the Ah-Hah moment strikes again

I'm sick. I never get sick. And on the scale of positively rotten patients, I'm very near the top. Luckily I got one of the docs at work to write me a scrip for some antibiotics before it got too bad, so I think I'm on the downhill side of it. I hope so anyway. I'd forgotten how much I like being able to breathe. It's the small things in life that make it worthwhile.


I slept a fair amount today, which I think helped. I do some of my best thinking in those floaty moments in between being awake and asleep, and today was no exception. Then when I woke up I got to test out some of my thinking on my buddy Laurie, in a marathon country drive/bilateral vent session. Actually, to be fair I completely forgot to bring up the first one, so caught up were we in the other, but here you go anyway...


#1. I've finally realized (and totally seen the humor of) the irony of my being suddenly obsessed with running at the same time that my hormones have seemingly woken up with a vengeance from a twenty year siesta. Gee. You think there might be a connection? Can you spell S-U-B-L-I-M-A-T-E?? I guess until I feel ready to do something about it I'll just keep on running. I may need to invest in a sturdy pair of shoes.


#2. The one that completely negates #1. I can't do this and I've finally realized it. As you may have all guessed, something happened that kind of rocked my world...and not in a good way. This had nothing to do with me directly, but the nuances and big picture cut me to the core. So I'm reverting back to my long held theory about me and romantic love. I'm just not cut out for it. As much as I want desperately to have that deep connection with another human being, I'm too scared to give it a shot. I'm too scared to open myself up enough to even think about giving it a shot. It seems to me that very bad things happen when people love too much, so I am now officially removing myself from the game. Checkmate. The Queen has left the board.


I guess it's just as well that hot tax guy never called after all.

scarred by shellfish

Every now and then something happens in my life that makes me itch to sit down and blog about it. Immediately. And most of the time I do just that. But sometimes it can be a little tricky, since I really do try to keep this a relatively vanilla blog. Oh, I know I cuss too much, and I talk about hot pinheaded men (who still haven't called), but even so I'd like to think it stays relatively family friendly around here. So this particular episode has been a real challenge, and it's been perplexing me all day. I'm ready to give it a shot, but I have to be very upfront about this. I have absolutely no idea how this is going to fly - and it could get ugly. I'm really in uncharted territory here.


This story starts (and ends) with shrimp. Any kind of shrimp - scampi, cocktail, tempura, grilled, whatever. As long as it's shrimp, we're good to go. Well, we're not good to go, but someone is, and for the sake of our story that's all that matters.


One of our Bunco Babes is a riot. Well, actually a lot of the Bunco Babes are riots, but in this particular shrimp story we're going to focus in on one. She's a little tiny thing, but she carries a big presence. (She also drops in here from time to time, so if my body is found drifting ashore after I post this you'll know where to look first). She's free spirited and a little wild and crazy - a dancing queen with long Stevie Nicks hair. This gal and her much older husband separated and divorced right before the FX and I started having trouble, but the critical difference (to my mind at least) was that the whole thing was her idea. To say we were all stunned is an understatement. Almost no one saw it coming, but she had been unhappy for a long time and one day she just said enough. In spite of the fact that I love her to pieces, I had some real issues with her when this all happened, because the same thing was going on in my life, but the things she was saying to me about her marriage were almost word for word what the FX was saying to me about ours. It all got worked out, but it was a little funky there for a bit.


But that was a year ago, and things are very different now. Me, you know about. Her? Well, her life is really, really good. She's happy, successful and has been blissfully involved with a new guy for a good many months now. They seem very happy together, and we're all happy for them. Now you're all caught up on the back story.


It's time to introduce the shrimp.


I honestly can't remember exactly how it came up, but at some point last night, apropos of absolutely nothing, she casually volunteered that as long as her new boy had shrimp on his plate there would never be the need for Viagra in his life. Or hers. She's known for dropping these little bombs, so we all took it in stride - at least to start with. However, she was hell bent on elaborating, and soon - very soon - she had everyone's attention. Seems that recently, after a shrimp dinner with her man, she had a night where she, uh, found Jesus. Loudly and rapturously. Ten times. In one night.


Ten. Times. In. One. Night. She swore up and down it was the absolute truth. We believed her. Maybe it was the Cheshire cat grin on her face as she declared that she was "making up for lost time" from a marriage that hadn't been doing it for her for a long time. Maybe it was the nitty gritty details we could have done without. Whatever it was, she certainly had center stage.


Someone needs to tell the Shrimp Advisory Board about this, because this is an ad campaign just waiting to happen. On a big scale. Imagine the marketing ploys that could be used. Of course, the pharmaceutical companies would have a cow, but it wouldn't matter. It's a depressed economy, to be sure, but some things are relatively recession proof. And if you can save ten bucks on one Viagra just by throwing some shrimp on the barbie...well, why not? Something tells me that if you're a guy you could even talk your woman into cooking the shrimp for you. I'm just sayin'...


The after effects of this little scene carried on into today. One of the Bunco Babes is on a mission to find a shrimp "substitute" that she can feed her husband within Jewish dietary guidelines. (I facebooked her husband and told him to pick up some shrimp on the way home from work anyway. I figured she might be willing to overlook that whole religious thing just this once. As a social experiment, of course).


This same gal started today off with an offer to buy me as much shrimp as I wanted. I replied that I'm minus a shrimp eater at the moment, but I appreciated the offer nevertheless. And surely it's a testament to my hormonally driven self at the moment, but I've had shrimp on the brain all day long.


And not a grill in sight.

cupid bites the dust

Life really is funny, isn't it?


On the one hand, my more age appropriate would- be suitor has really picked up his game a lot. It has become impossible to misinterpret his intentions - for anyone involved. This has become very problematic for me, because I really do like this guy - I just can't see myself in a relationship with him. He obviously feels differently, and, in spite of what anyone may say about me, I'm not a person who enjoys hurting other people. It was kind of fun to screw with him when I thought he was just messing with me, but now that I see he's got something invested in this it just makes me feel pretty awful. The relationship gods really are sadistic little buggers. Why is it always about timing and hormones?


On the other hand, to be perfectly honest, I've been pretty up front all around about not being interested in any relationship at all. The fact that I took a lust driven detour last week is just a fluke, because besides that one notable exception, I still have no real interest at all. My interest in the one notable exception is, however, still piqued beyond what is probably good for me. And that's too bad, because I can tell you right now that this won't end well.


I called him last week. Thursday, to be exact. Under the auspices of wanting an estimate for some work in my Victorian Landfill. Now I will grant you that I did my overly accommodating routine as I left the message - "I know you're really busy with your seasonal job and there's absolutely no hurry, just whenever you get a chance give me a call"...blah blah blah...just a considerate "business call". And I still haven't heard back from him. Five days later. He could be dead. He could be tied to a chair in some third world IRS office. He could have had a horrible accident with a table saw. He could have dropped his cell phone into the toilet before he retrieved the message.


Or he could just not plan on calling. For whatever reason. And I certainly don't intend to leave him another message, so the picture starts looking a little bleak at the moment. Sigh. Just when it started to get interesting.


It's enough to make you want to box Cupid's ears.

heads I win...tails I lose

If I'd have been home today, I would have written this all in the comments section of my last post. But since I wasn't, I won't. I'll just turn a comment response into a real live (albeit short) post. Don't expect a lot from me tonight. I'm just trying to get through one more day of work and then allow myself to fall over in a discombobulated heap.


Even with a couple of people changing their answers, it's pretty clear that the overwhelming vote was to Call The Man. Even I could see which way the wind was blowing. I don't want anyone to feel any pressure to give me the perfect answer. I'm a big girl, and in spite of my Majority Rules comment, I'm going to give a lot of weight to what my gut is telling me first and foremost. But some people brought up a few things that could be interesting to look into a little further.


Laurie asked for more information. Did I get vibes? Did he seem nice? And the answer is...I don't know. About the vibes anyway. He seemed to be a nice guy. I'm way past the point in my life where I see any attraction in anything other than nice. It's hard to tell about vibes because he was at work. Most people - especially when they're working with paying customers - tend to be nice. Now having said that, I certainly felt that we were both flirting - in a very understated way. That doesn't necessarily mean anything, since I'm a terrible flirt most of the time without even meaning to be. (Note to self: Work on that). She also mentioned that hot people aren't always too nice, which is absolutely true. But here's the thing. My own personal "type" isn't a type that the whole world finds hot. I like quirky, I have a weakness for geeks and I'm bored silly by classically good looking. Now having said that, no one would call this man a dog.


Did I answer the question? No? I didn't think so, either.


Then there was Devon. Make a list, she said. Excellent suggestion. So here's the one off the top of my head.


Pros:

It could be fun.

I could really like him.



Cons:

He might be a jerk.

It could be fun.

I could really like him.

He might not be at all interested.

What would my kids say?

It could ruin my whole image of myself as a spinster for the rest of my life.

I haven't been on a date since Madonna was a pup.


Well. That's a little lopsided, isn't it?


And then there's Frances. The problem here is that I agree totally with the core of what she's saying. He knows where I am. Hell, he had his hands all over my financial panties for an hour. He has two of my phone numbers and an email address. I fall back onto the work dilemma, though, since if it were me I wouldn't call someone I'd met on my job and ask them out. If they got offended or something, that could be problematic. On the other hand, he's handing out business cards for his own business on this job, which I find a little odd, if you want to know the truth.


There's another factor at play here, too. Maybe what I need the most right now is the fantasy. The possibilities. The opportunity to walk around with a goofy ass smile on my face just because I can't help it. Maybe the next time I see him I won't be moved at all. Maybe this is my safe way to work through some of this stuff as a kind of trial run. Maybe the fantasy really is better than the reality.



I can't see that calling him to give me an estimate on fixing something would make me look like I was chasing him. But there is the curiosity factor. Left to his own, would he make a move? Would he even want to?


It was funny, actually, how it worked out in the first place. The day I met him was a frantic day of too many things scheduled. I had gone to the gym to run and had kind of half planned to throw on a hoodie over my workout clothes and pull my hair back into a ponytail and go straight to do my taxes from the gym. But I talked myself out of it because I'm trying to not look like a schlub any more than I have to. So I came home, showered, put on decent clothes (including a new shirt that I adore), put on make-up AND perfume, and just generally tried to get myself into the best mood I could to tackle a daunting day. Not my usual routine, to be sure. Usually I'm a hoodie and ponytail kind of gal. Kind of an odd time to pull out the put together act...at least in hindsight.


Oh, well. It's all just as clear as mud, isn't it? And not even short like I promised.


Maybe a good night of sleep will help.

I am out of my godforsaken mind...

Okay. Majority rules.


I knew for a fact - since he told me- that hot tax fix it guy was going to be out of town this weekend. Skiing. In Colorado. Sounds good, no?


But as of Monday, he'll be back


So here's my question. Do I call him? Find some fix-it job to do? Or do I chalk it up to hormones gone mad on my part? Should I treat this whole thing as the joke I'm dying to...


Or not? I've not responded physically like this in 20 years... I'm just sayin'...


Majority rules. You guys call it.


Game on.

the triage queen strikes again

The Internet is a really interesting thing. And while for the most part the Internet greatly adds to my quality of life, there are times it gets a little odd.


Case in point:


The FX spent last night in the cardiac evaluation unit of my hospital. He called me yesterday to tell me he was having chest pains and to ask my advice on what to do. I asked him a few questions and then told him that my advice was to Go Straight To The ER. He didn't want to do that. I asked him a few more questions and then repeated the Go Straight To The ER advice. He clung to the heartburn theory. I told him to take some Mylanta and if it didn't get any better ASAP to Go Straight To The ER, or, if he still felt stubborn, to go have an EKG done at our doctor's office at the very least. He took both the Mylanta and the EKG advice, and then called me later leaving the doctor's office to tell me that the doctor had told him to Go Straight To The ER. Jeez. It's not like this was the first chest pain I've ever seen. I'm about at the point where I can triage in my sleep.


Bottom line - he called me at ten last night to tell me that they were admitting him for observation. Labs and EKG looked okay, but he's got some crappy risk factors and some health issues that are not in his favor. He called me from his room, on his cell phone, with his laptop by his side.


And this is where the weirdness started. For the entire duration of our marriage, I was the one who communicated. I kept in touch with his family, I bought his mother's birthday and Mother's Day gifts, I called to let people know when anything especially good (or bad) happened. Even when we lived thirty minutes away from them, I was the one who took the kids to visit, and I was the one who built really solid relationships with his family - relationships I am assured continue to this day, despite the change in our marital status. As his mother said to me last week, "I'm almost 70 years old. You are my daughter. I'm not about to shake things up now." As happy as I was to hear that, it put me in a very weird spot last night.


See, I really felt that it was his responsibility to let his family know what was going on. Not mine. His. I told the kids, because Surfer Dude put on his big bionic snooping ears while we were on the phone at one point and I had to come clean. But the rest of his family - no matter how dear to me - needed to be told by him, as far as I was concerned. He had his phone. He had his laptop. California is two hours behind us. He had the means and he had opportunity.


And he didn't utilize either. But he did post a status update on Facebook, which his sister saw. (This is the sister who is the closest thing to a sister I'll ever have. And she and I are on the same page about virtually everything FX related). She then told his mom who posted her own status update, saying basically how fricking dysfunctional is this, that I have to hear this on Facebook? His sister and I then exchanged private messages where I said, Hey, I love you all to bits, but this is HIS responsibility. (The whole Facebook thing is weird to start with. Two of his sisters just joined, and they pulled his mom in. They all three friended me, which is great. But they also all three friended him, which is weird. It's a thin line in terms of privacy between the FX and I and I'm not sure what I think of it. When his mom sent me a friendship request, I accepted it, but made sure she knew that I might say things about her son from time to time that she might not be thrilled with).


He's fine, anyway. No cardiac issues, just a more pressing need to address some health problems he has been in deep denial over. And I'm sure he's talked to his mom by now and all is well. But I spent part of today feeling like I should feel guilty that I didn't take care of this for him and then feeling bad because I couldn't even make myself feel guilty about it. It's not my job anymore. He's a big boy. He can run interference for himself.


One little note before I move on - and this has absolutely nothing to do with the Internet in any way, shape or form. I do believe that the FX is a much nicer and more trusting person than I am. Either that or he's self-absorbed to the point of being comatose. Because if the situation had been reversed, there would have been no way in hell you would have gotten me into that ER. I would've driven to the next hospital thirty minutes over, because I don't think he fully understood what hostile territory he was venturing into. I'm not saying his medical care wasn't top notch. But these are the people who have seen me coping on a day in and day out basis over the last year, the people who have become a huge part of my life, and let me just say that he doesn't have many fans there. When I mentioned to my boss during my review that he had called asking for advice on his chest pain, she said "What did you tell him to do? Eat a hot dog and go mow the lawn?"


Back to the Internet, I've wondered today how we ever gathered information in the dark ages pre-web. I tried an experiment today. I casually asked a couple of people if they knew hot tax fix-it guy, including one of my friends who I was sure would. She didn't. But now she wants to meet him too. Sigh. (This is not a huge town, but it's not tiny, either). I'm leery of asking too many people since a) it's not my style and b) I'd be guaranteed a big ol' butt bite somehow. So I got on-line, and in about fifteen minutes nailed down the info I wanted.


In the right age range.


Single. And looking.


And a picture proving that my eyes were working just fine yesterday even as my lungs struggled for air.


Gotta love those open social websites.


Damn the Internet.

is it warm in here, or is it me?

This was not a day I was particularly looking forward to. There were too many meetings, too much uncertainty, too much interaction with the FX in a forced civility sort of way. Surfer Dude's school conference was looking to be a no-stress situation, but the first tax filing post divorce was a little unnerving, especially with splitting kid deductions and mortgage interest and all those other fun things that are guaranteed to make peacefully divorced people squabble. In the end, nothing at all today worked out the way it was supposed to. Odd thing is that virtually everything came out better. Whoa. April Fools Day is a month off. What gives?



First off was the guy who did my taxes. Damn. The man was hot. And exactly my type. Not that I'm looking, mind you. But I do have a type. Not that it matters, mind you. But if I was looking and it did matter, he was my type. To a Tee. He even laughed at my jokes (and not my gross income). Hot tax man got even hotter when it turned out that he has his own handyman/house repair business, and he whipped out a card and said, "I'm hoping you want one of these."



Well, hell, I know he's only drumming up business, but damn. Have I mentioned the man was hot? Would he look even hotter patching plaster? Repairing staircase spindles? Replacing the light fixture in the computer room that the FX pulled out a year and a half ago and couldn't figure out how to get back in?



Is it warm in here, or is it me?



Then there was my annual performance review at work, which went so well that I almost felt like I was being Punk'd. I guess handing out twenties to all the charge nurses really does help. When my boss read back some of the peer reviews I honestly thought for a minute that I might burst into tears, but I didn't. I don't want to look all puffy in the eyes if hot tax fix-it guy finds an error on my return and out of the goodness of his heart decides to hand deliver it and give me an estimate on my foundation at the same time. Be prepared, that's my motto.



Off to Surfer Dude's conference, which produced a bright, shiny row of A's. And a teacher who is determined to place him in advanced math and English classes next year in Junior High. Now, I have experience with the gifted English classes from my older two kids, but math? In this family? Maybe the Punk'd crew was following me all day? Could there be any other explanation for this?



In between these things, I ran four miles, had a lovely, sunbathed catch-up chat with a dear friend on the playground while our boys ran around taking advantage of a gorgeous warm day, shuttled Gumby and Sasquatch all over town, and finally collapsed in front of the television with SD and a Strawberry Blonde beer - my new favorite.



It may not have been the quietest "day off", but it sure had its moments.

did they really call me "coy"??

It was Bunco tonight and our group tried out a new dish. I wasn't crazy about it, but everyone else seemed to enjoy it. Anyway, here are the specifics:


Take twelve women and marinate in beer.

Pick the tenderest flesh you can find - say perhaps a recently divorced (and relatively gun shy) gal who has found herself inexplicably on the receiving end of some offers of the dating variety. The finished dish is much more satisfying if she has not been terribly communicative about these offers with the beer ladies, in a futile attempt to keep Cougar off the menu.


Grill her unmercifully for details until done. If she fights, hold her down. Eleven to one is good odds.


Bon appetit!

saturday night's alright for fightin'

I'm sitting in my dark dining room, in my pitch black (except for the computer screen) downstairs dodging Nerf bullets as I write this. Four boys - fully armed with Nerf guns and survival gear infrared lights - are having a two on two battle that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt is going to turn ugly at any second. Surfer Dude is having a sleepover and I will be the first casualty. What else is new?


Lots of interesting things going on in RCville, but they'll have to wait. I can't possibly compete with four armed boys on a sugar high.


But just as a little preview...I got asked out for the first time since the divorce. By a 28 year old. And kind of hunky, now that I really think about it. WTF? Then, not 48 hours later, it happened again...by someone far more age appropriate. WTF squared. Is it a full moon? A leap year?


Or is it my new Nerf perfume?