back roads instead of the major freeways, pack lots of snacks, stop at obscure landmarks, take many pictures.

It was rather impromptu.
Off we went.  Our first stop was this cave, Black Chasm Cavern, located in Volcano, CA.  I just love stuff like this.  Then we took off down highway 49, through the Gold Country on the way to LA.  We stopped in Sonora, and picked this hotel at random.  Turned out to be a great place, old, full of antiques, nice little pool, absolutely fabulous breakfast.  I took plenty of notes and pictures, because my ultimate goal, aside from writing THE definitive novel of our lifetime is to own and run a bed and breakfast.

The weather in LA was perfect.   His musician friend's beautiful British girlfriend was visiting.   The boys caught up.  We girls got acquainted and became friends.  We had a blast together.  Mornings were spent in the enchanting garden, wearing our "guest robes," drinking coffee,  chatting, laughing.   

What is it about accents?  The beautiful Brit would have been charming anyway, but even more so with the accent.  She's also blonde, smart, successful. And really, really nice.   All that and an accent, too, it's just not fair.  I've been trying to develop one, but being a California girl, it's just not easy.

I caught up with my daughter, who becomes nicer every time I see her, in spite of her lack of cleaning skills.  I figure it's all okay, because someday when she's famous she can hire someone to do the cleaning for her. 

The most astonishing discovery of the road trip was the fact that my boyfriend and I actually get along.  We can spend hours in a car, driving along, talking, and even listening to each other's music without too much issue.  Even our silences are comfortable and unforced.

Now, if I could only get him to admit that he loves Eminem.  Give him a few more roadtrips, he'll come around.

Whatdya Mean, There's No Santa Claus?

"At some point, Santa needs to die.  Because, there is no Santa Claus."  The psychologist was quite emphatic on this point, insisting that part of the problem with our children today is that they are too coddled, that they need to be allowed to make mistakes, to screw up all by themselves.  We as parents can't keep rescuing them. 

Ok, so I completely agree.  While not a completely hands-off mother, I have nevertheless let my children fall down and pick themselves up.  The watching is painful, but the life lesson is invaluable.

This phenomenon is still happening for me.  I trip, fall down, bloody my knees, pick myself painfully up, do it again.  It has happened in every part of my life- spiritual, personal, and professional.  Achieving balance is hard.

Recent events have thrown the balance off, all over again.  My health benefits were abruptly cancelled.  My employer decided that the expense was too much, in fact he insisted that I consider applying for Medi-Cal.  Seriously.  That was the final straw in a process that has been going on for years.  No raise for five years, never a cost of living increase, no flexibility in work hours, no paid holidays, no sick leave, pretty much nothing.  What I had was a convenient job, close to my kids when they were small.  Hell, what I had was a job. But with one child in college and the other one almost finished with high school, the time has come to move on, if indeed there is something out there in this grim job market.  Updating my resume and searching is time consuming, and pretty much a part time job, much like my predilection for swimming and weight training.

My spiritual life took an unexpected turn this week when I discovered that a priest died of brain cancer.  She was very important in my life in my early years as a new mom.  She helped me understand and get through my own mother dying of cancer.  For the last three years I've been planning to get together with her- now it's too late.  I've missed the boat.  And- I will miss her.  She was a wonderful human being who really made the world a better place.  She didn't just talk about it, she did it daily.  May she rest in peace.

My personal life is bright.  I have great kids in spite of my mothering skills, or lack therof.  I have dear friends.  I have- dare I say it- a really great relationship with a guy who not only gets me, he doesn't run screaming from me once he realizes what I am all about.  For my age, I'm hanging in there, physically- I'm strong, and thankfully, healthy, since I can no longer afford to go to the doctor.  I'm in pretty good shape.  Mentally, I'm completely nuts but what do you expect from someone who's idea of a great night is flannel jammies, Uggs, a baseball game, a glass of wine and my boyfriend?

The other night I was putting recycling in the outside bins, when I noticed a twenty-something in a pickup next door looking at me.  Turns out he was one of my 7th graders, when I taught middle school.  He was delighted to see me.  He wanted to know was I still teaching, because he thought I was an "awesome" teacher, and that schools needed more educators like me.  I was of course in jammies, and Uggs, and my hair was wet and screwed up all funny.  As I usually am after coming home from the gym and taking a shower.

So the bad thing is, I live next door to one of my ex-students, who saw me looking really scary.  The good thing is, I was his favorite teacher, and, apparently, still am.  And he's turned out well.

Who says Santa is dead? 

Grace, Part 3

In honor of summer, I bought a new pair of sandals.

They are absolutely adorable, as far as summer sandals go.  Lilac blue, and actually comfortable as well as cute.  I figured they would go with everything- jeans, dresses, shorts.

So I wore them yesterday to a softball game in which the man I'm dating was playing.  It was a beautiful afternoon- sunny, warm, a slight breeze so it wouldn't get too hot.  I sat there all afternoon, watching a double-header.  His team stomped both opponents, and came home with a trophy.

I came home with a sunburn- on my feet, because it never occured to me to put sunscreen on them.  So now I can't wear those cute new sandals, because the straps rub right where the burn happened. 

I am not the only graceful one in my family.

My son, the-pitcher-who-wasn't, recently went to his Junior Prom.  He and his friends were all done up in Tuxes.  They looked quite smashing, very James Bond.  My son has a girlfriend, and so they were a couple, but they all went as a group, he being one of three young men escorting five beautiful young women.  A fabulous time was had by all.

My son dropped his cell phone over the course of the evening,  breaking the screen.  It could still make and receive calls, but was rendered useless for texting.  For a teenager, this is a disaster.  I mean, no one uses their phone for making calls.  My son's last cell phone was rendered useless when he carefully put it in his pocket and then went swimming with it.  After the water phone, I must have bought insurance for their cell phones, because I was able to replace the prom-dropped one, free of charge.

You learn a lot from having teenagers.   I  discovered You Tube, a bunch of really great bad pop music, and refurbished electronics.

My son carefully returned his rented tux, on time.  Unfortunately, when he did, he left his wallet in the jacket pocket.

The apple does not fall far from the tree, in the grace department.  

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.