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.  

How Not to Pick Up a Woman at Blockbuster on a Saturday Night

We were both seeing what Blockbuster had to offer one recent Saturday night, except I was checking out the newer movies, while he was checking out me. He kept looking in my direction, then held up two movies and declared to me (because I was the only one within earshot), "I just can't decide which movie to rent," as if it were as big a dilemma as where to go to college or what kind of sushi to order at a great sushi place.

"Oh," was the original, witty response I lobed back at him. It is my default response when saying anything that would reflect what I'm really thinking is as unacceptable as *not* responding to a stranger obviously trying to engage me in a conversation. Then my inner Midwestern Politeness Battle-ax took over my mouth and I quickly added, "I haven't seen either one of them. Sorry."

He elaborated that one of the movies was something he had wanted to see, but that he was hesitating because the director had a reputation for making very violent movies. The other one was by a director he loved, but he had never heard of this movie until tonight when he had accidentally stumbled upon it while browsing.

This time I managed to muster an impressive "Oh," as if he had told me he likes pretzels or that he once had a goldfish named Bill. It was my "Oh" that said, ‘Whatevs. I don't really give a shit. Why are you still talking to me?' Then, appalled by my bitchy near-non-response, my inner Midwestern Politeness Battle-ax again commandeered my mouth and I heard it tell him, "I always love it when serendipity leads me to a good movie I have never heard of."

He put the violent movie back on the shelf and wished me a good evening, then wandered up front to rent the serendipitous movie by the director he loved. A few minutes later, he came back, explaining he had changed his mind. “Oh. I do that all the time. I’ve actually been here since noon because I can’t pick a movie,” I joked. “What made you change your mind?” I asked.

“I wanted to talk to you again,” he said.

“Oh…,” I said as my mind slipped into panic mode. It was my “Oh” that really meant, ‘Oh f*ck. Why the hell did I have to open my big fat mouth again? Why can’t I just let go of the opportunity to tell a joke? Why do I have to try to make every stranger like me? Why am I so needy? Holy crap, I need to go back to therapy. Every day. Jeez…how the hell am I going to get out of this?’

He apparently took my “Oh” as interest on my part, and with the artful subtlety of a double-decker bus at a Mini Cooper rally, he started to tell me about his job as an Executive Producer of a children’s movie “complete with big musical production numbers.” He emphasized how stressful he found it to produce a children’s movie.

“Besides being incredibly physically fit,” he bragged, “I am also incredibly patient. Those two things have saved me during this movie. It only makes me cry a few times a week.”

“Oh,” I replied yet again. This time it was my “Oh” that meant ‘I don’t have a f*cking clue what to say to you in response. And you obviously have no f*cking clue that bragging is as big a turn-off for most women as crapping your pants. And yet you chose to metaphorically crap your pants right in front of me, loudly and proudly. Why do men do that?! Does bragging *EVER* work as a pick-up strategy?’

“Yes, I’ve heard making a movie is very stressful,” I replied with deliberate nonchalance. I grabbed a movie off the shelf and looked around to find my daughter, who was wandering the aisles with her friend. When I turned back around, he was next to me leaning in. “You have amazing eyes,” he half-whispered.

“Oh,” I said as I lowered my eyes and looked at the floor, “Thanks.” This was the “Oh” that signified my exhaustion with him. As in ‘Oh crap…just go away. I have no interest in you. I have a boyfriend. I just want to rent a movie in peace and go home. Is that so much to ask?!’

Then, my daughter approached me while rolling her eyes. “Mom, can we *GO* now?” she said in an impatient manner that only a middle-school girl would use with her parent in public. “Yes!” I replied, happy to be granted this deus ex machina from Braggy McCrapPants by my obnoxious daughter.

No Shawarma for You!

The weirdest thing happened last Friday night. I was jonesing for chicken shawarma, so I stopped at my favorite neighborhood Mediterranean restaurant. I've been getting takeout here at least 2 to 3 times a month for the past year, so I know the owners who usually take my order, a Lebanese father and his two adult sons. If the place isn't too busy, the father and one of the sons will engage in polite small talk with me. But the other son has always treated me and everyone else with the brusque impatience of a middle school P.E. teacher who can't fathom how he wound up teaching volleyball to a bunch of punk-ass public school snots when he should have been coaching college ball for a division one school. He always seems so annoyed having to deal with customers politely ordering food that I have come to think of him as the "Shawarma Nazi," because his manner reminds me of the Soup Nazi, the fabled character from Seinfeld.

When I walked in last Friday, my stomach tightened a little when I realized that Shawarma Nazi was the guy taking everyone's orders. But instead of being greeted with his usual impatient glare, he smiled at me and started talking to me in a very animated way, complete with Italian hand gestures. He asked me if I wanted my usual, the chicken shawarma, then winked at me. What the... What?! Then he told me about how he hates going to other restaurants because he "knows how much everything really costs," except when he's on a date. Then he'll happily take her to any fancy restaurant she chooses. It was disconcerting--this out-of-the-blue flirtation. I wondered what powerful anti-depressant he was taking and how I might casually get him to spill the name of it, so I could invest all of my savings in the pharmaceutical company that makes this new wonder drug. Powerful stuff. Let's just say, had Sylvia Plath taken this drug, she would have gone on to be known for her hilarious children's stories and silly parody songs, instead of a depressing book that foreshadowed her tragic death.

He surprised me with a glass of iced tea while I waited at a nearby table for my takeout order. He pulled up a chair and told me I wouldn't believe what kind of life he's had. I asked him if he had his own reality tv show, the modern-day apotheosis of America's larger-than-life characters. Not yet, he joked. When he told me he didn't trust people who were superficially nice in a chit-chatty sort of way, I told him he must not have grown up where I did in Wisconsin, where people don't trust you if you're *not* chatty and friendly with strangers. He gushed that he was a huge fan of the Green Bay Packers, especially of former quarterback Brett Favre. WTF? I'm having a conversation about my beloved childhood football team with the Shawarma Nazi?!

His interest in me was odd, given how he has ALWAYS treated me with the same disdain he treats every other customer in the joint. Aside from a powerful new anti-depressant, the only other explanation for his abrupt change in behavior toward me is that he was boogie boarding on the waves of positive emotional energy I am emanating these days, no doubt a wonderful side effect of having a new boyfriend(!). Frenchy, the new beau, has noticed a distinct difference in how women are reacting toward him too. Funny how once you're in a meaningful relationship, other people seem to be drawn to you when you could care less. But when you're actively looking for a significant other, it feels as if people relate to you like the Soup Nazi to his customers.

I was relieved when my order was up, because if I lingered for another five minutes, I think he might have asked for my number. I'm not sure what I'll do the next time I need a shawarma fix. If I go back there and he asks me out, I risk having to turn down Shawarma Nazi and the possible public humiliation of being loudly chastised with "No shawarma for you!" On the other hand, it's the *best* chicken shawarma I've had in LA, so going to another place isn't really an option. On the scale of life problems, I concede that this one ranks somewhere between not being able to dvr all of this evening's episodes of Happily Divorced and making the irksome discovery that Target is all out of your favorite tissue (the softest kind with lotion) when your allergies are on the warpath. 

Your Caveman Charm Is Squandered on Me

A couple months ago when I felt kind of hopeless about meeting someone special online, I was contacted by a good looking, excessively tall, midwestern 34-year-old surgeon who said he was totally new to cyber dating. To my more intelligent skeptical self, he sounded almost too good to be true. But my big dumb ego elbowed all skeptical thoughts aside, and I let myself entertain the unlikely notion that a guy like that might find me appealing enough to date. After a few messages back and forth, he gave me his email address and asked me to send him more photos, "because I'm trying to figure out if you're my type or not." After sending him a few more photos, he asked for even more. I told him you can't always figure out if you're attracted to someone through photos, which is why people meet up for coffee or a drink (hint, hint). It's just a low-key way to eyeball each other to see if there are mutual sparks of attraction. 

He then asked me to send him some naked photos. And there it is, dear readers. He was trying to lure me into the online dating equivalent of the infamous Nigerian email money scam. Instead of a Nigerian prince who needed my help to smuggle $2 million out of the country and into my bank account, a hot, young surgeon was interested in dating me! But first, I must send him some topless photos of myself. That's when even my big dumb ego had to admit he was just looking for some naked pictures, not a first date, and that we would not in fact be spending the coming months skipping together hand-in-hand while antiquing, wine tasting, or apple picking, as I had been semi-consciously daydreaming in my girlie-girl romantic fantasies. 

My immediate reaction was to tell him he was a caveman and that I would never send anyone naked pictures. But I let it simmer in the evil part of my brain for a while, then decided to torture him a little bit by *pretending* I was going to send him some naked pics. I wanted to try to catfish the catfisher.

Caveman: I'm just trying to figure out how attracted to you I am, is that so bad hon? Anything you show me is for my eyes only. I will delete them right after I see them. So I guess it's up to you how serious you're being meeting me. I'm being completely serious about meeting you.

Caveman: Topless hon! Let's see!

Me: So, how old are you for reals?

Caveman: I'm waiting hon! I really am very serious about meeting you.

Me: (Pretending I've sent him an email with photos) Did u get them yet? I haven't heard back from you!!!!

Caveman: No. Nothing! Send them again hon.

Me: Oopsies! I'll send them again. 6 of them!

Caveman: STILL NOTHING! Try again hon! lol

Me: I wonder who I keep sending them to? lol

Caveman: (He retypes his email address for me) I got nothing!

Me: The guy I sent all your topless pics to just asked me out! LOL!

The next day I sent a blank reply to Caveman, as if I had tried yet again to attach those non-existent topless photos and failed. 

Cavemen: Nothing attached.

Me: My photos must be too sexy for the internet! D'oh!

Caveman: How can you not figure out how to email some photos?

Me: I just made an appointment with The Geek Squad for this afternoon. I'll have the Geek they send over help me email those photos to you.

Caveman: Is that really necessary? You attached photos last time. Why can't you do it now?

Me: I knew it was a mistake to get off AOL last month. I'll have him get me back on AOL too.

Caveman: AOL? Really?

Me: No. I'm just f*cking with you. 

Caveman: LOL. Send those photos over to me. STAT!

Me: Yeah, that's not going to happen. Your caveman charm is squandered on me.