C

Well, as someone who's nearly lost all interest in dating, I'm happy to report that I'm not completely dead inside.  Yeah, that's right – someone has recently captured my attention.  Alert the press!

 

It's not that I've been against dating; it's just that no one has really interested me in a while.  Oh, anyone who knows me, or who's read my book, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir, would tell you that I'm a good sport when it comes to dating.  I generally go on most 'Oh, you two should just meet' dates; and for a while I was chatting with someone from my past (no, not Adam.  Believe it or not – for the readers of my book – it was Boston Mark; but that's probably a whole different blog post – or at least half of one anyway), but what can I say?  If I'm not interested – if there's no spark – why bother?  See what I mean about dead inside?  

 

So, I just go about my business, living my life – confounding those who just don't understand why I'm not 'out there' looking.  Part of my life is the habitual hiking of this mountain near my home: Pinnacle Peak.  The non-loop trail is 3-1/2 miles long, but I only do 3 miles of it. Three is a nice, round number which fits beautifully into the OCD aspect of my personality – plus, the ½ mile that I lop off is very steep.  I already have buns of steel – seriously, my gluteus is so maximus that I fear my Irish-German heritage is at question these days due to the story my shapely posterior is telling.  I do not need any additional work back there – let's just leave it at that. 

 

Boy, I really do go off on the tangents, don't I?  Sorry.  What you don't know is that I'm sparing you my whole Pinnacle Peak Miss Congeniality story.  I think, perhaps, I'll just save that one for another day.

 

So… I hike this mountain – in the morning.  In the summer our sun comes up so early that it feels almost like mid-morning to begin hiking at 6:00 a.m. – and, while that's the time I start, there are some that are already done by then.  But now it's fall and the sun only starts to rise at about 5:45 or 6:00.  So what this means is that I must roll out of bed at o'dark thirty to be on the hill by 6:00.  This is no small feat.  There are those who can't even roll out of bed at that hour just to shuffle to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, let alone to climb a mountain.  A mountain – 2, 289 feet at the highest climbable elevation – a mountain! 

 

I do this hike about four times a week, sometimes more.  And, although I go by myself, I am not alone up there – there are the 'regulars,' the folks I see almost every time.  A regular doesn't start out as a regular, though – he starts out as a newbie.  It's not until you hear yourself saying, 'Oh, here's that guy again' that you even begin to notice a regular developing in your midst. 

 

This particular regular I'm telling you about – yes, that's what I've been working toward – reminds me of someone that I had an affinity for long ago.  Who?  Okay, he reminds me of Adam's father, George.  I was telling my friend Debbie about this when she nearly choked, asking me if I had 'a thing' for Adam's father.  I did not have 'a thing' for Adam's father.  I just really liked him.  There's nothing wrong with that. 

 

As I told Debbie, one day this guy and I each arrived at the same time and began our ascent together.  He was annoyed, and grumbled about how crowded it was – and where he had to park.  He told me he was a recent transplant from Lancaster, PA. (Amish?)   He shared with me that he missed the ocean as he used to have a summer home in Bethany. (Gay?  No wait, that's Rehobeth, right?)  When I asked what brought him to Arizona he said we used to vacation here; but when I asked him where he was currently living, he said I live in a condo nearby.  (We vs. I.  Hmm.  Divorced?)

 

Debbie asked me what he looked like.  I didn't want to go back to 'reminds me of George Vogel,' so I just said, "He's tall, has broad shoulders.  I think he's handsome.  I'd say he has light eyes (I could be way off on this one though), and brownish hair, but I'm not sure what's really going on up top because he wears a hat.  "A hat?" she said, somewhat surprised, then added, "What kind of a hat?"  What kind of a hat?  "A top hat," I told her.  Then, without missing a beat, through a laughter that welled up instantaneously, I added, "He looks completely out of place up there."  As I regained my composure, I said, "He wears a ball cap."

 

"So, how did you leave it with him?" she asked.  When we hit the 1-1/2 mile marker I told him that's where I turn around, then I asked him his name and said, "Enjoy the rest of your hike."

 

Of course, since that day, I've had my eye out for him – and, as the carrot motivates the donkey, I've been using him as the impetus to get me out of bed in the pitch dark of the early a.m. – in fact, I now refer to him as C (as in C for carrot, for those slow on the uptake). 

 

Unfortunately, I've only seen him a couple of times since that shared hike.  Each time we had flirty interchanges as we passed each other like two ships in the night, but that's it.  But that's okay – it's nice to have someone to look for.  It's nice to have an interest in someone again – however subtle it may be. So what if my interest lies in what may be a gay, divorced Amish man with a chip on his shoulder – it's still an interest.  And people say I'm picky.  C'mon.

 

- M

Blast From The Past

I've been pondering my last post, "All Summer Long."  That song mentions how nothing seems as strange as when the leaves began to change, and "Night Moves" talks about autumn closing in.  I think it's funny that I happened to write that post on Labor Day weekend – the proverbial end of summer. 

 

What is it about the songs that make us revisit our past?  Why do they affect so much?  I'm sure there's probably some simple psychological answer.  In any event, it's had me thinking these past couple of weeks about those that I wonder about, as well as thinking about those who may wonder about me.  Of course you can guess who I may wonder about, assuming you've read my book, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir; but here's a little story that may surprise you.  I say 'may' surprise you because, who knows, maybe it will or maybe it won't, but for me, a year and a half later, I'm still completely baffled.

 

Let's turn back the hands of time to April 2007.  We can actually turn them back even farther than that.  We can go back 14 more years to the time I last spoke to him – which was while walking toward my car, saying, "I just need a little time."   

 

Ah, time.  Is it really linear or is it all jumbled up in a ball as in my understanding of String Theory.  I really don't understand String Theory at all.  Perhaps I should just get back to my story.

 

Where was I?  Oh yeah – Ah, time. Will time travel ever be possible?  If so, would you want to know your future?  Really know it?  I wouldn't.  I think knowing it today would adversely affect the outcome whereby you'd change everything anyway.  I am still not back to my story.

 

Take three:  Ah, time.  How about going back in time?  That's something most of us do quite frequently – whether it's reminiscing with loved ones, leafing through photo albums or getting nostalgic when hearing an old song (now I'm cooking…).

 

And, while we know who it is we remember, or wonder about, we can never be sure of who may be thinking of us.  I always believed that from time to time different men from my past must wonder about me occasionally – or remember me – they'd have to.  It goes against logic to think otherwise – now just what they remember, or wonder about, well, that's anybody's guess. You'd like to think that the memories that crop up are fond ones, and you'll be remembered somewhat nicely.  But if you're like me, mid 40s and still not married, then you probably have just as colorful a catalog of men in your past – from casual, to the more serious, to engagements and possibly divorce – as I do, so actually, what these exes may remember is truly, as I said, anybody's guess.  If, for example, you had a 'Jeff' in your life, as I did, then he could be thinking horrible things about you while sticking pins in and out of a crude voodoo-like effigy.  Derailed again, sorry. 

 

Anyhooooooooo.  A little over a year and a half ago, I picked up my ringing work line, naturally expecting the call to be a business call, when, from the other end of the phone, I hear, "Hi.  This is Adam Vogel."  Adam Vogel?  (See Chapter 11)  I tried to respond, "Ach," went my throat.  I took a breath of air and tried again, "Ach… whh… er… ach" was all that came out.  I was stuck in a spastic repetitive uttering of 'ach…whh… er' that was truly unbelievable – to say that I was apoplectic would be an understatement.  I wasn't sure what was happening to me.  Try as I might (and I tried like hell), I could not get one word out of my mouth.  Adam asked me if I was okay – I guess if he had been standing in front of me, he would have asked me to smile and raise my arms, you know, to rule out an actual stroke.  Finally I managed to say, "Yes, I'm fine," but when I tried to continue with the predictable 'and how are you,' I went right back into the spiral of monosyllabic guttural sounds.  

 

My mind was reeling.  Adam was on the other end of the line.  Adam!  Was it him? Really?  As I smooshed the phone as tightly as I could to my ear, and the cilia strained to reach out into the magic, invisible airwaves to connect with his voice, I was sure it was him.  It was him.  It was his voice – just like I remembered, the one I knew so well – on the phone, in my ear… from another lifetime.

 

I had not spoken with Adam since January of 1994.  Since that time I was nearly killed, became a shareholder and built up a business, acquired some property, sold the property, sold the shares and moved my life 2400 miles across our country.  And, I was 42. 42! I was only 29 when I last saw him.  Do you see what I mean about 'from another lifetime?'

 

Well, thankfully, I managed to pull myself together and answer some simple questions, and I'm proud to report that I managed to ask a few as well.  He asked me all about my family – mother, father, brother, sister… my sister's boys – the little guys.  (The little guys are grown men now. One is married with two kids.)  I, of course, asked him all about his family – mother, father, brother, brother.

 

He shared with me that he was married with two kids, girls.  I shared with him that I ran into his aunt years earlier who had told me that he was married and expecting their first.  And then, after he asked, I told him that I never got married.  He was curious as to why, but since my book wasn't published yet I was unable to give it to him saying, "Here, read this – " so I just went with the old, "Oh, I don't know – I don't think I'm the marrying kind."  

 

What truly floored me, other than the obvious, was the way he took me down memory lane – our memory lane, our very private and intimate memory lane.  "Do you remember Lars?" he asked.  I choked again, clearing my throat as I repeated it, "Ach… Lars?  Yes, of course."  (If you haven't already, you need to read my book to get the full impact of that question.)

 

He said that one of his girls came home from school and told him that she met a boy named Lars on the playground, and that naturally made him think of me – so he thought he'd call and say hello.  Call and say hello?  It had been 14 years and he made it sound like we spoke the previous week.  

 

I was still in such a state of shock that I was basically just answering questions.  Honestly, I put poor, little 13-year-old Rob Roget through a tougher grilling when he called looking for the French homework than I did Adam with this call.

 

Now here's what's really weird: He knew a lot about me – he knew about my accident, he knew where I lived in NJ prior to my moving west, he knew who I was working for and what I did, and… he knew the layout of my current home (rooftop view anyway).  Apparently, if you're a little computer savvy, you really can find out a myriad of information about someone on the Internet. 

 

He asked me some personal things like, "Do you still sleep with your hair in a ponytail?"  He shared with me his fondest intimate memory of us. Then, he emailed me pictures of him and his family – they looked very happy.  Nearly two hours later it was time to hang up – and re-close the time capsule, if you will.

 

That phone call blew me away.  I didn't know what to make of it then – I don't know what to make of it now.  What I do know is that last Christmas, eight months after he 'reached out and touched me,' I got a Christmas card from him.  It was a family photo of him, his wife and two girls – a beautiful family – with a caption below that read, "With love, from the Vogels."  What?!?  It was a stock family card and the caption was preprinted, but he addressed the envelope himself, and like his voice, I recognized his handwriting immediately.  We hadn't spoken since that April and then this card appeared.  Why?  I just don't understand it.  Do you? 

 

What was with that call? Was he simply reaching out to say hello?  Was it really just casual? After 14 years – and all those intimate memories?  I'll openly admit that I've wondered about people from my past, but I never Googled them – or looked up their houses on Sat-Maps-R-Us (or whatever site he was on). 

 

So, I don't know.  I've said this before, and I don't like to be redundant, but… I don't get 'em – guys, this male gender – very puzzling to me.  What I can tell you is with summer coming to a close, and the holiday season fast upon us, I can't help but wonder if I'll get another Vogel family greeting card this year.  Who knows?  And who knows what it means, if anything.  At the very least, whenever it may be, it's nice to be remembered… for auld lang syne, my friends, for auld lang syne.

 

Until next time.  - M      

 

 

 

"All Summer Long"

Have you heard the song, "All Summer Long," yet? 

 

I have to tell you that I listen to so many of my old tapes – yes, tapes – can you believe I still have a cassette player in my car? To tell you the truth I'm reluctant to even get a new car (mine's an '04) for fear that tape players are now obsolete.  Yikes!  What'll happen to all my mix tapes?  Is the very existence of mix tapes at question these days?  Ya know, I've been given a mix tape or two in my day from perspective beaus – or at the very least, someone wanting to sleep with me – and I've given away one or two homemade varieties myself.  What will the lovelorn do? Enroll an interest-of-the-heart in Columbia House – 7 CDs for a penny? Do they even still have that? Boy – I am way off the track.

 

Anyway, I listen to a lot of… old… we'll go with… recordings, and even the radio stations I listen to play a lot of older music – they call 'em the classics.  Hey, the stuff from the 70s is classic.  So, I can't really be sure of the last time I actually heard a new release.  I'm not even sure this song I've been trying to tell you about – and for those of you dedicated enough to persevere through all this babble to read about – is new, but I think it is:  "All Summer Long" by Kid Rock.

 

What I can tell you is that I never imagined I'd be so taken with anything by Kid Rock.  Sadly, this has nothing to do with his music – actually this song, which has so recently captured my attention, is the only one I know by him.  I've never heard anything else he's done – and he's sold over 24 million albums (CDs ?).  I couldn't get beyond all his hair, tattoos, grungy fashion style – have you see the hats, and time-frozen personal tidbits on check-out tabloids.  Shallow – I know.  Judgmental – I know.  Superficial – I know!  I'm sorry.  It's just all that exterior stuff (hair, ink, hats – I know, now you're wondering, what on earth is it with her and hats?) gets in the way for me.

 

Anyway-------------------- This song is just so cool!  There's just something about the summer of your 17^th year.  I think for many of us, we're like the singer – caught between adolescence and adulthood.  After that summer, it's all different somehow.

 

I think back (Don't say, "Oh, no!"  I'll be quick.) to Bob Seger's song "Night Moves."  The singer in his song tells of his own summertime coming-of-age story and while reminiscing back to 1962, he muses that it's funny how the night moves, when you just don't seem to have as much to lose, strange how the night moves, with autumn closing in.  I was 17 in 1982.  Back then when we sang that song, we naturally changed the lyric to 1982 – we thought we were clever.  None of us could possibly grasp all those lines really entailed.  But I can tell you, and with absolute certainty, I get it now. 

 

Okay, I promised I'd be quick.  Back to "All Summer Long." 

 

In this song, the singer reminisces about his summertime love – he remembers, for instance, "the way the moonlight shined upon her hair."  How gentle, huh?  Wouldn't you think that for guys their memories would be more like, 'she had some set of jugs on her, yuk-yuk-yuk…' but, moonlight?  I guess they're not all Beavis and Butt-Head types. 

 

He thinks back to their time together and tells us, "She'll forever hold a spot inside my soul."  How tender, huh?  There's just something deeper about a spot held in the soul vs. a spot held in the heart.  I mean, I know heart and soul go hand-in-hand, but for a guy to fondly remember a love past and say that – "She'll forever hold a spot inside my soul," ahh… doesn't it just hit you deep down inside. 

 

Throughout the song he tells us some of the things they did together that summer, including singing their favorite song, and he wraps up his tale by sharing, "Sometimes I'll hear that song and I'll start to sing along, and think, man, I'd love to see that girl again."  How moving, huh? 

 

I have to tell you, I never really thought guys looked back like that.  I generally think most guys fit into that Beavis and Butt-Head category I touched on earlier.  I must confess, I've obviously been selling them short. 

 

So I guess a fond, nostalgic sensitivity is not a guy/girl thing.  I guess it's a romantic thing.  You could be Kid Rock – wanting to go back in time to see an old love.  You could be Tom Petty – or any Wilbury for that matter, hoping to be remembered when a particular song is played (visit "End of the Line," the song is "Purple Haze").  You could be Bob Seger, realizing how the night moves differently when you're a little older, when you just don't seem to have as much to lose.  Or, you could be you and me, regular people, who listen to the music of these romantic poets, creating the soundtracks of our lives; and maybe, every once in a while, when caught up in the busy routine of our day-to-day, we'll hear a song that will stop us in our tracks, make us take a moment and say from our hearts, "Oh, I remember the time when… hmmm… I wonder what they're doing now."

 

Feeling a little wistful,

 - M

 

 

Coffee Date

Hey, I've got some news.  I won the featured author/book contest on www.polkadotbanner.com for the month of August.  That's quite an honor for such a new release.  I couldn't be more thrilled.  In addition to being recognized and congratulated for having the most hits on that site, I also enjoyed partaking in an interview. 

 

I don't want to tell you all about it here – you'll have to click on the above link and read it for yourself, but I do want to mention one specific thing.  In a lighthearted way I was asked to offer men five successful dating tips.  One of the things I suggested was not to ask, "When was the last time you had sex?" I culled this precious little tidbit, as well as the others, from my own actual dating experiences.  I even touched on this one in particular during an audio/podcast interview I did for Inside Scoop Live. 

http://www.insidescooplive.com/author-pages/Hill-M-reading-interview.html

 

Here's the deal.  Arrangements had been made for me to meet a potential would-be dater, at a Starbucks, on a Saturday morning, at 11:00 a.m. – pretty casual; in fact, you almost can't get more casual.  So anyway, we meet, we get some coffee, and we begin the initial round of questioning.  "What brought you to Arizona?" (Pretty typical question)  "How long have you lived here?" (Pretty typical follow up)  "When was the last time you had sex?"  (Not so typical - WHAT?!?)  Who asks that?

 

As I mentioned, this story came up during my Inside Scoop interview.  As I told the interviewer, I didn't fault the guy for wondering – I don't even fault him, completely, for asking the question.  What I fault him with is how indelicately he asked it. 

 

For whatever reason, this incident made me think of Charlie Sheen's character on "Two and a Half Men."  I'm sure if Charlie Harper went on a date with a woman, who had been single for some time, he might wonder when the last time she had sex was.  The thing is, I don't think he would just blurt out the question.  I think he would shroud it in witty innuendo, skirt around the issue in a playful way, get a little cat-and-mouse thing going, you know, endear himself, someway, to his chaste, feminine quarry, don't you?  I mean, what the heck was that guy thinking? What answer do you think he wanted to hear? A couple of weeks ago? Yesterday? 10 minutes before I left to meet you?  I was completely turned off by this guy.  No refills, thank you very much.

 

So the other night, while watching a rerun of the aforementioned, critically acclaimed sitcom, I found myself completely turned off by Charlie Harper – and his kind (of which there are many).  In this particular episode, Alan runs into an old friend who is also divorced at this point in her life.  After a quick catch up, a hug and a 'we should get together sometime,' a dinner date is arranged.  Big brother Charlie, the seasoned lothario, counsels Alan to be prepared for sex later that night.  Naïve Alan, taken aback by Charlie's confident, intuitive assumption asks him how he can be so sure.  Charlie tells Alan something to the effect that the woman is pushing 40, her looks aren't going to last forever and her window of opportunity will be closing – so she's desperate.  And of course, being desperate, she'll sleep with Alan.

 

Here's where I take offense: 40 and the implied effects of aging = desperate.  As an aside, I'd like to point out that to hit 40 and discontinue aging, you'd have to be dead.  What I really object to is having the value of a woman reduced to nothing more than her MLF-sleepabilty factor as determined by overly sexed-up, shallow, horn-dog type characters like Charlie Harper; even if he isn't real, there are plenty of them out there who are – Starbucks Java Joe, for example.  Women are much more than just penis receptacles!  And just when I thought I couldn't care any less…

 

- M

Steely Dan

Perhaps I should start right off with a clarification.  I am not talking about "A" Steely Dan; although with the theme of my book, you can understand why I felt the clarification might be necessary.

 

Last month I went, with my brother and sister-in-law, to the Think Fast concert down at the Dodge Theater.  As the concert date approach, we began to talk about it at their office.  One of the young aestheticians there asked, "Steely Dan?  What is that?"  What is that?  Was she kidding me?  "It's not what," I told her (now you understand why I felt it necessary to clarify up above what I'm talking about).  "It's who – as in, the one and only, Grammy-Award winning, American jazz fusion rock band, that's who.  Steely Dan.  They've been making music for four decades – Steely Dan! … No?"  With a shrug of her shoulders, she walked away saying, "Never heard of 'em."  Can you believe it?  This is why, at 43, I sometimes catch myself saying, "Young people today…" 

 

I shared this story with the receptionist at our office in California, who just responded with a non-descript, "Ohhh…"  I said to her, "You don't know who they are either, do you?"  She said, "No, sorry."  Then I asked how old she was, and when she responded with, "Twenty-three.  In fact, twenty-three just today – today's my birthday," I just said, "Oh.  Happy Birthday."  Young  people today.

 

It is true they started making music and recording hits while I was still in my single digit years, but c'mon, they're Steely Dan, man.

 

So we get to the Dodge and we can tell immediately, by the people congregating around the theater, we are with an older crowd.  That thought was cemented as we took our seats.  Just a few rows in front of us, we saw a woman trying to negotiate her Rascal Scooter down the aisle.  No lie!  Well, okay, it may not have actually been a Rascal; it could have been a Jazzy, either way the point is she was buzzing around in a geriatric mobility device – at a concert!  I looked around for the man with an oxygen tank and a walker – I figured he couldn't be too far behind.

 

As the place filled up, I began to talk with the lone man sitting next to me.  My sister-in-law warned him not to speak with me.  "Don't say anything," she said, "it could end up in a book!"  (I guess she wasn't too far off, huh?)  He was drunk and had no idea what she was talking about.  I found out that although he lived in the Valley for over 25 years, he had recently moved back to his hometown of Detroit, and came back just to see the show.  I began to refer to him as Detroit – Drunken Detroit was more like it.  

 

Me:  So, what makes a guy come to a concert alone?

 

DD:  Tickets are expensive these days. Plus, my girlfriend's in jail.         

 

Me:  How nice for you. 

 

DD:  She's really my ex-girlfriend.

 

Me:  Again, how nice for you.

 

DD:  Yeah, she wanted me to bail her out, but that's expensive.  It's like $1,000.

 

Me:  $1,000 is a lot of money – better to leave her rotting in jail.

 

DD: It's not just the money.

 

Me:  No?

 

DD:  She actually signed a complaint against me.

 

Me:  Is that why you moved back to Detroit?

 

DD: Yeah – No!  The thing is, if I bail her out and they see my name… you know?

 

Me:  I don't think you actually go to the jail; you would go to a Bail Bondsman.

 

DD: Doesn't matter.  While she's there, I'm getting my stuff from her apartment.

 

Me:  Sly.

 

DD:  Don't you hate how airlines charge you for overweight luggage?

 

Me:  How much are you taking from her?

 

DD:  Just my stuff.  It's mine, why shouldn't I take it?

 

Me:  I don't think Northwest will let you take a futon on the plane.

 

He left to go get another beer – not that he needed any more.  When he returned, he had his new cup of beer in his old empty cup.  So once again, my attention was directed his way.

 

Me:  What's with the two cups, couldn't find a trash?  Or wait, souvenir? 

 

DD:  It helps me count.

 

Me:  Really?  You need visual aids and props to help you count to… two?

 

DD:  (goofy smile)  Sidenote: His actual intake must have been more like 22.

 

Me:  Boy, I bet you're a real catch, huh?

 

DD:  What's that supposed to mean?  I'm fit.  Don't you think I'm fit?  I'm 52. 

         Pretty fit for 52, huh?  I mean, fit for any age, really.  Do you think I'm fit?

 

Me:  As a fiddle.  (A mental fiddle.)

 

Finally the headliners were starting the show.  As the intro played, I had Drunken Detroit whooping and hollering beside me, yelling out, "Alright!  I knew they would open with this! Whew!!!"  Then, after a minute or two, he turned to me and asked, "Which one is this?" 

 

Yeah!  A real catch.  There really is a reason why after a certain age they say all the good ones are taken. 

 

And speaking of age, who is it that said 40 is the new 30?  Clearly not 20-year-olds.  To them, we're old.  The 20-year-olds running around today don't even know who this iconic rock band is. I think it must be the 40-year-olds of today who say that.  The same 40-year-olds who, when 50, will say, "50 is the new 40.  My, aren't we fit?"  

 

So what if we're aging a bit, and the younger generation doesn't quite get us.  It's the natural progression of things, isn't it?  Hey Nineteen didn't know 'Retha Franklin, and now Hey Nineteen is probably collecting Social Security.  Heck, she may even be attending rock concerts in a motorized scooter, who knows?   

 

True, I may be just growing' old and reelin' in the years, but so what, give me that funked up music and I'll be fine.  NO STATIC AT ALL!

 

- M

 

Conservative by nature?

Well, so far, the feedback has been great!  Truly, I have been overwhelmed by the enthusiasm for my little tale (350 pages, so I'm using the word 'little' somewhat tongue-in-cheek).

 

I've been surprised to hear that a few people, some of whom actually know me, have been shocked a bit by some of the more ribald stories I share.  Shocked?  Why?  I've been giving this some thought and here's what I've come up with: I am generally a modest person, conservative by nature, so you don't really expect to find me in some of the predicaments I've found myself in.  I actually think my conservative nature adds to the humor of these situations, but that's neither here nor there.  In any event, it's got me thinking.  I am beginning to wonder if I am inherently conservative or not.  This is another nature vs. nurture thing. 

 

Are you ready for a little pre-teen story?  Here we go…

 

After a day and a half of camping I was dropped off, very early Sunday morning, at church for a confirmation rehearsal that I was unaware was even going to take place – why I was unaware escapes me now.  My mother was horrified to see me in Levis and declared I would not be attending a sacred ceremony wearing jeans.  "It's not a sacred ceremony; it's only a rehearsal for a sacred ceremony," I pointed out.  "Don't get fresh with me," she said.  "Now give me those pants!"  "What?"  I couldn't imagine what she was thinking.  "You'll just wear your confirmation gown," she stated authoritatively.  "Can't I roll up my jeans?  No one will see them under the gown," my voice trailed off in acquiesced defeat.  "Give me those pants!"  Now why she had my confirmation gown in the car and not a change of more suitable clothes I will never know but, clearly, since I was already on thin ice, I just grimaced through the bile induced nausea and gave her my pants. 

 

Keeping to myself, I remained quiet while receiving our instructions.  When it came time to actually run through the procedure, my full concentration was on keeping the gown from flapping open while I walked.  After the rehearsal, we were promptly dismissed.  Most of the parents came quickly to pick up their children; they had to get them home, bathed and dressed – ready to return a short time later to partake in this blessed religious ritual.  Note, if you will, that I said 'most' parents.  Most would imply that although many came, all did not.  My mother was nowhere in sight. 

 

I roamed the halls for what seemed an eternity, clenching my gown closed, wondering where she could be when Father Morello emerged and asked me what I was still doing there.  After a hard swallow, I croaked out, "I'm just waiting for my mom."  I don't know why, but he terrified me.  Did he know that I was petrified to be speaking with him?  Did he know that I had been unprepared for the rehearsal?  Did he know that I was only in my underwear?  "I'm sure she'll be here soon," I said through a meek smile.  "I'll just go wait outside."

 

I paced outside a while longer wondering where my mother was.  Fearful that Father Morello would see me still lurking around the church, I felt I had no other recourse but to walk home.  I walked about two miles down a heavily traveled county road in my underwear and a flapping confirmation gown – think Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch, except in my case, I wasn't Marilyn Monroe, a sexy blonde in a beautiful dress, standing over an exhaust grate, on a movie set; No, I was a mortified, awkward, prepubescent trying to keep my gown from flying up over my head as vehicles whizzed by, in excess of 50 mph, in my hometown – in real life!  This is the stuff nightmares are made of.

 

My mother, who had simply lost track of time, picked me up when I was halfway home.  She and my sister found this all very amusing; I did not, however, and to this day, I attribute my considerable modesty, and conservative nature, back to this extremely embarrassing experience. 

 

Nature vs. nurture?  It's a coin toss.  - M  

Jersey Update

For those people who don't know me, you'll say, "No way!"  For those who do, you'll ask, "Why is it you don't play the lottery?"  I don't really have an answer to that question.  I guess, if pressed, I'd just say, "I'm not really that lucky."  But I am beginning to think that isn't quite true.  In fact, when I really think about it, I'm beginning to think that I am incredibly lucky – if lucky is defined by beating the odds, that is. 

 

For one thing, the second blind date I had wound up being with the same guy as my first blind date.  For over 20 years I've been asking, "What are the odds of that?" and so far, no one has been able to tell me. 

 

Also, I was nearly squashed like a bug by a 78,000 pound vehicle and lived to tell about it.  What are those odds?  Miraculously staggering, I'd say – but still not a definitive ratio.

 

And now this.  Although for this one, I have the odds – the exact odds – 1:366.  One being how many chances I'd have, and 366 being how many days in a year – this year (leap year) – for this chance to present itself.  Chance for what, you ask? Well, I can only be talking about one thing – my chance to run into Sonny at the airport.

 

As I stated in my previous post, I only go home to New Jersey on the redeye once a year.  And, as I also noted, I was aware that the possibility existed that I could run into him – although I didn't actually think that I would.  Well, I did.  Yes, Sonny was on my flight.  I don't know why I'm surprised really, especially after reviewing what I just noted up above.  Apparently, I am an odd-beater.  Here's what happened:

 

First of all, that dreadful flight that had been scheduled to depart at 10:35 p.m. was delayed for about 1-1/2 hours.  Barely able to stay awake, around 11:30, I left the gate area to use the Rest Room and that's where I first noticed a man that I thought was him.  Could it be?  I wondered.  I didn't want to risk being recognized so I took a wide course from the Rest Room back to where I was sitting by the gate.

 

When the ticket agent finally called for First Class and Elite members to pre-board, I noticed him in the crowd.  Keep in mind that when I met him last year, he was in seat 8C – Elite section.  Like last year, I was in Row 7 again – not an Elite member though, so I had to board nearly last.  Would he be seated behind me again?  In front?  God forbid, beside?  I had no way of knowing. 

 

The gate area was just about empty when they called for the last few straggling passengers to board.  It was after midnight; the Jetway was clogged; I was extremely tired and wished for nothing more than to be in my seat – and on my way to slumber town.

 

Alright, finally the herd was moving again.  I stepped off the Jetway and into the plane, only to be stopped just as I rounded the corner into First Class.  That's where I was spotted.  As a distinct recognition flashed across his face, he quickly jerked his head away from my direction, turning to his left, and shut his eyes.  Fine by me. 

 

I made small talk with the head flight attendant as I internally beckoned the Lord to help the guy up ahead get his over-stuffed carry-on into the overhead compartment so that he could sit down and clear the aisle for the rest of us. It seemed my prayers were answered – the line began to move.  I should sail right past seat 3A, Sonny and his shut eyes, I thought.  Should have – didn't.  Just as I ended the chitchat with the steward, and moved squarely into the aisle, we stopped.  We all stopped.  But it was only I who was stopped between Row 2 and Row 3. 

 

What was the deal?  What happened?  Why weren't we moving?  Ahh, it was the wheel – the wheel on the over-packed, puffed-up bloated carry-on.  It's true that the man wrestled the bag into the overhead, but now that blasted wheel was preventing the bin from closing.  Man!  I felt like I was on a game show playing against the clock.  The tension was mounting – would he get that wheel in and free up the aisle before Sonny opened his eyes?

 

My heartbeat began to race as I stood there with my hand on the back of seat 2B.  And just as I was shouting, "Shove it in already!" silently in my head, he did.  The bag went in and the bin was closed.  But, unfortunately, it was at this same moment that Sonny lifted his lids and cast his gaze up and to his right, directly to the aisle, that is – and, directly to my face.  What could I do?  I said, "Hey, Sonny," then gave a quick smile that vanished almost as instantly as it appeared.  "Uh… hey, how ya doin'?" he stammered in reply, just as the aisle cleared enabling me to finally move to my seat. 

 

It was nice to see that he wasn't traveling with his parents this time.  He was with a smallish, somewhat balding Italian man – my guess, brother.  And it was brother dear who picked up their bags while Sonny steered clear of me and the luggage carousel.  Note to self:  Be thankful for the little things. 

 

My friends and family were shocked and amused with this little tale but it paled greatly in comparison to the shock and awe roused by the announcement of my book, The Ones That Got Away – A Dating Memoir.

 

Much as I'd hoped, they were thrilled.  Most were flabbergasted.  But, as it sunk in, they began to fire the questions:  "Did you tell the one about…?  Do you remember the time…? Is this one in it?  Is that one it in? Am I in it?  Oh my… you didn't tell any of my secrets, did you?"  I didn't specifically answer that last question, causing book sales to start with a bang! 

 

Until next time.  – M.