Spending Most Nights Curled Up With a Good Book

It startled me when I realized I didn’t know the names of his two sisters, even though it only *feels* as if I’ve known him a long time. We’ve been dating for less than three months, so it shouldn’t be surprising to me that there is so much more to learn about my boyfriend, even important stuff such as the names of his sisters or his favorite episode of The Twilight Zone. What I do find surprising is my more relaxed approach for getting to know him. When I was in my teens and 20s, I wanted to find out everything about a boyfriend, as fast as possible–as if I were pulling an all-nighter to cram for a make-or-break interview with an incredulous hardcore immigration official, who--skeptical of my professed love--would rigorously question me to measure the breadth and depth of my knowledge of my boyfriend. As if my love were provable because I could correctly name his favorite class in high school or the name of his childhood pet raccoon.

Instead of trying to learn everything about my boyfriend all at once, I now prefer to learn about Frenchy little by little, as we share stories about our lives organically, when the context is right. For me, the difference is as dramatic as the difference between reading an exciting thriller I can’t put down until finishing the last sentence on the last page, and slowly enjoying a classic novel for the first time. It’s as if I’ve just started reading a wonderful life-changing book, savoring each paragraph I read, and hoping I never reach the end.

The Wife

“Is she going to try to kill you, Mom?” was the calm, measured response of my middle-school-aged daughter when I told her we would be going whale watching with my boyfriend Frenchy, his two kids AND his estranged wife, who is visiting from France.

“Probably not,” was my less-than-reassuring reply. “My life is usually not as exciting as a Mexican soap opera,” I added.

“How do you know?” she asked skeptically.

I reassured her that I didn’t think it would be dangerous, or even unfriendly, because Frenchy and his wife both want to be divorced and I had nothing to do with their split, which happened years before I met him. She shrugged her shoulders, disappointed that the possibility of melodrama seemed so remote.

“What are you going to wear, Mom?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. Warm, sensible clothes,” I replied. “We’ll be on a boat for a couple of hours.”

“NO! Not your ugly clothes! You need to look fashionable. You need to look better than her,” she complained.

“Oh geez. It’s not a competition. Frenchy likes me even when I’m not dressed up,” I responded, trying to cut her off at the pass.

“Oh, Mom,” she said with resignation and a huge eye roll. “You’re hopeless!”

The truth was, though I thought it unlikely Frenchy’s estranged wife would be uncivil with me, I wasn’t really sure how she would treat me. She’s nearing the end of a divorce, an experience that often brings out the worst in people -- like siblings dividing up a large estate or shopping at Walmart on the day after Thanksgiving. Divorce is a hellish experience, even when you have the luxury of knowing, as I did, that it’s the only way to have a chance at a happy life again.

Later that night, Frenchy told me “the Wife” had brought us gifts from France: candy for my daughter and handmade lotion for me – lotion for my face that she had made just for me with her own hands. What a sweet gesture and not at all suspicious. WTF?! How could Frenchy’s ex not think that giving homemade facial lotion to her estranged husband’s girlfriend might strain the limits of credulity? I pictured myself receiving her gift and being forced by the situation to try on the lotion that would subsequently eat away at my skin, turning me into a burn victim with open, oozing sores.

I told Frenchy that while I wasn’t afraid she would try to kill me, I thought burning off my face with homemade acid-laced lotion was certainly within the realm of possibility. We laughed ourselves silly about the idea, and tried to come up with a more inappropriate gift, given my relationship to his estranged wife. It’s sort of like a parent -- desperate to be a grandparent -- giving “homemade condoms” to his/her married son, who wants to remain childless.

When we arrived at Frenchy’s house, his wife greeted us warmly and gave us our gifts. As she handed me the bottle of facial lotion, she explained it contained Moroccan argan oil, then grabbed it back and poured some into her hand. ‘Oh f*ck, F*ck, F*CK! She’s going to put it on my face,’ I thought. I braced myself for a handful of hot burning acid lotion – my eyes as wide as bagels -- only to watch her put it on her face and rub it in, without wincing, apparent pain or screaming. Awesome. Face still here. We were off to a good start.

The whole crazy lot of us – a contemporary version of The Brady Bunch, if the Lifetime Channel did the remake – climbed into the minivan and carpooled together to the whale-watching boat. Luckily the kids monopolized the conversation in the car, which helped me ignore the awkwardness of being trapped in a vehicle with Frenchy’s wife. For once in my life, I appreciated how lively and self-absorbed the kids were during what *could* have been the longest 45-minute car ride in history.

We arrived early, then stood in line together for another 45 minutes, waiting to board the boat. Surprisingly, there’s nothing like the boredom of waiting in line together to smother most of my feelings of awkwardness around Frenchy’s wife. We chatted a little, and discovered a few things we had in common, including a love of standup comedy. But mostly it was my annoyance at having to waste a lot of time standing in line JUST WAITING that distracted me from the awkwardness of the situation. I love it when my crotchety disposition unexpectedly helps me out.

Once we were aboard, we were free to wander about; our temporary diaspora limited only by the confines of the boat. As we were looking for seats, my daughter whispered to me, “Don’t let your guard down, Mom. She seems nice, but she could still try to push you in the water.”

“I can’t believe the candy she gave you didn’t buy out your skepticism,” I joked. “Don’t worry. The dolphins will save me.”

“That only happens in a Disney movie,” she warned. “Be careful.”

The rest of the trip was relatively uneventful. I saw a lot of dolphins, some sea lions, and a couple of whales, but did not notice any attempts on my life by a disgruntled estranged wife. I do have to admit though, that the bottle of handmade facial lotion sits on my bedroom dresser like a flashing red police light, untouched by me as if it contained an odious mixture of phlegm, small pox and schadenfreude.

Call Me Ishmael

I like to think of myself as being open to new experiences, new things. While overall this trait has led to many positive interactions in my life, it has, as you know, often backfired on me in the form of inappropriate men, outrageous dates, and ridiculous dating situations. This is partly why I’ve found myself on first dates with an avuncular pear-shaped man, a man who talked about himself non-stop for the entire four hours of our Titanic of a date, and the first date with my boyfriend that included his father.

All this pales in comparison to what's in store for me on Sunday. Frenchy and I will be going whale watching with our kids. And his ex, who is not officially his ex yet, but soon, if the French legal system doesn’t come to a complete halt this summer, when Europe hangs a "gone fishing" sign on its door for a couple of months.

Yes -- just to be very clear -- I’ll be going on a date with my boyfriend, our kids and his French wife, who is coming along because she’ll be here in LA for a visit to spend time with her kids. On Sunday I will be living the cinematic version of Moby-Dick, if Woody Allen were the director. It’s potentially such a rich mix of French sophistication and American awkwardness, how can it not be funny and messy and weird and emotional, all at the same time?

Call me Ishmael. Ishmael Rubinowitz.

What a Difference a Year Makes

Yesterday we made plans for a short vacation this summer. With our kids. Two months into “us” and it feels perfectly natural to make plans four months down the road. I marvel at how different it feels to be dating Frenchy, especially compared to “Perfect Timing,” the guy I was dating a year ago at this time. Even though I saw Perfect Timing almost every week for 6 months, I never knew when, or even if, I’d see him again. It kind of felt like I was dating a carny, who, at any moment, might pack up his Tilt-a-Whirl and be on his way to the next town, the next date.

Perfect Timing, who henceforth shall be known as “Carny,” was not one for making plans with me--even plans only a week in advance--which didn’t help me figure out where I stood with him. It was as if every date, after the first three dates, was the fourth date. He liked it that way – being able to behave as if we had just started dating, so the question of what we were to each other was never asked. At least out loud. It’s remarkable to me now that I could have thought so little would have been enough for me, but I had deluded myself into believing a weekly ride on the Tilt-a-Whirl was all I really needed. Or, perhaps, deserved. It wasn’t, of course, but I wasted six months pretending it was, until I finally got sick of his boring ride to nowhere, and quit going to the carnival.

And now Carny has returned, trying to text his way back into my life, it would seem. After not hearing from him since September, he recently texted me the name of a book he said I might be interested in reading, which I suspect is just a lazy pretext to start chatting with me again. After asking him who was texting me (because I deleted his number after I vowed to never go out with him again), I texted back with the most perfunctory of thank-yous, hoping he’d read between the lines that I’m not at all interested in getting back on his Tilt-a-Whirl. Ever.