A Prologue, of Sorts

I have never been the sort of girl to have a serious boyfriend or even a string of non-serious boyfriends.  You know that girl, the one who’s always in a relationship or in and out of a relationship.  I’m the other sort, the sort that’s always on her own.  I have serious and extended crushes of a painful nature, where I agonize about the guy but am too afraid to make a move or when I do make a move, it goes horribly wrong and unreciprocated. 

I remember my first serious crush; I liked him for years, literally years.  As soon as I laid eyes on him, I was in a swoon. Even though I was only in the 2nd Grade I was sure this was it. All the girls were – he was freakin’ adorable.  Four years later, upon learning that he was leaving my school to go to a different middle school, I was so bereft that I engineered an “end of year” party at my house solely for the purpose of cornering him in a game of spin the bottle.  Of course it didn’t work out that way, but I remained undeterred and when we met again at some point in high school, I actually got up the nerve to ask him out and he said no.  

As I re-read these words, I sound like quite the little creepy stalker.  There were guys that I “went out with” in middle school while I was waiting for my crush to realize we were made for each other.  This was when “going out” didn’t mean that you actually went anywhere with the guy, just that everyone knew that you were spoken for and you might stand next to each other at one of the middle school dances.  There were really just two of them – one who got me a potted geranium and a pair of clip-on earrings for my birthday (which I think I may still have somewhere) and another who asked me for a poster of Paula Abdul for Christmas as she was “totally hot.”

And of course there was my prolonged obsession with Joe McIntyre of the New Kids on the Block. Sigh. You could tell the depth of my devotion by the lack of wall space in my bedroom NOT covered by pictures of him or the rest of the band. I begged my dad to take me to my first concert to see them at Merriweather. Before his Alzheimer's really started to eat away at his memory, my dad used to love to tell the story. He said that he stuck napkins in his ears, laid down on the ground watching the planes flying overhead, and pretended that he wasn't surrounded by thousands of screaming girls and that his own beloved daughter wasn't acting like a lunatic.

A few months later, my sister kindly and foolishly agreed to escort me to their concert at Baltimore Arena so my dad's eardrums could continue recovering. I dressed up for the occasion, sporting my best tapestry vest and wearing my NKOTB earrings. Thankfully there are no pictures to record that special moment. We were seated up in the nosebleed section, but still I was so certain that he was staring at me and singing "Please don't go, girl!" and that this was a sign that we would be together forever. I tried in vain to convince my sister to go hang out in the soundproof parents' lounge. I think she suspected my plan of hurling myself at the stage, giving Joe my phone number and promising to love him forever.

A chubby and bizarre girl who liked school and was dubbed more than a little weird, I made my way through some extremely awkward middle and high school years.  I attended a single-sex high school which meant that most of the time if I wanted to go out with a guy I was going to ask him out or at least make some effort to throw myself into his path.  This along with my looks and general lack of self esteem meant that I didn’t have a whole lot of boyfriends. 

My first semi-serious boyfriend probably didn’t realize that he was in fact my boyfriend as he turned out to have quite a few other girls in tow.  I think we technically only dated for about a month and then were on-again/off-again as he attempted to parlay that into something akin to friends with benefits. The thing I remember about him most was that he thought his car key should be able to open up my car as we both drove 1988 Chevy Novas (and repeatedly tested this theory over two years in spite of all facts to the contrary).

My second semi-serious high school boyfriend definitely thought we were an item.  He was fun and sweet and a little too serious which freaked me out as I was preparing to go to college and he still had two more years of high school.  Maybe even then I was destined to be a cougar.  The death knell sounded when he spent entirely too much money on a seriously ugly necklace for my graduation present.  Last I heard he had become a skinhead so I feel like I made the right decision to end that relationship before I left for college.

Ah, college.  The time when you’re supposed to fall in love 100 times and date until you can’t see straight anymore!  That’s not really what happened to me.  I definitely got off on the wrong foot as a freshman by developing a crush on an incredibly cute junior, who as fate would have it was just discovering that he was gay. I still remember how I felt when he further broke my heart when, sitting in a movie theater getting ready to watch a Janeane Garofalo movie, after I told him that everyone said I reminded them of her, he sat silently for a minute and then said "No, you don't remind me of her at all. She has the prettiest smile." I remember a few other crushes in college, including a brief dalliance with the son of my advisor who was a sophomore when I was a junior. But really I had no boyfriends or even actual dates while I was in school.

After graduation, things continued much the same in terms of a dearth of dates. One of my friends persistently tried to set up me and some of her other single girlfriends. The problem was that she usually tried to set us up with guys that had been interested in her but she hadn't reciprocated their feelings. At the time it irked me somewhat, that she would try to set us up with guys she had rejected but I know that she is primarily a practical person and more than likely reasoned that just because it hadn't worked out with her, that didn't mean that these gents were suited to one of her friends. And after years of Internet dating where I have to rely on someone's representation of themselves in cyberspace without any knowledge of who they are in real life, I am way more grateful for her attempts to fix me up with guys who she knew were at least not crazy or rageaholics.

Things started to pick up a little bit a few years later but that is another story for another day as it is far too nice outside to be so contemplative indoors.

Table for One

I went out to dinner with a friend last night and sitting a few tables away from us was a woman having dinner by herself. That is something I have just never been good at. It’s funny since about I’d guess at least 75% of my meals are on my own, but I never really liked eating in public alone. The woman last night was impressive. I’m bad at guessing ages, but I’d say she was in her 50’s. She was smartly dressed – not like she had just rushed in from work but like she was just the type of woman who takes pride in putting herself together. Her hair was pulled back. She wore a jacket and a long skirt. She ordered a glass of wine and seemed at ease with herself and her surroundings.

The woman was reading a dense-looking book and that made her seem a little more human, a little more vulnerable.  A book is usually my go to companion when dining alone. Truth be told, I will almost never dine in public alone without a book. It’s like my armor or something – defense against those who would stare and say, “Look at that poor single woman eating all by herself.” Except, when I looked at the woman last night I didn’t think anything of the sort. She just looked like someone who liked to treat herself to a dinner out of the house, with a good glass of wine and a good book.

I really know nothing about her but I’ve been thinking about her this morning, wondering if she could help me get the gumption to dine alone just for the heck of it. She didn’t have a wedding ring so I started to wonder if like me, she was chronically single, or if she had recently separated, divorced, or lost her husband in a tragic accident. I mean I guess he just could have died in a less dramatic fashion, but she sort of looked like a woman who didn’t lead an ordinary life.

I’ve been thinking more about my aloneness of late. Perhaps, I’m contemplating it a bit too much but I’ve been wondering if maybe I’m alone because I am really good at being on my own. I have friends that are horrible at being alone. They just can’t handle it. I know women for whom it is a tragedy of epic proportions to leave their children and husband only for a few hours, and men who have no idea what to do with themselves when their significant others are busy. There seem to be so many people out there who would rather do anything than be on their own.

This is not to say that I am never lonely or that I always love being by myself. There are definitely times when it is more than I can take. But generally, I’m not at a loss with what to do with my time. It’s just the opposite – there are simply not enough hours in the day to do all the things I want to do.

Now sometimes I will wallow – watch way too much craptatic television or read the same maudlin books over and over. But there is usually too much fun to be had, too many yoga classes to attend, so many books to read and write, oodles of food to cook, scores of people to meet, multitudes of walks to be walked, and endless trips to be taken.

I have all these grand plans for when I have more time. First up will probably be either French or Italian classes. I think French would be more practical, but there is just something about Italian that sounds so delicious, so passionate. “Devo fermarmi al bancomat per prelevare dei contanti! Che fine hanno fatto tutti i miei soldi?!?!” Doesn’t that sound way better than, “I need to go to the ATM to withdraw some cash! What has happened to all of my money?!!?”

Alright, that is enough existential pondering and massacring of the Italian language for one day. I know some of you are wondering, when is this crazy girl going to get back to dating so I can read less about her dog and more about the psychopaths that get let out of the asylum to meet and date our girl? Well, I think I may have sufficiently lulled myself into a sense of forgetfulness about how awful dating is to give it another go. Yet again. Sigh. Well, maybe another day. I still have to figure out which method or platform will be my reentry into dating. Will it be one of the numerous dating websites I’ve tried in the past? (see Clash of the Titans: A Comparative Analysis of Dating Services for more info) Will I give speed dating another try? Are there other ways out there to meet non-psychotic men who might actually be fun to hang out with?

Surviving Singletonism: Get a Dog

I was recently reminded of a bet that I witnessed between two friends about a decade ago. The bet had to do with who would become the dreaded “cat lady” first and the winner of that honor would receive $100 from the loser to make up for her singleton cat lady status. One of the betters is married with two kids and I think at least one cat. The other better remains single but has no cats. So it really is tricky to say who has won the bet. To help them out, I graciously said they could just give me $200 and forget about the bet entirely.  Strangely they have not taken me up on my kind offer. 

I know that cats are generally thought of as the pet of choice for single ladies, but I must disagree. I dig cats and have cat-sat for neighbors on multiple occasions and their cats are highly cute and some are snuggly and like to play. That is all well and good, but what a cat cannot do is force you to regularly go outside.  That is not the only reason that I got a dog and not even the top reason why I love my dog so much, but it is extremely helpful when I am tending towards hermiting away my days, to have a very persistent dog insisting we must go outside. 

And when you go outside you can meet other people. Now I don't mean that this is the way you will meet that special someone who will sweep you off your feet (if you are the feet sweeping type of peep), as those who have read my blog and the exploits with DW can attest, it hasn’t worked out that way for me.  But you will meet people.  All kinds of people and dogs.  For me, getting out and walking my dog has resulted in me meeting and making some great friends in the neighborhood. 

A dog is so much more than an excuse to get out of the house though. There is something so wonderful about coming home and seeing Charlie wag his way toward me, leaning in for a cuddle and some scratches and love.  I could have had the most craptastic of days, replete with semi-breakdowns and wanting to staple things to people’s heads, but when I walk in the door it is impossible not to smile when I see that doggy face. He’ll bring me whatever toy he was playing with while I was gone, sort of a doggy show-and-tell, as if to say, look what I did! And as my friends settle down and have less time to hang out what with spouse’s schedules, kids’ schedules, and maybe even trying to sleep or some other essential activities, there is someone that will always have time for me.  I have no doubt, that although Charlie loves a lot of other people, I am his most favorite person and the one he would drop everything for. Except maybe a very tasty treat.

I’m not suggesting that a dog is the perfect pet for everyone or that a dog will cure whatever ails you.  Some people have certain expectations that cannot be met by a dog – a dog is not a perfectly obedient automaton who will never disobey you. It would be highly boring if they did, and if that is what you are looking for, perhaps a robotic pet would be better, or a nice picture of a dog. There may be accidents, some things might get chewed. He may constantly insist on eating his treats on the guest bed, twisting up and dirtying the coverlet so that you are fairly constantly doing the laundry (or finally remembering to close the guest bedroom door). He may bark incessantly at that one dog up the street or refuse to be mean to DW and his golden retriever and try to rush after them whenever he sees them. So if you’re expecting perfection, you’re going to be disappointed. The bright side is, that your dog will pretty much think you are perfect in every respect. 

The thing with dogs, is that they have a remarkable capacity to love and to relieve pain. When I take Charlie to visit the nursing home, it amazes me how even those residents in the darkest hells of dementia, so locked in their silent world that at times words fail them. Give them a few minutes with Charlie and they look peaceful, even happy. They may not be able to talk to me or express what is going on in their worlds, but the sight of his wagging tail, the feel of his soft fur, maybe a lick, maybe leaning against them, this does wonders. He doesn’t ask them for anything, he doesn’t say meaningless words, he just is there. He does the same for me when I’m exhausted with despair, when it seems like things can’t possibly get better. When I have no idea what to do and all I want is to numb myself from these feelings. I will feel a certain wet nose, nudging under my arm to snuggle in close. Sometimes he knows I just need him there, leaning against me and making know I’m not alone. And sometimes he knows I need to get the heck out of the house and leave my thoughts behind for a walk or a hike.

Charlie will forever be special to me for another reason. Going to pick him up from the shelter with my dad –this was the last thing that my dad and I did just the two of us, before my dad started to slip away into Alzheimer’s. I think at that point, my sister and I had started to talk about how his memory was not what it used to be, but he was still really all there and we had no idea what was about to happen.

I remember the day with an eerie precision that escapes me for most other events. It was a Friday in February 2006. I had a few weeks left at the job I had since graduating college and would be starting a new job in about a month. I knew that I wanted to get a dog since before I bought my house in June 2005, but I made myself wait to make sure that I could handle the responsibility and expenses of a house before I took on additional duties with a dog. I planned to get a dog during a week of leave I was taking just before my final days on the job, but those plans went out the window when I met Charlie and the shelter said they wouldn’t hold him for me – I had to take him home that day.

I’m not sure why I asked my dad to drive me to the shelter. I think I was nervous – I had never owned my own dog before as an adult, and I kinda wanted my daddy there with me. So we got in his minivan and drove the Defenders of Animal Rights shelter north of Baltimore. The woman I spoke to on the phone said they had a few terrier puppies left but they were going fast. When we got there, there were only two left from the litter: Charlie and his brother. The shelter let my dad and I meet the two puppies in a room and gave us some time to get to know each other. My dad looked a little skeptical as the one puppy careened around the room, chewing on leashes and having a ball. I sat on the floor cross-legged to watch the puppies. The other dog, the quieter one, walked shyly up to me and put one paw on my leg, as if asking permission. I patted my leg and he jumped into my lap, turned around once and lay down, sighing that doggy sigh that has become my most favorite sound in the world. He was my dog. There was no question.

But I looked at his brother and the thought of leaving him that evening was impossible. I started to say about how I could take both of them and that is when my sweet father said that there was no way in hell he was driving me home with two dogs. He said that I had just bought a house and this was my first dog and I needed to see if I could handle one before I took on another one. Then he asked the woman from the shelter to come in and asked her if she thought there would be a problem finding a home for the other dog. She laughed and said there would be no problem as three people had already called and were coming in the next day. With how cute those pups were, she said that he would have a home by Monday.

At the time I was slightly miffed with my dad. I mean, I was seriously excited to have Charlie who was even then snuggling into my arms as I was trying to fill in all the paperwork. But still, how could look at that other sweet puppy face and say no? And later my mom would pester him, why didn’t he adopt Charlie’s brother for them to keep? Now, this memory stands out as just him being my dad and wanting to make sure I didn’t take on too much, wanting to protect me from my own impulsive behavior. Maybe knowing that he and my mom wouldn’t be able to care for a dog pretty soon. He was saying and doing the things then that he cannot do now.

As we filled in the paperwork, my dad asked me what I was going to name my new dog. I looked into his dark eyes for under a minute and decisively said, “Charlie.” Then we got into the car and drove to the pet store. My dad sat in the car with Charlie while I ran in and bought a crate, bed, bowls, leash, collar, food, treats, gates, and anything else I could lay my hands on. Then we drove back to my parents’ house so my mom could meet Charlie, and the poor little guy who had made it all through the 30 minute drive, threw up just as we turned down my parent’s street.

After some time to settle his stomach and let my mom get to cuddle him, my dad drove me back to my house and sat with Charlie in the van while I quickly tried to puppy proof the house. They came in and my dad tried not to roll his eyes as he helped me put baby locks on the cabinet where I keep my cleaning stuff. And then he drove home and Charlie and I started our lives together.

When I look back on those days now, I remember not only how adorable Charlie was, but how capable my dad was at the time. Before he started to go downhill, he and my mom would come over during the workweek and walk Charlie for me. With working in DC and northern VA, I pulled some long hours – much longer than a puppy can handle. So my dad would walk Charlie while my mom hung out in my house, getting treats ready for when they returned. My dad used to say that Charlie was a “chic magnet” and that all the lovely ladies would come up to my dad and coo over Charlie. Then my mom would swat at him and say that next time she would walk Charlie to pick up all the neighborhood hunks. Eventually though, it became obvious that my dad shouldn’t have been driving and I hired a dog walker.

My dad still lights up when I bring Charlie over to visit him and my mom. He doesn’t sing for him like he used to, but he sits up and reaches his hands out to pet him, asking me how old Charlie is now. I answer him and ask him if he remembers the day we went to the shelter. My dad always says yes but since I know otherwise, I retell the story and my dad laughs and says yes, that’s how it was. And even though I know that in a few minutes, he will again ask me how old Charlie is now, I smile. I smile not just at the memory of that day, but at how in spite of everything my dad is still happy –happy to see me and most definitely, happy to see Charlie.