the dog and the dragon

We were sitting in a Chinese restaurant one afternoon, musing on the paper place mat horoscopes. Turns out I’m a dog and he’s a dragon. So here’s what our Chinese restaurant place mat horoscopes say:

Dog:  Loyal and honest, you work well with others. Generous yet stubborn and often selfish. Look to the Horse or Tiger. Watch out for Dragons.

Dragon:  You are eccentric and your life complex. You have a very passionate nature and abundant health. Marry a Monkey or Rat late in life. Avoid the Dog.

As I began to read these aloud to him across the table in our little booth, I noted that we are both explicitly warned to stay away from one another. I began to play up this incompatibility when he interjected: “Well, that settles it — we’re never going to China!”

And this illustrates a number of the things I love about him — he’s quick-witted and genuinely funny (sometimes), and he doesn’t take much of anything too seriously.

 


the grass is getting greener

I’ve been seeing a fellow for a bit, and it’s such that he’s met the children and things. Folks around me use the word “serious” when they learn of this. I don’t know whether it’s serious or not, only that I feel cared for and loved as close to fully as I’ve ever felt. And that’s certainly a nice feeling.

One of the ways he cares for me is by being helpful, and he comes by it quite naturally:  he helps make and serve dinner, refusing to begin eating until I sit down to join him; he has the sort of handy skills that are transforming my basement and garage to vastly more functional spaces; he plans to paint a room while I’m away for a few days.

“It sounds like this guy really likes you,” my girlfriends have said.

He recently told me that I should anticipate having the greenest grass on the block this season.

For anyone who’s actually seen my block in the summertime, that distinction will be difficult to achieve; the DINKs have it won hands down. I’ve mentioned this double-income, no-kids couple before. They are workhorses, spending hours of work nearly every weekend perfecting their patch of urban landscape. She works tirelessly to plant and keep gardens, while his singular concern is the grass.

He of the DINKs spent years helping her fix up her home. The only way to enjoy a return on his investment, he teased, was to marry her. While he presents a sometimes gruff demeanor to the world, she enjoys a full-on adoration I’ve yet to witness in another couple. He is lavish in his affections, and spends two or three vacation days cooking, cleaning and preparing for her birthday party each summer. She basks in it and is grateful, and I am quite sure he needs no more than that.

So, back to the conversation at the bar the other night, during which my boyfriend claimed my lawn would look like a golf course. I thought of the DINKs down the street, a realization dawned on me, and I smiled.

“What are you smirking about?” he asked.

“You’ve yet to say so, but you love me,” I replied knowingly.

“Yeah.”

“Why haven’t you said so before?” I asked.

“I didn’t know whether you wanted me to,” he replied.

Our conversation went on for some time after that, and I continued to chuckle about the love equation at which I’d arrived:  green grass = love.

“I don’t want you to think the grass is greener somewhere else,” he said before he kissed me goodnight.


early imprints

I didn’t mean to come back only to be absent again for nearly two weeks. Truth is I was a bit distracted by a funeral for a family friend last week, and it affected me perhaps more than I anticipated.

You see, the gentleman who passed was a contemporary of my father’s, the same age, and someone who was as close to me as an uncle for many of the formative years of my life. Several of those who stood up to talk at his funeral described him as unfailingly kind, loving, open and generous. And it dawned on me then that, while I thought he always treated me as special as a child (we joked about my being the only daughter he never had, because he sired only sons), he treated everyone else with the same kindness as he treated me.

I remember getting to ride in his Corvette as a young girl, occasional gifts and even calling him to borrow money as I was just beginning my adult life:  Too proud to call my own father, I asked for a loan of $500. He overnighted a check for $750 and then, after I’d paid back the first two payments of $250 each, refused to accept any more. He once loaned me a box truck from his business to move apartments. And his wife of 45 years once took me shopping and attempted to buy me a beautiful pink Angora sweater…at exactly the wrong point in my teens, when it would have been colossally uncool.

But those early memories made a big impression on me about success, having enough and what it all meant. I was reminded of how much I strive to be like him:  to provide for my family, while always being generous with what I can; to keep an open mind and heart; to live well and do good. Beyond the connection I shared with him, I am in awe of the 45 years he and his wife shared, and of how poised she was as she talked of their 45 years of partnership. It takes a gentle soul to achieve that…two gentle souls.

So I came home after that and tried to explain to my boyfriend of a few months how much this man had meant in my life and how much it meant be reminded of all those wonderful things about him, and I told him I wished that for my own life, too.

I wonder if it’s something we’ll embark on (or continue, I suppose, depending on how one views it) together?


a bit of a hiatus

It seems I’ve taken a bit of an inadvertent hiatus. You know how life gets:  one day you’re writing regularly and the next you decide to keep it zipped so as not to jinx something which ends up not working out anyway and then you meet someone else and the holidays are upon you and you keep thinking, “I really ought to blog about this,” and then you don’t get around to it because there are other priorities and you’re out of the habit and life just hurtles on at speeds you can’t seem to get used to…

So…apologies.

We’ve tons to catch up on. Promise. I will be better. I’ll tell you all about the douchey suburban guy and whatnot, and perhaps how, despite every relationship being a mixed bag of sorts, I’m really feeling quite happy and cared for just now.

I’ll wait for your applause to die down…

There.

Off to get my beauty sleep. Sweet dreams, dear readers! I’ve missed you, and I hope you’ve missed me, too.


shall I or shan’t I?

Over the weekend I spent a little time with a fellow I’ve been out with a few times. He is thoughtful, generous, fun, kind and clearly interested in me.

He texted while I was out running errands and asked me to stop by. So I did. He gave me a tour of his home. He played songs on his guitar. And as we were sitting together on the sofa, he started nibbling at my decolletage and saying, “Shall I take you to bed? I can’t decide. Hmmm…will I or won’t I? I’m not sure…”

I confess, it was amusing for a bit. And then I told him where it was:  “Listen, you can debate yourself all day long and it’s not going to have any influence whatever on what’s actually going to happen.”

“Oh? And what is going to happen?,” he asked.

“I’m going to go home and rake my leaves.” So I did.


a fit like a favorite pair of jeans

The women among us, at least, can vouch for the near impossibility of finding a pair of jeans that fits just right. And once we find them, we wear them over and over, until the denim has worn soft and the fabric has stretched in exactly the right places and putting them on at the end of the day feels comfortable, right and “ahhh, yes.”

In my younger years, before having had children with this body, I wore men’s Levis jeans (this was before everyone started dropping a buck fiddy or better on the casual Friday jeans competition). The button-fly, straight-leg jeans hung on my hips and rounded my butt perfectly (or maybe it was that my butt was perfect from inline skating?). At any rate, I still remember how comfortable it felt to slide into those jeans…which seemed to last forever…until they would eventually rip out in the thigh.

Several months ago, when I was visualizing the sort of relationship I had hoped — and still hope — to find (manifest) this year, that worn, comfortable, just right feeling came to mind. That’s the sort of relationship I want.

Notice I did not say new or exciting, nor did I describe those jeans as an expensive date. I can get picked up in expensive cars, eat expensive meals and drink expensive wine all evening long, but none of that amounts to what I’m looking for. What I really want is to find that man who wants to love and cherish me for a lifetime, and I’m ready to get past the wining and dining to the mundane, everyday experiences of cooking together and cuddling on the sofa watching telly.

This online dating thing has become a bit of an endurance sport — so many first, second and third dates, so many different types of experiences, so many shades of attraction. I tell my girlfriends about them, and they hold me accountable, encouraging me to cut one loose the second I am certain he’s not the one. This takes some bravery, but it is absolutely the right thing; even if it was hard to say goodbye to Mr. Anti-establishment, the very quality I found so appealing in him today would become maddening all too soon.

There is one, though, who’s surprised me. I felt no physical spark upon our first meeting and, with our children schedules and his business travel, it was four weeks before we saw each other again. I met him out, someplace quite nice, and it felt very natural and comfortable to be close. After dinner, we made our way to a more casual venue where we could be closer and canoodle a bit. Smooching with him felt good. A few evenings later, while texting, we both realized we were doing the exact same thing… And that’s when I felt it:  that worn-in jeans feeling.

This one also meets a lot of the qualities or characteristics on my wish list, including owning his own home, having a stable career, having children older than mine and having had a vasectomy.

I’ve seen him again, and it continues to feel very natural and good to spend time and talk with him. Cross your fingers for me…I’d love for these comfortable jeans to get worn and stretched in all the right ways. I’d love to settle into an “ahhh, yes!”


complete and utter indifference

I am spending my free time dating:  a plethora of first, second and third dates. And I couldn’t feel more indifferent about  meeting the gentlemen I’m meeting…which is good, because then I always end up having an unexpectedly good time. Even when I don’t feel that something that propels me forward.

I suppose I’m approaching dating as a man does, looking forward with a mixture of indifference, anticipation, excitement or dread, depending on the moment. And none of these anticipatory feelings has any bearing on the outcome of the meeting.

The current crop has been fascinating in their approaches to dating. For awhile, several were texting or messaging, and none getting around to asking me out. I finally had to pleasantly suggest that I’m not looking for a pen / text pal, which meant that several asked me for a date all on the same weekend:

  • One wanted to talk on the phone twice before we ever met. I’ve learned he has a nice voice, seems even-tempered, has maintained a stable career. In question:  his sexual prowess / skill.
  • One had incredibly nerdy photos posted on the dating site I use and ended up being smoking hot — with geeky glasses — in person. He pushed for a second date right away, and then brushed me off. I suspect I was one of two finalists for the role and the other girl probably wears glasses all the time and not just when reading. He seemed to put some stock in not just being a bit smart and geeky, but also looking the part.
  • Another is slightly younger, less educated, more anti-establishment. After a fun first date, he walked me to my car in the rain and asked me if I wanted to make out. How could I resist?
  • I’m finding one a bit argumentative…which could be a problem…
  • And another who can’t seem to figure out how to ask me on a date. It’s ridiculous. And not going to work.

All that said, this “circular dating,” as Rori Raye calls it, is helping me keep my sanity, my feelings in check and my expectations low.

So I gear up for another weekend of dates, filtering and determining who makes it through to the next round…and who knows? Maybe I’ll end up liking one of these guys.


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