Unhappy Endings

Well, Ed the Engineer is no more. He cancelled over the weekend, presumably due to a death in the family. "I'm sorry! I need to go to a funeral and wake on Sunday!" his voice mail mesage to me. I thought it was odd that on a Saturday he would learn about a wake .. .and a funeral ... the next day, but I'm the trusting sort.

 

"That is the oldest line in the book. He has another date," gal pal Tammy warned me. I hate it when Tammy is right. Because this morning, I find an email explaning he has reconciled with his ex who is "ran into" this weekend. I could have fun with that euphemism but I'm in too grim a mood to do so.

 

On a related note, I had exchanged emails with a man for a year or two, as he moved out of town before we got to meet. He then sent a note last month asking if we could get together as he was coming back to the area. We made plans, set a date and then ... I never heard from him again.

 

Well, I didn't hear from HIM but I did hear from his estate. He went and died on me. Or at least that is what the woman who sent me an email from his account said. "He passed away recently. Those wishing to may mail a donation to xyz charity in his name."

 

I emailed back my condolences and asked ... what happened? "You can call his cell phone and I'll tell you," she replied.

 

I haven't called yet. I had a flash of insight. Maybe he wasn't really dead. Maybe he was married and now just WISHED he was dead as his wife contacts all his potential paramours.

 

And totally appropos of nothing, Lonnie tried to add me as a friend on Facebook. I declined but not before I looked up his profile and saw ... he is "in a relationship." Truly, everyone has found someone but me now. I hope she's not too smart. Well, if she's publically link to him, I guess that goes without saying.

 

Answers from the Past

When I was in high school, my dating successes were about as limited as I have found them as an adult. Then as now, I always had a lot of guy friends. Between my love of music and art, I hung out with an earthy crunchy crowd and we merrily tripped our way (literally) through the70s and 80s together before moving out of our South Shore resort town after high school.

 

I had a major crush on one of these male friends, a fellow art major, who, despite spending many hours together, never made the move. He did however pine over a mutual friend in our clique, Kara. "The girl with Hobby Holly eyes," he would moon about her. Too bad she had a problem with Qualuudes, alcohol and any other substance that could be abused. She also stole my other boyfriend Steve, easily and without any protest. With friends like this, etc., etc.

 

So it is with some surprise that I get to the true bottom of the story as I view his Facebook page today. He is in a relationship with ... a guy named Francis. Yup, he's gay. So truly, it never had anything to do with me. I'm sure his mooning over Kara was a cover up as to his real feelings, which undoubtedly were not something to make public in early 1980s Marsh-Vegas.

 

And in case you're wondering, I am not spending the weekend alone. I am cautiously optimistic about Ed the Engineer who I've gone out with twice now.  I don't have  nick name for him yet, but don't worry, I'm sure it's coming. 

 

If my life were a Steven King novel, he would play the part of the local middle aged sherrif, with his eye on the 40-something waitress at the diner who works in a seacoast Maine town. You know the type - looks like Ed Harris, a kind heart and a crooked smile. He's doomed, I'm sure, but as Hurricane Danny moves up the coast, it's any port in a storm.

I Heart New York

My vacation to New York State was more exciting than I would have dreamed possible. Sure, Acadia last summer introduced me to Kirk Lurvis, park ranger extraordinaire. But this year, I got more than an imaginary love interest one evening at sunset at Heart Lake.

My campsite was situated in the heart of the Adirondacks at the unlikely named Heart Lake, a small (yes) heart shaped body of water surrounded by trees and campsites.

I sat alone in a chair on a dock by the water. I read my book as the sun set.

"Excuse me, would you like to share this bottle of wine with me? I picked it up at a local vineyard today," a deep male voice intoned beside me. I turned my head to find the unlikely visage of a man who looked like a blond Charlie Sheen. 30-something buff hiker, sitting next to me with two wine glasses in his hand and a smirk on his face.

Of course I said yes. He was a college professor from an unnamed university in upstate NY. He had studied in Boston for one of his masters degrees (emphasis on "one of") and corrected me when I referred myself as a Bostonian. "If you grew up on the South Shore, you aren't from Boston." I stood corrected as the conversation went from favorite novels to guessing what creature each of us could make up out of the cloud formations above us. The wine buzz took over as the sun set and he gingerly hopped into the lake from the small dock, stripping off his shirt like an ersatz Matthew McConaughey.

"Come for a swim with me," he said as he gamely pulled my form towards his into the water. At first I protested. I was fully dressed! It was chilly! But alcohol makes one lose inhibitions so in I went into the shockingly cold water. He pulled me deeper into the water as the coldness instantly zapped my wine buzz. Suddenly the Harlequin romance in my head was replaced with a thought more sinister. "I am in the water in the dark with a stranger," my mind reasoned with my wild side. "He is pulling you deeper in the water. Get back to shore NOW."

I paddled back towards the dock and jumped back up into my chair. Fabio followed. "That was the most humiliating romantic moment I've ever been in," he complained. "That could've been so sexy. Haven't you ever hooked up with a guy before?" He put his tee shirt back on.

"I don't find hypothermia sexy, and my lips are turning purple," I stayed in my chair, not sure if I was sorrier for myself or for embarrassing the hunk who tried to pick me up.

We each went home to separate campsites, where my kid awaited me. Parenthood can be a bitch at times, but most likely this was a good thing. The next morning, I found his forlorn flip flop and an empty plastic wine glass by the dock. I took them back to him at his campsite. He sheepishly accepted the items saying he didn't remember where he had left them.

"You don't remember last night, do you?" I asked. "Sure I do," he lied. "I have to get back to my campsite and my kid. Have a great weekend," I said as I walked back, wondering what I missed out on. Near miss or good call? We'll never know.

Prettiest Girl at Hoot Night

I frequent a local tavern that hosts an open mic night every Tuesday. I am a regular. I walk in and the bartender pours me a Smithwicks without asking. The emcee gives me a subtle hand gesture acknowledging I have dibs in the order of performers. I tune up Martin and leave him by the stage and wait for my turn.

Unlike other aspects of my life, Hoot Night rarely disappoints me. It offers up a crazy quilt of musical talents. Last week, a pair of 12 year olds showed up and sang and played guitar with a stage presence I cannot compete with (and didn't - I left without playing. WC Fields would not appear in a film with dogs or kids and who am I to not follow his example). Ukuleles and mandolins are common place. And last night a bag pipe player enveloped the very small room with a few numbers backed by a rock band. You don't see that just anywhere.

I get up to do my usual shtick - a combination of Emmy Lou Harris and Bonnie Raitt. It's truly an open jam session. Suddenly behind me I hear the sweet sounds of a pedal steel guitar. Then the insistent pulse of a bass guitar. Followed by the not too subtle banging of an amateur drummer who joins in. Suddenly my usual solo gig is a full-on band and the crowd is cheering.

Not many women get up and play, and definitely not many women my age. Why is it that women give up their rock and roll dreams after kids, family and work take over? Clearly middle aged guys were out in force, at least at this little outpost. I've seen a few young women get up and play. And then that 12 year old. Then most of us take off for 10-20 years of child-bearing. Few if any come out the other side singing. I speak from experience. I'm only just starting to warm up myself.

So I sit down after my set. The row of guys at the bar give me a thumbs up and then turn back to the Sox game on the screen. It's the 11th inning and the Sox can't seem to pull ahead of the Tampa Bay Stingrays. A bag pipe wails in the background. It's Hoot Night and easily, I am the prettiest girl there. For now, this will have to be enough.

Scatter

When I was growing up, my father subscribed to the Time Life Book science series. My favorite book was on mathematics. It had large b&w photos and text next to it explaining various things like statistics and such.

 

There are two photos side by each in a spread. One shows a 1950s era family with 10 child, all boys; the other, all girls. What is the chance that the 11th child will be of a different gender? The answer? 50/50. Same as the first. That's statistics for you.

 

So it should be no surprise that my double header date two weeks ago resulted in zero, count them, zero forthcoming dates.  That's right - both preempted my ditching THEM by ditching me first.

 

Bachelor #1 wrote back, "I met someone Thurs. I'm going to give this a shot. Good luck!" As if meeting someone else had anything to do with his remaining mute from Sat. to his next victim on Thurs.

 

Bachelor #2 left a voice mail. "It was great meeting you! Maybe I'll see you on the ski slopes this winter!" This, in August.

 

So now things are back to square one, same as it ever was, with exactly the same potential outcome as that first post-divorce date coming up on four years ago.

 

"I wish I could find the off switch," I whined to my tarot reading friend tonight. "It's called menopause," she replied. "And in that respect, it is wonderful." I so am not ready to go into that good night.

 

I am working hard on distracting myself with other fun yet-non-libidinous activities, like golf. Talk about a game requiring patience. It makes the odds of dating look good.