IslandRoar

The Ring

I told you about my high school boyfriend, the one I made out with in the rectory?

He went to a private all boys Catholic prep school. Everything at this school was just that tiniest bit grander. Including his high school ring, a colossal ornate affair with engraving on every side and a gold cross affixed under the stone.

Of course the ring was barely in his possession for one day before it was passed along to moi.

The wait had been almost more than I could endure. When finally he called to tell me to meet him at Cooper's Pond for the hand-off, I fairly flew out of the house.

Ignoring completely my mother's warning that dinner was to be served in 20 minutes whether I was there or not. And that mine would be thrown in the trash if I was late.

Yes, I was late. And yes, my dinner was in the trash. My mother was nothing if not truthful. But who needed food when they had love and a monstrous new ring, wrapped around and around in pink yarn, wedged upon one's finger to prove it?

Being completely unschooled in the sophisticated ways of romantic jewelry-wear, I wore the ring on my right hand that first morning. Till Donna Cirelli informed me, with the wisdom of Yoda, that all jewelry from one's boyfriend must be worn on a left appendage if at all possible.

For her wisdom and kindness I remain grateful to this day.

I faithfully wore the ring for a year and a half. It was big. And heavy. I had skinny fingers, requiring what seemed like yards and yards of yarn to be wrapped through the ring to make it fit. I know it sounds tacky but yarn was the sizing tool of choice at the time. No doubt there is some much more lovely high-tech solution to this problem today but, in suburban New Jersey in 1978, yarn it was.

Yarn gets hot. And dirty. I was too lazy to change it as often as I should have. Instead I took to shedding the ring at night. Then not wearing it for days at a time.

Until. One day. It was gone.

Gone.

Did it fall in the trash? Could I, or my neurotically neat mother, have thrown it away by accident? Did some jealous mean girl break into my bedroom and steal it while I was at the rectory making out?

Alas, I would never know.

It took me months to confess. Finally I couldn't stand him asking me one more time, with those big puppy dog eyes that drooped endearingly like Rocky Balboa's, why I wasn't wearing it.

I got him a new ring. Exactly like the one I'd lost. It cost about a million dollars, forcing me to come clean to my mother because of course I had to ask her to loan me the money.

When the ring arrived I delivered it. STAT. Without so much as slipping it onto my finger.

For my birthday that year he gave me a gold birthstone ring to replace it. But it didn't really matter; our days were numbered.

I never did find that ring. Part of me still hopes, with some sort of wild abstract longing, that one day I'll magically open a box of old trinkets and there it will be.

Pink yarn aged and worn, but still intact.

 

Mother of My Future Grandchildren?

First-Born Son was barely 16 when he had his first "serious" girlfriend. By serious I mean they spent large amounts of time together, it involved gift giving and dating, and it lasted several months.

Friends of mine with younger sons have inquired over the years as to how I handle the GF situation. How is it seeing one's precious boy with another woman at the center of his life? What happens if one doesn't like or approve of the GF?

I would hardly consider myself an expert in this area. To date there have been roughly four or five serious GF's.

I do, however, have one fixed rule governing my attitude toward any girl First-Born Son chooses to bring home. And that is this: I treat each and every one as though she might possibly be the future mother of my grandchildren.

Call it my mantra, if you will.

Now clearly that doesn't mean we talk on the phone or that I share my secret French toast recipe with her. But it does remind me to be on my best behavior.

Because you never know, right?

Enough of you out there have actually married your high school or college sweetheart. We all know it happens. And every single one of us can no doubt remember our first time meeting the future MIL. AND the sincere, warm way she welcomed us into the fold.

Or not.

I have no intention of blowing it. I want to see my grandchildren. A lot. No matter what happens between my future daughter-in-law and my son. I'm no dummy; I know who will be pulling most of the strings when it comes to family interaction down the road.

Let's be honest. It's really easy to find things you don't like: way too much cleavage on a 15 year-old; awkward PDA in an 18 year-old; not enough respect. Too shy. Not shy enough.

But if my son has found things to be crazy about in these young women, certainly I can trust his taste enough to attempt the same?

How have those of you with sons handled, or plan on handling, the girlfriends in your boys' lives? And do you see it differently than you do the boyfriends in your daughters' lives?

 

 

Spin Cycle: Me!

When I saw that this week's Spin Cycle topic was to write about ourselves I was immediately stumped.

I suppose I could argue that everything I write says something about myself in some way. But I'm seldom inclined to go on about me me me.

How do we begin to define ourselves? Sometimes I think it's easier to figure out who we are by knowing what we're not.

Several years ago I dated a guy who called me a soccer mom. "A minivan-driving soccer mom," to be exact. I was highly insulted.

At one time or another, all three of my kids have indulged in the sport of soccer, and I did, for many years, drive a minivan. But there was no freaking way I considered myself a soccer mom.

And this man finally admitted (when I backed him into a corner with my minivan) that he'd only stereotyped me this way because he'd never dated a woman with kids before, and it amused him to think about actually dating a soccer mom.

I started my blog last May posting about how I hated the term cougar as it's used to describe single, middle aged women looking for men. Sure I'd like to be in a relationship, but I will never be a cougar.

Well then. Not a cougar, not a soccer mom. So what the hell am I?

Woman, writer, mother, artist, adventurer, world traveler...

Okay, I've not yet actually traveled too far in the world, and some might debate my adventure quota. But still, these things are part of how I see myself.

And besides, I'm not done yet.

So is there a point here? Maybe.

Maybe I don't want to be classified as any one thing. Maybe I want to be a little bit of everything.

How do you define yourself? Do you think labels say more about who we are, or like me, about who we're not?

Want to see what other bloggers have to say about themselves? Go straight to Sprite's Keeper.

 

Scent of a Woman

 

I once, for over a year, dated a guy who had no sense of smell.

There's an actual name for this, anosmia, and, unlike most people who get it, either from an illness or injury, he was born that way.

I know what you're thinking: free pass for the days when you skip a shower or those nights you have too much Mexican.

He too, seemed to be under the impression that the world was full of noxious odors like rotting fish or cat pee, and that he was much better off not smelling it. He  considered the ability to smell fairly useless.

I wasn't so sure. My sense of smell is extremely acute, and for that I'm generally very grateful. Life is filled with things that smell good: an herb garden, freshly baked cookies, lilacs......me.

Seriously, I happen to have it on very good authority. People lean in all the time and say, "Ooh, you smell really good." Could they all be lying? Possibly, I guess, but tell me, what would be the point?

This man had no idea that every person had their own unique scent. That rain smells different than snow, or that the scent of Halloween is different than that of Christmas.

How about the fact that our sense of smell evolved to protect us? What would've happened to all those cave men and women in the woods doing all that hunting and gathering if they couldn't smell fresh saber-toothed tiger poop? Or fire?

Think about the consequences today if you couldn't smell a gas leak, or that your dinner was burning. Or that your house was on fire.

This guy, ironically enough, wound up with a family of skunks wintering under his porch. Sure, it didn't bother him, but it was killing me. Okay, maybe I don't mean actual death, but the smell was giving me migraines which is pretty damned close to dying. Not to mention my kids started to complain that I came home reeking of Eau de Skunk.

I finally gave him an ultimatum: me or the skunks. He thought I was being dramatic. Nevertheless he set several traps and got out his gun.

Well, what did you expect? That some petting zoo flew on to the Vineyard and offered to capture them, surgically remove their scent glands, and then re-release them into the wild where, even today, they return to eat nuts from his hand and winter under his porch?

Come on people, this is Martha's Vineyard Real World, Off-Season Edition; there are probably as many guns here as there are skunks (and no, I don't own one).

But alas, even skunk-less, our relationship was not meant to be. That's okay. From now on I only date men who know what a good thing is when they smell it. And yes, I mean me.

 

Flying Solo

This weekend I'm going to the one big formal holiday party I'm invited to each year.

By myself.

You don't get invited to many social events when you're divorced. I'm not trying to induce any pity here. It's just a fact.

I have some very good friends, and if they're having a pot-luck or a barbecue they'll be sure to include me. But when people decide to go out to dinner or have a drink at a restaurant or see a movie, it's generally a couples thing.

Two years ago when I was dating someone for a relatively long period of time I had many more invitations. Which is ironic, because I'm much more in need of a social life when I''m not dating and I'm by myself.

Nobody means to be cruel. I'm sure they don't think twice about it. It's one of society's best kept little secrets.

But this one party I am invited to each year requires flashing your invitation at the door to get in. I was lucky enough to land a spot on this mysterious "list" several years ago while I was working with one of the several people who host the affair (herself a single divorced woman). They key to remaining on the guest list, apparently, is that you must attend the party.

So I have. And, every year but one, I've attended it alone.

The first time I did this I thought I would throw up.

Go to a fancy party alone? The idea of merely walking in the door made me want to run home, grab some Haagen-Dazs, and break out the Netflix. It's not that I don't love parties. I do. But I'd never attended this kind of affair solo.

Two of my married friends, who themselves coveted a spot on the guest list, took me under their wing. One loaned me a vintage black wool halter dress that had belonged to her mother-in-law in the 60's. The other sent over several beautiful pieces of costume jewelry for me to choose from.

It may seem neurotic to think people turn and look when you enter such a soiree alone. But believe me, they do.

I headed straight for the bar. It was like being back in college, that feeling that I was capable of bridging any social barrier if I had a beer in my hand. Except now it was cabernet.

Martha's Vineyard is a small place, especially in winter. There were a lot of people there I knew. Everyone was dressed to the nines, a sight to behold here any time of year, take my word for it.

There was makeup, heels, men in actual suits and ties, tuxedos and gowns even. It felt a little like we were all Cinderella, transformed somehow from our every day selves by magic to attend the ball.

I wasn't prepared for the first comment on my flying solo.

"You're here alone?" an acquaintance boldly exclaimed. Then she patted me on the arm enthusiastically. "Good for you!"

I wish I could say she was the only one.

To be honest, some years it would be easier to stay home. But it's kind of become a challenge I feel I must rise to year after year.

I always end up having a good time. And I always leave feeling a little stronger, a little more whole in my self.

And, of course, I'm always happy to realize I've clinched my spot on the guest list for at least one more year.

 

Spin Cycle: Wish List

 

What do I wish for? Ha! A better question might be what don't I wish for?

I know admitting I wish for anything is probably mucho politically incorrect. So let me say right up front: I love my family and I'm grateful to be blessed with my wonderful life, blah blah blah...

Now that that's out of the way, I have to say it'd be really nice to replace the crappy carpeting in my house with hardwood floors. What were the people who built this place thinking! And on that same note, tile for the kitchen and the bathroom, because apparently they considered that a luxury as well.

While I'm on a roll, let me add a hot tub and a sex life (I don't believe the two have to be mutually exclusive), and a car that runs so that people won't actually laugh at me or want to scream obscenities about me murdering the environment when I drive by.

And how about a MacBook, a Kindle, and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of (they exist, I know they do. Ask Twenty Four; she sees them every day in Money Town).

Let me not forget a successful writing career, generous stock dividends, and children who are cheerful, always polite, and eternally grateful.

Wow, I'm exhausted. Who knew being shallow was this consuming?

Of course, I'd have to tag onto the end: no more wars or hate or poverty, and public acceptance by all world leaders that women really are the superior sex. No wish list would be complete without those.

Anything else?

No, actually, I think that'll do.

 

For more inspired and infinitely more generous wish lists, go see Sprite's Keeper. I really wish you would.

 

A Little Sugar...

 

The South Dakota Cowgirl honored me with this blog award recently. If you don't know her, you definitely should. She lives on a huge ranch with her guy Zach, some cattle, and some of the prettiest horses I've ever seen. Her posts are fun and thoughtful, and I make sure to check in with her every day.

Before passing this award along, I''m supposed to share up to 10 fascinating things about myself. Which is pretty hard, because I think you all probably know everything there is to know about me already. Let's see...

-For a short time, around age 8, I wanted to be a nun (yeah, I know; tell me about it). My parents wisely humored me until the inclination passed.

-A couple of years ago I dated a guy, for over a year, who had no sense of smell (are you thinking Blog Post, because I certainly am).

-I have the tiniest wrists I've ever seen in an adult. Really, I'm 5'9" and I have these wrists smaller than most infants. I love bracelets, but finding ones small enough is a challenge.

-I've always been able to do a back-bend, and now that I'm fast approaching old age, I make sure to do one once a year, just to prove I still can. 

-I love long dangly earrings. Although again, as I get older, I have to choose ones that are more lightweight so my earlobes don't end up on my shoulders.

-At family gatherings when I was a kid, my parents had me do impressions for entertainment; I did a great Ed Sullivan and Richard Nixon (who didn't?), as well as two of Lily Tomlin's characters: her telephone operator ("One ringie-dingie"), and Edith Anne.

-I love my feet. Of course it's just my opinion, but I think they're really pretty.

-I had a dream when I was pregnant with all three of my kids that correctly predicted what sex they would be.

 

Okay that's only eight, but I think we can agree it's more than enough. I'd like to pass this award on to the following blogs:

1) Erin at The Locals Love It: She has some great posts about cool places by people who actually live there, as well as useful travel tips and her own very thoughtful reflections on life in general.

2) Lynn at For Love or Funny: She never fails to make me smile.

3) Jill at Stella's Roar: I've been following her for a while now, and she always posts photos of the most beautiful and interesting things, leaving me in a constant state of yearning.

Please take some time and go visit these lovely ladies. You'll be really glad you did.

I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving! I am going to take the next few days off and be back on Monday.

 

 

A Little Bit of Heaven

 

My first serious boyfriend worked in a rectory.

A rectory, for those of you not raised Catholic, is home to the parish priest. Back then, there were three or four of them and they weren't just any priests. They were the same ones I'd seen on the altar since I was a little kid, preaching and sermonizing, sometimes rather heatedly. I never quite got used to sitting there with my boyfriend, laughing and chatting with these same men I'd been raised to respect more than any others.

Now, I realize Catholic priests have gotten a terrible rap these last years, much of it well deserved. But the men I remember were kind and generous, and if occasionally one or two of them were a little authoritative, they were never inappropriate.

My boyfriend, let's call him Antonio (that wasn't his name but it's Italian and Catholic, and he was decidedly both), answered the phones and doorbell and did paperwork at the rectory a couple of evenings a week. I would keep him company.

My parents didn't like it, but what could they say? My father had been an altar boy till he was 18, and both of them had gone to Catholic school. They couldn't really complain about their daughter hanging out in a rectory. Although I do think they may have been the tiniest bit jealous when the priests started giving me Communion by name each Sunday ("Body of Christ, Maureen"). They may have been better Catholics, but only I was on a first name basis with the parish priests.

Those sacred men must have been bummed that I was stacking the deck against Antonio's becoming a priest one day, but over time they grew fond of me.

The housekeeper was another story. Matilda didn't like me at all. In fact, I think she hated me. That may have been because she was a 75 year-old virgin who hated the thought of another woman of any age being in her rectory, competing for the attention of her men.

Or maybe it was because my boyfriend and I would slip into the front office of the rectory at night and make out in the dark. Every chance we got.

I think she might have come looking for us a time or two when she could no longer hear the sound of our voices drifting into the kitchen. I can't be sure because she never confronted us, but I'm assuming she caught us performing several of what to her would have been most unholy acts.

She went from barely tolerating me to being downright rude. She told the pastor I was keeping Antonio from getting his work done. Which was blatantly false; he did his work twice as fast when I was there so that we'd have time to sneak into the office and make out. The pastor, in fact all the priests, rallied to our side.

"Matilda's just old fashioned," the pastor confided. He tapped one finger on the side of his head. "And maybe a little...well, you know."

Poor Matilda. I'm sure she was convinced I was going to Hell (not Antonio of course, just me).

And who knows? Maybe I am. Maybe God has a huge problem with horny teenagers sneaking around a rectory. Looking for their own little piece of paradise.

But I'm not really worried. Either way, it was absolutely worth it. Swear to God.

 

 

 

Men I Have Dated

 

Karma

Were you ever tempted, in your deep dark past, to blow off a guy you didn't want to date by telling him "Sorry, I have to wash my hair?"

I never did. Although, if we're being honest, there's that time I hid in the closet while my college roommate told a guy I was supposed to go out with that I'd gone home for the weekend.

Okay, and I may have once disconnected my phone for three weeks so I wouldn't have to talk to a guy I no longer wanted to date.

I know, these were crappy things to do, but I was young and stupid. Besides, these acts of immaturity did nothing but buy me a little time anyway, although I certainly couldn't have gotten away with stunts like that today.

I did feel bad though. I knew I should've just told those guys it wasn't working for me. I'm much better at that sort of thing now, not that I date all that often. But if I do, and I'm not feeling it, I just want to get it over with as quickly as possible.

But Karma is a patient entity, and willing to bide its time.

Several years ago I dated a fisherman. Let's just say he harpooned whales. He didn't and it's probably even illegal here, but it makes me feel better just writing it.

I asked him out, which was my first mistake. But he could've said no, right? You'd think someone who spears whales for a living would have no problem saying "Nope, sorry, not interested" to a woman, wouldn't you?

But he said yes, and we met for drinks and dinner. I thought we had a nice time. We spent hours talking. But what do I know?

At the end of the night we made plans to go out again the following week. He was supposed to call with the details.

Of course, that never happened.

At the time I was pretty new to this dating-as-a-single-woman-over-forty thing, so I decided I wouldn't sit around waiting for him to call. Instead, I'd take the bull by the horns and assert control over my life.

Thus I called him and asked if we were still on for our date.

"Uh, I'm not sure that's gonna work," he stammered (stammering is never a good sign). "I've got to clean my boat." 

There was a long silence. I was pretty sure I heard him take off his shoe to stick his big, smelly, whale-killing foot in his mouth.

"You have to clean your boat?" I really enjoyed repeating his words back to him. So he could more clearly hear how inordinately asinine they truly sounded.

"Yeah, it's really dirty." He sounded defensive now, and a little angry. "Friday's the only night I can do it."

"Well, you have a nice time then." I hung up and put him out of his misery.

And then I laughed. Because his pitiful excuse was at least better than hiding in the closet or disconnecting the phone, even if he was well over 40 years old.

Payback's a bitch, ain't it?

Parenting Commandments

 

 

 

Jail Bait

When I was young (25, 18, maybe even at 7), I was sure I knew everything I could possibly need to know about parenting. Seriously.

However I've now been a parent long enough for that Miss-Smarty-Pants attitude to come back and bite me in the butt.

These were my rules. I've had many, but these are the ones I'm referring to; they were written in stone not unlike the ones Moses might have used:

            Thou shalt not date until tho art 15.

            And when thou dost date, thou shall not date persons that art

            too old for thee.

            Thou shalt not date seniors when thou art a freshman.

            Thou shalt not date in cars until thou art 16.

Reasonable, right?

First-Born Son and Daughter #1 had no problem with this. There may have been some of that ridiculous "Going Out" crap in middle school that never actually involves dating, as well as the ever-popular "a bunch of us are going to the movies" type of Group Date. I allowed these to fly just barely under the radar. I am nothing if not a benevolent dictator.

But last May, just days before her 15th birthday, Daughter #2 got her first real boyfriend. Not just any boyfriend, mind you. No, this "boy" was weeks shy of 18, a high school senior. And yes, he drove. A car. It may have been a clunky battered old station wagon, but it was still a car if you know what I mean.

She swore she was going to tell me. But D #1 arrived home from school first and announced, "Maybe you need to ask your other daughter why she was seen holding hands with (insert name of evil boy-villain here) in Assembly today."

Her tone clearly implied I needed to step up my parenting game. "You didn't have this problem with me," she gloated. Of course not. She was too busy studying, smart girl.

"Your father and I will discuss this," I told D #2 when she finally confessed. Which basically meant I would inform my ex and he'd say, "So what are You gonna do now?"

In the end I caved. I mean, it's not like she couldn't sneak and meet him at her friends' houses or the movies or wherever, anyway. That's what I would've done.

Besides, I merely had to wait it out till he left the island for college (and am I ever grateful for that ocean in between), when they would no doubt do that whole friendly break-up scene. Which they did.

In the meantime she had a strict curfew, and I drove her at least one way whenever they went out. And, despite the eye-rolling, I lectured her yet again about waiting to have sex.

My mother disapproved. Noisily. She obviously thought I was a better, stronger mother than I am.

But she underestimated my secret weapon. There is nothing more dangerous than an over-protective, 21 year-old, older brother. An older brother who was not afraid to show up unannounced in the most unexpected places.

Let's just say he had it covered.

But now he's back at school. Apparently he values his education over his sister's virtue. And, although "the boyfriend" is gone, I've got a sneaking suspicion that there may be others before long. Like tomorrow.

Well, she is 15. Which leads to 16...

I guess I'm on my own. Any suggestions?

Please?

The Ideal Man

Star Wars Geeks

After long and deliberate consideration, I have decided that the man I am looking for, the man of my dreams, is very likely a Star Wars geek.

You know the type I mean. They come in all shapes and sizes, old and young, out in the open or in-the-closet with their Star Wars affection.

But they know the characters, from each and every Jedi to the evil assortment of "Darths." They can give you details on all the Star Wars vehicles and weapons, and they know which planet has two suns (come on, that was easy; even I knew Tatooine). They probably also really liked all the Lord of the Rings movies, and this latest installment of Star Trek.

It's not that I'm some big science fiction freak myself. And, although I like Star Wars, I am not over the moon about it (sorry, First-Born Son, but maybe it's time you knew the truth...).

But I've been paying attention. And the nerdy guys, the Star Wars geeks, they're funny. They make me laugh, a skill that should never be underestimated. Many of them aren't the most polished or sophisticated guys around, but I've been there, done that. I'm on the market for sincerity, big time.

Sincerity and creativity. If there's one thing a Star Wars geek is, it's creative. I am sick to death of being the only one in a relationship with any ideas about what to do or where to go.

It's not as though my expectations are unrealistic. I'm not talking about freaking Prince Charming here. I just want someone to pull out their lightsaber, slash a few stormtroopers, and whisk me away at light speed. I want a guy who knows what the Jedi Mind Trick is. And knows how to use it, if you know what I mean. There's got to be some guy out there who understands how to have fun. And I'll bet he's a Star Wars geek.

There's only one thing. I hope it doesn't cause anyone to label me as superficial, but it would be really good if he didn't look like Yoda. Or Jabba the Hut. Or a droid. Anything else, I'm pretty much open.

May The Force be strong with you.

*My apologies to all the non-Star Wars geeks out there

Men I Have Dated

The Dylan Date

I have not dated a lot so this wouldn't be a long post even if I were to talk about all of them. But I'm only going to talk about one man. I think he might actually have been the first man I dated after my marriage ended. But my memory is highly unreliable (as my kids remind me daily) so I could be wrong.

I had a friend come out to visit shortly after I moved to the Vineyard. She was newly separated from her husband and wanted to go out dancing every night (lucky for her it was summer or we would have had to turn on the stereo and get down in my living room).

Anyway, I met this guy and, because I was a pathetic newbie at the dating thing, I gave him my number. He called a week later and we met for a couple of walks on the beach, low key things like that.

He actually called me one night and told me to go outside and look at the moon.  I suppose if the right man did this very same thing, I might've thought it was the most romantic suggestion in the world. I did go out and look, and it was pretty and all, but, seriously??

There weren't any sparks; he never kissed me and I never wanted him to. Now of course, this would be a big, blinking neon sign telling me don't bother to continue with this charade. But back then I was all into giving things a chance.

Then he tells me he has tickets to see Dylan in Boston and would I like to go? Separate hotel rooms, of course.

Okay, I say. What the heck?

Well, we drive onto the ferry in his car, and not two minutes go by before he asks me would I mind walking off the boat when it docks, and meeting him on the block next to the ferry terminal. You see, he's worried that his not-yet-ex-wife might be on the line to board the next boat, and he doesn't want her to see him drive off with me.

I know, I should've said fine honey bunny, and then taken the next boat back home my damn self. Instead, I smile gallantly and say sure.

Things only got worse. He was argumentative and then silent when we got to Boston. He stressed three times we were only getting "a small salad" before the concert, as if I struck him as someone who might order a five course spread.

I tried to get him to talk all through dinner. It's what I do. I'm a youngest, the peacemaker, the entertainer. I did everything short of dancing on the table around those flipping salads.

During the show he sat there, not uttering a word, not tapping even his little toe to the music (which was awesome, by the way). At some point, I simply gave up.

The two hour ride back the next morning was awkward and painful. I was way past caring what he thought, and hanging onto "polite" by the tiniest thread. As I shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat, I vowed, as God was my witness, that I would never go off-island with a guy I didn't know again. Well, not unless I'd dated him for a while. And was crazy about him. Or he looked like "McSteamy" on "Grey's Anatomy". Or "Jack"  (Matthew Fox) on "Lost." Okay, maybe also "Sawyer" (Josh Holloway) on "Lost" too.

Not that invitations to go off-island on weekend dates have been piling up or anything. (Heavy Sigh)...

I'll save some other dating adventures for another time; I wouldn't want to use up too much of a good thing.

Got any dating stories to share, bad or stupendously good? I'd love to hear them. After all, I live in hope.

Confession

Environmental Hall of Shame

I have a confession to make. I hesitate to even bring it up because you don't know me very well yet, and I hate to have you make a premature judgment about what kind of person I might be. But here we go:   I drive an Expedition.

Yes, that's right. One of those monstrously huge hulking vehicles that guzzle gas a the rate of about a mile-and-a-half a gallon. What can I say? That it was not my fault? That my ex bought it years ago and I had no idea it sucked up gasoline like a frat boy at a kegger, and by the time I discovered this there was no turning back?

I know, I know, ignorance is no excuse for breaking the law. But it's true. I live on an island, one loaded with back roads covered in dirt and sand and potholes the size of a small Corolla. When I moved here from New Jersey I drove a cheerful gold minivan. Its wheels spun uselessly on the sandy roads near the beach, and it skidded wildly off my unploughed, icy back road again and again that first winter.

You would think I should have known better than to believe my ex when he said the Expedition would be the answer to all my prayers. You would think...

Though I have to admit, it's served its purpose. On more than one occasion I carpooled half my younger daughter's elementary school class in one shot. Last year I hauled both my new washer and dryer home from the store off-island. And this past winter, I singlehandedly towed my older daughter's car out of a ditch she'd slid into on the side of the road one icy morning on her way to school.

Despite all this, there can really be no excuse for keeping such a greedy gas monster. Except that I cannot afford to get rid of it. I realize I'm spending more on gas, and of course there is no way to measure the cost to the environment, but I simply don't have the cash flow to solve my problem right now. So I hang my head in shame and save my pennies for one day...

At least, I did hang my head in shame, until I heard through the infamous and always reliable island grapevine that a certain man I'd dated a few years back had confessed to being appalled by the fact that I drove an Expedition.

"Yeah, she was fun and pretty and all," he reportedly admitted to a friend of mine at a party recently, "but then I saw the Expedition. There was no way I could date a woman who drove an Expedition."

Are you freaking kidding me?? Can you believe this guy? And this from a man who insisted on casually announcing to me his yearly income in the first hour of our one and only date. He obviously (and mistakenly) assumed I would be impressed by this number. Yet that did not prevent him from appearing insulted when I did not offer to help pay for my bowl of soup and one glass of Cabernet at dinner (full disclosure: I do NOT pay, or even offer to pay, on the first date; if a guy can't afford it then he should suggest a moonlit walk on the beach).

Well, ever since his comments were leaked to me, I have climbed behind the wheel of my Expedition with a whole new outlook. Instead of shame, I think of it as throwing down the gauntlet. After all, if a man is going to judge me based on the car I drive, without bothering to get to who who I really am, then what kind of man is he really? Know what I mean?

I still feel badly about my contribution to global warming, but now I am looking for a real man, one that will want to meet me despite the car I drive.

Happy Mother's Day! Thanks for stopping by.