Dating a Widower, more thoughts

A while back, I published a whole post explaining why I typically defend widowers who are dating against the advice of columnists who specialize in the particular foibles and hazards of dating widowers.

HOWEVER.

That doesn't mean I think widowed people (men or women) deserve any kind of special consideration when dating, either.

Too often I hear young widows (we usually say "under 55" just to have SOME answer) speaking wistfully of dating someone who "gets it," meaning, in our code, someone who's also widowed. It seems like it would be easier than "cleaning up" one's grief for the dating market or dealing with divorced men (about whom we can be quite judgmental). We get misty eyed thinking that this widower would understand the troubles we've seen and that there would be so much less guilt involved in the new relationship.

Well. This is as Hollywood as it gets.

Widowed men are only human. They can behave badly when dating. Maybe not worse than other men, but if a woman enters the relationship with misty rose-tinted gaze, when she's most vulnerable (and especially if she's decided to short cut knowing whether she's ready and committed to dating... because after all he's "just like" her)... it can get ugly. Widows are vulnerable enough... don't make yourself MORE vulnerable by dating someone who you feel is owed any special treatment. His loss is no more romantic than yours, after all.

Yes, you can live happily after after (once per person). But don't overlook the practical aspects of your situation: there are far, far fewer widowed men available at young ages, and no matter your age, there will always be fewer widowed men available. Dating is -- for many of us, at many times -- a numbers game. You need to have the largest pool available... and the clearest idea of who you are (not JUST widowed) and the most critical perspective on who you're considering to share your life.

Don't get all fairy-tale on this... a widower is just another man to be considered for his own merits and flaws. I'm suggesting that widowed women are more susceptible to this, but Abel's column (and the other Dating a Widower sources) tell me that widowers are getting the same kind of affirmative action from single and divorced women in the marketplace. Preference that I doubt is ever given to widowed women when they date.

Everyone deserves love, but everyone also deserves the right partner and to be taken seriously enough that they can be seen for who they are.

Dating a Widower, compared to Dating a Divorced Man

My friend and colleague Abel Keogh writes a popular column on his blog, and runs several areas on Facebook, about the perils and pitfalls experienced by women who choose to date widowed men.

I have various quibbles with this topic, which he and I have discussed many times. To me, the Dating a Widower movement, such as it is, looks like it's just based on following Google to high readership. Just because people ask a question, doesn't mean there is a substantive answer to be found... though it can be created by someone inventive, responsive to readers, and with tremendous knowledge of the subject... as well as first hand experience as a member of the population in question. Abel is far from the only author tackling this subject: in addition to his two books, Dating a Widower and Marrying a Widower, there is Julie Donner Anderson's Past: Perfect! Present: Tense! and her associated forums and other activities.

I'll admit that those who date widowed people is not a group I have chosen to speak to or for... and that knowing how few men under 55 are widowed compared to women (at one time Social Security told me it was 1 man to 7 women) makes me quite skeptical... but some of the stories Abel and his readers share are pretty dreadful.

Many of the men in question seem to have significant trouble living comfortably with their past lives and experiences. Perhaps some of them were even a little nuts before they were widowed (we are changed by our losses... but not that much).

I also think that widowers with children still at home (most of the widowers I know fall in this category) are a bit more justified in hanging on to "stuff" from their past lives and sharing family (like in-laws) and memories a bit more actively. This is a giant set of exceptions that negates, for me, a lot of Abel's advice.

To be honest I have been pretty suspicious of these areas in part because when I was dating, at 40 ... I looked only at men who had been married. To me, the only relevant person to compare a widower's baggage to was... a divorced man. (I mostly restricted my searches to men who had been parents, because I had a young child and needed someone who'd understand that if I cancelled a date due to flu that he shouldn't take it personally... and I considered never-marrieds undateable... prejudices which had been confirmed by experience.).

I do not doubt that many women DO ask these questions and that people are confronting some difficult situations with this "baggage." But emotionally unavailable men come in many flavors. And it seems too easy to me to provide advice to women who are dating... probably the most insecure people in the world. What makes widowed men so much more "difficult" to deal with than, say, divorced men? Or men who reached 40 without ever marrying?

So let's do a comparison of baggage. I married a divorced man and we spend more time dealing with his feelings about his 23-year marriage disintegrating and their divorce than we do with Gavin almost literally disintegrating before my eyes and his death. (Although the score does even out a bit if you start counting the time I spend on managing his posthumous career as an artist and the fact that I spend tons of time on volunteer work for widowed people like Widowed Village and the Soaring Spirits board. )

I've always wanted to do a comparison that went beyond "my husband didn't WANT to leave me." Abel has just published a huge list justifying why this is a legitimate area... some of the ways that widowers behave badly in the dating market. So let's tear in and see what we find!: 

Some widowers ...	Do divorced men do something similar?
Have shrines to their late wives in their living room or large portraits in other places in home or office.	No. Often the ex-wife has been cut out of the family photos and pictures are spookily absent. Sometimes this means there are no pictures of the kids, either, or that the divorce lives in hotel-room-like impersonal environment. Having some amount of old photos on display is a good idea if he and the late wife had kids. Advantage: widower.
Hold the late wife as a perfect saint who can never be spoken ill of.	Frequently bring up the ex-wife as a demon about whom no good can ever be said. Advantage: widower.
Keep the late wife's clothing in the closet or toiletries in the bathroom, or offer the new girlfriend their late wife's jewelry, clothing, etc.	No, sometimes the ex-wife's possessions have been burned or tossed from a window, though, or sent to storage without her knowledge. Advantage: widower.
... same for lingerie or sex toys.	Just.... ew.
Want to be buried next to their late wives.	Well, it would be nice if the widower would at least pretend that this choice got complicated. If they had kids, the old plan MIGHT still make sense. Advantage; the fresh start of the divorce'.
Have a bedroom in their home dedicated and reserved for the family of their late wives.	If it's a huge house and they had kids together... maybe. I think I'd find it hard to complain about living in a house with that much extra space.
Talk about how their late wife was a great athlete, professional, mom, and an all around perfect human being	Frequently divorced men share with their dates their feelings that their ex-wife was a skank, dumbass, or spendthrift. Both behaviors are tacky and unnecessary in most situations. Both widowed and divorced men should be able to talk about people in their past without cartoonish characterizations. Advantage: widower.
Organize and participate in 5ks or other charitable events in the name of their late wife	No, but sometimes people who've lost a child or parent or friend to a disease continue these activities, and is that weird?
Wants to be reunited with their late wife in the next life	Okay that is pretty weird, but isn't it a question of theology, like, are you healed when you get to heaven? Even if you had an amputation? (Sorry. Not my personal set of beliefs so I don't quite "get" it.) And it doesn't apply to divorce anyway, unless the ex-wife has also died.
Have the late wife's pots, pans, dishes, spices, etc. in the kitchen	Well.... yes. We use a lot of items that belonged to Mr. Fresh's first wife. Wasn't most of it joint property? Are we expected to replace EVERYTHING? (Plus we live in their house but dude, I KNOW that's weird, and it was equally my choice.)
Have the late wife's voice on their answering machine	Okay, I personally think that should be taken care of before you date, at least, by the time that person calls your home number. Advantage: Divorce.
Live in a house that has their late wife's touches everywhere	See pots and pans, above.
Have tattoos of their late wife that they’re not willing to get rid of	Blech, but isn't a tattoo supposed to be permanent? I have mixed feelings about tattoo removal... because what is a commitment anyway? Unless he's out of space for a new one with your name on it.
Constantly compare you or have family members that constantly compare you to their late wife	People "compare" me to Mr. Fresh's first wife all the time, and they compare him to Gavin all the time, but kindly, and without excessive characterization. We both do it, too, but again, most of the time, we do it gently and usually we're talking about behavior and not, say, waist size. It is hard to avoid, but "constantly" would piss anybody off. Mr. Fresh and I have had our issues with it.
Wear rings that symbolize their love for their late wife	See answering machine, above.
Make a giant six-acre heart-shaped meadow for their late wife	No. As stated in many examples above, divorced men do not tend to have fond memories of their ex-wives. I believe however that new partners benefit from displays of love like this.... not to mention tourists: the Taj Mahal was built to remember the Shah's late wife. (History does not record for us how that affected his next relationship or the other concubines, concurrent or subsequent.) Isn't it possible he would do something like this for you, too? Advantage: Widower.

I have to admit my "baggage comparison" isn't really as decisive as I might have wished. I realize that it's probably not reasonable to compare dating a widow (a nice normal one like me) with dating a widower, but I think widowed people generally are treasures in the dating world. (I only managed to find one widower when I was dating. It didn't go well, but it had nothing to do with his loss.)

So I tend to wonder, why is there no comparable community (and books) for those dating widowed WOMEN,given that they are 7/8ths of the widowed population? (Annie and Able share their thoughts on this here). "Dating a widow" is probably an even more popular Google term than "widower," but leads you only to spam, irrelevant or disreputable dating sites, and p0rn ... not to an entire movement. While there is some discussion of dating widowed women, most of it is pretty low quality and it doesn't seem to have any traction. Nor does it seem to generate this much controversy, even though widowed women talk about dating a lot. (A LOT lot.)

It still seems like an insult to my friends who are widowed men (who are frequently outraged by these blogs) to admit that there is something there... but surely there is. Perhaps men are more frequently bad daters, overall? Who knows.

There is certainly scads and scads of material about dating divorced men... but those men are so prevalent it would be impossible to avoid them. Which I suppose is part of the peculiarity... it IS possible to avoid dating widowers, and look at all this advice on WHY.

What do you think?

Culture Clash

I love leading an online community. Today Widowed Village received the following application for membership:

I am intended to marry with widow/divorced woman. Their status, age, (having children) doesn't matter, only virtue (pure heart)is important.
I can promise I will be responsible person to make our family always be happy.
I think if we are doing something really right then we have to do this. This will my prominent decision of my life.
Widow/divorced woman are isolated from world, therefore i want to turn my wedding decision to right way and we both will be respectable for each other..

I am Aamir H. from India, as above given is short description, but it is truth. Actually, i am single but interested in to marry with widow woman .. so can you help me? Give me suggestion too...

He is only 26 and yes, I turned him down (we only allow widowed people to join).... I mean, for membership, of course.

Is Aamir doing a good deed? (Can we assume he's very ugly, ill, impotent?) We've all heard horror stories about being widowed in India. Even though the sati is banned, remarriage is supposed to be rare.

It just looks so, so bad in this country where soliciting online for a bride is a business and arranged marriages are considered an injustice beyond anything. Amir's request sounds... cheap. It seems... an ugly sort of business transaction. But if I read it... well, it seems like there's a man with a heart there. I don't really mean to make fun of him (though it would be easy to).

This is the third or fourth request we've had like this. They're all quite clear about their intentions. The first one made me queasy. By now, I sort of respect their honesty and wonder what is up. Do these fellows want to move to the U.S. or another English-dominant country? Do they think our community has many Indian members (we might, someday, I suppose)?


Can someone explain to me what is going on? I know I have readers in India....

More on mermaids

I use mermaids on this blog all the time, as my symbol, as a model for us, cautionary or not. My motivation: I lived in a fantasy world, and looking up to women I might be, I could find only a few, but was sure of Buffy and Ariel. Those damn red-haired toys were all over the house, four in the bathtub alone. At 8, my daughter is "over" the Disney princesses, but Ariel still enchants.

Ok, at this point, it might be more me than her.

I used two of my daughter's drawings (from age 4 or so) on little badges to give away at Camp Widow this past summer: one is at least not pink, for the menfolks. "She's so full of joy, isn't she?", asked one woman when I gave her one. (I wasn't sure if she meant my daughter or the drawing.)

And she is. Mermaids are purest fantasy, not only elastic between worlds, but always moving, tantalizing, looking for something. They're determined and friendly.

I felt like I was swimming in a new world when I rediscovered parts of myself — big parts — after Gavin died. As I looked for meaning again, and tried to make daily life work, too. I'd forget myself in play with my little girl, and in the pretend world of online dating: which man should I pick? What could be more romantic, and what a way to be transformed. It was like trying on new lives, and new careers too (they always talked about work, I didn't like my job, and what an easy place for me to escape to) … It hardly mattered that in real life, they would have had to like me back. I had flowing tresses, a deep mind, knowledge of the other world, and desire.

I'm still swimming, in a way, though I'm remarried, have a new career, a new house. Maybe I'm not quite on solid ground yet. But at least I have a good brand.

My dating posts (rerun): My first online relationship.

I thought people could use a little humor, and I have boatloads of completely new readers who will never (I hope) wade through my archive, so I'm rerunning my dating posts from 2009 (which I "lived" in 2007). Old stories x 2. You can read the old posts in order if you prefer starting here. 

* * *

My first online relationship ended with phone sex.

In August, seeing that flamenco dancer, and with encouragement from Lil and a dare from another woman in group, I swore I’d dip my toe in. Within a month I was drenched and it was up to my neck, rapidly rising. How did I get there?

Around my birthday I placed an ad on Match.com, a little more elaborate than the one on Plenty of Fish, but same punchy attitude and honest simplicity. It was a big room to play to: Manual laborers, lawyers, investors. Idealists whose jobs I wanted more than their bodies. Losers who wanted to “feel they lady’s breasts.” There were guys who were way out of my league. Fellows who pointed out that they wanted an "HONEST woman for once." Some winked. One asked for a picture "that shows you below the neck" (it was hard to find one -- I was always squatting at kid height).

I was totally a teenager: gawky, awkward, flirty, without perspective, fresh, unaware what guys my age liked. Not sure who I was or why anyone would like me. My personal brand? My story? No fuckin’ idea. This was the story I knew. I held it close during those weeks:

I held an almost-religious faith that I would find someone else, remarry, and live a happy chapter two (or three?). I credited Gavin with this. That first night after diagnosis --- my first birthday since having a child – we drank a bottle of wine and I waved my finger at him saying, "I just want you to know, if I find someone else, and if I want to, I’m going to get married again. You know, on the off chance you don’t make it."

So generous, Gavin looked at my rage and confusion and clarity. “That’s terrific – I want you to be happy!” Two years later in my young widow/ers' group, I heard I was the only one who’d had this conversation at all. Well – after the first few months that practicality wore off and we were in and out of the land of miraculous healing, surrounded by the moat of denial, until it was too late. I suppose chapter two was an appropriate belief, since Gavin was much older than I. But I entered dating grateful that we’d had that conversation. I thought of that faith, mine and his, every day.

So you can see why nothing was working well.

Except – that it sort of was. One of my earliest winkers developed into a slow and mellow conversation. His ad quoted Groucho and pictured him leaning back with a glass of white wine, petting one of two twinned pugs. In the picture, he was talking. Then some of him on flyfishing adventures and on a boat. A man with a yacht would talk to me? Me?

I was so insecure but tried to be honest: “… I'm not even sure if these are the types of things that would make me seem more (or less) interesting. Knowing me, I should probably be trying to convince guys I'm *less* interesting. Though being 40 means being more comfortable in my own skin and less likely to compromise -- right? I suppose I should put some more pictures up. You wrote a very good profile but I still don't have much of a ‘feel’ for what you're like.”

He was relaxed, and he could deal: “… Do you really want to attract men who are attracted to a less interesting you? For that matter, do you really think you can make yourself less interesting? Seriously doubt it. I wouldn't have responded if I didn't think you were really interesting! As for me, well I'm a pretty direct person and I wrote my profile to convey that. But, I'm also REALLY interesting. I'm just not going to give away all the goodies in my profile. What would we have to talk about?”

It was scrumptious. When he expressed confidence that we were going to have coffee some day, I was beside myself. I was pulling up the bucket from the well of horniness and it was running over. I felt flushed with hormones from head to toe. At the same time, there was a lush sadness coming up. It affected my entire body at exactly the same time as the desire. I was complete and full with the conflict.

Short Stack was in toilet training. Over and over, day in day out, I kindly said, “Listen to your body, honey…” One of my challenges is to treat myself with the same loving care I give to my child. At the time, I’d heard a statement on Oprah* that “Our children learn not from how we treat them, but from how we treat ourselves.”

I started to hear what I was saying. Listen to my body. (Maybe someone else would like to listen to my body?). "My body is saying it is sad and horny." Yeah, weird, but it sounds human enough. I told YachtGuy I was flooded with sadness corresponding with him and it didn't freak him out. He said, "Take your time. This is supposed to be fun."

Now hang on a minute, I said have a body? I do?

Oh yes. Yes, honey, I do.

[White lettering on blackscreen, arousing your ire:]

TO BE CONTINUED.

Part 2. Dating Episode 1.0: Really Virtual

Maybe a week after he assured me we’d meet in person, my “relationship” with YachtGuy escalated to talking on the phone, which was richer and more wonderful. We had rapport, we laughed. I called him “French” because he shopped each day for that night’s dinner; I could hear his playful sneer when he threatened to hang up.

I nearly pee’d my pants laughing when he told me he was living on his yacht, hours from work, since the separation. We told life stories, compared marriages, talked about our dysfunctional first families. We had a similar level of intensity but I was insecure; he was gracious, reassuring, and patient, a southerner raised by bohemians, who facilitated complex accounting transactions.

Perhaps for some women “settled charges resulting from an SEC investigation” might raise a red flag. I found out that I am not one of those women.

During my work day, I’d think of him, or exchange an e-mail or two, and that sorrow and lust would rise in me again. I sought and clung to this deliciousness.

I was still scared to have a date, even coffee, even with him. Finally I allowed that I could get together for coffee in two weeks – enough time to visit the woman who kindly but firmly disciplines my hair a few times each year. I could at least prepare on the surface.


Wow -- my first date. I wouldn’t even call what I’d done before Gavin “dating.” This was fresh territory and I only had rusty tools, though I guess my compass was strong. I warned YachtGuy that I would cry when I met him, no matter what. He warned me that he would kiss me, no matter what. I melted into an even more tangled ball of tension and pestered Vivi and Lil until they consented to chaperone the coffee date. Lil told Vivi, “Don’t forget your fake glasses and nose so we won’t be recognized.”

There were some other difficult things going on in my life – the subject of a long, separate, widowhood-related story – and they came to a head the weekend before our date. I vented to YachtGuy by e-mail and we made a date to talk by phone that evening.

As I look back on it now, after so much else has happened, I know I was a tinderbox. I couldn’t contain my excitement at any stage so far. I drank half a bottle of wine before I got him on the line. Perhaps what happened was pre-ordained. Destiny or kismet or drunken dumbness, it was a fucking total blast.

The next day I had to process with the girls:

Viv: Three hours! What did you talk about?
SDF: Um…. We only talked for one hour...
Viv: Oh my. Was the hour of talk before or after?
SDF: Before. We were pretty spent at the end as you can imagine.
Viv: Was it just dirty talk or….
SDF: The latter. So here’s how I foresee Sunday: I’m sitting across from him saying YOU'RE the guy I fucked?????? and laughing my ass off. PLEASE chaperone!
Viv: What are going to wear, and for the love of God, have you had your hair done recently? You totally have a boyfriend. I NEED DETAILS.
SDF: I do NOT have a boyfriend. What details do you want?
Viv: Basically, um … the transcript.
SDF: Transcript: First hour is like, how was your day and what do you think you want in life and let’s just have fun. He tells me how relaxed he is and how he can see the stars from his bed. I do the same except I say I can see the TV from here on the couch. He tells me some things he likes about women and what he likes to do to them. I tell him how much I enjoy those things. Things escalate to a lot of heavy breathing that cannot be heard very well and some descriptions of what we imagine we are each doing to the other except probably not accurate b/c hard to keep track of what’s sposed to be where when, breathing gets faster, I can hardly hear anything and have to keep checking if he’s still there, heavier breathing and some imaginative descriptions, exclamations and exhortations and some cursing, I hang up about 3 times (chin pushes handset buttons, or switch phones because battery dies) and one of us has to call back, then there are some louder noises. I hang up by accident again. He calls back. We make appropriate small nice talk for a while and then we say goodnight. DOES THAT HELP?
Viv: Well… it sounds almost romantic.

After phone sex, coffee had to be a piece of cake, right? I still felt that real physical contact, even the threatened kiss, would be more than I could handle easily, but at least I had some basis of recent experience with some kind of partner. I sure felt different, and people at work kept asking me about my “glow.”

Four nights before the date, just after finishing story time, I opened my inbox:

S –

Lots of thoughts in recent days. Three significant points pertaining to you:

1.  I don't want to meet you yet. In fact, I've decided to drop dating (the in-person type) altogether for the time being. Very personal reasons having nothing to do with the wonderful women I have met, you included. Sorry, but must postpone coffee for a while.  For some reason I think you will understand without explanation...at least I hope.

2.  I am strangely attracted to you. I am simultaneously troubled and intrigued by that.

3.  The other night was amazingly erotic. I want to fuck you tonight. Please call.

YG

Sent from my iPhone

My dating posts (rerun): Pregame. Perfume, Window Shopping, and Flamenco

I thought people could use a little humor, and I have boatloads of completely new readers who will never (I hope) wade through my archive, so I'm rerunning my dating posts from 2009 (which I "lived" in 2007). Old stories x 2. You can read the old posts in order if you prefer starting here. 

* * *

We went around the circle in grieving group. What happened in your life this week? I was all a-giggle. “I BOUGHT PERFUME! Here smell this!” I oozed manically, extending my cleavage to Viv.

I’d never bought a perfume before. Sure, I used to wear sandalwood or musk oil, smearing it through my hair before martial arts class. But I’d always been skeptical that the marketplace could come up with a fragrance that really suited me, me, me, and it seemed that every perfume I tried smelled like my Grandma, mostly half-rotten lilies, at least on me.

I had lost a man. I had a child, a job, and a graduate degree. Maybe I could admit I was a woman in the marketplace – the perfume market at least. I could, I thought, settle on a single product, or two or five, and let go of my artists’ dream of inventing my perfect personal fragrance (which might take till after my death). Maturity meant dealing with reality and the limits of the mere 1,000 fragrances that are manufactured commercially. Enough perfectionism, let’s dance.

I asked girlfriends how they had selected:
“My friend who picks my haircolor told me what to buy… and ze men love it.”
“I’ve always worn White Shoulders, I don’t know why.”
“I had a hip aunt who wore this and I wanted to smell like her.”
“My grandmother told me Chanel means you’re classy.”

It was not useful and I was scared of the lilies. Then one week I sat so close to a cute Jewish lesbian at church that I joked I could smell her perfume. (Yes, it was a flirt, but given my state, she would know I was not serious). She said, oh, do you like it? She schooled me about the fragrance families. Yes, of course I like vanilla, musk, woods, spices. Must be an Oriental amber.

Tried several at the MegaBeauty on the way in to work each day. They were all so powdery – it was just wrong -- I am not a dry person in any sense of the word. Sniffed around and decided Oriental Spicy for sure.

Opium smelled fantastic at first but faded to a soft smell of Gillette shaving cream, definitely not what I was after. Went through 10 more, at least, many of which completely disintegrated on my skin.

But I fell in love with my own arm the first day of Versace Crystal Noir. “Oh man,” I told Emma, “I smell like a cake, HERE” – a vanilla cake made mostly of gardenias. Gavin and I had honeymooned in Oaxaca where they sold gardenias from the zocalo for a peso, there were always some in the room. Each day I stopped at the store and respritzed; I couldn’t stop sniffing the crook of my elbow. And it got better, peppery and floral with none of that old-lady lilyness I so abhor. Faded to something that was still seductive, even to myself. While I was sniffing I noticed, hmmmm… that arm tans rather beautifully, and has a little tone left in it… and oh the other one. Quel arm! Nice.

Sixty bucks later it was mine and I was its.

I’m pretty sure that was when I started to think of myself as a single woman and not so much as a widow. All of a sudden there were men in the streets, and in cars, and even in meetings with clients. They looked at me. I looked for empty ring fingers. (How strange to be on the make after 15 years.) Friends said, “you look great, have you lost weight?” and “what a great haircut.”

It would be another 5 or 6 months before I had my hands full of flesh, but now I was moving through air that had been charged. It wasn’t just the “aerial notes” and “headspace of gardenias” (with a touch of clove and vanilla) but those were a constant subconscious reminder of where I was and where I was headed, if slowly.

* * *

Lil and I were sitting in her SUV outside a senior’s home after grieving group. “OH MY GOD!!! I can’t believe he said that.” We giddily scrolled through replies on her phone. She had posted an ad on an online dating service a week or so before. She’d had a few winks, and some brief conversation, and was now exchanging innuendo-laden phone calls and text messages with a young divorce in a somewhat-distant suburb. I was pretty sure texting was too sophisticated for my cheapass phone.

“I’m sure Dan is thinking, ‘who is this woman?’” Lil said of her late husband. An introvert, she’d been married many years, contented, devoted, a good Mom.

There was no picture in her ad, and she was fierce about keeping her intentions from her teenagers. It’s the neighborhood pool, she said. There is so much gossip – I just know they would make mincemeat of me. I hear about everyone else, so I know…

But we were totally high on it. It seemed a little scandalous: me, feeling still married, and with a 3-year-old, with an estate to handle -- I could flirt? Then again, I’d just selected a fragrance. Could I really do it? Was I ready?

“Why can’t you go online and browse? It’s free and it really gets you revved up. You can at least see what is out there. That’s how I got started.”

It seemed possible. “Well, I do like shopping online… I suppose it can’t be that bad.”

I started on Plenty of Fish. My, there were a lot of men out there. Several of them might have been incarcerated… they’d say they were "on assignment" and would return to the area in 18 months. But you could search the database using all kinds of screens… marriage status, age. Many were clearly older than they said. Probably one-third had photos they’d taken with their phone held out at arm’s length. Or in the bathroom mirror. Shirtless. They were not hot. The literacy level on POF was low.

“It’s like window shopping at Wal-Mart," I told Lil. “But even Wal-Mart has some good things if you look hard enough.”

I decided to post my own ad. Who was I? More importantly, who was I not? I didn’t want to have to screen out too many guys who’d hate me. There were thousands of men there.

A direct approach would suit my brand: “Wiseass brainiac widow, 41, with one kid, seeks coffee and conversation. About me: No one thinks I'm boring and I am not fat. My kid insists I'm silly, although most people don't get my jokes. Please tell me that you read real books and aren't into smoking or drugs... I'm not overly concerned about politics and I love to dance.”

My pseudonym would be "Lynnette" (The result of my taking a “Which ‘desperate housewife’ are you?” quiz).

I had dipped one toe in. How deep could it get??

* * *

This will be, sort of, my last post about pre-dating. The next one on this subject starts with the best sentence I’ve ever uttered.

But this short story describes the last step before I could really “put myself out there.”

At our church in the summer, services are organized by members. This August Sunday the service featured a gorgeous flamenco dancer on the hardwood of the choir loft, in two of the intervals in which we normally would have just music.

She transfixed all of us. We looked to the choir loft fastly. She stamped her declarative feet. She held dramatic poses, Spanish arabesques. There was as much pause as guitar and those silences held us rapt. The music was plaintive and joyous, her dancing was full of life. Her belly showed, gorgeous chocolate skin. She knew exactly how beautiful she was.

How often do you find a single point around which other aspects of your life have turned? The lever or wedge, the first slow domino?

That could be me, said a voice. During her second number, it said, HANG ON, that is me. I can move. I can strut. I can command attention with a slight curve of my pinky or a thrust hip. I can be subtle and I don’t mind making a statement.

I remembered Marie’s search. Who am I? What do I like?

The flood took me by surprise. I ignored the sermon, responding to the wave:
I love fuchsia and red and black.
I love the shawl I bought at Teotihuacan.
I love music, I love to dance.
I love my perfume.

Through the hour it swelled:
I love my child.
I love my body.
I love beans.
I love dark chocolate and all kinds of wine.
I love talking late into the night about intense and light lovely topics with someone cute.
I love to kiss.
I love watching the leaves fall, and my hammock.
I love to read.
I love Dave Eggers, though he doesn’t deserve it.
I love the New Yorker and This American Life.
I love a good movie.
I love Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
I love yoga.
I love that I can do anything when I start with a chopped onion in olive oil.
I love the equity in my home.
I love creating art and mixing materials and gazing at what I’ve done.
I love the feel of wood.
I love the smells of metal.
I love my pointy black boots.
I love rice...

I can do it. I knew in my heart and I felt it in my feet and my belly. The next evening after storytime I looked for all the flamenco classes I could find. Maybe that would take too long; I looked up salsa meetups, but those people were young. Then I realized if I was out learning to dance I could as well be out flirting with boys instead of just browsing at them. And some of that might lead somewhere. I already had a sitter every Thursday for support group; if she could handle another $28 a week, my kid would not suffer.

I was off.

Musical Monday: Not the Only One, Bonnie Raitt

I haven’t talked that much about the courtship between me and Mr. Fresh. But at our first dinner, the one I hadn’t expected to even be a date, one phrase stuck out. As we discussed what we’d learned about ourselves in relationships, our strengths and weaknesses, he told me: “I don’t have a romantic bone in my body.” It was clear this was a disappointment to the current girlfriend, the one he was ready to dump; likely it was even her phrase. I was familiar with men who tell you their shortfalls right away and I knew they can use this phrase as a warning, so that later in the relationship, they “told you so” and “never concealed anything.”

But you know my state of mind at that time – the skin hunger, the urgency, and heavens, now I had a trustworthy man smiling at me across the table, who’d appeared almost in ambush. And to me, with my experiences, "romantic" was not at all on my list. Isn’t witnessing your true love’s last breath just dreadfully romantic? I wasn’t on that page any more, if I’d ever been.

So, while it may have seemed to him like a disclaimer, a self-deprecating statement, and it may have disqualified him from a second date with many women, in my state all I could hear was “bone.”

Here was a live human male saying, over and over to me, “bone, bone, bone, bone, bone.”

Imagine my surprise on hearing, half a year after we were married, that he thought of this as “our song:”



* * * Comments * * *

My Response to the Today Show, Part 2: An Open Letter to Kathie Lee Gifford

(Read part 1 and see a video of the encounter I'm responding to.)

Dear Kathie Lee,

I watched your show on Friday, February 4, and you were laughing an awful lot when that young widow, my friend Brenda, called in. I recognized it, that discomfort, that laugh. See, I’ve been there, and I got stung. Death is way scary, but if it’s happening to someone you love, you – yourself, alone – will yet end up okay.

Now if I were married to Frank Gifford – but of course! I forgot, I can’t be, because you are. But if I were married to a man much older than I – oh wait! I was! But I’m not anymore because – oh yeah, you know what? HE DIED. So if I were a talk show host with a terrific national platform, and an avowed woman of Christ, I might use my pulpit a little differently.

And if I were – still – married to a much older man (Gavin and I had 20 years between us; looks like you and Frank have 23? Correct my math: 1930-1953 = 23, right?) I would probably laugh in a pretty uncomfortable way when the topic is raised, too.

But I wouldn’t be stupid enough to be married to him and reproduce without a solid life insurance portfolio behind me.

Which – I did. Once.

So see, I know what it’s like, and I know how to act at parties. I “get” polite society. I understand that sometimes you might just, oh, pretend, that you don’t know what V!agra is. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable or anything.

But when someone who’s 25 and who’s lost their helpmeet, their love, their partner, their Christian-married husband, someone without a trace of botox or need for a lotion of any kind, calls in asking for help?

I’d try not to laugh too hard. Because I know it hurts. I know it’s a threat to open your heart. You might actually hear something, and words, they can make magic, they make things happen. If you don’t hear it, he could live forever. (I know he’ll always love you.)

I’m not saying anything will happen. But you said your vows, and you said the old ones, didn’t you: one of you will go while the other one stays. It could easily be you first. But statistically, it’s far more likely that Frank will be the one who goes first.

Hey, don’t look at me. It’s not me who created these rules. I’m not even the messenger. The ancients said death will part us and you both repeated it, willingly, smiling even, I bet. (Gavin and I did.) I’m not wise enough to scribe that in stone for everyone to use every day and mean it.

So if I were you, and I didn’t listen so well the first time, I might try to make amends. I might think about what my giggles were hiding. I might open my ears and my heart. I might talk to others. I’d apologize to Brenda, give the panel of men a good talking to about how women like men who listen and are sensitive, and how widows are the best deal in the dating market, and maybe start listening to some human stories from situations that scare you.

I can’t tell you to lay off the vino. I’m not the one who placed the glass there at 9 a.m. That’s not your fault, and hell, I’m a thirsty girl.

And Kathie Lee, I ain’t saying you need to own the word “widow” yet. Fact is, I saw myself in your nervous tittering, in your dashing to the explanation: “Maybe she’s not really ready to date yet!!!”

And yeah, when I had an older husband, I’d spend the energy ingratiating myself to the younger men sitting next to me, too. I might laugh at their dumb jokes. But I wouldn’t be proud of it.

I’d like you to be prepared better than I was. You won’t be poor, and you won’t have a kid in diapers, or responsibility for his senile mother, so you’ll already be way ahead of me.

But you can do better than you did on Friday. You can listen. You can let that big heart of yours, big enough for loving your man and your family, open to hear the stories of loss AND of loving again that are out there in the world beyond the studio, the people who make you look good and the ones who say "yes" to everything.

What do you think Frank wants? He wants you to be happy. He'd want you to be out there dating again someday, with full respect for the love you two shared. (Wouldn't you want the same for him?) It'll be an act of courage to love again, but we don't compare. We're women of action, we who grieve.

Lady, you've got a platform, and I know you like to work on making the world a better place. Let’s work together to increase understanding for young people living with loss, struggling to raise children alone, and help prepare folks for the death that, if we are human, and if we love God, we know will come for all of us. Tell me what you’d like to do, there’s more than enough work for us all.

C’mon, woman. I know you can do it.

Love,

Supa Dupa Fresh
The Freshwidow

* * * Comments * * *

My Response to the Today Show, Part 1: The Baggage of Surviving a Happy Marriage

A young widowed friend of mine, Brenda Boitson, recently called in a question about dating as a widow to the Panel of Men who give women advice about men on the Today Show. The video is online if you wish to view about four minutes of embarrassingly shallow behavior, starting with “Why? We don’t want to become your next victim.” You’ll see that the response of this small group of 6 people illustrates the problem the stigma of loss brings to any social situation, without shedding much light on Brenda’s question of what to do about it.

First of all, I have to point out that the “next victim” comment, which annoyed so many viewers, is actually a prime cliché (it’s not meaty enough to be called a joke) and can be a little funny in the right situation. I use it. If I’d been the one calling in instead of Brenda, I might have said, “Dudes, why y’all afraid of widows? It’s not like I killed him.” I’m sure, in fact, that I did use that line sometimes. Possibly even in bed.

We widows are pretty used to feeling like we have cooties, and expressing this jokelet on our own time can cast folks’ hidden, negative thoughts in such a ridiculous light that it neutralizes the social situation.

Yes, it was a horrendous comment in the context of Today, and it may have hurt Brenda’s feelings (doesn’t sound like it), but mostly it just exposed panelist Chuck Nice as a man of weak humor and low maturity. (Later in the show he’d helpfully point out that he’s also shallow and not a very thoughtful husband). I’m not used to the low standards of morning television, but I’d have expected the producers of a national show to prepare the men (I can’t say “gentlemen”) better for her call.

Second, the responses of all the folks on stage can teach us something about why people have such a hard time dating, or rather, why it’s so easy for them to date and so hard to find a partner and live happily ever after.

Third, I have some words for Kathie Lee Gifford, whose incessant giggling is the prime irritant in that segment. I’d like to be constructive and compassionate even though she was neither. But I’ll make that a separate post.

So what can the response of these “boys” (not men) to Brenda’s question tell us? Their laughter and avoiding the question says they are scared of death and feel threatened that it would hit someone in their age cohort. (If you’ve faced a loss, you already knew that). Their words tell us that people who date are perfectly comfortable dealing with divorce. Above all, it demonstrates why marriages don’t work out and then the same people date and date and date: they have no fricking idea that they are looking for the wrong things.

Because here’s the thing: Everyone says widows have baggage. But by the time we’re ready to date, most widows and widowers have learned to stow it neatly under the back of the seat in front of them.

By age 40, everyone has some kind of “baggage.” (Often, it’s a code word for “kids.”)

Maybe a widow has the baggage of having fulfilled her vows, “till death do us part.” If she feels cheated, she’s likely to blame God for it. And we have some contempt for the polite world’s denial of death because we know everyone will go through loss sooner or later. We just had it happen earlier, when we were young and had many responsibilities.

As a widow, I often felt that if believing in your own mortality was “baggage,” I didn’t want to exist without it. After all, no one gets out of this life alive.

Divorced people enter the dating world working hard to get over their strong sense that they gave everything and in return, were rejected. The men’s ads often say “seeking an independent woman” and the women’s ads say “Looking for a man who MEANS WHAT HE SAYS.” Read between the lines and you’ll find that he felt milked by the divorce and she couldn’t get over a cheating episode. Sometimes the roles are reversed, but divorced folks feel BURNED.

If you haven’t lost a love you’ll think we’re crass and brutal, but every widow I know has said this statement: MY husband didn’t WANT to leave.

Don’t get me wrong. I love divorced people. I married one. But if you think I have more baggage from losing my husband than he has from losing his wife’s affections AND his children – you’re wrong.

Widows argue that we had good marriages, but they ended as we pledged they would. We’ve been through tough stuff too and we figured out how to stay together. While we may not be ready to get hitched again, as daters, we’re arguably the only ones on the field with great track records. I remember thinking: I had one good marriage, I can have another if I like. I know how to make it work.

So here’s what’s wrong with their response to Brenda: the expert daters were framing all the questions wrong. (Not their fault; everyone does).

If you are looking for a good partner, you should date someone who was a good partner. If you want to marry, date women who think marriage is a good thing and who are able to be fulfilled within the institution. If you want to be treated well, date women and men who expect to be treated with respect and who view you as a potential commitment.

Yeah, death sucks, but if it’s baggage, you still have to accept it. After all, why else do you date, if not because you don’t want to die alone?

(Go to part 2, an open letter to Kathie Lee Gifford.)

* * * Comments * * *

The Afterlife: What I Believe

Actually I lied. I did not let my late husband rest in peace, permitting his beliefs to continue untouched. At least when it came to answering our daughter’s questions.

I am a great salesperson if I believe in the product, but I couldn’t believe in Gavin’s stark vision of what happens to us after death: “time’s up, lights out.” And God forbid I let an innocent in my charge come away thinking I believe in a feathery afterlife. (I’ll tolerate it like Santa: if she picks it up, fine, but I’m not going to sell it). O heaven: You are a provocateur.

So when she asked, “Where is Daddy now?” -- when “he’s in our hearts and we can remember him, he’s in photographs and we can talk about him, he left his artwork for the whole world to enjoy” was no longer enough, as the idea of permanence grew for her -- I told her what I believe.

I’d like to tell you I’m a good Buddhist or perhaps that I believe we all are reincarnated as animals, that we fulfill our karma and work continually to complete our missions on earth in another flesh. I love it when other people believe these colorful, justice-promoting stories. They’re getting closer, but those beliefs are just not mine, not now.

After Gavin died, I finally read His Dark Materials by Philip Pullman, a trilogy touted in the New Yorker as an alternative to Harry Potter, a tale of a heroic tween girl, a fantasy that bears a compelling contemporary sort-of-theology.

And it was wonderful for me. Over thousands of pages I was transported, these alternative realities planted the seeds for my starting to date, fomented breakthroughs in all kinds of fantasies. Best of all, the heroine, Lyra, frees the dead, who’ve been trapped by a false religion/science in a limbo land, ugliness and nagging without rest, a gray soup of souls hopeless of connection or change.

I can’t quote because I gave the books to The First at our only Christmas two years ago, but here’s what I recall:

At liberation, the dead from all eras are at last allowed to tell their stories, and they are led up into a world (one populated with wonderful wheeled elephant-like creatures, but no matter, could be any world) where they dissolve into atoms and merge with the environment: sky, trees, plants, creatures, rocks, water. I cried when I read it, happy to find a beautiful solution that suits me.

This vision is no heaven, but a chance to exist, unrecognized, knowing you’re not quite alone, maybe making silent inhuman difference or maybe just observing with the barest dot of consciousness. Or maybe completely dissipated and melded five minutes later. Only slightly less bleak, maybe, but enough for me.

That’s what I’d like to think, which is another way of saying, it is what I believe.


* * * Comments * * *

Three Cliches, Including "Till Death Do Us Part."

Leave it to me to question the truisms that everyone says without thinking. (For some reason, I am still fun at parties…)

“It didn’t work out.”
I never understood why people would say this about a relationship after it was over. What was supposed to be the endpoint, which didn’t end up fulfilled? Is it that they didn’t “close the deal” by getting married? Surely they could enjoy their time together without having an end in mind. Did it “not work out” because they didn’t stay married until one of them died? Is a marriage that ends in divorce like the sound of a tree that falls in the forest when no one hears it? Surely those years together were worth something in this world, at least in the small sphere of your time in it.

Is it just that it’s one of those nonsense phrases that everyone uses, of which I have so little understanding or tolerance? Or is “it didn’t work out” truly contemptuous of time? Whatever it is, I always take a step back from any friend who says it. (Did I mention that I still have friends? ‘Cause I do. I’m not even lying.)

“Happily ever after.”
Who cares what it’s “after?!” Yeah, I get that you’re closing the book, so “after” the cover’s shut. What is it until?

On the other hand, we cynics today, we sophisticates, make so much fun of “fairytale endings.” What would be wrong with just plain being happy until we each individually (don’t forget, we all do die alone) fade out, hopefully in our sleep and at a good ripe age. So much contempt. Don’t you deserve to have joy? Wouldn’t most of us be happy to remember one moment of bliss at the end as the chapters shoot past our fading eyes?

“Till death do us part.”
How much do any of us really contemplate this statement? Gavin and I thought we were pretty serious about our love in the face of Death. We married in defiance of his heart problems and several near-death experiences. We requested that our friend Pat, glamorous jazz singer, sing “One Hand, One Heart” from West Side Story (“even death won’t part us now”) at our vows (and, um, “Like a Prayer”). And then we went to Mexico for the Days of the Dead (including a cemetery tour) for our lunes miel.

But seriously, who wants to fulfill those vows? We love to picture ourselves on the porch, white haired or bald in last year’s hiked-up pants giving lollipops to sticky grandkids.

But being the caregiver to a dying love, whether old or young? Recovering alone from the shock of a car accident? Romantic? Pfah! Research shows it takes 10 years off your life.

We cherish the Norman Rockwell picture of “till death do us part,” but none of us is ready for the Norman Cousins one.

Should I be pleased that death parted me from Gavin? I’m not sure. I did enjoy entering dating with a “successful” relationship (ah! There’s that endpoint!) behind me, and I certainly hold it over your everyday divorcee. And look, widowhood is a big part of my identity. (Today.)

But surely a marriage in which my husband died didn’t “work out,” did it?

Mr. Fresh says he hopes I die first so that I don’t have to go through this kind of loss again. I’m not sure how much of a kindness this is. I joke back, “Yeah, um, no thanks. I love you too, but be my guest.”

* * * * * *

* (I’m not endorsing divorce. I think it’s a grand waste and injustice 90% of the time. But seriously? Marriage and death? Not really on the same page for any of us.)

** (Is that time only valuable if it’s permanent? If we are mortal, shouldn’t our feelings be mortal, too?).


* * * Comments * * *

(Fragment 05) Widowed AND Remarried

In my brief bio here, I say “I identify as a young remarried widow.”

I use “I identify” because this is how transgendered people speak. Postmodern as it sounds, the words should tell you, not that I made a choice, but what I really feel in my heart and what I know to be true. I use trans language out of respect so no matter how I edit the blurb, I’d like to keep this phrasing.

I say “young” because, even with all my gray hair, my issues are different from those of older grieving folks. While I enjoy meeting those folks, I find true sisterhood (or brotherhood) with grieving people around my age, especially if, like me, they are raising young children.

My dual identity as both “widowed” and “remarried” makes me complicated, like my trans friends. Even though you can finally select relationship status “widowed” on Facebook, you can’t choose two statuses.

But it’s also the thing I hear the most from readers: a bunch of you have told me you love hearing that grieving doesn’t disappear and that loss can be compatible with joy. Widows are “in between” in about a dozen ways. They are glad that someone who’s been there says you can arrive at chapter two without leaving chapter one behind. It’s easier to take on a transition if you know it’ll take a long time and there’s no easy way out.

OTOH -- two statuses?-- I could be asking for too much. I have never been accused of being realistic. Mr. Fresh says he hears my dissatisfactions as the result of rising expectations and that this is a powerful force: in fact it was one of the factors responsible for the French Revolution. I acknowledge, with gratitude, that he’s right. I’ve come so far.

But society also expects me to play a public role as a widow, and as my kid's married Mom. Why has it been so hard for me to announce my wedding? Unlike many widows, I haven’t hesitated to tell people I’ve “moved on” romantically.

I eloped partially out of hostility. I refused to vet the man who was to become Mr. Fresh with family or friends. I challenged my beloved minister by asking her to marry us before she herself got married, even though she’d announced her engagement months prior (and then I requested a reading she hates). In the back of my mind, I didn’t want to let my community off the hook of caring for us, to hear them exhale with relief that we’d be okay without their help. And I didn't want to let go of the hard stuff, the tough part, either.

But maybe I’m over that. At least I can see the pattern, hear the little voice inside me. In truth, I know most of our circle smiled big and wanted the best for us. Whenever I told someone I was dating I heard genuine happiness for me and, from married Moms, vicarious excitement. In actual fact, my communities and families have held me pretty well.

I feel ready for the bona fides. Maybe once everything’s out it won’t look so complicated.

A printed announcement:
With Short Stack Fresh,
Supa Dupa Fresh and Marshall Fresh
Take great pleasure in announcing
Their union in marriage,
December 10, 2008.
The family will reside at Xxxxxxxxx.
A celebration is planned for spring 2010.

An alumni note:
Supa Dupa Fresh married Marshall Fresh on December 10, 008. They live in Sprawling Suburb with Supa’s 5-year-old daughter, Short Stack. Supa was widowed in 2006.
Note to alumni editor: please let me review any changes to this text. I don’t want anyone to think I was divorced.

And with those, I realize I owe the world more formality: I never sent Gavin’s death announcements to his alumni publications.

So:
Gavin O’Shaunnessy, class of 1968, passed away on June 2, 2006. O’Shaunnessy’s artwork lives on in many public and private collections. He is represented by the BigDeal Gallery in SmallCity. He received ThisSchool’s Distinguished Alumnus award in 1996. He is survived by his wife, Supa Dupa Fresh, and their daughter, Short Stack.


* * * Comments * * *

(Fragment 04) Guest Post at Rock and Drool

I wrote a guest post at Rock and Drool a few days ago. It's supposed to be a mean jab at divorcees, but I don't think that works so well. Perhaps I am not very talented at poking people, even though I have such strong inclinations. On the other hand, I enjoyed writing for a different audience about my pet topic and I'm thinking about how to do more.

Melissa of Rock and Drool connected with me after I commented on her post about talking to her pre-schooler about loss. We met IRL at BlogHer and she is as energetic, funny, sexy, honest and supercool as her blog. Go check it out!

(Fragment 01) A Widow on Facebook

[Read my excuse for posting bits and pieces.]

Being widowed young disrupts your social networks, along with everything else. As in real life, the break is stark when you interact using Social Media:

01.
On Facebook, the freshly bereaved may be a bit disgusted to find they can choose between relationship status “single” or “it’s complicated.” The latter status may be a bigger bucket now, but as a child of the 60s, I imagine it’s used by the polyamorous and the thought of clicking that box makes me throw up a little. No, it's not fucking "complicated," you dolts. I'm not dating a goat and a girl. I was married and he died. Sounds simple enough to me.

Sure, it’s easy to offend a widow, but how hard can it be to add another check box? Hence there’s the group, “Petition for Facebook to create ‘widowed’ as a relationship status.”

02.
This group is categorized under “Dating and relationships,” which seems a bit off to me. The taxonomy of grieving is a topic that comes up often in these fragmented social media notes; I hope to pull thoughts on this together someday.

03.
Like many, I’m using Facebook to be found by old friends and to maintain relationships that were never (or aren’t now) close. But a lot of folks would just disappear after the initial contact. It’s not called “dropping a w-bomb” for nothing but seriously, how could I answer, “So! What have you been up to for the past 20 years?” without mentioning that my husband died? So I tried to prepare people a little, the way I did with my Match.com ad. Under “Info,” I added:

Friends,
Because I have had a lot of awkward FB conversations with folks who haven’t seen me in a long time, here’s a short bio:
-- I work as an editor.
-- Have had some jobs in the art world, but not now.
-- I went to college and graduated in 19xx.
-- I got married in 19xx.
-- I went to business school finishing in 20xx.
-- I had a baby in 2004.
-- My husband died in 2006.
-- I remarried in 2008.
I am comfortable talking about my loss, though it doesn't consume my life.

I have to say I don’t think it helped that much because the FB interface buries “evergreen” info. But I still like the idea, and I certainly (as you know) bring up “widow” as an early warning system in any transaction where I think it will be relevant. And I am more cautious of how I bring the topic up in that first FB "What up?!" response, given that e-mail is a less rich, less responsive medium than F2F conversation.

04.
I checked the Facebook page of an art world acquaintance a week or so after he had died. Friends continued to post wall messages, and he was a member of a group art project called “A Book About Death.” It gave me a chill. He must have joined before the accident which killed him. The only other option is that his wife signed him up posthumously, which seems unlikely (though I don’t know her well. Would I do it? Yes, but I’d use my name).

The net gets denser every day -- it seems really weird to me that I know the gallery and many of the artists working on the project.


* * * Comments * * *

Dating Episode 9.0 [December 2007]: The First & Mr. Fresh

Why is it so hard for me to write about The First? No, not because I took his name from that of the Big Bad on Buffy. Maybe because I instigated our bad breakup. Maybe because your most romantic moment is when you swear you respect and enjoy each other so much that you’ll stay friends no matter what. Maybe because last time we spoke he made it clear it was to satisfy some stupid conscience on my part, unnecessarily; and he didn’t feel too much connection. The First was my own Mr. Wonderful, a fantasy brought to life. As a lover he was generous, energetic, skilled, and enthusiastic; he was a brilliant, funny, quick and kind friend. He used to say I was “the whole package.”

I thought I’d tell this story as a switcheroo. You’d think The First was the one I married, the current, delicious Mr. Fresh.

The First was perfect for me, where I was at that exact moment. He was only “separated,” and most women on Match didn’t want that. He and his wife were still under the same roof, planning to tell the kids in a deliberate, responsible, professionally approved way. After five years of counseling, his wife announced she was throwing in the towel on a Monday. By Thursday he had an ad on Match. On Saturday we talked for an hour. On Sunday, we had a dinner at which we swapped credentials as train wrecks, matching our lack of readiness for anything serious, surprised to see in the other a similar intensity and needs that might test close enough for a few rounds of fair play. We were so vulnerable, both easy to reject. The First and I were both wounded and aching to start to heal under another’s loving eye and hands. If it’s just us, we said, no one will get hurt. Before the check came I said I would like to kiss him. “Where did you learn to kiss me?” I recoiled in a shock of new, weak delight.

That kiss took place exactly 18 months after I held Gavin’s elbow and heard his last gasp. The First had perfect timing.

Marshall’s timing sucked. After two unreturned calls, I decided that He was Just Not That Into Me. I forget sometimes that I have grown. I figure that I am still 12 years old, with the emotional maturity of a 4 year old. I must have misread our heated signals over Mexican. Yes, he traveled a lot for work, but he probably was still in his complicated international relationship and I was not a good person, particularly in my situation, to intervene.

But Marshall was patient, biding his time in the wings. When I was ready to dump The First, five torrid weeks after it had started, Marshall was ready to roll. It wasn’t simple, but it’s been an easy year and a half, and he is now the gentleman known as Mr. Fresh.


* * * Comments * * *

Dating Episode 8.0 [Fall 2007]: How I Edited Myself

Picked last for dodgeball, I was the tallest girl and the only kid outside special ed with glasses. I was lucky to always have a few close friends, but it was clear I was below average on the popular scale. I gained confidence as a talented nerd in high school. Arriving in college I blossomed among the flock, relieved to find a true home at last, city and country, hippie and punk side by side, caring deeply about Philosophy 100: Socrates to Kant.

I’d never dated much, but I had learned that my assets included a ready smile, a ridiculous sense of humor, and smarts. Fifteen years of a happy relationship were enough to build fair confidence among men. Having a child taught me I could learn things like patience and generosity even late in life, and that there is no end of love in the world. And not to be too flip, but watching my husband die made me feel a wee bit bulletproof. What’s a little rejection from a guy to me now?

At 40, I was no longer thin and strong, and I would never be the pretty one in the room. I still had trouble with grooming and lived in fear of a close girlfriend confronting my always-in-transition hairdo with “And what is going on with this?”

Was I cute? Could I compete? “It’s not me versus Gisele Bundchen. It’s me versus a divorced woman who talks to her four cats,” I’d say to explain my unrealistic level of confidence. After all, my husband didn’t want to leave. My only “issue” with men my age was that they were mortal. Yeah, that sucks, but it wasn’t really avoidable.

My first ad tested the waters: “Wiseass brainiac widow, 41, with one kid, seeks coffee and conversation.” At least it would screen out dullards and cowards.

Books, career, interests… as I started to fill out all the little checkboxes, I saw it was possible to select “brainiacs” and “boldness/assertiveness” among “turn-ons.” As I searched the database, these boxes had been checked by men who met my other criteria. There was no stopping me. I had a niche.

I relished this forum that allowed me to rewrite and edit constantly, to learn how I was perceived, and above all, to pretend all the men in my shopping cart were options. And as I describe in earlier episodes of this saga, I got hungrier and more energetic with each pass.

After many iterations, a bunch of dates, and feedback from prospects and friends, here was my last "personal branding statement:"

Smoldering smartypants
Let's talk late into the night over a nice red from my cellar... er, broom closet. About art, necessity, produce (this week, still pears!). Things we've read, things we've seen, things we've felt. Monty Python, Sophocles, the New Urbanism. How disillusioned we are with cotton and vegetarianism. How to balance responsibility and sheer joy, and whether one is useful without the other.

Brainy, silly and sarcastic, I'm committed to growth and supremely interested in having fun. No one thinks I'm boring and I am not fat [full disclosure: size 10/12: is that fat?]. My kid insists that I'm silly, although most people don't get my jokes.

I'm looking for someone to hang with who's worth getting a babysitter for. Please tell me that you read real books and aren't into smoking or drugs. You should be able to hold up your end of the conversation, tolerate my interruptions, and be willing if not able to dance.

I am fun enough to make time together worth it -- and wise enough to know time is all we have. My latest wisdom [stolen]: We all come with baggage -- the question is whether yours can be stowed neatly under the seat in front of you.


Can you believe that ad drew Mr. Wonderful?

* Read the next installment in this series! *

* * * Comments * * *

What Short Stack Gets

I am often asked what Short Stack remembers of her father, and how much she understands about his death. Family and friends sought reassurance and I didn’t find much authoritative material on toddler grieving, so I thought I’d, as usual, share.

Grieving is complicated even for grownups; it's deep, lumpy, unpredictable, sticky (“Non-linear” is such a genteel way to put it). I've written about the unanticipated feelings it can stir up and about how death is such a common topic for me that I can laugh like a loon. But a post by Snickollet reminds me how much mining I have to do here -- even superficial excavations turn up ore.

Phase 1. Short Stack was 2 and a half when Gavin died. For a week or two, she asked, "Where Daddy go?" because he'd been in the hospital, and then in hospice, for several weeks before he died. First thing in the morning, and several more times, every day. I’d remember how just a few days before, the answer had been, “Daddy is in a special hospital where special doctors can take extra-good care of him.” But now. I'd say, "Oh honey, Daddy died. He went away and we can't see him any more."

"Want go visit him!" she'd say. "Oh honey, we can't, Daddy died. His body got very, very, very, very, very sick. The doctors gave him very, very, very, very, very strong medicine but it didn't cure his sickness and so his body broke and we can't see him any more." "But I want to see him." "I'm sorry, honey, it makes me very, very sad, but we can't go see him. Your Daddy loved you and me and Grandma very, very, very much and he didn't want to leave us. But his body broke and his body had to leave us." (Then I would start to cry, and she would flip out a little, "DON' C'Y, MOMMY!" "Protocol" says not to shield your kids from your expressions of emotion... but it was too heartbreaking to see her little face fall apart and reassemble with adult concern. So on this, I ignored the experts until I saw signs she could handle it.)

Some things that happened during this time:
-- (Looking out her bedroom window): "Mommy, look! I see Daddy in dat tree over dere!" "What's he doing?" "He smiling." (she laughs).
-- (To Gavin’s mother, one of her key caregivers): "Gramma, where Daddy go?" I break in: "Honey..." "No. GRAMMA!" "Honey, your Daddy had to go away." "What he doing now?" "Honey, I don't know, but I think if he could see you right now he'd be smiling."
-- (On a trip out of town) "I want go home! I want my Daddy come home!"

Phase 2. "Why can't I go see Daddy?" (Same story). "But why he body break?" "The sickness was very, very, very, very, very strong and he went to see many, many, many doctors and they gave him a lot, lot, lot, lot of very, very, very, very, very strong medicine. But the medicine could not fix the sickness and so after a long time Daddy's body broke. Your Daddy did not want to leave you, he loved you and me and Grandma, but he had to leave us."

For a while she insisted that he lived in "our other house." I don't know if this is some natural thing because kids this age don't understand permanence, or whether it’s because he was well known for drawings of suburban houses. I would say, "No honey, we don't have another house, Daddy's body died and we can't see it anymore" but she was pretty confident she was right.

Phase 3. "Why did my Daddy get sick and die?" "No one knows why someone gets that kind of very, very, very, very, very bad sickness. It’s very different from little sicknesses, like when someone sneezes or coughs." (Repeat earlier themes). Around this time it was growing less painful for me to look at snapshots. Family pictures and artwork were on my iPod and around the house.I experimented with bringing him up casually: “Your Daddy’s friend Cathy made this picture just for you when you were born.” “Your Daddy loved chino pants.” “I bet your Daddy would be so proud to see you using that fork so nicely.”

Phase 4. After daycare one day she told me, “My Daddy got a crack in his butt so he die.” I don’t know where this idea came from, but definitely from the peer group. I mean, I get the "body broke" part but does she know about plumbers' crack already? I was worried about the horror-movie image she in her mind, but she seemed pretty calm. I briefly tried to reframe what had happened but she was adamant so I let it stand.

(I don't think I ever understood how important it is to "choose your battles" until I had a kid.)

Phase 5. As I came to terms with loss and widowhood and single parenting, I resolved to find a resting place for his cremated remains. Looking around his studio for a few minutes, the idea brightened. On the first anniversary of his birthday after his death (he had a birthday RIGHT after he died, so this was one year plus a little later) I placed the powder in an Acoma pot that his grandmother, who raised him, used to burn palm leaves in during thunderstorms. He’d always said this was the one valuable Indian thing his family had, except that the (Catholic) palm soot had probably ruined it for collectors. I was proud to place this reliquary next to the Buddha's head in his unchanged studio.

And Short Stack knew, somehow. One day she came out with: "Where Daddy body go?"

Deep breath. I can do this. “Well, after Daddy’s body was already completely broken and his spirit and memories and feelings weren’t in it any more… people do a special process where they send the body to a special place and it gets turned into powder.”

“What they do to he body?” I knew not to talk about fire. That’s supposed to freak kids out. That, and being buried in the dirt, you’re not supposed to mention till later. (When? I don’t know yet).

“Honey, they did a special thing to it, kind of like magic, and his whole body turned into a special powder.”

“Magic Powder!!!! I want some!”

Hoo boy. Yeah, that went well.

Phase 6. During her fourth year, Short Stack was gaining awareness that other people had died, and meeting kids who’d lost a pet, or a grandparent. She’d always been pretty articulate about her feelings (I overcompensated for my own deficient upbringing) but she still was taking great leaps in understanding them. Once in a while we’d talk about Daddy or death but I couldn’t see dramatic shifts in her awareness and there were no remarkable stories. Her ideas seemed fuzzy but they were changing.

One day for circle time, her Sunday school class read 2 or 3 age-appropriate books about death, dying, and ways to remember someone. Afterwards the teacher took me aside and told me how articulate SS had been and how she had been okay, but she wanted me to know in case further questions came up. She described it so clearly: Short Stack shared that her Daddy had died. That he can never come back. She was clear that she would never see him again. (This was the first time I’d heard this.) She also mentioned his artwork and the pictures of him as ways to remember her Daddy.

Phase 7. This area of inquiry is a bit fuzzy for me during her fourth/fifth year. She was learning tremendous amounts at preschool, where she was also learning letters, numbers, dinosaurs, insects. She was able to play on her own more and blossoming in many ways. Bringing ideas home, bigger ones, faster, with more kids to test and talk and listen to and in a more consistent, challenging, structured environment. I was dating and then settling down with Mr. Fresh. She adored him. The crisis was over. I was tired, and probably not listening as closely.

Mr. Fresh and AA’s Dad took the kids apple-picking (both age 4.5+):
AA: Short Stack! I’m really happy that you got a new Daddy!
SS: He’s not my Daddy.
AA: Yeah, but because your real Daddy died, isn’t it great that you were able to get a new one?
SS: (Nothing).

Phase 8. Lately Short Stack is asking much more mature questions and death is one of many interesting topics. She's not fazed when characters on TV die, and if they come back to life, she understands that it’s for pretend. (Lots of questions around age 4.5 concerned what is “in this world” vs. what is “only in movies.”) She adores Scooby (Dooby) Doo and doesn’t seem threatened by ghosts, Frankensteins, talking skeletons, or witchcraft, even though the etiology of zombies that I provided was probably too cautious. I suppose these TV scenarios are not very scary (especially since 70s clothes seem to be permanently back in style) since the spook is always exposed as a jewel thief or an old man trying to get the oilman off his land. Nonetheless monsters do seem to provide some training in ideas about mortality. How many adults do you know who have a much better handle on this stuff than Shaggy, Daphne or Velma?

She’s starting to understand age (even though she still thinks “fifty-five sixty-six one thousand” is the largest number there is) and sequence. "Mommy, you going to die before me?" "Is Gramma E.R. going to die before you?" "Am I going to die before Noma (her best friend, 2 years younger)?" I know it’s a cliché, but you really can see the little wheels turn around in her head.

-- She clearly remembers her Dad, not just as sense-memory – I believe she remembers more than the feel of his hug.
-- She is beginning to understand that these huge forces exist.
-- She seems not very interested in the spiritual aspect, but that could be the way I color our conversations.
-- She is strong-willed and imaginative, as she is in all things.
-- She asks questions, but is pretty sure she already has all the answers.

And last week I overheard this:
SS: Noma, you know what a stepdaddy is?
Noma: What dat?
SS: It’s if someone has a Daddy who dies, and then they get another Daddy, then they will be that kid’s stepdaddy.
Noma: (Nothing).

If you listen, and if you wait, the heart does begin to heal.

I received some practical advice and guidance from these books: Helping A Child Cope with the Loss of a Loved One and Guiding Your Child Through Grief.


(Read part 2 here).

* * * Comments * * *

Dating Episode 7: A Climax of Sorts

The fire dance had inflamed my resolve but it was clear I needed some direction, if not some serious HELP. Marshall, a mutual friend of Wekka’s and mine from ye olde martial arts days, heard my tales of woe and offered to meet and chat about dating. It meant a dinner with a man; how could I say no?

He’d been traumatized, too. With the same zeal with which I was developing my “baseball scores” date into stand-up material, Marshall had polished a quirky story about bailing out his younger son. He worked a lot and was in a serious international relationship. Marshall was still flummoxed by his wife abandoning him, burnt by his sons’ difficult teenage years and discouraged that none of them were doing anything worthwhile.

Over margaritas, we shared stories and caught up on gossip about our circle. I was a more frustrated dater than he was, having not been a whiz back when I was single. We talked about men and what they’re looking for. I was finding that in their 40s, divorced men who responded to me were mostly looking for a second home. They’d been hurt, some felt financially exploited, they missed their kids, and they wanted someone to accept them. I liked these men. But I didn’t feel I could take it so slow any more.

“So what are you looking for?” he asked me.

Well. At first I figured I had to look for someone to join our household, someone to co-parent Short Stack with me. But now I know that I have to burn off a bunch of energy first before I start looking for anything serious. In some ways, I’m enjoying shopping for men, except that… Well. It has something to do with grieving, the hormones are overpowering. I’m so horny I can’t think straight.

I know what that’s like, he said. He stared at his enchiladas.

But I have to be careful and safe because I’m a Mom now.

You’re definitely in a tough situation.

I feel like I have a widow cherry. I just have to get rid of that second virginity, get past that barrier, before I can really deal with anything else. I’m hot and free but super responsible. I had to be to get through the past few years. And I’m skittish. I know it’s going to be intense the first time. Not anyone can handle that, and certainly not someone casual.

Marshall had ideas. I could look at “adult dating sites,” although they are probably not so good for safety. I could consider married guys in open relationships. They’re more common than you think.

We were drinking a lot and I took a break to powder my nose. As I walked back to the table I caught his eye. Marshall was at ease, leaning back and laughing a little.

What are you laughing at? I asked, feeling the sway in my hips as I sat back down.

Bad thoughts, he said.

Oh, good. That’s good. I like that. I need to hear things like that.

He ordered another round.

So, your turn… what are you looking for? Marshall was weary of adventure and drama. His current relationship was not going to last. This girlfriend wasn’t providing home or any peace. She was exciting but needy, destabilizing areas he’d built back up after divorce.

Hmmm. I’ve never understood women like that. I guess I’m low-maintenance -- is that the right word?

He liked his bachelor pad, even though it had zero personal touches. When there, he was self contained, with a world-class gym and a grocery store that sold beer in the building. After years of domestic chaos, he was comforted to come home from every trip and find everything just as he’d left it, no drunken teenagers lying around, nothing broken. It looked like a hotel, one without even any pictures hanging.

Oh. I don’t think I could live without my stuff … we have so much art and so many memories. But it does sound like it has been a relief to you.

His needs were simple. He’d eat at restaurants, or frozen meals, stock up on deli for lunches.

I said, we’ve been eating a lot of frozen food for a while, but I’m looking forward to starting to cook again. I can’t eat like this (pointing at plate) every night. My cholesterol has gotten kinda high, and I cook a lot of stir fries, so it should settle together nicely. That is, once I get this other thing out of the way.

Marshall said it was important for him to feel that someone had his back, was helping to keep him safe. He liked to take risks, and then return to something solid. Family life hadn’t been like that in a dozen years. Single life was better than being responsible for a bunch of slugs, but there wasn’t much upside.

Huh. I know how you feel. I keep my home life stable, but I’m super social: even with a kid I still like to go out dancing and have dinner parties and stuff. But it’s more rewarding to have a consistent companion no matter what’s going on.

We finished our meal with many awkward silences.

After I dropped him off at his door I turned on the radio. My first boyfriend greeted me singing “You can’t always get what you want…” Why, hello, Mick. You don’t sound like you mean that, I thought.

“But if you try sometimes, you just might find…" The classic words built to a crescendo, paced with percussion, and the angelic choir came in on a swell: "you just might find... you get what you need.”

* Read the next installment in this series! *

* * * Comments * * *