Ripped in Half (or Mystery Man #7)

First instincts are always the right ones...

Came home to find my gutter lying on my front walk way. Not all of it. Half of it. As if a Giant had come walking down my street, grabbed the middle of my front gutter, ripped it in half, crumpled it and dropped it in the center of my shoveled path. It bent, but did not break a first story window and landed neatly between the bottom two basement windows. Frank, having arrive home first, carefully placed the fallen and intact drain pipe up against the far side of the garage. It may not be the Ides of March, yet, but this seemed like a bad omen.

As I wrote last night, Mystery Man and I texted yesterday; I initiated. He replied with warmth, humor, apologies and a promise to call me soon. Tonight he did and now I wish I'd listened to my inner voice yesterday...the one that says when a man doesn't text for two weeks he's not that into you.

We talked for almost half an hour. Laughing, discussing our kids and sailing. He even said he'd had me, like it or not, enrolled on his friends' boat this summer as crew. Then as I started to yawn and said I wanted to cut to the chase, were we going to go on a date or not, he speech slowed down and became full of ums and ahs.

He then confided that the trip to Cali had been for the convention for the week and four additional days to see an old friend. He discussed how it's hard to be single at this age, and how a shared history is important and how he'd had hopes for him and this old friend, but there were too many obstacle, distance being one of them. I listened, politely, and not unsympathetically. But as he continued, I briefly hoped that our half hour of fluid conversation was leading to how our common interests and proximity were what he was wanting to pursue.

When I again, asked to cut to the chase, about if we would date, he grew quiet. More ums and ahs. I then knew for sure that I was not what he was looking for in some way. Perhaps not the younger model most middle aged men hope to find as mortality faces them in the mirror. He said he wanted to see me and get to know me, but not in that way.

On one hand I was impressed by his honesty. On the other I felt the catch in my voice and the sting of the judgment. My cache has fallen and I may not get up.

I told him that wasn't what I'd hoped to hear, but it is what it is. He said he wanted to call me after his daughter returned to college and I said, sure. Although I think we both know he won't.

What is so strange about this is that earlier, when he was discussing his old friend and I said I was still friends with old boyfriends and understood the impulse for that return to a shared history, I also know that all my old boyfriends could not be my mates now. There were reasons we broke up, at an earlier and less mature time of our lives. Most of our lives have diverged significantly. When people ask me, point blank, "We'll there must be somebody you have crush on or an old flame you'd like to rekindle", I honestly and much to their amazement say, "No, there isn't."

You see that is the hardest part about being alone and single in middle age. The hardest part of getting divorced wasn't letting go of my husband, he had left me long before I asked him to go. No the hardest part if letting go of that imagined self of the future as a couple and the shared history of the past.

At this age, when you do meet some one who says "we have so much in common" and you feel it in your bones, too, and get excited about the potential of getting to know them better and perhaps, wonder of wonder, miracles of miracles, have a shared future that becomes a history ; it's exciting.

So now I feel like I've been torn in half by a Giant who just walked down my street, looked in my bedroom window, and said, "Sorry this one's not for you", and ripped my hopes in half, just like the crumpled, bent and misshapen gutter laying 20 feet below my bed. I'm not built for this new climate.

Time to go back to suggesting to the universe to place a man in my path who is worthy of my time and attention.....oh to be adored and not thought of as not the right stuff and expendable.

Thus end's the Mystery Man missives...unlucky #7.

Good night, Universe ~ hear me, G'night!

Mystery Man #6 (x2)

Funny story. After two weeks of not hearing from Mystery Man, and driving within a half mile of his house and to our mutual swimming hole, I decided to invite him for a dip. Pride be damned! Might as well be friendly, since we may end up in the pool or Walden at the same time in these thawing months.

My gal pal encouraged me to just give him call, so I went for it. First the phone wouldn't ring, it seems I'm always trying to call him from inside buildings made of cement, and once it did, it seemed to cut out mid-ring. So finally I went outside, the phone rang, but went straight to voicemail.

Okay, I told myself, this means I wasn't supposed to push it. I didn't leave a message. My friend suggested that perhaps Mystery Man's college age child was home from school for Spring Break and he was busy. I thought to myself, so busy he forgot how to use his fingers to text me over two weeks? But I know, it's another kidless weekend ~ they're with the wasband ~ and it tends to accentuate my aloneness, even though my life is busy and full. Of course other people's lives may be hectic or have homecomings of which I have no knowledge.

I swam for over half an hour, while my gal pal did weights. We met up again in the decadently delicious therapy pool. I'd submerged a few minutes before my gal pal. Mid-way between stretching and relaxing, I noticed that a man had slipped silently into the water beside me on the bench. We made eye contact several times. He had tootsie pop eyes; green on the outer rim and brown in the center. His hair was short, wet and curly. I shifted into relaxed mode, one more glance, he was still glancing at me and I down shifted into total relax mode. Next time I opened my eyes, gal pal was there (and so, still was the tootsie pop man).

My pal and I caught up on each other's lives and discussed our families and fitness. Tootsie pop eyes kept looking at me/us for another fifteen minutes, according to my pal, as I was consciously not looking at him by this point. In the back of my mind, I was thinking, wouldn't it be funny if he was Mystery Man, only since I met him only once, after shoveling for 3-4 hours, and he was wearing clothes, a hat and glasses when I met him, he now looks too different for either of us to be sure? My gal pal was having the same thought, because as soon as he left, all we did was discuss his staring and glancing at us. Thank goodness we didn't have the Mystery Man chat!

After we showered, dressed and ascended to the front door, I checked my cellphone. I reported to her that Mystery Man hadn't returned my missed call, nor had he texted anything. We hugged, and agreed to meet swim together next weekend.

I got in my car, thought about what I'd make for dinner (yogurt, berries, nuts and cereal) and wondered if I dare stop at a Cafe in the center of Mystery Man's town for a cup of coffee, as it's a short walk to his place. Instead (remembering the coffee I made, and was still in the pot on the counter, before my two hour hike with the dogs in the morning), I decided to wait on the impulse and to drive home. When I arrived home it struck me that there may be many times I could cross paths with Mystery Man and we did seemingly have a great deal in common, so just to put all doubt (on both fronts) to bed I made the choice to text him the funny story (what if he had been Tootsie Pop eyes?)!

In three sentence I conveyed these crumbs: I'd swum and invited him to join me, wasn't sure if I saw him there or not, and didn't know if he was interested in me. Then I left my phone on silent, turned off the house phone, too, and watched the last three episodes of House of Cards!

When I was done with HOC, and my bowl of breakfast for dinner, I checked my phones. My darling neighbor had invited me up the hill for dinner and I'd missed it (on the home phone). And ~ drumroll~ Mystery Man wrote a lengthy reply.

Turns out he didn't return from his Cali convention until Tues PM, came back to a pile of work, and to having his daughter surprise him by coming home for Spring Break! He joked about Tootsie Pop eyes and said he'd call me very soon to talk about his interest in me (that's a good thing, right?)!

So I guess, either way, I'll hear from him again. Perhaps he'll become a pool-swim buddy or perhaps we'll slowly get to know each other. Either way, I got out of my Pride and Prejudice mode of feeling I should be pursued or Mystery Man was nothing but an arrogant so-and-so. And, for further consideration, there is always Tootsie Pop eyes to investigate next time we swim~ ha!

That is my funny story, or maybe it's me telling on myself, on multiple levels. Either way it made me laugh and smile. It was a lovely Sunday full of hikes, swims, chats and episodes of HOC, can't beat that!

Good Night, Mermaid Lizzies  and Mermen Darcies everywhere, G'night!

Oh to be an Imagineer!

Second night of binging on House of Cards, after a long day of being indoors doing a tedious seminar.

It's interesting having writers added to the mix, a novelist and a journalist, after the murder of the last writer who grew close to the main characters. Journalism being the 4th estate in our governance, the show must keep going back to the reporters and writers. Newsroom and West Wing had the same dynamics; safe guards, snarky sneaks, stealthy moles,  whistle blowers and truth seekers.

What's also interesting is that politics and publishing both require imagination and courage. When I was growing up, our generation looked up to the Investigative Journalists, being the generation who followed Watergate. Then it seemed with technological and cable advances, people turned to film and the web. Now there are either a few conglomerates who control the news or a zillion fractured sources competing to be read, taken seriously and may or may not be truly fact-checked or edited.

Then we get into the ideas of memory and reality, and where the two meet. Power of recall, with a story often told and slightly tweaked over the years can alter the facts of real events. Power of suggestion can lend itself to the better story, that as Frank Underwood states, gets to a deeper truth.

How do we as private individuals and politicians as public entities, forge our own myths and histories?  How do the tales we retell, recall and recollect become who we are? To ourselves, our families and our futures? How do we re-member ourselves and pass that down to the next generation or to the history books?

Currently the City of Boston is grappling with the decision to include the bussing from 40 years ago as a part of the history curriculum taught in all Boston Public Schools. How do they make it reflect, reframe and, perhaps, resolve the tensions from the 1970's into measurable lesson for today's youth? They are looking to Birmingham, AL for advice, as that city has taught it's own history successfully, with balance and layers from multiple points of view. Sort of like all German students having Holocaust history mandatory in their grade schools.

Histories of nations, movements and families require due diligence. What to leave in, what to take out, and what to conjure for the sake of the "deeper truth", that may not be factual, but is right.

Tomorrow, I'm going to write earlier in the day, not the last thing before I go to bed. Also after I finish the complete season of House of Cards, go for a hike with dogs and perhaps a swim with my gal pal. The need to get out in nature both inspires and feeds the imagination, memory and provides me with the strength to be courageous with my own deeper truths.

Good Night, Imagineers, G'night!

House of Cards

And so the binge watching of the latest season has begun.
I'm too tired tonight to give it a thoughtful address in words.
I have to get up early for an all day seminar tomorrow, but will share a review when I finish it.

I find myself drawn to this series (and no I haven't watched the Original British show), just like I'm drawn to Sorkin's Newsroom and West Wing. Only House of Cards is more along the lines of Macbeth, while Sorkin's political dramas are more Mark Twain meets Hunter Thompson.

I'm a sucker for layered references, great writing, strong narratives, brilliant and flawed characters, and being drama, unfolding dominoes of catastrophes! The acting is superb in HOC and the banter just a tetch slower than the speed of light Sorkin's dialogue.

The modern day moral dilemmas captured in HOC , combined with headline events and over the top hyperbolic scenes are addictive. Who will turn on whom? How far will each ambitious person go to reach their goals? When is enough enough? Who is really working for the good of the people and with good will?

Newsroom and West Wing represented a less brutal and less greedy view of political animals at work. The characters were tortured by the drive to do the right thing for the reputation of the government and the good of the people.

I like to watch people's motivations and mental prowess on parade. I like to consider, in an instant, what would I do, think, say in certain situations. Situations that most of us will never share with the politicians we elect to office. Situations we many never be privy to during our lifetimes, and as the history will be written by the victors and vindicated, not by those who lost or perished.

Tomorrow Obama and his family are going to Selma for the 50th anniversary of Bloody Sunday.
This week the ruling was made the Ferguson Police Department has categorically targeted, harassed, ticketed, violated and abused it's black population.
Also this week, Boris Nemstov was the latest Putin critic to be killed (I've lost count. 8th critic?)!
Last year the number fell from one in three American women will be raped in their life to to one in five.
Two steps forward, one step back.

If HOC is Macbeth, then Newsroom and West Wing were To Kill a Mockingbird. 

I must go to sleep now, I'll continue my binging tomorrow night.


Good Night, Rhetoricians and Rabble-Rousers, G'night!

Being Bold and Free

When I first moved to NYC in 1987, I worked for a publisher at a magazine. After a few weeks of working there, the publisher took me out to lunch. After we returned to the office he called me a "maverick" and "iconoclast". I was 25, a recent English Major graduate, but I had to look up both words when I got home from work. I was both thrilled and perplexed by these two words being associated with me, the wet behind the ears green horn in the office. As weeks turned to months and magazine publishing to books, I realized it was my bold idealism and genuine questioning that the publisher probably heard that day at lunch.

I think it's also being a New England Yankee, of the can-do cut of cloth, and having grown up in two households where "question authority" was a mantra long before it was a bumper stick or pin. It's often not knowing enough to be fearful, that allows innovation or a new approach to rise. When I was younger it was with puppy-like steps I'd walk into mostly male dominated fields (cabinetmaking, boatbuilding, diving) or decide to move from Portland, ME to Cambridge, MA to NYC within two seasons.

Yet, as I was suggesting last night, each move wasn't a matter of luck, but slowly listening to myself, setting just beyond my reach goals for myself. Earn a BA in English, apply to Radcliffe's Publishing Course, attend the Publishing Job Fair at the New Yorker, and decided to work in publishing in NYC.

That progressed to working in book publishing at a literary agency, and after years of apprenticing at the oldest and largest agency in NYC, deciding to move to SF to try my hand at starting my own agency. Starting the agency required working three jobs, seven days a week for three years, but then I could quit all but the agency.

When my children came along, and we decided to move back East of the public schools and family members, I decided to career change again. This time to teaching. First at Audubon, then Acton-Boxborough, while getting my MAT at Simmons, and now for almost a decade in Leominster.

Two years ago, I went on my first Educational tour, to the Galapagos, with teachers and students from  LHS. Afterward, I decided to try to lead my own tours. This June it will two years since I launched the trip to Australia/New Zealand and Oahu. We have 15 people enrolled and we're set to leave late June.

Only this week I found out that the tour has to be pushed up a few days, to accommodated the other schools that are being consolidated with my group, which was a growing fear of mine with all the snow days we've had. I spoke to one of my union reps and they advised contacting the Superintendent  asap.

This afternoon, fretting a wee bit about the politics of end of the year finals possibly conflicting with the trip, I called the Super's Secretary to make an appointment, and she took my cell number, but didn't enquire as to why I was calling, which made me skeptical. She said he'd get in touch with me.

As I left the building and was heading toward the staff parking lot, who should I see drive up to the High School? The Superintendent! I  hesitated for a moment, spun around and called out to him just before he entered the building. He said he'd received my message and paused.  I asked if I could have a minute of his time and if I could walk with him on his way to his meeting. He said he was there for the Science Fair. He then stopped and asked what he could do for me. We had a very succinct, sincere and successful discussion. It ended with a handshake, my promising to email him some materials, and plans to make the trip possible with solutions I'd already begun to form!

A huge weight was lifted off my shoulders! The burden of not knowing how to address the possibility of keeping two conflicting commitments had been eating at me.  Plus, the climate in our district right now is full of fear and uncertainty. Thankfully,  I felt none of that as I resumed my walk, out of the building, down the side walk and into my car. I felt free!

Freedom, most indubitably, lies in being bold, as Robert Frost, another dang Yankee, said so well  in the last century!


Good Night, Be Bold and set yourself Free, G'night!

Mystery Man #5

March 4th, the day I always want to march forth! Obi Wan Kenobi's voice whispers in the gossamer recesses of my brain, even though it's two months early,  May the force be with you. And also with you, I want to reply. March is the month I start to set new goals for myself. In the last few years they have been athletic and academic goals. This year, they are leaning towards the  spiritual, creative and romantic.

It's been two weeks since my last discussion of Mystery Man. It's been two days since my Badass Alpha woman post.  Thus it seems this is an auspicious day to try to bridge the two topics in my blog.

Two weeks ago, tonight, I went out on what I believed was a successful date. Three days later we had a nice half hour chat on the phone. Then he went to CA for a convention and I went back to work after February break. So in the last 10 days, I haven't heard a peep, nada, zilch. I've gone from feeling like a giddy 16 year old school girl, to feeling like it will take a great deal of luck to find a man available, truly, who is interested in me during a window of opportunity where he is really ready to meet me.

The Alpha-Badass-Hippie-Chick side of me says that luck is a four letter word. One has to create their own opportunities and get out in the world and live. Be present in places where other human animals will be enjoying the same things I enjoy. Be gregarious, be open, and take risks. As Obi Wan Kenobi says, "In my experience there is no such thing as luck." As I tell my students, half of life is showing up and being prepared. Most of the "luck" in my life was created just that way. Being ready, willing and able to jump in and go.

I've started doing that with my writing. I've developed a meditation routine that keeps me present and in the moment. I'm in the seed stages of figuring out how much time, attention and energy I have to really try to build a bridge between my everyday life and placing myself in situations that might lead to a man entering my life.

 As a wrote a few days ago (Alpha Female), I want Face Time with men. Texting, talking and emailing isn't the same as being together. I need to find a non-sleazy dance club or a open mic night or something to dip into when I have the time and restless energy. I need to research such places. Ask single girlfriends to go out on the prowl with me. Yet aligning that in a spontaneous way is hard, since most of us have kids, primary custody and demanding careers. So I'll be looking into Blues/Jazz/Dance clubs.

Outside I can't wait for the ice to melt on Walden. I'm going to be more proactive in finding a group or club that swims there regularly. Dog walk groups might be nice, too. It's hard to be authentic and strategic at this age and stage. Maybe a writing workshop this summer. I've look into quite a few Memoir programs. Hard to find an affordable, local, and professional match. Perhaps, a yoga and meditation retreat weekend for singles?  To thine own self be true....and maybe I'll meet you?

So hears to Marching Forth into a New Year by creating opportunities, being prepared and showing up. May my writing get better, chances for love increase and  feet stay grounded along the way!

Good Night, Jedi's of middle age romance, G'night!

Endurance exam

As I write this I hear sleet falling on the skylights above my bed. Since it grew dark, a good 3-4" of snow fell and needed to be shoveled by the back door, as I didn't want it frozen shut in the morning. By morning it may well have all turned to rain and when I return home tomorrow afternoon it's forecasted that the temperatures may reach the mid-40's! This is why March into April is known as Mud Season in New England, and boy will there be lots of melting snow to add floods to the mud.

The weather has beat me down. Usually I'd walk in the woods daily for a restorative outing with my dog. A nice way to shift gears between work and dinner or to sort out issues that my be squirrel caging in my mind. Usually I would have gone xc-skiing in the woods by now, but this year the few good days I've had to ski, have been days spent on the roof shoveling.

On one hand this has been a historic winter, and on the other hand, it was the winter that wasn't. The temperatures have been so cold that there has been real danger of getting frostbite more days than not. Sledding didn't happen, as either the house couldn't be left or the roads traversed or some combination of the two.

My feet are tired of being in thick socks and shoes. My toes long for air, earth and water. Everyone, everywhere, is admitting to being driving to distraction by the weather. It's truly conquered even the hardiest of souls this season. My students who are snowboarders, with Mt. Wachusett in their back yard, didn't fly down the mountain over February break. Too cold. Snow too deep  and powdery for their skis. Bizarre.

Now we're all becoming prognosticators of the big melt. People are talking about renting snowblowers to move snow away from their houses before a prolonged thaw. Because if the mountains of snow from the roofs starts to melt too close to the houses it will flood the basements, garages and, in some cases, ground floors.

Baseball tryouts are supposed to begin in a few weeks. There will be no ballfields cleared for the kids to use. Animals are starting to scurry, walk and trot over the human packed down trails, paths, sidewalks and streets, as it's too deep for them move quickly in the woods.

I'm going to have to shovel the piles away from the back of my house, where the banks are still above my ground floor windows. My house is on a hill and the back yard is well above the front. When it starts to melt, gravity will take the water into my basement and garage. The house wrens nesting in my garage might like it as a bird bath, but I'm not to keen on the prospect.

They say this current system of snow, sleet and rain is going to swirl around us for the next two days. After that we may have a few days in the 30's which feels like sun bathing weather to those of us now accustomed to shoveling, walking and hiking in -10+- for almost two months.

So to the sounds of sleet on my skylights, with an occasional bass beat of rain, I bid you all a fair night and no flooding.

Good night, seasonal emotional endurance friends, G'night!