Groceries

Not long ago, while scrubbing post-party burnt chili scum from a pot, I was reminded of how handy it would have been to have a man around to help clean up (and give me a kiss after).

I had that moment tonight at Shaw's Market, looping those 7 plastic bag handles onto my wrists to walk to the bus: After 15 years, I'm tired of carrying the groceries. Where is my knight with shopping cart? The co-decider on produce quality? The co-spender to keep me on budget?

Funny, this feeling recalls an incident from my brief tenure with Another Man. Hanging out at my place one winter afternoon, we decided to pick up fixings at the grocery store, rather than go out to a bar for supper.

My first time shopping with a date! And it was weird. We hadn't been going out for very long and, while we had decent rapport, exact dynamics weren't solid. It didn't help that I was exceedingly self-conscious: should I push the cart or wait and see if he took the lead? Since the groceries were for my house, should I be the executive decision-maker or ask his opinion on what should go into the stir fry? Should I pay or see if he offered?

I pushed the cart. Mostly, I remember, he just kind of trailed me through the produce aisle as I gathered mushrooms, peppers and onion. Then we had an awkward moment while stopped to peruse chicken breasts. Whatever we had been talking about, it seemed the perfect moment for me to exclaim:

"You know, I'm just so not used to grocery shopping with someone else! It's so weird!"

I looked over at him, chuckled a bit.

He didn't say anything back. Grinned--or grimaced, really--then started strolling away.

Oh. Instant lameness. I knew. I did not need to tell my date that I had never dated anyone else for long enough to go grocery shopping with him.

We went back to my place; I cooked, he did the dishes. We went on with the evening. Yet there's a part of me that still believes the chicken breast revelation dug the foundation for that relationship's demise....as in, someone was way too excited to have company at the store and it showed. That's a lot of pressure, being the first man to carry a girl's grocery bags.

(Which, by the way, he did.)

Bleh.

In any case, there's hope: the first time is out of the way! As in just about everything, the second time could only be better. Onward!

If no play is allowed....

...then what's the fun?

Another day. Another e-mail from Yahoo! Personals saying my profile had been viewed. Another click onto the Yahoo! site for a look at the looker. Yet another profile of yet another man with a blurry photo whose goal in dating---evidently, based on its prominent place in the first line of text-- is that he "doesn't play games." And is not looking for anyone who does.

Hello?

I can't count the ways in which this edict turns me off.

But I can start.

1) The assumption that women are by default nefarious and should take a purity test or be turned away at the gate of love.

2) The promise of a sheer lack of a good time.

3) The dreary list of qualities sure to follow such a chart-topper....such as, perhaps, "I'm outgoing with my friends but really just like to stay at home with that special someone and be quiet."

4) The surely even drearier dating history of such a man. Really. If he eliminates all game players he eliminates the population of greater Boston. Which means he's never dated.

5) Disregard for the nuances of flirtation. Courtship. Seduction. Or just conversation. Total fireball.

6) Proof that he never could be taken home to play Jenga with the family.

Really. This is online dating today. This represents. This is the pool into which we are encouraged to jump and swim and feast: humorless, stagnant waters.

I want to call this man up, dare him to have a personality, tell him that he can't have things that easy and clean because it's not real and it's not fun, belt out a karaoke version of "Hit Me With Your Best Shot," convince him that it's the play that makes the match and he's going to be a man alone still looking at profiles like mine long after I'm gone.

So you see how it is possible to feel humorless and stagnant.

Margarita Hour

It's a tad late. Or early. (Or both.)

Just returned home from margaritas and guacamole out with B, my musician boy friend. Yes, exactly the kind of guy I should go for as a musician girl.

For about 2 weeks last winter, B & I wanted badly to hook up....and talked about it at a bar over beer with our knees touching, followed by another evening out to the opera followed by chardonnay at another bar, this time with knees touching and bantering shoulder taps. Yet. We decided to preserve our platonic rapport. Because it was quality rapport....which, how often does that happen?....and the impulse passed.

Which in all ways, turned out to be the right decision. Anything we would have pursued now looks like wishful opportunism. He's thoughtful but impulsive, passionate, and at the age of 29, just figuring out what he really wants in a woman and in his life. We are closer friends for our history, and it's entertaining to watch him do this. (To be a part of it? Surely a roller coaster.)

So tonight.....B has a new love interest and was itching to tell me about it. I was itching to listen. We usually have beer, but because we just felt like it, ordered tequila and lime on the rocks instead. Then rolled into a conversation that rarely happens--where nothing is sacred and everything is game. Love. Sex. Talents and careers. The history of them. Expectations about them. The kind of conversation where you leave and anything you think about feels beautiful and possible.

Granted, it was a Wednesday night at the only mildly-happening Cottonwood Cafe during one of the wackiest weather days in Boston's recent wacky weather history, but.....at 10:45, well before we were ready to finish, our waitress was reading a book at the bar, waiting for us to leave.

Eh. It was a Wednesday. We skated out onto the Berkeley Street sidewalks up to Boylston. A drunk met us on that corner, yelling at us to keep our balance as he struggled to keep his. And he was playing (and I'm not joking), "The Hustle" on a pennywhistle, stopping every few notes to wish us good night. No choice but to wish him good night, too, and wave, and make sure to not fall over ourselves. Which when you're under a few thumbs of tequila and things still feel beautiful and possible, is the only way to be.

And then B took off on his bike through the slush. Careful yet heedless with his giddiness and liquor and compromised balance and the potholes and the 9 blocks to ride home. But I knew he'd be fine because, sometimes, everything just is.

Again. 3 cheers for Friends Who are Boys! I will sleep well tonight.

People like me

A joy of writing 200 blog entries in the past 9 months (yes, what I did instead of gestating a child) is that, now, I find articles all the time much like something I've already written. Every possible essay topic will eventually be explored in someone's online diary and if you don't get there first....it's a rehash.

OK. So if you've been with me for even half of these monologues, you know the saga of The CFO:

Somewhat Older Craiglist Respondee
turned River Gods Great Date
turned Even Better Kisser
turned Casual Boyfriend for 2 Months
turned Disappearing Act in September
turned Back Up in October But with Girlfriend and Looking for an Open Relationship
turned Totally Ignored By Me and, finally,
turned Back Up in January with Girlfriend Moving to Africa and Looking to See Me Again if I wanted to see him.

(Which by the way, for those of you unhappy with my choice to consider it....well, still considering. We haven't gone out yet, but exchanged texts on Inauguration Day vowing to get together to celebrate. And that's the latest.)

I struggled when the CFO came forward with the open relationship proposition, even though I originally accepted him as a man who saw other women. Which is why it took me months to get back to him. When he then replied, in apology, he talked about how he too struggled....even though he thought he knew what he wanted for us (casual), for him and his girlfriend (open), for himself (fancy free). Even though all parties had agreed to the terms. This line stuck out:

"What I've learned and continue to learn is that any sort of open relationship or non-monogamous situation is an emotional land mine and there aren't any maps!"

Right or wrong, approved or disapproved of, mapless is certainly a way many of us make our way from day to day. I empathized. Which is why the situation still exists.

While trolling the Times during mid-afternoon procrastination hour today, I encountered this column published last Sunday under the category of "Modern Love". Katherine Ruppe found her a man the equivalent of my CFO: The Engineer. Except that her story involves Moby concerts, Las Vegas trysts, and a phone showdown with the Other Woman revealing the existence of the Other Woman's Husband and Other Woman's Husband's Girlfriend.

Katherine did not empathize with this drama. It's juicy, and makes the CFO look like Ward Cleaver. Enjoy.

River I could skate away on...*

View from the office. 4:31 p.m. The Back Bay, the Charles Basin, the Salt & Pepper Bridge.

When it is cold enough for long enough to freeze this water this solid...

....in gearing up for tonight's 4-mile jog, I kind of wish for skates instead.

But, yes, there's this marathon thing. T-minus 84 days..... Oh well.

*(with props to Joni Mitchell)

Monday, Monday

This is going to be a rant.

I'm wiped out this morning. More wiped out than used toilet paper. So wiped out that when I fell asleep on the bus to work, sitting in an aisle seat, I awoke and didn't know where I was.

(I think we need The Mamas & The Papas on the scene, stat.)

It was a busier Saturday than normal....physically and mentally demanding. Starting with a 13-mile training run up Heartbreak Hill first thing in the morning. Followed by a musical revue rehearsal at 12 that went until 7, followed by a 3-hour show that started at 8....with me pounding the piano for all of those 11 hours. Immediately followed by 3 glasses of merlot, meant to celebrate the success of the show, as well as dull the throbbing in my fingers. Bed at 2 a.m.

(Why is it true that after a hard workout, you feel acceptable the next day, then like shit on day 2? Wow. The truck ran over my arms and legs and my head this morning, picked me up and put me on the #9 bus and said, you've got a busy day at work in front of you. Go. )

Truthfully, the mood is exacerbated because, in my recovery yesterday, I was lazy. I didn't start laundry or send out my marathon fundraising letter, despite carving out time to do so and not wanting to wake up Monday morning already behind the 8-ball for the week.

Then. With all that procrastinating and no achievement, it took me until after 10 p.m. to get to the grocery store, and after midnight to get up enough momentum to empty the dishwasher and clean out the cat litter. (Now that's a task I'm just Done with.)

All the time listening to BBC radio and hearing how there is a world food shortage and that Microsoft is cutting jobs and that Pfizer is buying Wyeth and slashing its dividend and the Republicans are going to fight Obama's stimulus package (naturally)....and thinking about how I love working in finance on days when that's the lead-in news.

OK. It's 10:30. Enough ranting. It would not do to end Monday behind the 8-ball after starting that way.

In the 6 days since the Inauguration I have not yet tired of hearing Perlman, Ma, Montero and McGill rip through this version of "Simple Gifts." It's the arrangement, it's their vigor and hair blowing in the breeze, it's the reminder of what that song celebrates and what I forget about in my selfish moments:

"....'tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free..."

(And the gift to have the energy and drive necessary to exhaust oneself, evidently. )

Think I'll put it on repeat. May I suggest if you're having a Monday, too, you do the same.

Typing lessons

If my cat is going to attempt to write on her own, perhaps I should first teach her the critical nature of leaving the keys on the keyboard.

Beautiful Sunday-morning surprise.

Oy.

Update, Monday morning. Evidently there is a God: my 3-year-old laptop has a 4-year repair warranty. Bless you, Dell.

Spam Poetry

Not to be ornery,

but I am the only woman

--as a woman going for fourth-and-long on the dating field--

who finds an e-mail inviting me to "save the day for romance" and pay to attend the Boston Bridal Affair at the Hyatt Regency

as outlandish as an e-mail

promising to enlarge my penis?

Inauguration wrap-up....

In scanning my writing of the last few days, I noticed many a "more later" (cop-out) caveat at the end of the various entries about the Obama inauguration. As if I couldn't be troubled to provide reflection on a fairly major event of our time.

Hmm. By now, everyone and their dog has provided some reflection on this fairly major event of our time.....if they were there, it was about being there; if they were not, it was about not being there. That is the pitfall of fairly major events. It's difficult to say anything original when the whole world is talking with you.

But at the risk of copping out by saying nothing, I'll list two favorite moments.

1) This. Not having read ahead about what was on the inaugural program, this was a beautiful surprise...moreso than even Aretha Franklin's hat. A girl next to me in the crowd said, "I never thought I'd get to see Yo-Yo Ma perform in my lifetime!" Me too. At the time, my toes were icecubes from standing for 5 hours on the frozen tundra....and the sight of these folks sitting bare-headed and smiling in the breeze contributed to the chill (and the chills as coolness) factor.

2) This. Shortly after the ceremony, I stood on Constitution Avenue, waiting for Cousin J to finish using the port-a-potty....when I heard the whirring of blades and motor and looked up to see a gigantic helicopter directly above.

The folks about me started waving and cheering, so I started waving and cheering too, not realizing that it was former President Bush (43) already on his way to Camp David....and on his further way to Texas.....within 45 minutes of the Obama's oath.

No one told me I'd actually get to wave goodbye to W. Definitely worth the 18 hours of driving....and getting up at 6 a.m. to bike into a crowd of 2 million people....and the resulting frozen toes....and being just plain cold for 5 straight days.

And, of course, worth being in D.C. for that one day....before everyone wants to know what Obama is going to acheive and how fast he's going to achieve it and what he will possibly screw up and who he'll screw over....where the prevailing emotion was joy.

The Bikini Challenge (Week II: Reinforcement!)

It's a good thing this package from Victoria's Secret awaited my return from Washington D.C. this evening.

In the past 5 days I spent 18 hours in my car accompanied by National Public Radio's full line-up....plus a pounder bag of Necco Conversation Hearts, Mountain Dew, trail mix both with honey roasted peanuts and without, and dried fruit with extra-added sugar. For starters. (Distance driving is one of my great eating hazards....which is why I only do it a couple times a year.)

Despite this--and despite the 12 glasses of red wine and the shot of Hot Damn otherwise consumed while "Inaugurating"--the weekend was not without hope. (How could it not be?!) I figure Cousin J and I burned a minimum of 1200 calories walking faster than anyone else in search of our security gate just prior to the swearing-in Tuesday morning. And burned 1000 more shaking booty on the dance floor Tuesday night. And otherwise managed 1 run, four 5-mile bike rides to and from the Capitol, 100-plus ab exercises, and at least 384 calf raises (while trying to maintain a view of the Mall Jumbotrons).

I'm grateful just to have stayed at par on such a week. In the meantime, the suit is hung and ready for daily viewing.