So. I had a bunch of odd dreams last night. They were my usual traveling through cities and houses and wandering up and down hills in various locations. However I woke up with some thoughts as a result of a couple of the scenarios that I will share.

What in the hell is wrong with our society that a woman can’t just be herself?

More specifically, why is it that a woman cannot be considered sexy just the way she is. Why does she have to shave off all of her hair? Why does she have to wear makeup? Why does she have to push up her breasts and expose them in order to be considered sexy? Why is it that a skinny body with big boobs is the quintessential American idea of beauty? Why big lips? Long legs? Tiny waists? Big booty? Small booty?

Oh, you say, that is the biological imperative to ensnare as many male suitors as possible. 

Is it?

Is it always about sex?

Even animals that produce colorful arrays or behavior only use it during the mating time, not all the time. Are we to assume that the modern male is constantly in a state of wanting to produce babies; likewise, the modern female?

Or is there some other message being sent here? And, more importantly, what is that message?
I am attracted to the male body, buff and shining with oil; his face angular and even featured with wide apart eyes and a square chin. IN FANTASY! Do I think just because a man is muscular and good looking that he is a good person for me?

Nope.

Ergo: all this fascination with physical beauty is a joke, a game, a sleight of hand (if you will) that keeps the American psyche in a state of flux instead of focusing on what really matters.

Do entertainment and media propagate this fantasy? You bet, because it MAKES MONEY.

Giving modern society some unattainable goal to pursue to assuage their basic sexual needs is keeping that society in a powerless place. It bestows a semblance of power to those with wealth that can buy their personal attributes or afford a beautiful companion, but leaves the rest of us wondering what is wrong with us that we can’t belong to that special group.

Or, more frighteningly, maybe misogyny in America is a far greater problem that anyone realizes.

Ideas?

As far as the “Finding a Mate” activity: nope.

I have communicated with several nice fellows and been chosen by a personal matchmaker for another (who never called me), and registered with another site recommended by a friend. 

Nada.  I am not desirable in this particular venue apparently.
 
My subscription with the first paid site is just about up. I will not be re subscribing.  I have decided that it is time for me to join an actual physical group of people based on my political-environmental beliefs and hopefully, while doing a bit of good, possible find someone with which I am compatible.  Or not. Just doing a bit of good would be fine at this point. 

While doing research on them, I found all kinds of eclectic places where like minds could meet.

Here are a few of my favorites:

Survivalist Singles  (get your MRE’s here)
420 Dating  (all things and people marijuana)
Twins Realm  (okay…)
Fitness Singles  (obvious)
Sea Captain Date (arrrggh)
Vampersonals  (vampires)
Asexualitic  (no sex)
LARP Passions  (Live action roll-playing)
these sodbusters  (farmers only)
Purrrsonals  (cat lovers)
Find Your Face Mate  (uses face-recognition software)
Cupidtino  (iPhone nuts)
LargeFriends.com  (obvious)

                                        *************************************

I wrote you a little story. Enjoy:

                                                                 Whole Foods

The tiny lady, her short smooth coif dyed that pale golden Labrador retriever color women of a certain age use and dressed to the nines in what appeared to be red wool Chanel and Manolo Blahnik pumps with a subdued black Coach purse hanging from her arm, picked through the cantaloupes, squeezing each gently, bringing the stem end up to her wrinkled nose (as if smelling the diaper of a baby suspected of filling it’s liner) then discarding them, one by one, on top of the already full bin of seedless watermelons to her left.

I was so entranced at her behavior, having just pulled up to the cantaloupe bin myself, cart overflowing and ice cream melting, that I stood behind her quietly observing and loath to disturb her ritual.

It was as if by this spell binding routine, which mind you, had gone on for at least 10 minutes as I stood watching, mouth hung open, she was ridding the earth of pestilence, curing cancer, realigning the ozone over Antarctica, and possibly clearing the right wing press of their hatred of the left instead of merely looking for a ripe cantaloupe.

I was fascinated.

I looked behind me and there stood an employee (I knew this because he was wearing a green apron with “Whole Foods” across the chest and “Fred“ in a lovely cursive) equally as slack jawed and mesmerized. I nodded. He nodded back. We continued to stand and watch as the cantaloupes in the cantaloupe bin grew less and less, and the cantaloupes that were piled on top of the tiny seedless watermelons grew higher and higher.

The employee and I looked at each other again raising our eyebrows slightly in alarm at the gravity-defying act playing out before us.

It was only a matter of time before the large stack of pale, creamy white cantaloupes was tossed off the backs of the much smaller (and so much more attractive in their striped green suits) seedless watermelons. They had to be getting squished with all that golden round goodness resting on their little round orbs.

We waited

It was as if time stood still. All background sounds were gone: late 80“s rock music, crying children, the soft roar of murmuring humans particular to large stores, there was a vacuum in the ether holding just me, the employee, the cantaloupes, and the champagne coiffed senior citizen in Chanel.

And then the show was over. Mrs. Fifth Avenue (who, no doubt, drives a silver Mercedes with a disabled sticker) simply took a second sniff of one comely looking melon, nodded her head, stuck it in her basket, gave a cursory look at we two dummies standing behind her, and flounced down the aisle towards the check out counter.

That’s when the tiny watermelons revolted. One little sucker must have given a kick out at his nearest neighbor and the Rube Goldberg-esque scene erupted in mounds of organic five dollar a pound cantaloupes shooting over the edge of the bin like an Einstein drawing of excited atoms exiting said vacuum.

It was marvelous. Some of them broke right away, spraying my tan cargo pants and Earth shoes with white seeds and orange pulp, some of them went under other shoppers carts and cracked under the dirty black wheels, but most happily rolled down the aisle towards the tomatoes with never a backwards glance.

There was no sound; not a peep, everyone had truly stopped dead in their cantalouped tracks to watch the melons run out of the bin like an overflowing creek.

I could almost hear those little seedless watermelons sigh in relief.

In the silence came a breathless and amazed “whoa!” behind me and I turned to see a well dressed adolescent male, face alive with delight and cell phone in hand (no doubt mid text) drop his mouth in a surprised “O” shape.

That broke the spell and stopped the magic. The rolling had ceased, Fred the produce guy had gone for his mop and broom and Mrs. Red Chanel was no doubt firing up her Merc in the parking lot with no idea of the chaos she left behind her in on that Saturday afternoon in Whole Foods…. the day after my father died.

God bless her.

 

 

I’m done. Finis. Finito

I have given it over six months, that is enough ego pounding for one year. What am I talking about? I'm referring to the unnamed dating site from which, after reading the fine print I am perfectly able to unsubscribe but they still keep all my money, that’s what. What?

Maybe I should just take a break from looking at all my potential “matches” then go back in a couple of weeks and reassess my stupidity in signing myself up in the first place? After all, I AM still paying for it.

Or maybe I should just purchase a large mallet and hit myself in the head every time I click on the dating site link.

I won’t go into the hoary (and hairy) details, but suffice it to say that I have been very much less than satisfied with the turn out. Did you know that there are a lot of men in Idaho that need women? Idaho and Texas, with Florida bringing up a fast third. Who knew?

Better yet, who cares!

I should have known better. I have never been a dater. I have never been a woman that really knew how to flirt. I would venture to guess that there is a very large chance that I may be dating-autistic or dating-retarded, maybe even love-stupid. I know that those are not PC words to use, and, trust me, I have been searching for alternatives but if the shoe fits………perfectly, then put that sucker on your foot and march assertively away from the computer.

Thank God the shoe in question is a flip-flop and not a three-inch heel; the marching away is ever so much more dignified that way.

So, sadly, for those waiting for the Prince Charming story and happy ending: not happening.

I think that if I were a more normal size, things may have gone differently. I am a square peg that has been happily skirting around all the round holes for years with out feeling the need to sand off my edges and try to squeeze into them. Why did I think that just because I am a mature woman (looking for a mature man) the need to mold myself into an acceptable idea of womanhood in order to be chosen would be any different than when I was that lonely girl standing along the wall at the school dance?

It is all still a dating game and I am still its worse player.

                                                                                      ***

I wrote a story. It follows. Maybe it will cheer you up. I doubt it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                          The Woods

She turns and looks behind surreptitiously, bending to tie her shoe so that the man cannot see that she is concerned about him following her into the woods.

She often walks by herself on the rustic trails, cautious about who is up there with her. Sometimes she hears gunfire and sometimes shouting and can never be sure if she is completely safe. But so far, nothing frightening ever has happened. So far.

She turns and takes another look, still not sure about him. She lives close by; maybe she should just walk back home and admit she is afraid. Right now, she says to herself, just turn and go back through the gate and leave.

But she convinces herself that the man is harmless and, besides, who is he to scare her away from her own neighborhood? She has just as much right to walk up here as he does.

He looks ordinary. He even nods slightly and offers a crooked, toothy smile as she passes, as if reassuring her. But aren't those ordinary types the ones that end up being serial killers that cook their victims for Thanksgiving dinner? She asks herself, and then shakes her head to clear the thought.

He is older than her, maybe sixty-one or two, with a full gray beard and a camouflage beanie. He is tall and powerful looking as if he works out. She notices the bulge of his biceps as he fastens on a backpack and hoists a brown canvas sack over his shoulder.

And, he has a large sheathed knife hooked to his belt.

That knife is so obvious, as if he is showing off. That disturbs her. It is too early in the season for mushroom hunting, so she doubts he needs it for cutting them out of the ground. She can’t imagine why you would need a knife that large, if you were just walking in the woods.

He has two dogs with him, large muscular black Rottweilers, pulling and jumping against the leashes he has wrapped around his arm while he pulls on his jacket. Dogs usually don’t bother her when she hikes, even the kind that are nervous and charge and bark and don’t back down. She can always sooth them with her voice and walk by without having to worry about them running behind her and nipping at her heels.

But these dogs, much like the long knife that hangs from his side, seem to emit a danger signal. It’s their eyes, like they have reverted to the wild somewhere along the way: his eyes and the dog’s eyes.

She catches all this in the time it took to walk by him and nod as he locked up his car and leashed the dogs and she ducked under the locked metal gate of the clear cut trails and started up the hill. She caught the whiff of violence coming off of him and the dogs as real and cloying as the scent of the Scotch Broom that clogs the air on the higher trails.

When she takes the first cut off, instead of her usual route, she realizes that she is really scared; that her mind has already decided she needs to stay away from this man. By turning to the left on the first road she has options. She can wait and see which way he is going to go and, if he comes up the same road, she can quickly duck onto the off shoot trail that circles back to the sand pit that leads to the highway and home.

If he walks on by to one of the other trails, she can make her way to the top of the hill and cut through at the crest, watching and listening to see if he is also taking that trail from the other direction. If he does, she can head up another side trail and hide until he passes. She smiles with pride at her knowledge of the trails, and of her plan.

She has often played this game in her head when she encounters others out hiking, but this time is different, she feels desperate to avoid this man. She stretches around the tree she is sheltering behind in time to see the edge of his backpack and one of the dogs pass by, continuing on the main road away from the trail she is on.

It is only when she is well onto the top of the first hill, after seeing he and dogs pass, that she wonders why she just didn't turn around. Why didn’t she run down the hill and go back home? Is she playing a game?

It’s too late to go back now because she doesn’t know where he is. The blood drains from her head and she bends over to catch her breath. She looks up and down the hill, then waits, listening. She takes a big breath, blows it out, and starts walking much faster, trying to get to the top before he does.

“What have I done?” She says out loud, “He could be circling around in my direction from the other side right now.” She realizes that she really doesn’t know where he is, no matter how smart she thinks she is.

Isn’t it always the stupid move; the person that opens the door to find out what the noise was, the person the calls outside the back door 'who is it' into the fog of those scary movies? Isn't always that person, she thinks, who always gets grabbed by the monster because of their denial of fear, their wish to be in charge, which places them straight into the arms of the killer with the large knife?

“A big knife! Shit!” She startles herself at the sound of her own voice in the quiet of the woods.

I've got my mace, she thinks to herself. If he comes at me I will run first, then, if he is getting close I will blast him with the pepper spray. She pulls the canister from her pocket, suddenly realizing how small and ineffectual it looks. It is pink. She almost laughs.

“Okay.” She whispers, “I can do this.” But her knees are shaky from the fast climb and her heart is pounding. She usually talks to herself; chants a little, stops and looks at rocks and trees. She enjoys being in the woods alone though it took a long time for her to feel comfortable.

“Damn it!” She says out loud, “I am not going to let this jerk scare me out of my own woods!”

The little voice in the back of her head says stupid move lady and she sighs and looks back down the hill. 

Now she is not sure. He could have doubled back and may be waiting behind her with knife out and duct tape at the ready to stop her screaming. Or he could be ahead of her. She feels stuck now, afraid to go on and afraid to go back.

At least I have my cell phone she remembers and pulls it out of her pocket to check the signal. Shit. Nothing. No signal. She has been telling herself to get a different company, but she is here now, panting at the top of the hill with no service and no weapon except a pink canister of mace. Shit.

She tries to visualize his face, wondering if he had any kindness in it or if she is just being paranoid. But she has always had a sixth sense about people, about their honesty, or lack of, and every time she didn’t listen to her gut she lived to regret it. Now she is confused. Did she see what she thought she saw? Were he and the dogs really threatening? What was it?

Get a grip. She says to herself. Think.

Okay. He was not much older than she was, maybe a couple of years, but he looked in much better shape. She has been walking these hills for twenty-five years but she knows that she could not outrun him. Did he look at her in a sinister way?

“I don’t know!” she says to the ground. “I don’t know what to do!”

She sighs again and decides to go off the road and sit up in the woods to listen for him. She is at the top of the hill now, where the path from the other side intersects the road she is on. She moves farther off the road and into the woods.

“Time to get smart. Time to hide" she whispers to no one.

Her coat is bright orange but it has a black lining, so she strips it off and turns it inside out to the black layer so she won't be so obvious, if someone is looking that is.

Now she thinks about indecision: how it makes you miss opportunities, how it makes you wish you had said something instead staying quiet. How it tricks you into passing the street you knew you should turn on, or driving past the house you knew was the one but couldn't decide.

Indecision; how it can put you in a bad situation that could be getting worse by the minute. 

She is going too fast up here off the trail dodging tree stumps and blackberry vines that grab her feet and shoelaces. If she doesn’t slow down she is going to fall and hurt herself, then she really would be at his mercy. She stops and crouches down and listens but only hears her heart thumping wildly in her ears.

She closes her eyes and puts her head on her knees. What was that? She holds her breath as she snaps her head up. She moves only her eyes, frantically looking for what made the noise.

She can hear twigs snapping. Is it just the wind dropping leaves and needles around her? No. There it is again. She lets out her breath and lies flat behind a big crumbling cedar log that has has ferns and baby cedars growing out of it. She is afraid to move, making herself small, tucking herself mentally under as much of the log as she can while the footsteps, or the sounds that may have been footsteps, seem to fade away.

It is so dark and green here. There are places on the trails, mostly on the old logging roads, that open up to the sun. But up here at the top, tucked under a musty smelling log with gnats beginning to swarm around her mouth and eyes, it is shaded up high by the tall swaying firs, and down low by the salal and Oregon grape and huge ferns that grow wild in the Pacific Northwest. It should be peaceful but all she can think of is that no one can hear if she screams because she is so far from the road and because of the insulating wrapper of green that surrounds her now.

She wonders if she is making a fool of herself. What if she just gets up and saunters casually out of the woods and back down the hill like there is nothing wrong? Maybe she is far enough off the road that she can do it quietly, without being seen. Just get up and go. She listens again, hard, but doesn’t hear the sounds any longer. She slowly raises her head and peeks, first over the log, then behind her, then to both sides just as a Blue Jay branch hops above her head scaring her all over again.

Nothing. There is nothing, no one. She smiles at herself.

“Really, you have lost your mind,” she says to herself quietly, still looking around.

But she has never done this before, never hidden from a person like this. What frightened her about this guy?

“Wait.” she whispers, trying to think about what is nagging at her about the man. Something else. She has to remember.

The back of her neck suddenly grows cold and clammy and she feels like there is no air in the air around her. What was that she noticed hanging on the other side of his belt, the other hip? She tries hard to remember the shape. A familiar shape, it was...what was it?

Goggles! He had goggles hanging from the other hip. Her brain registered the shape because she rides a scooter and wears goggles with her half helmet to protect her eyes. But these were not goggles like she is used to. These were large and thick like binoculars and had some kind of strapping attached.

Then she gasps. The image of a man in a magazine with straps over his head and under his chin holding binoculars against his eyes, which must be night vision or infrared goggles, pops into her head.

Is he a hunter? She often hears the sound of rifles in the night during the spring and fall when there may be deer up in the miles of trails and figures the hunters must be using night vision goggles to see them.

Did she see anything that could be a weapon? She closes her eyes as if it will help her think harder. No, she remembers nothing but the backpack and the bag.

She opens her eyes wide. What if it is one of those rifles that breaks down into a smaller size? He could have had something like that. She tries to remember if she saw anything shaped like a rifle bulging in the duffle he threw over his shoulders.

I don’t know! I don’t know!

She tries to think about how long she has been up here and runs through the various trails that he might be taking and where he would be now, if she could just think straight. How long has she has been up here hiding next to this cedar nurse log in the soft musty earth? She looks up through the branches into the clear blue sky above her and wishes that she were a bird that could fly up there and be safe from things that walk on the ground.

Okay. Okay. She says to herself. I left the house at about 3:30 because I made lunch then sat and read for a while before deciding to walk. So, maybe 4:00 was when I saw him. And now she looks up again begging the sky to give her a clue. It is late May so the sun sets about 8:30. Yes, she thinks, it must be about 5:30, plenty of time before dark, don’t panic. 

She figures she has been laying on the ground about an hour, not because of her calculations, but because she suddenly has to go to the bathroom so badly that she thinks about just going in her jeans, but doesn't.

She lifts her head again, hearing nothing, then pulls herself up by the log to a squat and lowers her pants, all the time swiveling her head around as the hot urine makes, what seems to her, a very loud noise hitting the forest floor. She squats lower, shakes a little and rolls to the side to pull up and fasten her jeans again. That's when she hears it. A dog barks, two dogs, maybe. And then she hears a man voice but cannot hear what he is saying.

She can’t tell if it is coming from the road she was on or coming through the woods behind her.

She hears the sounds of brush rustling and thinks she can feel the thud of feet and paws through the dense ground. The dogs have grown larger in her mind suddenly. Like something she has seen in the movies she puts her ear on the earth and decides that they are coming through the woods toward her.

She is grateful that she is laying down flat, hugging the log. They will not see her if she can just stay very still and they don’t get too close. Suddenly she remembers that she just deposited the strongest essence of her female self on the ground around her. The dogs will be on the scent of her urine no matter how quiet she is! 

What to do?

All she wants to do is close her eyes and wish it all away. Make it all innocent again. Make this the crazy imaginings of a silly old lady who has too much time on her hands. But the barking is getting close and now she can hear the man calling them.

She thinks he is tracking her! She decides that she either moves now or lays there and waits for him to stand over her in triumph, the evil dogs scampering around him for a bit of her flesh.

She grabs the mace in her pocket with one hand and with the other pushes herself slowly around to the other side of the log, away from where she thinks the dogs and man are approaching. She slowly rolls away from the log and the female scent on the ground near it, pulls her legs under her and, in a crouch, makes her way towards the road, towards safety.

She is at the side of the road now; the sound of the dogs seems farther away. She slides down the small bank onto the gravel of the old logging road, stands and points herself back down the hill.

And then she runs. She runs so hard and fast that she is not aware of running. She feels like she is flying over the road. She doesn't care how much noise she makes now because she is heading down: down toward the gate and the road and houses and people and safety. If she can go fast enough she can cut through the side path and come out at the sand pit and go straight across it to get away.

She doesn't hear barking. She doesn't hear anything but her breathing. She thinks she is crying because her face is wet.

She can see the curve in the road that leads to the sand pit trail and then hears him behind her yelling.

"Hey lady! Where are you going so fast?"

She hears him laugh and yell at the dogs. "Get her boys!"

Oh my God, did she hear that right?

She turns onto the path to the sandpit and ducks under the willows and small alders that have fallen over the path and stumbles, slamming her shin into a stump. But she doesn't stop. Somehow she keeps running until she can see the rise where she has to shinny through two trees to gain access to the top of the sand hill and safety.

Now she can hear the dogs. They seem closer, barking in a more frenzied fashion. They are on the hunt and she is the prey. They are crashing through the brush behind her and she can hear the man urging them on.

She grabs a blackberry vine to pull herself up over the tree stump that blocks her way and feels the thorns rip into her hands, then scrambles up into the sunlight onto the top of the sand dune.

She doesn't even try to run down the rocky trail but jumps over to where the soft sand creates a slide of sorts and rolls all the way down to the bottom where she stands, coughing and spitting, then runs across the lower part of the dune and up over the edge of the pit to where she is finally looking down at the road just a few steps below her.

She hears him yell and looks back and he is standing at the top of the sand hill where she came out of the woods and onto the dune. He is waving something above his head.

He has a gun.

Is that a rifle?

She is not sure.

He lowers the object at her and points it right where she stands, the dogs jumping and growling around his legs.

She ducks down and jumps onto the road, stumbles and runs in front of a car that is coming around the bend. The car honks and she waves her arms but it doesn’t stop.

She can still hear the dogs barking and the man roaring with laughter, as she runs across the road and onto the driveway of the nearest house. She is too afraid to stay in the open and on the road in case he can still see her and reach her with a bullet.

Was that a gun?

She runs up the driveway lined with tall trees and thinks that he cannot see her now. Her house is so close. All she has to do is get past this house and the next and then cross the yard and the road and she can see her house.

Did he point a gun at her?

She runs and can’t breathe but she runs anyway, expecting to hear a shot any moment. Across one yard and then the next and through the wooden gate and up out of the trees and she can see her house across the highway.

There are cars and trucks zooming by and suddenly it all seems so normal but she can’t stop. She waits for a break and runs with what little bit of strength she has left across the road and then thinks to look behind her in case he has followed.

She cannot hear him. She cannot hear the dogs. She hears the cars that honk and she hears music and the sound of a lawn mower.

She runs until she is on her deck and at her back door.

She falls down to her knees and covers her face with her hands and sobs.

 

Hi Readers of Out of My Mind!  I’m Charla’s friend Pam, and I’ve been invited to tell you about my experience with online dating.  I’m eminently qualified because I actually met my husband on eHarmony.  Never mind that I only had five dates, and was just starting to get it right on that fateful day when I met Stan.  Here’s how it happened.

I’d had the idea of joining eHarmony in the back of my mind, and one evening (Nothing to read?  Reruns on HGTV?) I started answering the questionnaire that is used to select your “matches”.  The instructions suggest not to agonize or overthink the questions, just answer and move on, so I completed it quickly.  I forget the exact order of things, but around the same time I committed with my credit card for a six-month membership.  Suddenly emails came flooding in with matches for me!  Actual photos and profiles, presumably of real men, and I wasn’t ready.  I was “wasting” all those potential dates as I had no profile and no photo.

Tip #1 – Get your ducks in a row before signing up.

I ran next door to where my son and his family lived, and my daughter-in-law took a photo of me.  Here’s the one she took.  I posted it, along with a hastily-written, but clever profile, and waited for those guys to contact me.  Nothing happened.

Tip #2 – the photo is critical.  Unfortunately we judge and are judged on appearance so it’s worth the effort to get a good photo.

Over the next week or two dozens of new matches arrived in my mailbox.  (I think I am a common personality type – there were always many matches.)  No contacts.  I tried initiating a couple of contacts myself with no response.  I was curious about my competition so one day I signed into one of the online dating sites saying I was a man looking to meet women ages 45 to 60.  I should tell you I was 60 at that time, and the photos were intimidating.  Most were obviously professional photographs.  These women had longer, thicker hair than I do and they knew how to put on makeup.  They looked young and beautiful.  And sexy.

I spent an entire weekend taking photos of myself in various outfits and poses.  I was too embarrassed to involve the kids, so I rigged up the camera to use the time delay and took at least 40 or 50 pictures.  I still wasn’t happy when late Sunday evening I tried one more time and bingo – I got a photo that looked much better than myself in real life

         Too business-like.                                                                                   Too Frumpy

                                                                                         Just right!

Things started to happen.  I think the way eHarmony leads you through early communication is helpful.  I’m sure some folks prefer just making contact and setting up a date, as you would on Match.com or other sites, but I found the gradual progression from answering multiple choice questions, to essay questions, to emails using a secure address to be comfortable for me.  At any stage you can terminate further communication with someone with a click.  Sounds harsh, but after it was done to me a few times I realized it is impersonal and for the best. 

Tip #3 – once you realize a match is not for you, move on.  And don’t take it personally!

A few I ended:  one who loved his RV and wanted to go camping all the time.  One who kept complaining about his ex.  Several who couldn’t write a grammatical email.  And one who wrote in his list of “Must Haves and Can’t Stands” that he can’t stand a woman who is overweight, while in his photo he was obviously neither slim nor fit.

Finally I was asked to dance – my first date!  We met for breakfast and I was as nervous as I would be for a job interview.  Long story short, we had a lovely chat and my feelings were hurt at the end, when he said we obviously weren’t a good match because he was retired and wanted to travel and I was still working.  Since my job was in my profile he needn’t have met me to learn I worked full time, so I assumed he wasn’t attracted to me.  I wasn’t attracted to him either, but it still stung.

Second date – this guy was moving to California the following week, so I suggested we let it go, but he said let’s meet anyway.  We agreed to take a walk at a park along the water.  Fun!  Easy to talk to!  We decided to have dinner.  He was a regular at the restaurant and wanted to split a salad and an entrée.  Okay… as long as nothing too spicy.  We ended up with his choice – spicy. 

Tip #4 – Pay attention!  It doesn’t matter for one meal, but do you want to spend much time with someone who ignores your wishes?

Third date – this guy was going to a meeting of a sailing club and invited me to meet him there.  Hmmm – different – but okay.  I arrived first and people were nice to me during the pre-meeting chat.  When the guy arrived he introduced himself and sat next to me, but other than that, nothing.  I sat through a fairly interesting meeting – could have signed up for a sail – and left knowing we’d never contact each other again.

Fourth date – wow – this guy acted like it was love at first sight.   He hugged me when I walked into the restaurant and held my hands over the lunch table.  We had had quite a few lengthy emails and phone calls so conversation was easy.  His personality wasn’t quite as I had imagined, but I was interested in getting to know him further.

Tip #5 – Don’t wait too long to meet in person.  The real person is never going to live up to the ideal image in your mind, so I think better to find out the truth early on.

Again, long story short.  We dated for about a month, not really easy because we lived an hour apart not counting traffic.  It took a while, but I started to notice that (a) my stomach hurt when we were going to meet, and (b) he occasionally was a bit rude, or said something that hurt my feelings.  I was both disappointed and relieved when he told me he was back together with his long-time girlfriend. 

Tip #6 – see tip #4 – Pay attention!!  Why was I still seeing him when he wasn’t very kind??

Fifth date – Stan!  I had been looking at the photo of this match, liking the twinkle in his eye, but thinking he was a bit old – at 67, 7 years older than I.  I wasn’t going to initiate contact, but when he contacted me with a list of multiple choice questions, I responded.  We worked our way through the communication fairly quickly – grammatically correct paragraphs!  Interesting emails!  No weird Must Haves or unreasonable Can’t Stands!  I was in bed late on a Sunday morning with my coffee and laptop when we agreed in email it would be nice to meet in person and I sent my phone number.  A minute later the phone rang!

                                                                         Stan's eHarmony photo!

Tip #7 – Be as flexible as you can about things like age and appearance.  Know what really matters to you (he can write a decent email) and what you can live with (age difference).

We met that evening, and that was the end of my eHarmony adventure, and the beginning of the rest of my life.  Neither of us “fell in love” at that first meeting, but we met the following weekend for a hike, after which he cooked dinner for me at his house.  (Of course, I had Googled him and checked out the house on Zillow.  Also gave my son the address and phone number, just in case.)  I still tell Stan the sexiest thing a man can wear is an apron!  Two years later, I moved in with him, and the following year we were married, in a lovely ceremony officiated by my very dear daughter-in-law (Charla’s daughter, Alethea!) at our home, surrounded by people who love us. 

How lucky I am!  I truly wish the same happy ending for Charla, and everyone else brave and adventurous enough to put themselves out there to meet people!

Tip #8 – This is a great book.  Daters – read it!  Parents – give it to your dating kids! 
Link:  http://www.amazon.com/Falling-Love-All-Right-Reasons/dp/044669388X  
Regardless of whether a person is using online dating or meeting potential partners in other ways, Falling in Love for All the Right Reasons by Neil Clark Warren, founder of eHarmony, is a valuable lesson in paying attention.

**Pam is my friend and my daughter’s mother in law. Shouldn’t there be a name for women who are mothers in law; how about just “sisters?” Anyway, she has a wonderful blog, for which I wrote a guest post, right here: http://grammygettingstrong.blogspot.com

 Oh Lord! I have been asked to dance.

Does anyone else remember a dark gym in junior high school, festooned with balloons and crepe paper but still redolent of dirty socks, where, glued to a wall you panicked each time a boy walked your way? Where even catching the eye of a cute-guy-walking sent your heart into A-fib?

(Insert ‘girl’ for ‘guy’ dear male readers.)

Do any of you remember listening to The Beach Boys, or The McCoy’s or The Temptations and moving your body subtly to the rhythm because you wanted to show that you knew how to dance? Or, how about watching your friends slow dance to The Bee Gees or the Righteous Brothers (who had lost that loving feeling) and aching for someone to hold you like that?

Do you remember when they turned the lights back on and announced the “last dance” and you felt tears well up, so turned and left because there was no other chance to be chosen and you might as well go call your dad for a ride home before anyone could see your sad little face?

Well, I do. I remember junior high and high school the same way. No need to go into the reasons no one wanted to dance with me (well, there was my six foot height) because, no matter the cause, rejection was the feeling. And being on the unnamed dating site has brought all those little sorrows back.

It seemed as if no one, besides two hackers and a man of an “alternative lifestyle” wanted to choose me. I know we modern ladies are supposed to ask them to dance now, but I just can’t because it is even worse, while you are standing and not getting asked to dance, if you ask someone and they say ‘no.’

So I have been asked to dance, electronically of course, and I will do my best not to make a fool of myself or dance too wildly or smile too much because this is just the first hurdle. I have always let myself be chosen and that very act validated, to me, that the chooser was the “right” one because he had the good sense to want me, but not anymore. The choosing is only a “hello” and I have no compunction about saying, “goodbye” anymore.

Life teaches you these things.
But I am still dancing quietly to myself just in case.

Stay tuned.



 

 Grasshopper Musings
 
I’ve sat here in a funk for days wondering what the hell I could have possibly been thinking when I decided to “become a writer.”

Good grief!

I am not without talent and, having set my mind to something, will doggedly march along like I know what I am doing. I am also one who starts to “become” something then, as the becoming gets more difficult, will set aside the new vocation so slowly and discreetly that no one even notices, least of all me.

This is what I have been struggling with for the last month: the thought of working on things that need editing seems too much like setting an alarm clock and running off to punch-in at some factory. Whereas, creating a brand new masterpiece comes as easy as opening up my mind. The need to constantly be producing something, anything, outweighs the need to polish and straighten and insert and delete or finish something I have already started.

What is wrong with this picture? Do I have a failure to follow through because of laziness or lack of confidence? Do I have a self-hating death wish to fail at everything that could mean personal satisfaction and pride? I honestly don’t know.

I am extremely competitive but give up if I think I am not going to win the prize. Sometimes I think that if I can’t be the best I refuse to be anything at all. Is that self-serving or what?

Is there such a thing as creative laziness?

I am a hard worker, never shirk my responsibilities, and am personally and morally upright and resourceful in every other aspect of my life. But when it comes to doing something for myself without a deadline or reward I lose interest and watch another dream float merrily away.

But what exactly is the dream? I fear it has much to do with others justifying and complimenting my efforts. It supposes that what I have to say, and how, might strike a resplendent chord that echoes through the ages and guarantees that my name and life will not be forgotten.

I want to accomplish this without re-writing, critiques, or basically any boring hard work on my part that does not include the majestic birth of a new tome.

Good grief! I am a whining, lazy fiddling grasshopper, not an artist suffering from writer’s block!

Good thing I am doing The Artist’s Way. Thank you G.

Some awesome writer-ly sites:
http://juliacameronlive.com/the-artists-way/
http://acfuller.com
http://www.authormagazine.org

 

Friends First.

I had an unsettling experience the other day while accompanying my ex husband of thirty-one years to a fairly simple out patient medical procedure. He is four years younger than me and not particularly cognizant of health matters; at least if he knows what he should do, he doesn’t do it.

We remain friends because, for the rest of our lives, we have two wonderful adult children and two even more fabulous grandchildren in common. We support each other in many ways including going to holidays together and sharing time with the grandkids. As we age we have also been able to help each other to doctors appointments (and procedures), as well as house and pet watching. I am grateful to have this working relationship and wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our, sometimes tenuous, friendship. In 2004 we actually went on a month long trip to Australia and New Zealand. I wouldn’t recommend spending that much time with an ex. That is a whole other story.

Anyway. As I waited for him I noticed that it was taking a particularly long time for them to come out and take me back to recovery so that we could leave. One hour, two hours, another thirty minutes and I was getting concerned. When I finally was able to go get him I was astounded to see that his O2 saturation was only up to 88% after being on oxygen and getting a breathing treatment. They were reluctant to let him leave until he could stay up in the 91-93% range. Now this man has smoked for fifty-one years, I should not have been surprised, but this very concrete manifestation of mortality hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks!

 I believe that all of us of a certain age know that we are nearing an end game but do an adequate job of putting off the actual reality. That is, we know but we do not see. I do a marvelous job of ignoring how far I've come from my birth! My friend has perked along for quite awhile doing all the things that he should not do, but as the nurse informed him that he would probably be on full time oxygen within a couple of years, the roosters were spreading their wings and finding a comfortable spot to roost, in both of our eyes. 

He eventually stabilized and I was able to leave him at home after feeding him and admonishing him to ‘stay down.’ (He had two cigarettes during this time. What?)

After updating the kids I went home to mull this over. While looking at my new matches on the dating site (no Virginia, there is no prince yet) it suddenly occurred to me that I had to consider a possible suitor in terms of how healthy he was! I have heard many older women say that, once divorced or widowed, they would never marry again because they didn’t want to take care of an old man. Given the general longevity comparisons between men and women, this is not a heartless statement but a reality. 

While I would not abandon a partner if he developed health concerns, I do not want to spend my last  years administering to someone who could not be bothered to stay healthy. Like the picture says, I want to keep on cruising for as long as possible. I need to make careful choices.

Oh, this search for companionship is turning downright brutal in so many ways.

On a rather humorous note, I did get a “smile” from one of the dating site men. This means that he has looked at your profile and is extending a feeler to see if you are interested. I wasn’t. This particular fellow was dressed in a pink frilly shirtwaist, blond mop-top wig, white tights and precious little white pumps. Yes, he was looking for a dominant woman and, being six foot two, he thought I might fit the bill. 

Sigh.

I had an email from another fellow a week earlier that started his missive with “Hello Sunshine!” and wanted me to write back to his private email instead of using the usual dating site communication. Luckily, I didn't respond. The next email I got was from the site warning me that this fellow had hacked another's profile and was not authorized to post and was, most likely, a scam artist looking for victims.

Well. This is not going well at all. 

Exit stage left.

 

 

 

        

 

My writing group!

I don't know where I would be without my weekly writer's group. Not only do we critique our work and share a love of writing, we offer support in personal ways as well. There is always visiting when we first sit down because we truly like and respect each other. Often there are tears when sharing upsets or triumphs. And sometimes there are chills because of the strange synchronicity that seems to validate the rightness of our gathering.

After everyone is caught up we either read our latest efforts or do a timed writing with or without a prompt. I am always enriched by being with them, whether it is learning of a new book or blog, or a great place to eat, or where to get your computer fixed, or sharing nebulous notions of dreams and spirituality. 

Last week one of them brought some interesting prompts in the form of three questions.

Where have I felt the presence of the holy in my life?
Where have I felt most alive?
What do I long for?

Interesting, yes? Maybe you would like to play along?

Here is my answer:

My first thought as I read these questions is that the out of doors under a wide sky is where I find my holy; any place long on scenery and short on people. True solitude is not a scary place for me. Although I have no problem being in a crowd, when alone I feel closer to the infinite somehow.

Recently I went camping to the far northeastern part of Washington where there is very little light interference, what they call dark skies. That was the point; this was a trip for astronomy buffs. We carried flashlights with red filters and were unable to have camp fires or any form of  light pollution after dark, creating a blackness around us that was almost palpable.  

It was the very first time that I was able to see the whole Milky Way spread across the sky above me. This was an event of singular magnificence for me. It took my breath away. I could not get enough of it.

We went on walks in which a volunteer with a laser pointer that seemed to touch the stars would pinpoint the different constellations. But really, all I wanted to do was lay on the ground and get lost in the vastness above me. Joy infused and fairly tingling with life, I felt blessed to be sharing the experience with others who understood. We all spoke in hushed tones at night, as if in church worshipping at the alter of creation.

Occasionally a comet would lay a path in the dark, or a satellite blink and tumble it’s way around the earth. But it was our galaxy, that long trail of stars and planets overhead, that held me in its spell. 

I had it all. I was outside under a vast sky with few people around, in a beautiful undulating valley, and I was with my family. 

When I was young I would gaze at clouds flowing over my head for hours. When I lived in the city I would find the quiet, wide open places, usually at night, where I could just be. This, then, is what makes me whole, which could be construed as holy. This is what I long for, to belong without reservation to a universe filled with beauty and love.

The requirements of daily life often push our souls into “shushing” when we most need to listen. I will try and keep the wonder of this experience close at hand, so that when my life gets hectic I can remember just how lucky I am to be spinning on top of this beautiful planet in it's neighborhood of sparkling points of light.


www.darksky.org/      (The Dark Sky Project)
www.tmspa.com/       (Table Mountain Star Party)