Monday Mimisms ~ Vetting Their Pets

Do you know what it's like to tackle online dating AGAIN when you're not in your fifties anymore? No? Glad you asked. Men are different. Way different. And they say things like "way different" instead of speaking intelligently into my delicate ears. Way different? Who says that??!

(Who let that dog in here....)

As of this morning, there are thirty-one messages sitting in my online dating inbox. Thirty-one. Oops. Ding! There goes another one.

 This will take all day!! 

 But help is on the way. My favorite blues/lyricist/guitarist and all-round brilliant laid-back musician, Tracy Chapman, told me that I just need ONE REASON to stay. Of course, she hasn't said much at all since 2008, but I'm hoping she'll release something soon and inspire me to find good reasons to fully unleash myself on Match Dot Exhausting with no hives or nausea.

 Because, truly...it makes me queasy.

What more do they want? I've updated the updates to the updates, mentioned that I'm a Queen, set the algorithms to only fetch royal bloodlines and said I'm allergic to poodles and peanut butter. What else do they want from me??! I'd better have some super cute and mega rich younger men who also live in a palace in this pile of nonsense today or I'm done. I'm tired of being interviewed by unsuitables.  When they find out I have a real cat named after a candy bar and a sassy imaginary internet dog, they hang up. Every.Time. 

I. don't. understand.

Conversations go like this: How many times they've had covid, how many times they've not been vaccinated, how many times they HAVE been vaccinated, how many exes they dated or children they spawned during the pandemic (it's a thing), how many situationships went awry and landed them in the emergency room (realllly?) and then they have the nerve to ask about MY pandemic romances at which point I'm sure they're stalking me and reading my blog and I hang up in utter disbelief that my life has come down to wildly inappropriate run-on sentences. Who needs that?? 

If one more man asks me if I've had my shots I'm gonna scream. It's so rude. I'm not a dog. 

I suppose I should be thankful that I have so many choices. But it's not ice cream flavors. I only need one, right?  Just one. No wait...one of you (I'm pretty sure it was Shannon)  did tell me that I could have more than one if I wanted. She said it on Facebook! And if anyone in the Blogosphere knows how to lend a moment of introspection, it's Shannon. 

 This means I have thirty-one EXTRA suitors for backup singers occasions, right? Hmmmm.....I could have a date for thirty days straight!

And please, for the love of all that is Bloly (that's Blog + Holy for all you non-blog speakers) stop sending me eighty-five-year-old shag dancers. Do you know that some people think "shagging" isn't even real dancing depending on which country you live in?? In Canada, it means something entirely different. What do they know?  I don't want to start another international incident like I did in 2008 when I tried to send our peace globes to the White House. That's probably why Tracy stopped recording that very same year.  Nobody wants to be associated with a peaceful troublemaker.....

 Listen to one of my all-time favorites tunes by the amazing Tracy Chapman. 

It's time to open the messages. Brewing coffee laced with...coffee. I may need references. I'd appreciate it so much if one of you could vouch for my sanity and impeccable taste in men 

then all will be well in the palace again.
Thirty-two messages and a hat full of crazy town...This does not bode well.

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The Single Woman's Staircase ~ Monday Mimisms

Once upon a time in a land faraway, I moved out of Bloggingham and into a tiny one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. Divorce. The dreary building was gray. With lots of concrete. I so hate concrete.  No elevators. Just creaky stairs and unlit corners.     At least the back deck looked out onto a patch of woods and sometimes I could pretend I was still home in the forest. And I didn't have to clean two stories and take care of dust mites in the dandelions. At least for awhile...

                                              

A beginning teacher's salary was not going to pay the bills. I was sad to discover through the years that any teacher's salary is not nearly enough. But that's another story for another day.   

              

After having some luck online selling WWII ephemera and postcards, I decided to try porcelain. My grandmother's beautiful table-setting ways ran through my blood. She adorned her simple table in that tiny tiny kitchen with love and beautiful dishes, even for mundane Monday lunches. She had no idea what she was teaching me. 

Or did she?

But back to the land of porcelain poverty...

I needed to make money. Inspired by my grandmother's pottery flair, I went to a huge china sale and bought several hundred pieces of antique and vintage china for $300.00. That was a big expense for me at the time. From the trunk of my car I carried boxes and boxes of tiny teacups and saucers  up the single woman's staircase and sorted them out on the floor. I researched comps and history and patterns. I took photographs with a small Kodak camera and learned to edit. That inventory investment netted several thousand dollars and kept me afloat while I transitioned to life as a single woman who would have to support herself. I hadn't been single since I was eighteen-years-old.

It also taught me that I could do what I had to do. 

That was twenty years ago.

not me...but close

Teaching by day and side-hustling china by night, kept me out of trouble but exhausted; jumping through academic hoops to earn tenure and writing endless lesson plans at night, grading papers (I had 249 students), then sitting on the floor wrapping reams of bubble-wrap around tiny little delicate dishes and shipping them all over the world. Rinse. Repeat.   Strangely enough, through the first few months of that leaving, I was remarkably happy way down on the inside, even though I remember crying myself to sleep at night too. Divorce will do that to a person - even if you are the one wanting to end the marriage. It's still grief. I had been married for a very long time.  I felt strong and weary at the same time, if that makes sense.

  It took me some time to get back to Bloggingham Forest (which wasn't even "Bloggingham" until 2006). Concrete became trees again and life finally settled down. I was back to mowing dandelions, serial dating, and dusting the dungeon.  One of my boyfriends at the time called it "Our Grotto"...oh, those were the days. 

But I digress.

I wonder what happened to him...

A couple of years ago, just before the pandemic rolled in, I started re-selling again. China, not boyfriends. I had leftover dinnerware that needed moving. The first day back online I sold an Aynsley England Rosedale teacup and saucer for $150.00 that I'd paid less than five dollars for. Eureka! Ummm....you might say I was inspired. 

Steubenville porcelain in my store
Mid-Century Modern

Aynsley Rosedale

During my recent COVID recuperation, I binge-watched EBAY resellers' videos and took notes. So much has changed in the world of retail and online business. There's Mercari and Poshmark too!  But I can do this. I know I can. It will take a giant sweep of organization and cleaning in the basement grotto, but I'm feeling better now and besides, I've been on this floor before. 

Life, indeed, is cyclical. 

Sitting here tonight looking at bubble wrap and boxes on the floor and Ebay in my tabs window, facing another stretch of exciting unpredictable singlehood, I feel a little bit like climbing those stairs again. Not the dismal ones that led a tired teacher to a lonely parking lot, but the ones that lead from my very own underground grotto - whose walls shall never speak a word -  to the woman who lives upstairs, still fighting dragons on her own and punching words in the air to see if they'll land in a place she can love. I'm remembering the feel of bubbles on my skin, pennies in my pocket, and the warmth of a strong and saucy man who loved to light candles and kiss me in the dark. Balancing....me....balancing him....swaying and laughing...silk on slippery stairs. Have you ever been carried in arms that would not let you fall? 

 That's the thing about words and porcelain - as surely as fine bone china is forged with fire, so are words formed with love. And if they are flung with the strongest of care, not a one of them will shatter into pieces weighty enough to break something valuable and true. 

And if, by chance, you see a cup marked "Aynsley England" 

I have just three words for you -

Pick.It.Up.

 

Photos: Mimi Lenox and Pixabay's bubblewrap woman

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Monday Mimisms ~ I Need a New DustPan

Now that the post-pandemic dust is settling in my life, I think I need a new dustpan! I've swept up so much that it's full and overflowing. Trouble is...I don't believe in sweeping things under the rug. The old proverb dates back to the mid-nineteenth century and refers to unpleasant or damaging things being hidden in secret and not seen again. Concealment. That can't be healthy, right?  I'd rather bring all the dirt to light; look at it, sit with it a molten minute and then bless it on its way. Pucker and blow. Poof! All of life's circumstances hold tribulation and joy; the strength of those emotions made stronger by the contrast of the other. The deeper you love, perhaps the deeper you grieve.  My life has been gathering dust in places I'd rather keep pristine - my heart, my body, my sanctuaries. Maybe I should stand in a fierce cleansing rainstorm. 
I had a dream the other night. My former companion and I were walking through an empty house. We each held a straw broom.

We walked together and aimed the end of the brooms toward the corners of ceilings, searching, swiping, smiling and laughing as we went.  Cleaning and sweeping cobwebs until they were all removed from the entire house. Room by secret-clad room. 
Sometimes it felt like we were cleaning up a crime scene (oh, if those walls could talk) and the next minute we were lovingly taking care of the space we'd shared with tender swabs and tears. It was cathartic. Curtains fell down. Oops. Rods clanged on the wood floor. Finials were finished.  Particles of us floated roughshod in spirals of history through the translucent smell of fresh new paint, covering us with all that was good and all that was still unfolding. It felt like a Celtic love ritual. Remind me to tell you that strange (real) story someday...
We swept. We laughed. We found cobwebs we didn't know existed between us before. Those needed a better strategy. Four hands on one broom handle, SWIPE. 
And then I saw amidst all the tender destruction, a new thing. Ah, a fresh view. Fresh air. Fresh paint. New rooms. New space. New smatterings of painted words. We caught the letters on our tongues like snowflakes, rearranging them into wholly unsmoked words.  It felt good. And necessary. It felt like revolution and resolution in one fell swoop. Afterwards, we were exhausted. And strangely...strangely...content.
The thing I've noticed about relationship endings? I can never just sweep it under the rug. Dust flies. It settles elsewhere. If you don't deal with it there's always just more dismantling to do in the next house you share. You don't necessarily have to shake things up differently for future relationship incarnations just because some heavy duty damaging dust mites hit your curly head in the previous one - but you do have to own it wherever you go.  It will find you.

After all, don't you know that you've been carrying dust around on the inside of you for billions of years? We weren't knocking down unholy catastrophes (well, there was that one time when we thought we saw a mouse in the house and I screamed 'til I broke his hearing but it was just a pile of leaves)......instead, we were boldly rearranging our molecules. Now that's a different farewell, you see....

I like mandalas. They establish sacred spaces. If you stare long enough, they will help you establish you. They also remind me of cobwebs. And cocoons. And safety....  They focus your attention on all parts of your very own personal universe. They don't let you miss one small fraction of your life without inspecting it thoroughly.....if you're paying attention...if you're letting go of resistance....if you're fully alove......oh, I meant alive....or did I?

I like it.  Alove. 

mandala

Maybe you think your past is a misstep. But don't miss the step. It's dust mite gold. It's evolution. It's growth on a cellular level. We are made of stardust. It inhabits our DNA. It forges through our fragile veins like a river alove (did you catch that?)...

And when the dust settles, if you let it fall where it wants to, what you have is a more beautiful YOU. And what you gathered...will remain. 

I don't need no stinkin' dustpan after all.

*oops. Dustpan should be ONE word. Can't change title. Photos Pixabay*Follow Me

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Monday Mimisms ~ Wardrobe Malfunctions and Scotch

It could only happen to me.

We were at the theater Saturday night standing in the lobby waiting to enter. He looked around and said, "Ummm...I think we might be overdressed."
He had a point. That is until one of the ushers walked across what seemed like miles of carpet straight to me and whispered, "You need to go to the bathroom. There's white paper on the heel of your shoe."
There I stood on a red carpet in a red dress with a red face.
What????!!!!
I looked down. He looked down. All God's children looked down.  

Thank the Baby Jesus it was writing paper instead of the other kind, my Bloggy People. We'd walked a mile from the parking garage. Only I could be fortunate enough to use my shoe for a litter grabber, but there it was, wrapped in a circle around the heel of strappy sparkly overdressed black heels. I dutifully walked the three miles across the entire lobby of fascinated starers who were obviously wondering, What did she say to her? What is wrong with that woman? Are they throwing her out? Is her dress unzipped? Is her hem falling out?  What???! with Mr. Handsome looking lonesome and bemused as I slinked away to unpaper myself. 

Enter latrine. Untangle paper. Wash hands. Readjust. Stop blushing. Heavy sigh. Check once again.  Re-enter lobby. Crossing the Sahara Desert in a red parka couldn't have been more conspicuous.  Here comes that lady again with the embarrassing wardrobe malfunction. She is saying something to the man holding her program. Are they leaving? What? What????!!!

I whispered, "There's a man to our right wearing a cowboy hat, a couple wearing sloppy jeans to a formal play and a greasy popcorn vendor to our left,  but it is apparently inappropriate for me to enter the theater with paper on my shoe. The nerve!" 

Man laughs. People whisper. I am scarred for life secretly thinking oh-what-a-great-blog-post.   

 

 I wish paper on the shoe had been the only glitch that night but it wasn't. 

 Somewhere in the middle of a late night coffee-less Coffee Shop conversation (that's another story) on a downtown historic district street of college kids and wireless cafes, we had more important things to hash out.  I painfully click-clacked my paperless heels 'round three blocks of concrete sidewalk and crossed the street at the light. "Are we jaywalking?" he asked. "I hope not because I'm following your lead," I said, running now across cobblestone walkways, down stairs and around corners to a dark dark parking lot to the car of doomed conversations.

 


"Call me when you get home," he said. I need to know you got home OK." 
But I knew when he shut the door that I would never see him again. And that I would call him one last time. As kind and generous as he could be - and he was - there is no substitute I'm willing to accept for intolerance wrapped up in sophisticated slivers of ingrained deceit which spilled off the tongue of the man I had high hopes for. I don't think he even knew how much he unknowingly gave away between the sips and streetlights.  But that's what happens when your guard is down and you've been in the presence of philosophy and art and the Scotch is flowing. One says too much and you know you know you know that one such outwardly beautiful man is a man you could never follow anywhere.
A friend said to me later, "Inside the prettiest wrapping you will often find the most tart and sour and inedible candy." Indeed.


Act Two
Open the curtain.
I do have a red dress.
And I know how to use it.
 





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Before I Fall Any Deeper ~ The Tale of The Garlic Kisser

I've decided to answer these questions based on last week's date with the man I have been interested in lately. I promise to be as kind as he was to me.

1. When is the last time you went out to dinner with someone special? Tell us about it.

Friday night. It had been a long long week of anticipation. The sight of him was sweet relief to my soul. But then....

2. Show us a picture of your favorite cuisine.
I promised him I wouldn't show his picture on my blog or mention him on FB. Ahem. I promised! (Dark eyes. Younger. Head of beautiful hair. Bright. Funny. What's not to like?)

3. What is the funniest thing a man/woman has said to you lately?
Waitress: Would you like the spicy, sir?
Mr. Wonderful: I don't think you have anything spicier than her.
I laughed. She blushed.

4. What makes a gentleman a gentleman in today’s dating world? Are there any left?
I appreciate manners in a man. Opening doors. Taking my arm. Helping with my sweater and chair. Politeness. He was all those things. Major points. But then....

5. Is there anything you won’t tolerate when out to dinner with your significant other?
I doubt if I felt there was something intolerable about the man that I'd be out with him in the first place. Of course it has been my experience that it takes quite a while to really know someone to begin with...and just when you think you do, you don't....and by that time they're your significant other and it's just....just.....arghhh!!!

Now that's intolerable.

6. What type of ambiance do you enjoy in an eating establishment?
Quiet surroundings. Soft music. No noisy children. Candlelight. Elegance. Coloring books on the table. (in case he's boring)

7. Tell us about the worst public dining experience you ever had, whether it be a date or with your family.
It would have to be the online dating disaster with the man from Romania. His picture was at least 20 years younger than he was (which made him around 70) and I was in my mid-forties.
This was back before I actually had the nerve to exit before it began (now I just feign a migraine and pick up my crayons) so I was trapped on the 3rd floor of the mall with a man who looked like he could have been my grandfather who grabbed my hand with both of his and told me he was looking for an American wife.
It was the longest 15 minutes of my life!!!





No wait....that wasn't the worst. It was the man whose profile pic was in a gym as a body builder and then the standing-beside-the-firetruck-pose-that-got-me (don't ask me why I went out with him in the first place, just don't ask) and when we met it was OBVIOUS that he was quite gay. Flaming. Homosexual. F.L.A.M.I.N.G.
And oblivious to the flame.

Or it was the night I spent with my sister in the tent at the lake when we were teens and it was raining in the beanie weenie can. Nope. It was the man from Romania.

But back to Mr. Wonderful from Friday night......

8. What is the lamest or rudest thing a man/woman has said to you lately?
"I'm not a waiter."
"Lucky for you," I replied, "I'm not a waitress."
Of course that was AFTER the fabulous rain kissing sequence that should have been in a movie somewhere. I dared him. He complied.
But then......

9. Are you a good tipper?
He most certainly was.
Trouble is, I didn't have a clue what that dinner would cost ME.

10. Do you ask for doggie bags when you leave food on your plate at a restaurant?
I did not ask for a doggie bag but he insisted I take it home with me. I tend to leave a lot of food on my plate....or maybe it's just that I talk too much at dinner.
Either way, I had chicken, rice, and a lot of text messages the next day. Yum.

11. What is your pet peeve about restaurants and dining out in general?
People who bring loud children and don't make them behave.
I will move or ask the waitress to find another table.
Preferably in Siberia.

12. Do you prefer to order yourself or do you ever let your significant other order for you?
He ordered appetizers for us. They were drenched in garlic and butter. Did you know that garlic and butter makes a man a better kisser? It must be true. At least that is my humble opinion. At the very least it was good for my cholesterol. And the bounce in my skirt.
I can unequivocally say that he holds the title for Best Kisser EVER. Now that's something.
If only.....

13. Describe your most intimate romantic dinner ever. (fantasy or real)
A slow brain seduction over chicken cordon bleu and something that looks like one of Jamie's famous truffles. The where is unimportant. The intimacy begins way before the first course is served and lasts clearly into breakfast mugs and bacon. Am I making myself clear?

14. Do you enjoy piano bars?
Only if I'm not asked to play. But one day soon I intend to climb atop a baby grand somewhere and render. It must be a night when I'm wearing a slit in my skirt.

15. If you could go anywhere in the world for dinner, where would it be and who would you be with?

I would walk away from the man from Romania, bring a patch for the dripping tent and figure out a way to know beFORE I get into a car with a man that he is about to turn into the world's biggest ass.

Goodnight, Mr. Wonderful. The garlic was indeed....spicy.
Even in soaking rain.

(Day 2 Vacay) Buttons ~ A Poem of Love

Trust has a precarious power to topple even the strong and forgiving
.... when it is broken

I wrote a poem of love
I wrote a poem of hate
I set my pen to dance
and fell headlong into words that cut
my soul and hurt where they fell
and for once
just once
I began to censor what I heard.

I didn't like it.
I didn't like it at all.

They sang into sadness
one syllable at a time
and then rose unto joy
sink
ing
again
into what I knew to be true.
They danced back and forth - those words of mine -
with a slow and steady rhythm I could not deny
and would not withhold
and cannot

will not

squelch

Sacred secrets of sin
bastardly barbs they were

What about them made me weep?

I let them hurt
I looked
I hated them
every last one
I saw their power
to wound
to maim
to scar
I did not heed
I will not be afraid of words.

So I opened
for once
just this once,
and danced with them.

Deep
penetrating
exhausting
unforgiving

empty

What about them made me angry?

so I began again to write about love
and silly things
crooked wiry glasses, candles and dalliance
flirtation and sex and tumbling people

but the joy did not come
It fell
a
w
a
y

I hated what I knew to be love
and I loved what I hated
for it was - long about the time the third button was washed -
that I saw a betrayal
and that was the button
that cost the most

When I am stronger
and not so tired
I will look at it again
but not today

I wrote a poem of love
a poem of hate
a prayer of peace

All three, all three, all three
sound exactly the same

They laugh on my face
and smother my heart;
For what I found,
when the strength of my wet prayer slipped silently
between the folds of my shirt and
danced defiantly down the curve of my breast

was fear

Sprawled in a sensual splat
in a blurry puddle of me
there
at the end
of my shirt
a mirror
Heaven
is

always
in
the
spill

Tears.
I find them annoying
Damn truth
Nobody ever hides from water spilled on buttons

I wonder what about them made me weep?

written 2007
That's it for Day 2: Mimi Vacay

Pink Christmas In Bloggingham

Christmas and divorce do not fare well.
At least that has been my experience.

You lose traditions that once fused your life into a neat little holiday package. With the stroke of the magistrate's pen your life is rearranged in huge ways and a million small nuances suddenly have nowhere to live. Sorry, lady, you just lost the right to congregate with unwelcome relatives from both sides of failing marriage, fume, fuss over Christmas scheduling, pretend there is a Santa Claus even when your child is eighteen, attend company parties and do the couple thing, watch your husband crawl around the roof and hang lights on the dormers,and share a burnt Christmas turkey with a family who dares not notice the meal looks like blackened Cajun poultry. You just lost the aforementioned privilege to make memories with said missing family.

Bad memories, good memories, sad memories, wonderful memories.

Forever memories.

Two signatures on a single piece of paper doth not erase a lifetime of holiday imprints.
You do, in essence, sign away your tradition.

Christmas and New Year's is not an easy time to be single.

So, the first year I was faced with staring at the family-made Christmas tree holding over twenty years of memories and baby boy designed ornaments with tiny little hand prints in white plaster and his smiling baby face in a tiny little ornament frame, I decided to make my own holiday ambiance. To celebrate my independence. To express my personality.
To disengage from "we" and fully embrace "me."

Time to make new traditions.

Today I opened the box and took in a familiar aroma.
Pink Christmas.

My Christmas.

A box full of a memorable shopping trip I took one cold December day five years ago - all by myself. My mission? Reinvent a lifetime of togetherness known as Christmas with the family..... into Christmas with me.

I had to make a new Christmas.

I needed a new tree, a new color, new bobbles, new adventure, unorthodox frivolity, joy, beauty, handpicked reflections of the soul I had become....... and for Heaven's sakes, no red and green.

Prissy things. Purses. Frilly lamp ornaments. Perfume bottles. Lace. Pearls.

Elegant ribbons. Gold-trimmed velvet balls. Beads.

Lots of crystal and fluff.
Pheromones and single girl memories.

Sensual.

Silly.

Secret sacredness full of me.

To honor and preserve the ornamental scrapbook of my married life for my son and grandson, I hung the old ornaments on a "past" tree. I still have a blue-trimmed tree in my piano room with the family traditional ornaments from my once-married life, a totally crystal ornament tree in my boudoir with tiny white lights, a small multi-colored 3 foot tree in the corner of the kitchen (I changed it to simple red lights this year), Baby Boy #II's crazy green tree in front of the mirror in the hallway, a red and gold tree downstairs with the chimney stockings (near the dungeon) and then there's.........this.....

Pink Christmas. In my living room.

With candles and twinkling clear lights in unlikely places.

Six years after divorce and I am experiencing yet another holiday without a significant other.
No silly stockings full of intimate secrets and no candlelit moments making out errr.....opening gifts under the tree giggling on the floor politely sipping eggnog listening to Bon Jovi Bing Crosby in your specially shopped for Christmas nightie with white fluffy sleeves proper little black pencil skirt and matching knee-high leather and suede boots with 3-inch heels boring pumps.

Sipping white wine.

I'll be wearing my pencil skirt, mind you, but in all probability,
pouring a glass for one.

But that's OK. I am ready....and enjoying the experience of reflection and time alone. It's been a difficult year.
I need to sit and be still for awhile.

Good thing I made that solo shopping trip.

My sister and I also took a wonderful Christmas trip to the Biltmore House in Asheville, North Carolina the first holiday I spent alone after my divorce. We found these gorgeous crystal bell ornaments. They are large, intricately made, pure, simple, sparkling.....reflecting the lights inside and out like a prism.

They remind me of grace. Authenticity. And new beginnings.

These will go on Bloggingham's door.....lighted and ready for a new adventure
in a new year with a new person.

Me

Note: I will be posting my peace globe on Christmas Day.
Please join me, if you will.
*This post reprinted from 2008**

Three Skirts and A Cup Of Coffee

First date. I was late.

Fifteen minutes. One town over. Couldn't find the bookstore. I hate being late. Bad first impression. Handsome guy. Ran a fast yellow light spraying hairspray in my mouth instead of mouthwash. I spit in my own car. Thinking about the guy I passed on this week because he had a motorcycle and how would I reapply my lipstick on a bike. The things that go through my pencil head. I.know.Katherine. don't.say.it. No time for second thoughts now. Screeched to a park with thankfully little hairspray in my mouth. Threw the cellphone in the purse. Blew in like a woman on a broom. Thank God for no-run pantyhose or I would haven eaten nail polish too. Hi. I'm late. I'm sorry. Thanks for waiting. Introductions.

"We should have exchanged cell numbers in case this happened," I said.

"I don't have one except my mother's," he said. (Flag. Red. Uno. Ummm....he doesn't get up. I'm sorry, guys, but when you are sitting and waiting on a lady to arrive, get UP. It's polite. And I grew up with a grandpa who held doors and took off his hat and oh I digress, back to the story) Somebody explain to me WHY I sat down with him.

Pencil Skirt: white slacks, blue scalloped top, matching pearl earrings, pearl necklace. pearl bracelet, bone heels

Mr. LaidBack: Tshirt. Shorts.

I didn't have the nerve to look at his feet. He was handsome. I'll give him that.

He didn't like to dance

he didn't like to read

he didn't like to listen to any music except on the radio

he didn't like coffee

he hadn't had a hobby in ten years

But one thing he did have. A wandering eye. Two of them. I generally do not notice if a man ogles another woman in front of me because, let's face it, it just doesn't happen. (bwaahahhhaa) But seriously. Men past forty-five should know better. If a man flirts with or turns on the charm with another woman or even the waitress when we're out, I find it more unfathomably rude than annoying. I just ignore it and check mental note "untrustworthy" But this time it happened twice in the first 10 minutes. And then it got amusing.

Lucky me we were sitting near the entryway and he faced the door. One eye on the door. One eye on me. I kid you not. It was a whole body experience for him. I wasn't even gonna feign a migraine to get out of this one. Pay attention.
Here's what I did.

When the evil eye prepared to fixate on its inevitable prey by the door (women know these things) I would ramble on faster and faster as only I can do and get even more animated using my hands, tossing my hair....and then s.t.o.p....i.n...m.i.d...s.e.n.t.e.n.c.e and W.A.I.T. F.O.R H.I.M.. because once he fixated he was a goner for at least a good 30 seconds. I'd follow him follow her. Wait for him to follow her some more and then the Chatty Cathy doll would resume. It never even occurred to him that I had stopped talking. Here's how it works in case you ever wanna try it.

Skirt #1 approaches the Starbucks counter (I'm thinking he wishes he'd said he liked coffee) "So do you like to.........he drifts off into hemline heaven and I wait for him to return. He is smiling. At her. I am smiling. At her. He never even noticed that I had stopped talking.
I follow him in silence. Poor girl now has two oglers. He sees me following him following her and looks at me....

"read?" I asked with all seriousness

"I'm not one for reading."

"I see. Do you like to......

Skirt #2 with a brunette bouncing pony tail sits down at the table to his left directly in front of me. He notices her. She sat. She notices him. I followed their smile. He followed her ponytail. I followed her ponytail. He looked. I looked. I watched him look. I waited for him to come back to earth. She got a phone call and he did.

"......dance?"

"Not in years."

I see. Silence. He says nothing for about 3 minutes. I start rolling my eyes and tapping my fingers on the table. Why NOT???!!
I just wanted to be annoying.

"Have you ever....." Ah! Right on cue.

Skirt #3 with a VERY short hemline, blond bob and matching book bag stops at the Clearance table. I thought she was adorable but what do I know? I'm just there for the coffee. He follows. I follow. He watches. I watch. I watch him watch. He never notices I'm not talking anymore. Even as this is about the sixth time this has happened in an hour. She disappears behind a bookshelf and he literally leans over to watch her disappear. So did I!

"....been married?"

"What was that?"

"Have you ever been MARRIED??!"

LOoooooong silence.

There were signs everywhere. I started to see things in my coffee cup. I thought maybe he needed time alone with the skirts so I went to get MYSELF some coffee and get this (he never once offered) I found myself asking out of that darned southern politeness "Could I get you something?" even i-can't-believe-i-said-that

"No. I don't like coffee."

And then it hit me.

Oh my ever lovin' peace globes.

I looked closer. I had the eeriest feeling. Who? What? When? He was 48 but could easily pass for 38. Lots of hair. Not a wrinkle in sight on his face. And a dead ringer for a younger version of my ex-husband.

I decided I needed an oat bran muffin and an escape plan.

I made as much noise as I possibly could at the counter just ordering my drink. Digging in my purse. Trying to decide. Changing my mind. Minding my change. I asked for French Vanilla. She thought I said Citronella. Laughter laughter laughter laughter. I had more fun at the counter with the people in line than I did with Wandering Eye. Three dollars and thirty-one cents later I sat down with a lot of caffeine, one resurrected husband and our four wandering eyes. The only time we laughed was when I made a joke.

And then I got really tired of entertaining his shorts.

I wanted to go shopping.

I tried to keep it simple. Really I did.

"So....we're in a bookstore. What's your favorite newspaper?"

"The Boston Globe."

"Great! I usually read it online."

"I don't read it."

"But you said it's your favorite..."

"I just don't read it."

"I don't think we have anything in common," I said.
"You are artsy," he said. (because I wear CLOTHES??)

" I think I'll check out the Clearance table before I go. Nice to meet you. Bye."
And the worst part? THIS is where I'll always remember I was when I heard that Michael Jackson died. On a blind date with a skirt ogler. It is forever burned in my memory. Oh the humanity.

I am traumatized.
I don't even remember where the other half of my face is....