Untitled (Cancer Drawings), 2005

I didn’t want these works in the show, really. Please take something else, anything else.

They're just not representative of his work.
They were personal drawings, never meant for public exhibition.
I don’t think they’re really very resolved.

That’s not it.

I fucking hated these drawings.

Left to right: 1) With cancer, 2 + 3) getting better, making the cancer weaker, 4) without cancer.

Why?
They’re not successful.
How?
That fourth drawing. Maybe the cancer’s gone, but so are YOU. I can’t look at them.

He was doing meditation and visualization exercises. He conjured with line and color. He’s an artist, for chrissakes. And if this series worked? He would die. That fourth drawing doesn’t show a body any more. It’s a vapor, a wisp, a spirit. Perhaps something living, but nothing solid, not an ounce. And he was losing so much weight at the time. He was vaporizing in front of my eyes. At one point that winter he got below 100 lbs. He didn’t tell me till he’d gained it back, in the early spring. Sometime in January he’d lost the use of his right arm. AN ARTIST. He wasn’t writing me phone messages — he’d tell me, and usually forget to. I didn’t know that his actions were to prevent me seeing his handwriting. But that was it: tumors blocking nerves.

So I hated these drawings because they were a failure, they were supposed to show him getting better, but they showed him dying, and as art is always magic, they would work and I could at last blame him. I could relish my rage with him no longer around, but I couldn’t stand to see them. People saw them when they visited the studio those last few months, and at my Day of the Dead event. 

It was a year or two later when the curator mentioned he must include these moving, powerful pieces in this show, this big retrospective of the organization where we met — where I worked for five years, where Gavin had served on the board for six. I wasn't happy about his choice, but it was hopeless to persuade him to take something else. They gave him chills and he insisted they needed to be shown.

I had the better part of a year to get used to the idea of people seeing the four drawings, nearly the last ones Gavin touched. On the way to the loading dock I opened the portfolio and laid them out on my therapist's Aubusson. She looked them over with a gentle smile and a nod. “He knew he was dying,” she said.

The sky above the sea opened up. “Yes, I think he did.” The drawings had been a personal statement and his way of telling me, that I didn’t want to hear. The dance was over at that moment: the tension of what we couldn’t say, wouldn’t share, of his body departing. I’d been hoodwinked, but not really. He hadn’t LIED. He just didn’t say it directly. He didn’t push me. He didn’t want to leave. But he knew he’d lost power over staying.

I mean, why else a horizon line? There’s no horizon line if you’re going to live. It’s infinite, a glimpse of the divine, hope and hopelessness mixed up, but no joy, no physical body. The weather changes over this sea but there’s no sunlight. Gavin’s light always came from within. 

And he hadn’t said, I don’t think, that drawing four was himself, cured. It was the cancer, gone. He knew it before I knew it: of course he did. He had to. We couldn’t look straight at it. It was how we got by.

But knowing that he knew the end of his story, at least during the hours he worked on these drawings, makes it possible for me to see their loveliness and depth. Accepting what they were — how their failure was all in me, and not in his intention — enabled me to drop them off that afternoon, to look forward to showing them to you, to knowing I could tell this story without doom or pity, and that I could go back to admiring his eye and hand again, as it should be. The works were re-imbued with the normal mystery that it needs to hold your eye, once my rational distaste had left.

So I stood in front of them last night, in my Mexican shawl and good boots, and shared with strangers: “My husband the artist made these drawings when he knew he was dying. They were hard for me to look at for a long time, but four years later, I can accept them and understand what they were saying. I just didn’t want to hear it then, but denial helped me stay sane, and I’m okay now.

"Yes, I’m doing well, thank you.”

The Day of the Dead 2010: Join us!

Otilia y sus muertitos, originally uploaded by lacho.flores.

Join us as we remember those who’ve died. The Day of the Dead is a Mexican festival of remembrance that dates back thousands of years. Similar to All Soul’s Day, it is believed to be a special time when the veil between the worlds grows thin and our loved ones visit us. The week before the holiday is spent in a fury of gathering mementos, creating crafts, cooking and cleaning, and sharing memories with friends and family.

I believe that grieving people today need this ancient festival that brings together the living and the dead with love and joy. It’s a safe time to share memories and may turn into a new family tradition that is more harmonious with our real experiences of grief than any celebrations or rituals we share in the U.S. today. Day of the Dead rituals and crafts can be adapted to suit nearly any household’s skills, interests, and can include every generation.

How can you participate? Simple!:

• Follow along with us every few days as we walk you through creating an offering to your loved ones. You can pick and choose the activities that work for you.
• Plan an event (small or large) on Nov. 2, the night of the festival. We’ll also have a chat room open that evening for sharing.
• Display the badge (coming soon) for our shared virtual festival on your blog or website.
• Create a craft, cooking something your loved one enjoyed, or otherwise sharing traditions, new or old, with family and/or friends. Nothing will be difficult, everything will be adaptable, and it shouldn't be expensive, either.
• Share your experience, process, and memories on your own blog and Facebook and updating this post (coming soon) with links.

The next post here (coming soon) will be updated every day with new participants, new activities, photos, and other sharing as part of our individual rituals and memories.

This will be FUN, easy, and satisfying! Questions?

I Heart Camp Widow

Of course I had to redo my Powerpoint at the last minute. Friday evening
in the hotel bar I told Andrea how I derived the name "Supa Dupa Fresh"
and she nearly fell asleep. "Fine, we'll say I took that name
because 'I like soup,'" I conceded. And so, a legend was killed.

Camp Widow, a weekend of events in San Diego hosted by the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation, was the highlight of my year. I spent many months preparing my presentation on widows in social media, “Grief? There’s No App for That!,” and helping promote the event to my widowed friends and followers on Twitter and Facebook. I relished the chance to meet in person many folks who’ve become close friends online over the past few years. And I was honored (and totally shocked) to receive an award from SSLF for connecting so many people with resources with each other.

Even though I started with a serious lead, I can’t make this into a comprehensive article about this outstanding weekend. There are so many other perspectives – Candice has listed most of the blog posts, and others are here and here (and more here, here, here, here, here and here -- Holy crap this list is getting ridiculous!), along with two articles in USA Today, including one in which I was quoted.

Instead I’d like to share a few observations. First, the connections are so wonderful to see. If you are widowed, you already know the tremendous power of meeting others who’ve “been there,” how liberating it is to not have to explain yourself, to find those who understand your dark jokes. For many of the 200 attendees this was their first time close enough to hug someone their own age who’d lived with loss. Before Camp, I'd already met scores of my peers in person, and hundreds online, and I know I’ve been exceptionally lucky. This kinship is so validating, such a source of encouragement and conviction – I was a little envious of those discovering this place in themselves, this feeling of not being alone. I was moved to say something new agey: “All these hearts opening up – it’s lighting up the room.” (And then, strangely enough, there were actual fireworks over the harbor.)

And then, through the weekend, I felt a little distant. While I’m still in transition in my life, my emotional needs are much simpler, much less urgent, and not so much about grieving. As my friend Ellen Gerst said, this is a good sign for the rest of you. The weekend was not without pangs: it’s shocking to me, though I know so many of them online, to see in person widowed parents younger than me, some MUCH younger (one with a baby in attendance). And I was inspired by the courage of those who showed up in a strange place, knowing not a soul, in the early days after their loss – many with “0-6 months” on their nametags (each guest selected their own).

Second, the role of social media in making the connections. I loved witnessing the rich and dense web of friendships that had started online, many through my own Facebook activity. One woman told me, “when you friended me you were the only widow I knew other than my great aunt, and now half of my friends list is people like us.” Others toasted (with mashed-potato cocktails) the real faces of people they’d grown to love as sisters from tiny avatars.

Aside from a posse from Widows Wear Stilettos, the largest contingency (23 people) was definitely bloggers: not just the seven from SSLF’s flagship Widow’s Voice, who appeared on stage in a group, but also Candice, Abby, Matt, Andrea, Sarah, Chelsea, Mel, Dan, Boo, Deb, Wendy, Jennifer, WnS, my dear sister Hyla, and the hilarious, stunning Carol, who had the second-most beautiful shoes in the room.

My presentation on social media went “fine” (as we perfectionists say). It had to, given the number of cocktails I passed up throughout the weekend in order to “finish it.” I was trying to be analytical and high-level when people were looking for support and laughs: which you can get online, but perhaps not talk about.

Like so many other aspects of the weekend, the proof was in the pudding: I could see evidence of social media’s value in the connections all around me (and in the award and the attention of USA Today reporter Sharon Jayson), so the Powerpoint was almost beside the point.

Third, the ordinariness of our group: how, when you take away the “drama” the rest of the world invests our “stories” with (to paraphrase Matt, that’s no story, that’s my life!), when you remove yourself from the people Alicia calls “civilians,” the sadness and surprise of our youth and existence and laughter – all the reactions – we’re free. Black or white, fresh or seasoned, young or old, gay or straight, widowed people look like any other group of people: some shy, some giggling with roommates, most with a deep bond to at least one other here, all learning. As I walked back to the elevator after the gala, the “fresh widow” label on my wool shawl invisible as it protected my lucite award, I looked at the gaggles of conversation groups on square beige couches in the hotel lobby: it wasn’t easy to tell who was with our group, and I might have fit in to any of them, too.

I didn’t have a scarlet "W" on my forehead, after all. The role I play was put into relief: I have been widowed, and I can offer hope and share with those in the depths of it, but as a sister and an advocate I’m a handhold* for others.

* To understand this reference and also to be human and delighted you must read or preferably listen to Michele Neff Hernandez’s keynote.


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Musical Monday: Show Some Emotion by Joan Armatrading

One of the Moms from church taught me this exercise to shake things up a bit when your kid is so angry neither of you can find a way out. “Okay, everybody, make an angry face, make a sad face, make a surprised face, make a happy face…” It nearly always works. The song, "Show Some Emotion" by Joan Armatrading, is sort of like that for me. When you’re really upset, there’s nothing like being reminded of the many emotional states that are available.

Aren’t grief and hysterical laughter so often side-by-side, each on the other’s heels? Both on the edge. Remembering the wheel of feelings can bring you back to center.

“Show Some Emotion” is really valuable for reminding us all our feelings are valid and real, which is a big emphasis in kids’ culture stuff these days. (When I was a kid, I was usually told to “stop being angry.” Absurd!) Somewhere I have started a playlist of alternative songs for little kids. The Cure’s “Friday I’m in love” introduces the days of the week, this song runs through the emotions, Mack the Knife is in for its condescending tone and what toddler doesn’t love sharks? There’s others, but who knows if I’ll ever uncover the list. It’s not a priority now, Shortie’s past suggestion, confidently making her own taste and scene.

I have always loved this song. Joan Armatrading was timeless, a hero to hippie and punk alike at my college. My friends and I sung her songs, melancholy when biking home at night, or rejoicing while we did dishes together. In this serious, joyful, generous song, which emotional expression is me?

“Some people hurting
Someone choking up inside
Some poor souls dying
Too proud to say
They got no place to lie
And there’s people
If they hear a joke
Can’t keep the laugh
Out of their eye…”

When I hear her sing that last line, I know Joan Armatrading has met me somewhere, that she’s teasing me to get back to it in just a little bit. And I start to breathe again in the corner of that smile.

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Musical Monday: Dancing Barefoot by Patti Smith

It had to be this song. Gavin found in Patti a muse, gazed daily at the postcard of her on his desk, a NYC Rimbaud, a true artist, a puzzle his own age. And Patti was mine, too, legend said she was at the root of the punk rock I loved even if she was a damn poet and easy to mock, Gilda Radner singing “Gimme Mick,” as she pulled out a hairbrush to work on her armpits.

Parody aside, we both could have been her. Beautiful, sexually ambiguous, her own woman.

Dancing Barefoot is a love song that’s not afraid of death. At its climax she reads:

the plot of our life sweats in the dark like a face
the mystery of childbirth, of childhood itself
grave visitations
what is it that calls to us?
why must we pray screaming?
why must not death be redefined?
we shut our eyes we stretch out our arms
and whirl on a pane of glass
an afixiation a fix on anything the line of life the limb of a tree
the hands of he and the promise that she is blessed among women.

It just had to be this song: perfect. A eulogist, the best man at our wedding, and his wife suggested it to me when I was coming up blank.
We played it as the recessional at Gavin’s memorial service, a hot day 3 weeks after his death.
First the minister strode up the aisle, then me, nearly running, as the service thank God was finally over.
(I know. The service was actually short. We cut off the testimonials. But I really wanted to get out of there.)
Crying just outside the sanctuary, a hug from one of my oldest friends, and my wonderful minister’s warm arms and iridescent green robes.

For months after Gavin’s death I played Dancing Barefoot over and over again, part of a “weepers” playlist, as the start of my structured nap/alone time, when I could get it.

This celebration of life, cry of passion, meditation on big stuff will always be part of my mourning.

Thank you, Patti. You'd become part of him and his art, he loved you, and you helped me sing him out.


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Jumbled Former Shrine, #3

At one time this Virgin by the Aguilar sisters of Oaxaca was working on Gavin's cancer, along with some favorite fabric bits, milagros, pictures, a candle, and other souvenirs. Over 3+ years it's been joined by my perfume, lost toys, and jewelry I don't bother to put away. The candle was lit for every night of nookie with The First, sometimes Mr. Fresh and I bother to light it, too. And then a pile of Mr. Fresh's old receipts, discarded drawings by Short Stack are all piled on top.

This is one of my last pictures from the old house.

I look at this prominent chaotic neglect in my bedroom and think of Robert Venturi's oft-quoted statement:

"I am for messy vitality over obvious unity. I am for richness of meaning rather than clarity of meaning; for the implicit meaning as well as the explicit function..."

and I wonder if it's that, or if I'm just lazy. Or whether I didn't want the prayers to work, because the shrine didn't look a whole lot better for very long even when it was supposed to be on duty. (Your deity expects a clear view of what you'd like. I'm sure an old toilet paper roll, as great an art supply as it is, isn't something devoutly to be wished).

It's a fragment, archaeology of five years' accretion between dreams that transcended and stuff that got done. A little taste of life in that place, at that time. Nothing big.


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Butterflies vs. Mermaids

In this blog, I'm obsessed with change. “Widow” is a transitional state for a young woman, and the title I still use even though, by the formal definition, I’m now a humdrum, presumably settled married woman.

One unsurprising but loaded image of transformation follows me everywhere: the butterfly. You can pay $8 at a local nature center to hang out in a tent full of imported ones, gorgeous as your favorite painting or poem, and have them land on you like eyelashes. At 5, my daughter knows the story well: The caterpillar builds his own refuge (from, anthropologists alert! his own secretions), where, with patience and thanks to fate, he emerges with fantastical wings and the talent of flight. He hasn’t a care in the world, and he’s beautiful: completely changed.

Ah, metamorphosis, lovely 99 cent word: you can almost hear the music rising.

Visiting a friend with a disability I note how they provide a decorative motif in her independent apartment. I presume the metaphor is freedom from the body: we’re more than our shells, we hold the hope of change. But these creatures of pure color are delicate and tragic, too lovely for our world. When my sister’s young boyfriend died, she collected dozens of butterfly objects. The butterfly seems to leave his body behind, which is also what we say when the soul leaves. Like all dead things, the butterfly is the Christ, one being born holding the promise of another, transcendent, to be fulfilled.

I’m not happy with butterflies, even though they provide such a perfect package for discussing our growth and change through life.

I’ve been using mermaids throughout this blog because (1) they are all over my house and (2) they represent the kind of imaginative world both my daughter and I lived in when I rediscovered parts of myself, feelings of joy, and the ability to find meaning again after Gavin died.

The little bitches also never fit in, half one thing, half another, longing to be whole but different. (Does she fit in under the sea, really, with her mammaries? Does the ocean really accommodate an entire subculture of these beings? Are there different races of mermaids? What bigger fish prey on them?)

In Andersen’s telling, the mermaid gets her wish, losing the tail and finding legs for land, but when she presses her sought-after shoes to the blessed street, the pain is excruciating. Her two feet are stumps of the tail God gave her. (I’m skipping over so many delicious analogies and interpretations to make my point. This post is too long already). In the end, she becomes a creature of neither land nor sea, but air. (I don't think anyone is satisfied by this ending, neither fairytale nor Hollywood.)

Here’s the thing. I’ve put half my life into changing some things in my life that weren’t working. Some might say ditching depression is like getting rid of a tail - - it kept me moving in one environment, but was useless in the adult world. But most of the progress I achieved was leanring to believe that I don’t need to be someone else.

I’d like to fly, or fulfill my destiny. Not yet free, I’m on the path. I’m full of hope (butterfly) and determination (mermaid).

But here I am at BlogHer, a day late, a couple parties short, unprepared, un-made-over, recovering from an injury. Yet I missed last weekend’s National Conference on Widowhood, where I would have found soul sisters galore and cried in honest happiness to see how we all are becoming.

Is it stupid that I often choose not to fit in? I was much happier at my college reunion last year (college was where I first really felt among family) than at my high school reunion last month (where I was cruelly catapulted back into adolescence, feeling a fish out of water). I deserve both comfort zone and challenge.

Which will I find at the Sheraton in Chicago? Will I fly or thunk? Sink or swim?

You know what I’ve learned? I’m the only one who’ll be able to tell, and I’m the only one whose judgment means anything.

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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.


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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! *

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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! *

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Dating Episode 6 [November 2007]: Dancing Around It

Each evening after story time, I’d slouch at the black Mac and shop for boys, or stretch out on the futon couch I’d always hated and screen them by phone. I get a bit manic when I’m busy and this entire autumn when I reentered the dating world, many areas were percolating.

I was restless to get into my studio, to cut, to stitch and glue: I was tantalized by materials left when my 103.5-year-old grandmother died (earlier that year). In my imagination, scraps of lace and ratty fur and costume jewelry would mingle brutality with mannerism, murder with vitality. My hands, my eyes, were hot with impatience.

Male attention was giving me power and energy. I had long held the idea of a Day of the Dead ritual for Gavin, a more personal memorial than the one we did at church, and that time of year was approaching. I was sure that doing something would help to bind and settle “things” for us. I love playing hostess, so, a party; the most stunning spectacle I could imagine was to have my old roommate, Wekka, perform one of her original low-tech supersexy fire dances.

Plans came together strangely but surely. I opened up Gavin’s studio and set up a big offering of his materials, relics of our life together, hospital bracelets, amulets, and his baby sweater. It was as big a party as our housewarming – 75 people and lots of kids. Wekka was electrifying in a brocade coat, stripping down to a metallic leather (thong) bikini in the freezing cold. She danced with candles, swords, and swirly flame things. A 5 year old repeatedly whispered on a lap: “Mom, I can see her BUTT!” I served only beer and water, the left loudspeaker died after the second piece, and at the end a guest pointed out I’d allowed dozens of candles to be lit a few feet away from a gallon of mineral spirits. Kids, artists, neighbors, and friends from support group took home the intellectual, Zen souvenirs (blank bits of drawing paper) I made. Friends burned offerings, close friends thanked me for the chance to say goodbye.

“That was something else, but what did it have to do with Gavin?” someone asked.

Wekka and I exchanged looks. We had no idea, really. Wekka had done several shows in our backyard and loved us both. I’d invoked Eros and invited people from all my communities. I made something and invited people. How to say? “It was a celebration of life.” It was insufficient. The blank piece of paper said it better.

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Dating Episode 5: Checking it Twice.

I was discouraged, energetic, and too smart for my own good. I swore I’d learn from my experience with YachtGuy: the road to perdition was paved with extensive emails and fantastic phone rapport. I needed a new M.O. -- I’d get to the in-person meeting as quickly as possible.

As I looked back over my wishlist, the 99 men started to seem like the losers I’d already met (or disgusted) and I crossed dozens out with an imperious mouseclick. But someone who I’d been gently putting off suddenly looked really good: a super smartypants wonk who sold himself as a “gentle sensual intellectual.” In my imaginary world, the waiters at the coffee place were starting to look askance at me because I’d brought in a different man every Friday afternoon for several weeks in a row. In line with shaking things up, GSI and I decided on a dim sum lunch.

I’m sure I was talking about my loss in the first five minutes after we’d ordered so I suppose what he did was no more awkward than my posture as a widowed dater. Perhaps his action was karmically appropriate: he kissed my hand.

It lasted a long time. He used both of his hands to hold mine, and kissed the knuckles gently. It was as if the back of my hand emitted a delicious fragrance. And he could not tear himself away: even after the food came, he’d take up my hand again and relate to it with the intensity he clearly applied to everything. The timing of his capture was unpredictable, but half of our time was spent in this position.

Later I demonstrated on a girlfriend and she pulled her hand away in horror, glaring at me. YUCK. Why did you let him do that?

I literally did not know what to do. It’s strange and disabling to lose the use of your right hand while you’re eating. The gesture’s intimacy was undermined by its extreme courtliness. I felt like an unprepared tourist observing the native customs. I didn’t want to be accused of being a snob but I also didn’t like him thinking he could have his way with any part of me. Perversely I felt my resistance would come across as sexy, a “no” that didn’t mean “no.” I didn’t want to communicate, I wished my hand would convey infinite neutrality.

The spoken part of our conversation went on with hardly an interruption. We were in a public place and I knew I was safe. (I did basic security checks on every guy before sharing my real name.) Maybe I wanted to see what would happen next. “Sounds like it aroused your inner anthropologist,” said my friend John.

At home a few days later I scoured GSI’s Match ad, trying to decode what my friends had found so disgusting and yet I’d tolerated. He sounded so good on paper… clever and sharp, with perspective and modesty. But he used the word “sensual” three times in maybe 100 words (concordances can be very revealing). He alluded to giving and receiving massage, fine things in life, excellent wine.

I added another essential to my list:

(6) Must enjoy penetration.

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Dating Episode 4: Making a List.

Clunk, clunk, clunk I perambled through the hallways of Match.com, my heavy feet mostly unheard in the crowd. Two of those last four guys were selected almost solely on the basis of being widowers and two of them weren’t up to meeting me in person.

At least I was in the game, I could see the nookie at the end of the tunnel, and I was having a blast sharing the stories. It was a bit gratifying to see happily married friends excited as teenagers to hear about my adventures. Like me, some of them had been matched up for so long that they were titillated by the thought of online dating. Even as I was encouraged by these friends, gaining points among fellow little-kid parents, I couldn’t romanticize this set of dates, especially the ones that hadn’t happened. So I sought advice on the playground.

Bryan’s Mom and Dad told me how they’d both had unhappy first marriages, returned to the dating world, and then found each other. BD wrote up two lists: desirable qualities and dealbreakers. BM pointed out that she didn’t meet several of his “good” criteria and BD reminded her that the lists were only tools and you have to be sensible. (Excuse me? Would you repeat that last word?)

I started the list in my head:
(1) Must make me laugh.
(2) Must read real books, there will be a test.
(3) Must love women.
(4) Must enjoy sex, the “in person kind.”

A cute Jewish Ph.D. economist and I had some fun phone conversations. He sort of engineered that he’d join me and a girlfriend at a dance. As I found out, he was a tremendous avoider and this was one of those ways to not have to commit to asking for a date.

We met at a Cajun dance event in an open pavilion on a frigid night. There was no one else there under 60. When he showed up I found out that while his ad said he was 5’9” he was shorter than me (I’m 5’8”). That explained why the pants hung baggy in one of the pictures. He was very fit, with a runner’s physique. I felt like a draft horse standing next to him. We hugged ourselves in our coats and watched the oldsters lining up, hoping I suppose that something would happen somewhere.

I knew he was amusing, I could always pretend we were on the phone... We asked him about his two broken engagements. He didn't know what had gone wrong; perhaps he mentioned that women can be confusing. Somehow a pleasant convo led to this: Once a girlfriend asked him to “talk dirty.” He had never heard of it, but was game (and in the act) so he said, “I’m throwing dirt on you! Dirt, dirty! Now you’re getting muddy!” The woman said, “No, dummy! Say something really filthy to me! You’re supposed to curse! Come on!!!” So he said, “Cock! Cunt! Cock! Cunt!”
I raised my eyebrow, not sure if I should believe him. “You’re joking, right?”
“No. Those were the filthiest things I could think of.”
The eyebrow elevated a bit more and my hands went to my hips.
“I’d never heard of it. What, was I supposed to have done research already?”
Now my whole body was skeptical. One hip dropped to match the other eyebrow. “How long ago was this?”
“Last year.”
The second eyebrow went way up. “I guess you’ve probably learned something since then?”
“Well… I don’t usually sleep with a woman until we’ve been dating for a while…”

My face fell. Okay, well, I think we’re about done here. But hey, it’s not like either of us had any other prospects in the room.
“I’m not sure that girlfriend really was good for me, anyway. I mean, she never noticed that I wanted to do it while watching sports.”
Oh no, I thought. Not the baseball scores thing. Early in my sex life a college boyfriend told me how he would recall vintage Yankee statistics to last longer. He was 21. I tested: “You mean you have a better, um, time if you’re partially distracted?”
“Yeah, but she never seemed to notice why I preferred sex in front of the TV, on Sunday afternoons and Tuesday evenings.”

He was 45.

Ten p.m. on a Saturday, it was too late for another party and it didn't make sense to pay the cover at the excellent, popular, post-Gap-ad Swing dance party right next door. My girlfriend and I drove off in her Jeep, and I called out to him, “Hey, enjoy the game tomorrow!”

I went home and updated my list:

(5) Must have age-appropriate understanding of male sexual function.

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Dating Episodes 0.8, 2, and 3: The “In-person Kind”

What a different place I was in a year and a half ago when I was dating. Maybe this is why it’s so damn hard to write up these experiences. I feel arthritic -- it’s painful, even on rewrite, and the words seem calcified and foreign -- nothing like the hot waterfalls of “update” that I poured into my girlfriends’ ears each Monday morning.

My encounter with YachtGuy was confounding but transformative. I was free, safe, and satisfied. Absurd, modern, whatever, phone sex was a step toward taking good care of myself, something I’d aspired to for a long time.

There were other dates, some of them real, and a few even provided me with decent material. I had an outlet, of sorts, but I knew YachtGuy and I would never get beyond “friends” IRL (after our second phone encounter he told me he’d never use a condom. Dealbreaker!).

Now I was in a hurry. I knew what I wanted and had a sense -- perhaps for the first time in my life -- that I could get it.

Episode 0.8. Wade in the Water.
I met a widower early on, on Plenty of Fish. His wife had died shortly after giving birth to their son, now 4. We talked on the phone sporadically for several months. I wasn’t sure how compatible he and I really were, but he was considerate and gentle. I felt it would be stressful to date him because he worked in law enforcement, at a high level, and I am your classic big mouth liberal artsy chick. My idea was, I guess, to just try to talk to a man and be friends. There was nothing intense but our backstories and there was at least as much hesitation about meeting from his side as mine.

Finally we made a date for coffee during the workday. He canceled the night before: “It’s too much.” He’d scheduled to meet me on his son’s birthday (and therefore the anniversary of his wife’s death, too). I was sympathetic but a little pissed. Soon afterwards he went West to see family for Thanksgiving, and was talking about moving back there in the very near future. I wrote him about my nice Thanksgiving and sent him my nutty gratitude list (“I am thankful for onions…” etc.). No response.

I am pretty sure he still lives on this coast. It just took him a while to realize I was too weird. (He didn’t get out much.) Maybe he was playing it the same way I was and didn’t think there was much chemistry, either. Or perhaps, he disappeared into some clandestine “op.”

Episode 2. 2Good 2BTrue.
After my “experience” with YachtGuy I was desperate to actually meet a man in person. I found 2Good, a fellow HippieCollege alum, on Match.com. He was 38, beautiful, clever, and funny. He had a dream job and recognized the obscure reference in my username. He was fresh out of a bad marriage with a truly crazy woman, in love with their new baby. He was burned, with lingering open wounds. 2Good repeatedly described the divorce settlement as "gnawing my own arm off to save my life." Eager, green, and dumb, I enticed him to join me for coffee. “Maybe we can help heal each other without being too serious,” I toyed.

I was not playing fair. Nonetheless we had a pleasant two hours at coffee and walked back to the train in the rain. He said he’d like to see me again. With glee I tried a goodbye hug, but it didn’t take. Over the next few days I sent him two emails and three voice mails. On Monday 2Good sent a “I’m really busy with work right now, have a nice life!” email.

He’d been humoring me all along, or, more likely, thought I was as loose as my game. This story shows me as stupid and sad as I actually was, but it’s part of the tale.

Episode 3. Still Water Runs Shallow.
I flirted with a widower on Match. He was very into me and wrote a long ode to my small square portrait photo. His ad named some smart books and showed him in front of Big Ben. We had coffee and talked about work, widowhood, and his passion for Irish Set Dancing. He followed up with some romantic poetry about how he wished he’d kissed me in the rain as we left. For my first second date ever I met him for dinner at a Latino fusion restaurant near me. Although half-Cuban, he did not know what “salsa amarillo” was. Hmmmm… I drew him out a bit. The “last read” in his Match profile… had been audio books. He referred to the “uppity” kids at the State College. And all of a sudden I discovered I couldn't ignore my dates’ politics.

I sat still, across the table from him in the warm half-light. The picture started to come together: this guy was just plain dumb.* His poetic emails must have taken hours to write. And I’d looked up Irish Set Dancing; it was the most boring crap, a style of co-oed Morris dancing.

Even though I knew there would be no third date, we walked arm in arm in the freezing cold. I kissed him several times in an architectural niche on my own initiative. I didn’t talk much because that was all I wanted.

“WHY did you kiss him?!” my friends asked me, exasperated.
“Because he was there!” I couldn’t see what the problem was.

Had I ever dumped anyone? I couldn’t remember. Two days later on the phone I tried “it’s not you it’s me” and several configurations of the widow card. “I’m really messed up… I’m not ready for a relationship.” After two freakin’ hours I was down to “okay, it really is you.” He wouldn’t listen. He said he wanted to see me three more times, “no wait, two… purely for selfish reasons.” No shit. I tried, “I’ll only end up hurting you.” He told me that he always got his heart broken after a few months. I told him I couldn’t volunteer to play out that game. He quoted Felix Unger: “Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” It would have been comic but he was dead serious.

I suggested we both take a week off and then decide about the next date. My friends were sure he was psycho (the poetry), that he would stalk me. But my gut told me, with uncharacteristic confidence, that he was just sad and deserved one more respectful contact. I figured if I told him I had herpes that would get rid of him. I rehearsed my lines and waited out the week.

A few hours before the “deadline” he sent me a note saying that because he valued me so highly and because he was so hot for me -- he stated specifically how -- he knew he must tell me right now -- he had herpes. My patience had helped me dodge a bullet.

* I thought of the Seinfeld where Elaine is in a relationship with a guy who's hiding something... a wife? Way worse: he’s poor.

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Dating Episode 1.0 [October 2007]: Really Virtual

I already released my best first sentence ever. Now I get to close the tale by sharing the weirdest e-mail ever.

(This post has been moved)

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Hot Girl-on-Girl Action

So I found the tap, but I couldn’t see the bottom of the well of horniness. (And man, was it dark down there!) The hormones hit me like a waterfall, but it wasn’t really an overnight sensation. I couldn’t pretend I was living without a body for four years.

On the YWBB I have recently heard the term, “skin hunger.” Maybe it’s a natural part of attachment parenting; at any rate it is biological and it works. (Did you know that sandbox and bathtub are in the "sensual play" category?) My daughter and I were on each other all the time, it seemed, day and night. It was one thing that comforted us.

We had finally weaned a few months after Gavin died, when I tried to recreate Gavin and his mother’s autumn beach vacation without him. Most of the trip was a mess, except my ugly scheme worked: My mother kept Short Stack in her room for three consecutive sleepovers. Back home on the fourth morning my little one begged me for "booboo" and met repeated sad but firm refusals.

Enraged, my girl clenched her body up and shook a tiny finger at me: “You! Poop!! Mommy, you POOP!” A bit shocked, I thought, “Huh! That’s a new word.”

At around a year after our loss we had adjusted, night by night, to sleeping in separate beds, in our own rooms. My own room… what a weird idea. I was moving toward “single.” (And the bed was a “full.” All the goddamn words were wrong!)

But there was still a ton of touching between my daughter and me. As the only two who were always there for each other, I was her cuddler, horseplayer, wrestler; arm grabber, fork holder, holy lap. She was still very interested in my bosom; I was fondled multiple times every day, sometimes in public. I had a girl jumping on me, treating me as a slide, a swing, and a jungle gym.

The action satisfied my girl, but did nothing for my needs (except for the occasional hour when it allowed me to remain horizontal).

And I cherished endless sweet little kisses and loving hugs among the bruises and tossing. A favorite memory of this time is the morning when Short Stack, waking, pulled my hair back from my face and said, gazing with tilted face, “Mommy, you tow pooty!!!”

So while the onslaught of adult feelings seemed to come out of nowhere, I couldn’t have lived so long without some strokes. It would have killed me, I felt. And one thing I knew was that I did not want another death happening anywhere near me.

After all, isn’t it Eros* that gives life?


* I know it is cheap to cite Wikipedia but these first two paragraphs contain such wonderful detail that tells so many other stories about death, sex, and creation that, while I can’t justify writing poetry for this present context, I also can’t stand to leave these roots out entirely. [Can I just pay some kind of “bad blogging” fine and go home now?]


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Dating Episode 0.9 and 1.0: Virtually Real & Really Virtual

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

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Dating Episode 0.2 [August 2007]: What I Heard When She Moved

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.

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Dating Episode 0 [Summer 2007]: My Elbow Was a Delicious Cake

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.

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Women over 40! Manifesto

A flashback to February -- a short presentation I made in church as part of a "BYO Manifesto" service:

Women over 40!
1. Get out there and get it!.
2. If you’re already getting it, get more and get it better.
3. SAY IT in your own words to the right person.
4. You are at your peak. Your body is brimming over with wisdom. Don’t let the past or your personality or your godforsaken brilliant brain stop you.
5. Listen to your body when it talks. Ask it a lot of questions. Let it surprise you and ask again later.
6. You’re not any type, and you don't have a type.
7. Never compromise but do be patient.
   a. If you can’t be patient right this minute, that's okay. Try to be patient later. (See how patient you are?)
8. Buy that COSMO in the checkout line.
9. Pun. Listen for your Freudian slips.
10. Find peers and gossip mercilessly with them.
   a. Recruit cheerleaders.
11. BREATHE.
12. Shower.
13. Practice.
14. Learn how to text.
15. Curse like a sailor.
   a. Avoid sailors.
16. Go to a museum. Take ballet classes again. Watch Buffy reruns.
17. Buy your own goddamn jewelry.
18. Laugh as loud as you need to, no matter what.
19. Be dangerously honest in bed.
   a. Always be safe but never worry about security.
20. Don't listen to me too much. You'll find your own way.

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