When Will We Be Married?

Well, I reckon I’ve given away the topic of this post right from the start, haven’t I? As you may be aware, my sweetheart and I met for the first time right at the end of 2018 and I moved in four months later to the day. I’ve never been happier in my life, and my sweetheart and I have, as yet, not had even a strong disagreement, let alone an actual argument. I had been pondering our future for some time, and had made up my mind to ask her to marry me, but had been waiting for the ideal opportunity. The thing is, since my divorce, now some eight years ago, I’d never considered the possibility that I would remarry. Certainly, there was no way my ex girlfriend and I would ever marry, even though we were together for five  years. Yet when it came to my sweetheart, there was no doubt in my mind that we would marry.

The perfect opportunity  presented itself on Christmas Eve of last year. I had a seven pm finish and we agreed that we’d have dinner at “our” restaurant, the one where we’d had our first date. I arrived second, after changing at work and we settled down in a booth. I tried to keep a lid on things and waited until my cocktail arrived before starting my spiel. At first, my sweetheart thought I was just making conversation as I mused on the previous (almost) year and how weird it seemed that we’d progressed so far in such a short time. In fact, she kept interjecting as I worked toward my punchline. She was very much taken aback when I asked her to marry me, and she accepted, through tears of joy.

Our waiter, on the other hand, was thoroughly nonplussed, and I assume he thought we were trying to wangle a free drink. As you can imagine, the rest of the evening went very well, as did the Christmas holiday in general.

The next step was to tell the kids, which I did once they were back from their usual trip to Whistler for the period between Christmas and the resumption of school. My daughter was stunned, and my son took the announcement with his usual equanimity. That done, we make the public announcement, in person to our close friends and via Facebook to the rest of the world, and congratulations ensued.

I won’t bore you with the details of the wedding planning. Suffice it to say my sweetheart found a dress the first time she went looking for one, we settled on a venue pretty quickly, the photographer was booked, the cake was chosen and the menu decided. In fact, we had a menu tasting just as the Covid 19 shutdown was gearing up, and I have to say that as free meals go, it was pretty darn good. A friend of mine was delighted to be my best man, and another of our friends agreed to be ordained so that he could perform the ceremony, although I think part of this might be due to the fact that being referred to as the Reverend Doctor Jones quite appealed to him.

You know where this story is going, don’t you? That’s right. But at least the handcart was provided free of charge. You see, we settled on a date in early July due to the constraints of holidays, my son going to college, family birthdays, etc. as well as allowing people time to plan their trip. As soon as the stay at home order came into effect, all our plans went out of the window and landed on the ground with a splat. Lest you think this is a misery moan, think again. Unlike many people, we had all our arrangements locked down within about two months, compared to the 12 to 18 month average, so it could have been a lot worse. I think the reason we got everything squared away so quickly is that it’s the second time around for both of us, and we just want to get married as soon as possible.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we hit upon a plan B. We contacted the wedding planner and asked her in the event of restrictions being eased, could we go onto the grounds with a small group of friends for half an hour purely to have the ceremony. You see, it’s an outdoor venue on tribal land, and so is not beholden to state regulations. We also booked the corresponding date next year so we could have the reception/party portion of the wedding and use it as a reason to renew our vows in public. This part wasn’t an issue as the venue is not taking any new bookings until all the current clients have been accommodated. Our plan was to have a hit and run ceremony followed by dinner for the dozen or so local friends we thought would be able to make it.

Being the kind of people we are, we also had a plan C. Some friends of ours have a high water bank home with a large deck, so at a pinch we could have the ceremony there, followed by some sort of reception, probably featuring some of Costco’s finest products. The  long and the short of it is that we WILL be married on the date we set, presuming, of course, that we can get a marriage licence. This may be an issue, but we should be fine as long as we can get an appointment at the Court House to get the licence issued.

I must admit that it has all been a bit of a whirl, as you would expect. Had everything gone according to plan it would still have a bit of a nervy period until we had an exact guest count locked down. One question you may be wondering is how my co workers reacted to the news. Well, they didn’t, because I haven’t told them, and I  regard them as no  more than “People I met”, to quote Arnold J. Rimmer of “Red Dwarf”. When I put in my leave request so we could have a short honeymoon, I put “Attending out of town family wedding” on my request form. Technically this is correct, as it’s taking place two towns to the north, and involves both my and my sweetheart’s family: i.e. us.

My co workers aren’t exactly the most observant bunch, and so I ran a little experiment: for the whole of February I wore an old silver and lapis lazuli ring to work. The idea being to see if anyone would notice in order to give me some idea of how long I could keep the news of my marriage to myself. Of course, no one noticed, so I reckon it will take a slip up on my part for the news to leak out. I know all of this may sound a bit mean spirited, but I didn’t want to have to answer all the usual questions about the wedding arrangements or deal with hints about invitations. None of them are invited, as you’ve no doubt guessed, and it just makes life easier for me. In fact, I’m going to start a little competition. Our wedding is set for the first half of July. Anyone want to guess how long it will take someone at work to spot my ring?  I’m serious.  Just to give you another marker, I got new glasses about a year ago. So far, only one person has noticed, and it took her three weeks. I’ll work out some sort of prize for the person that gets the closest to the actual date. Any date before July 15, 2021 is valid, as I reckon that if no one has noticed by then, no one ever will.

Heart Of Glass

I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned it before, but over the past few years I’ve developed a strong interest in a particular style of glassware. It all started several years ago when I set up my cocktail cabinet (See “Hey Manhattan”). I bought six of each of the required glass styles and thought  myself pretty well set up. My then girlfriend then convinced me to ditch the standard stuff in favour of something a bit more impressive. You see, she was very much of the opinion that what you drink out of is as much a part of the experience as what you drink, and suggested I invest in something else.

As a result of some digging around on Etsy, I came across the work of Georges Briard. He was unknown to me at the time, but I could see that his work really stood out and so I bought three sets of his glasses, all in the same style. For those of you who don’t know, Briard was a a mid century modern (MCM) designer who produced glassware from the 1950’s until the 1970’s which was sold at such outlets as Neiman Marcus.

All was well and good, and I derived a great deal of satisfaction from using them. As cash has been rather tight over the past few years I haven’t added to my collection, but that all changed a few weeks ago.

Just before the whole world turned to shit, my sweetheart flew down to Palm Springs to visit her cousin. Being the incredibly generous soul that she is, she wanted to bring something back for me that was better than a tee shirt. I understand that Palm Springs has more than it’s fair share of antique stores, and while browsing she found what she assumed would be the perfect present for me. Without telling me too much, she asked about “The guy whose glasses you like”, so I could tell where her mind was going, so I told her and left it at that.

She later sent me a picture of a set of glasses and asked me what I thought. Take a look for yourself.

 

As she was on a tight schedule I answered her immediately and she snapped them up. Only later did I learn the full story. In addition to buying me eight of these glasses, she also bought me six of these:

Just so you know, this is a Double Old Fashioned, so it holds twice as much as a regular glass. Naturally, I was blown away by them, as I just love Briard’s use of gold in his work. Bringing them back on the plane was a bit of a hassle for my sweetheart, especially as the bag broke just as she got to the airport. Such was her plight that upon disembarking, she went straight to the Coach shop to see if she could buy a bag from them. As small acts of kindness go, giving someone a bag isn’t a big deal, but I do appreciate them for just giving my sweetheart a very sturdy paper shopping bag in which to put all the glasses.

You can imagine my delight when she got home, not just because I hadn’t seen her for five days, but the fact that I now had more glasses than I knew what to do with, resulting in me reorganising my sideboard to make room.

But wait, there’s more. We’d been looking on Etsy and she’d seen a set of glasses that she thought might appeal to me, and she was right. The problem was that the shipping was more than the glasses, so I passed up the opportunity but still left them in my cart, as did she, just in case. Guess what?  Last week she asked if I was still interested in the glasses, largely due to the fact that they’d caught her eye as well. I said yes, and so she ordered them. I asked her how much I owed her, but she just waved it away, saying that she’d pay as it was her idea. She’s a wine drinker and has no use for Lowballs, Highballs, Collins’s or Old Fashioneds, so it was doubly heartening that she would do this for me. As a result, I now have another six Double Old Fashioned glasses in my collection.

 

Yeah. I know. I understand now how people end up dying surrounded by thousands of commemorative Victorian teaspoons, match books or toy robots, but least I can use the glasses. You see, I don’t regard myself as a collector, but as a appreciator, if there is such a thing. I don’t buy them just to have them and look at them, but to use them for their stated purpose. I really don’t see the point of having something and not being able to use it. And I have to admit that my former girlfriend was correct. What you drink out of DOES matter as much as what you drink.

In a way, I’m glad I don’t have the money to indulge my love for Briard’s work, as I would need an aircraft hanger to store them all, and maybe that’s for the best, mind  you, I have a pretty good idea where my stimulus check money will be going…

 

 

 

Rescue

Let me be upfront about this. I am a cat person. I used to live in a household with four of them, and as benign dictatorships go, it was pretty reasonable as long as I remembered my place and didn’t cause a fuss. My former girlfriend had two sugar gliders, and then a tenrec. The gliders, tiny though they were, could make one hell of a noise when they wanted to, and being woken from a dead sleep by barking at three a.m. is not something I would wish on anyone. The tenrec was an improvement, although when anxious would sometimes relieve herself on whomever was holding her, but apart from that, was no bother at all.

I’ve always had a certain antipathy towards dogs, and especially towards their owners. I need not repeat the trope of owners who allow their dogs to  crap in public and then walk away as if the deposit had nothing to do with them, and we all know  that the most common statement after a dog has just bitten an innocent bystander is “Well, he’s never done that before!”

My friends have dogs, one couple have a Scottie and a Westie, the other couple three Border Collies and a Golden Retriever. The second pack are crazy but friendly, if you don’t mind being surrounded by a quartet of barking, jumping and extremely excited dogs for the first 20 minutes after you arrive. They will eventually calm down, sort of, and then you can get on with things, but it is a bit of a riot at first.

The thing is, while I don’t like dogs as a species, I’m quite willing to give each individual animal the benefit of the doubt until proven wrong. Usually they don’t pee on me or my rugs, nor bite me, so that all counts to the good. I could quite happily live my entire life without the presence of a canine, so how the hell did I end up living with someone who is an ardent dog lover and an active member of her local Humane Society?

Let’s face  it: potential partners and their  pets are a package deal, just as a potential partners and their kids are a package deal. If you can’t handle one, you may as well just walk away and go back to the website. I have to admit that in both departments I seem to have struck gold. My sweetheart’s dog, (or should I say our dog?)  is, of course, a rescue. She’s probably a Papillon/Border Collie/Spaniel mix of between four and six years old. She is very sweet natured and the fact that she almost never barks make me wonder if she doesn’t have some Basenji in her ancestry.  The fact that after some initial scepticism she took to me is a big plus. On of my ex wife’s cats never fully accepted that I was now sleeping in “his” bed and would lie at our feet scowling at me through the night, wondering when the hell I was going to go away. Not so Maggie. I will admit that she was a little unhappy at first, but seeing as we use my King size bed as opposed to my sweetheart’s Queen size, there is enough room to accommodate all three of us.

She has accepted me and will even follow my instructions when it comes to meals and toilet breaks. She will follow me downstairs in the morning when I call her to let her into the garden, although having grown up in 1980’s Britain, I find it very difficult to avoid chanting “Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, out! out! out!” every time I open the sliding door for her. I’m quite happy to perform these tasks as it makes it easier for my sweetheart  to get ready for work and helps Maggie accept me as a permanent part of the household.

There is, however, one line I am not prepared to cross, and it’s the obvious one. We use a dog walking service from time to time due to our schedules, but when time and weather permit, we take her for a walk along the local trail system. Well, I say walk, but in reality any distance we cover is done three yards at a time as Maggie needs to stop and sniff absolutely everything she encounters. Being a dog, she naturally needs to take care of certain functions she can’t do in the house and it is solely down to my sweetheart to deal with the consequences.

I cleaned the litter boxes for four cats for 10 years, and the diapers on two children for a combined six years, so my cleaning up other people’s shit duties are well and truly fulfilled. At least with cats and kids the product goes into a bag and is then disposed of, with a dog on a public trail, said bag is carried for the remainder of the walk, the trail having only one bin, and that is in the parking lot. Maggie is not my dog, and much as I love her, I’m not going to carry a bag of her crap around with me like  some sort of  bizarre fashion accessory.  That remains the exclusive purview of my sweetheart.

I am however, the logistics carrier. I  have a great 1950’s French Army messenger bag that I used to use mainly when walking to work or when out shopping. Now it contains antiseptic wipes, hand sanitiser and spare bags. it seems that I have come full circle from the days when the backpack I toted was solely for diaper changing supplies.

On  a lighter note, I found life imitating art recently. On a recent trip to the dog trail I opened the door for my sweetheart only for Maggie to hop straight onto the front passenger seat and curl up. She refused to move, so my sweetheart had to sit in the back. As she got in, I removed the sunshade from the windscreen. The sunshade has a Star Wars theme, bearing as it does, a picture of Han, Chewbacca, Luke and Ben looking out of the cockpit of the Millennium Falcon towards the Death Star. I thought about the  situation, how I was now in a somewhat ageing vehicle with a furry copilot next to me, and all I could think was: “Laugh it up, fuzzball!”

We Gotta Get Out Of This Place

How do you feel about crossover episodes? You know, the sort of T.V. episode that starts out as usual but quickly turns into a 30 or 60 minute infomercial for another show entirely. Of course, I excuse the annual Homicide / Law And Order episode from this question as Homicide was without doubt the greatest show of all time. In general I despise them as a cynical bait and switch, as the  show it  introduces is in general much, much worse than the originator, and the producers know it. For example, who ever watched Boston Legal, the spinoff from The Golden Girls or even Laverne and Shirley? Yeah, not even in TBS late night reruns when you were too drunk or stoned to get off the sofa.

Having said all that, this is a crossover episode wherein the posts about my romantic life meet the episodes about my domestic existence. As you are no doubt not aware, I have moved several times over the past five years. See The Boxer, Space Oddity and Should I Stay Or Should I Go for quick updates. A few months ago my finances were such that even affording the rent for what was a fairly bare bones townhouse was looking like an increasingly long shot, even though I’d pared my other expenses to the bone and beyond. See Ice Ice Baby for more detail.

Since meeting my sweetheart we had been spending an increasing amount of time together, mostly  me spending the night at her place, although she spent several nights and weekends with me whenever time allowed, with the effect that pretty much from the start we were a two location household. She was well aware of my financial situation and had suggested that maybe we could find a solution. My natural smart arse response was to say that I doubted I could raise enough money selling plasma nor was I ever likely to get my street corner back at my age. However, reading between the lines I could see what she was getting at. At the end of March we went out for lunch after I’d helped her with some house organising and across the table she asked me what I thought about combining our households.

Naturally, this is what I’d seen coming and so agreed readily. That was the easy part, as we were spending most of our time together anyway, with my house relegated to a pit stop for clean work clothes and sundries on my way to or from work. I hate packing, but at least now I knew I was moving to somewhere nicer and would no longer be returning to an empty house after a long day’s work. It was clear from the start that quite a bit of stuff would have to go into storage in order to clear room and make it possible to unpack and organise the stuff we needed the most. Of course,  being the one moving in, that meant I had to spend every evening and morning packing, loading the car and unpacking endless boxes of books, clothes, bedding, etc. As I’d given my notice to the property management company at the start of April, that meant I had barely four weeks to get everything done.

However, get it done, I did, even though I ended up simply cramming the last few items and cleaning materials into the car after spending half a day bringing the house up to an acceptable standard of cleanliness. I admit to being very tired by the time I got home and I did the bare minimum of unloading once I parked before collapsing in a heap on the sofa. Of course, this was far from the end of it. The new house of course was littered with boxes and items of furniture which needed to be unpacked or put in place. Our first weekend was spent doing just this, with my first task being to put all my cups in the kitchen cupboards and place my Georges Briard glasses and other glassware in the sideboard, which I also restored to it’s former glory by adding all the mementos that had graced it in it’s previous location.

It’s been a busy few weeks, but now I’m pretty well settled, and for the first time in many years I now  live somewhere that is truly a home,  rather than my last three residences which at best could be regarded, in the words of Le Corbusier, as “A machine for living in”. I can’t tell you how much better I feel knowing that every day I return from work to the woman I love and a true home. It has done wonders for my mental state, as has finding myself in a warm, supportive and loving relationship with a truly wonderful woman. I consider myself very lucky indeed.

Ring My Bell

I had intended to make my first post of the year to be an account of the Christmas period, but on reflection, it was pretty much the same as the year before, except for the choice of film and the amount of alcohol consumed. Instead, I thought I’d regale you with an uplifting and heartwarming tale of how my life took an upturn.

I won’t rehash my recent return to the world of online dating, but just after Christmas I received a message via a dating site from a woman saying she was finally in town, and would I like to meet for dinner? To be honest, I’d forgotten about her as I’d sent her a message a couple of months prior to this to be told that she was on the east coast, but in the process of moving west, and would be in touch when she arrived. Of course I took this as a kiss off and thought no more about it. Hence my surprise when she contacted me.

She lives nearby and suggested she drive over so we could meet at one of her favourite restaurants, conveniently located just ten minute’s walk from my house. She was already seated when I arrived, so there wasn’t even the opportunity for a greeting hug, still, we chatted as we waited for our orders to arrive and quickly found common ground. It soon became apparent that we were on the same page politically and shared a wide range of opinions, perspectives and experiences. We had a great time, even though we were both on our best behaviour, as is normal on a first date. I mean, you don’t want to ruin the evening by saying or doing something stupid and ruining the chance of a second date.At the end of the evening we parted ways, agreeing that it would be nice to meet again.

To my surprise, she agreed to another date just five days later, and so I dashed home after work, changed and drove to meet her for dinner. After a very pleasant meal, the night still being young, she asked me if I had any plans, so I suggested a drink at a nearby bar. So far, so good, I thought. She hadn’t fled at the first opportunity, and the chance for a quiet drink and casual chat certainly appealed. I still wasn’t able to judge how she felt about me, and although I really wanted to kiss her at the end of the evening, I decided that discretion was the better part of valour, so again, we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.

During our chat she mentioned that she had just bought a video doorbell, but not being much of a handywoman, it was still in the box. A couple of days later I texted her and asked if she’d found anyone to install it for  her. Receiving an answer in the negative I offered to install it for her, if she so wished, seeing it as my chance for a third date. She accepted, and so two weeks after our first meeting, I gathered up my rather pathetic collection of tools and set off for her home. The installation was a doddle, the hardest thing being downloading the app onto her phone. We shared a bottle of wine afterwards and spent quite some time getting acquainted on the sofa during the evening.

Before you ask, I went home that night, as she told me that she’d had bad experiences in the past by moving forward too fast. I certainly wasn’t going to push my luck, so I accepted the situation, actually very much in agreement, as I really didn’t want to spoil what was turning out to be a wonderful relationship. We agreed that I would come back in a week, and I offered to cook dinner, an offer she accepted with much grace. Purely due to good fortune, I went back a few days later after work, and it was at that point that she decided that I should stay over on Sunday night. She had been unsure up to that point, but apparently I had make a good enough impression to warrant us moving on to the next step.

I arrived mid morning, and we sat chatting, drinking wine and watching a film until it was time to cook. After dinner we resumed talking and enjoying a very nice bottle of Garnacha. Of course, I’m not going to go into detail, but even before we went upstairs I was pretty damn sure that she was the woman for me. I’d already removed my profile from the site, a revelation that both surprised and encouraged her.

I’ll be honest, I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about her. Seriously. In just three weeks we have achieved a level of comfort and understanding I’ve never experienced with anyone else. I know it sounds corny, but even just sitting on the sofa and holding each other makes me happier than I have ever been, or truly deserve.  What’s even more, she feels the same.

As she had to pick up a friend from the ferry yesterday, we left together and she followed me home and spent a few minutes in the house, untidy as it was, as she wanted to see my place. We texted a couple of times during the day, and I set off to deliver oranges to a friend, after which we went for a beer, not  having seen each other since New Year’s Eve. His wife and our other partner in crime duly arrived when I received a text from my new love informing me she had just dropped her friend off at the boat. On impulse, I invited her to join us, which she did. Thankfully, she liked my friends, and they approve of her. The fact that her dog got to meet some other dogs helped, but the time came for her to head home, so we kissed  and said our goodbyes. I stayed for one more beer, sending  her texts as I sat at the bar, only for her to invite me over for the night.

We had been texting about how much both of us didn’t want to have to sleep alone, so it was a no brainer for me to head past my own home on my way to hers. I honestly don’t know how we’ve grown so close and so attached to each other in barely three weeks. The phrase “Whirlwind romance” sounds trite, but I think that for the first time in my life I’m genuinely falling in love. This isn’t just some physical drive, I am drawn to her intelligence, wit and charm, and even though I only came home about four  hours ago, all I can think about is seeing her again on Thursday evening. I’m smitten, I’m in love. Truly, madly, deeply.

 

 

 

 

 

Being Boring

What is the worst thing about your job? Is it the commute, the annoyingly loud coworker in the next cubicle, anyone from Marketing, the person who takes the last cup of coffee and doesn’t make more, the petty rules, the delay in getting replacement equipment? Well how about your coworkers, or rather, one in particular?

For me, it’s the latter. Most of the people in the department are pretty decent. I mean, there are some arseholes, skivers and generally obnoxious gits, but by and large we work well as a team and like each other. However, there is one person who until recently got under my skin like a deer tick.

Let me elaborate: We have three shifts, the first one running from 5.30 until 2 pm. This is a brutal shift at the best of times as the opener only has 30 minutes to make sure everything is ship shape before opening the department, and  I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, as I just can’t imagine having lunch at 10 am. One of our openers, the one who gets under my skin is a middle aged woman who is much, much farther along the Aspergers/Autism spectrum than me. A blind man on a speeding horse could see that, so to say that  it’s obvious is something of an understatement. Her one redeeming feature is that she is very good at her job, and I know that as the mid shift person, I will get a very, very full briefing on all the events of the day so far and numerous updates during the three and a half hours we work together, and that’s where the problems start.

She will perseverate on the smallest of details. Anything that has happened in her life is apparently worthy of relating, including her nieces and nephews not liking whatever she had prepared for dinner, the lack of a product in stock, the arrival of the next load, in fact anything that has happened to her or she has seen in the past week. It used to drive me fucking nuts until like Baldrick, I had a cunning plan.

I would simply tune her out. I will make the occasional sound of acknowledgement, but don’t engage in any meaningful way unless I have to, and I try not to have to. I know she can’t help it, in fact, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even realise she’s doing it as she gets on with her work. Two things still get to me, no matter what I do. She will end even the most mundane of statements or observations by laughing as if she’s just delivered a razor sharp one liner. Maybe she genuinely thinks she’s being funny, but it happens pretty much every time she finishes a sentence. The other thing is her habitual attempts to upsell. If there is one thing I dislike with a passion when it comes to sales, it’s anyone who tries to upsell to me. In fact, if someone does that to me, I just leave and don’t even complete my initial purchase. I know that sounds like going too far, but I refuse to be manipulated into spending more that I have to, or buying something I hadn’t intended to at someone else’s urging, especially if that person has a vested interest in my purchase.

You see, we very often run offers and “Big Board Sales”, where various products may be offered at 60 percent of their regular price. Not just in the deli, but in every department in the store. This is a regular part of our life, and when the deli has anything either on offer, or on the Big Board we get slammed. Big Board items are advertised on standing boards both outside and immediately inside the entrances in font so large it can’t be missed. To give one recent example, we have prepackaged salami on sale, specifically 7 ounce sampler packs, which are selling well due to the number of parties taking place around Christmas.

I may be taking a bit of a leap here, but I work under the premise that all of our customers who happen to be of high school age or above are able to read at least at at high school level and possess the mental capacity to make decisions for themselves. Not so my coworker. Several times this week, as she handed a customer their order she went on to describe in great detail the salami, what the pack contained, the price and where to find it. Every time, every single time, the customer looked back without making eye contact, smiled weakly and thanked her before hurrying away as fast as possible to the furthest corner of the store. The only way I can describe it is to ask you to imagine the look on someone’s face as they are accosted on the bus by the guy across the aisle who is expounding on some bizarre conspiracy theory.

She even tried to get another of my coworkers to do the same. As he’s a sensible, well adjusted chap he demurred. She hasn’t asked me, as I’m pretty sure even she gets the fact that I will never upsell. I know all the above sounds mean, and to some extent it is. In fact, George Bernard Shaw put it perfectly when he said:

“The worst sin towards our fellow creatures is not to hate them, but to be indifferent to them: that’s the essence of inhumanity”.

The problem is that it’s the only way I can keep my sanity. I’m not mean to my coworker. It’s just that she has no conversation, no interests, no opinions on anything other than her family and work. She’s very good at her job, and within five minutes of starting my shift I know exactly what has happened, the state of our stock, anything of note, and for that I appreciate her and am most grateful. I just wish I knew of a better way to get through half a shift with her.

Suggestions on a $20 bill to Singledad Towers, please.

 

 

 

 

I Know It’s Over

As you are now all painfully aware, the five year relationship with my girlfriend ended a few weeks ago. See “Five Years” for more details.  To use a narrative metaphor, after the climax of a story comes the denouement, the extra couple of minutes at the end of a film, or the last few pages at the end of a novel that bring things to a nice tidy conclusion. In the case of relationships that denouement involves returning all the stuff that has been left at the other’s place over the years.

Even before our final phone conversation I had started to bag up all of her stuff: more toiletries than I had realised, assorted personal items, shoes, a table lamp and lots of clothes – in fact so many clothes that I now have significantly more storage space. We arranged a time and place to meet and I loaded all her stuff into the boot of my car in anticipation of our meeting. There was one thing, however, that I didn’t load. You see, my ex girlfriend has a pet Tenrec.  As it’s a  nocturnal animal, it’s a good fit for her, as she can be at home when the animal is active, something that drew her to Tenrecs, having previously owned a pair of Sugar Gliders. The Gliders weren’t travelers, but she wanted to bring Couscous with her, so she bought a smaller habitat to leave at my place.

I asked her about the “Country House” and she said that as she had nowhere to put it and didn’t need it, I should keep it. I assumed she’d want it back in order to have one for her next/new boyfriend’s house, but apparently not.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, she called me a week ago yesterday to let me know that she was on the boat, so I prepared to head down to meet her. Except that the car wouldn’t start. I’d had some problems with the battery previously, but now it was dead. There was no way the trickle charger would give me enough of a boost in the half hour I had, so I texted her, explained the situation and asked her to come to the house. Wrong move.

She said that she couldn’t take the time to come over as she had to be back in the city in the early afternoon and accused me of playing games. I explained again, and was very annoyed that after five years together she wouldn’t even spare me one hour for this. She told me that I’d have to come over to the city as she’d made a good faith effort. I eventually got the car going and bought a new battery at Costco, (texting her a photo of the receipt and adding the message “See?”) which my son helped my install the next day.

Fast forward to yesterday: We had agreed a time and place to meet in the city and I duly set off and drove up from the ferry terminal to meet her. I couldn’t find it. The name of the establishment was nowhere to be seen, and as Capitol Hill has a bastard of a traffic plan I ended up driving around in squares, occasionally pulling over to read her texts and reply. I found the place almost by chance due to the fact that I was driving north along the street and caught a glimpse of the restaurant she’d mentioned. It was in an above grade mini mall and totally invisible from the other direction.

She’d driven to what she regarded as an easier location, so I had to hang around until she came back as I didn’t fancy another 45 minutes driving around the city. She turned up a few minutes later and took the space next to mine. She was reasonably friendly and we began swapping our gear. I was over the fact that our relationship was over, but I did feel somewhat resentful of her choice, asking “A place that’s impossible to see, you call that a good location?” Her response was to say that decent parking is difficult to find in the city. I can pretty much understand her not wanting me to come to  her house, even though that would be the easiest thing, but I find it hard to believe that a mini mall parking lot apparently built on top of a supermarket in a busy part of town was the best place for us to meet.

I will admit that having such a hard time finding the parking lot and her refusal to compromise a week earlier had put me in a bad mood and I’m afraid it showed. There was one thing I couldn’t get off my mind, so I said ” Just one question, who is he?” she replied “There’s no one else, there’s no one else.” “It always pays to have a back up” I replied, then got back in the car and drove off.

I suppose I could have dealt with the situation better, and in retrospect I do feel somewhat bad about how it all ended, but  I just didn’t have it in me to wish her all the best, good luck, or anything like that.

So, that’s it then, I suppose. Five years of relationship down the Swannee. All those vacations, presents, nights out, nights in, dinner parties, movies, concerts, all now just so much electricity zipping around the neurons of my memory. I suppose I should have seen this coming. She’d been pulling away for a few months, our sex life had pretty much come to a halt as she’d been sick for a while and as a result of going through “The Change” she’d issued a Diktat about how sex would be in the future, which is not exactly the most romantic text I’ve ever received, to put it lightly.

We were never actually going to live together, as she won’t live anywhere except in a city, and I’m not going to move away from the kids. The time we did spend together was almost entirely on her terms: my home had to be adjusted to meet her needs, and my needs had to be adjusted to meet her home. I’m pondering all this as I type, and I do have to wonder if I’m actually capable of being in a long term relationship. I mean, my interpersonal skills are far from the highest order, I’m neither the tidiest nor the most thoughtful person in the world, and even after all these years, I can’t seem to break myself of the habit of keeping secret things that don’t really need to be kept secret.

It really makes me wonder if I’m just wasting my time on dating websites and if I should just give up. My recent form doesn’t really give me much cause for hope, but I simply can’t bear the thought of being on my own for the rest of my life. I realise what an apocalyptic statement that is, but let’s be honest,  my performance in the relationship field has been less than stellar.

Once again, I don’t have a snappy ending for this post as it’s not really that kind of post, but if you have any single female friends, bear me in mind the next time any of them mention that they’re looking for a date. A boy can dream, right?

Oops I Did It Again.

“Did What again?” I hear you ask. Well, fucked up big time yet again by misreading a social situation. let me start by saying that I’d hoped that this post would be titled “The Sweetest Girl”, partly because Green Gartside has one of the most wonderful voices of all time and Scritti Politti never got the acclaim and recognition they deserve. How this post ended up bearing the title of one of the crappiest songs of all time sung by one of the least talented performers of all time is a cautionary tale.

During the summer I came into contact with someone new. Somewhat younger than me, outstandingly beautiful and very sweet and friendly with a smile that could melt through bank vaults. Over the course of several weeks she was very attentive and we had a number of interesting conversations about a number of subjects including our kids. On one evening we spent a couple of hours getting to know each other and she seemed very comfortable having me around, something I took as a good sign.

For a couple of weeks she was in Europe and had agreed to send me a postcard, and even texted me some pictures from her trip. Just to backtrack a little, a week or so prior to this she had tried to give me her phone number, but being a knucklehead I missed the (alas misinterpreted) cue and only later realised what I’d done and had to scramble frantically to find a way to give her my number. One would have thought that when a woman tries to give you her phone number for no explicitly stated reason, or under some other pretext she must be interested in pursuing some sort of relationship, or at least be open to the possibility.

I ran the details past two friends of mine, one male, one female, and both agreed that based on the evidence it would not be unreasonable to assume that the young lady in question was interested in me, so I took heart from this and waited for her return from foreign shores.

A couple of nights ago I took the opportunity to see her ( lest you get the wrong impression, this was in no way a date, but rather an opportunity to meet her).
We talked for quite a while about her trip and various subjects and as I was about to leave I said “I’d really like to take you out to dinner”. I have never seen so many conflicting emotions cross one face in so short of time as her brain tried frantically to process what I’d just said and clawed frantically at the air, Wylie Coyote style to regain the cliff edge of sanity: confusion, shock, alarm, confusion, panic, dread, confusion, realisation and a number of others.

It was then that I learned the truth. I had been led to believe that she is divorced, but although she was divorced, she is also married. Naturally this took the edge off my good mood as well as giving me the experience of being overwhelmed with a tsunami of conflicting emotions, so I suppose that made us even. The weird thing is that she then apologised for giving me the wrong impression. There was no need at all for her to apologise, as I made quite clear, explaining that I’d come to a wrong conclusion based on faulty and incomplete information. I made my apologies and left suitably chastened.

This is a situation that I have faced before but with different details. One effect of being on the Asperger’s spectrum is lacking the ability to read subtext. It now appears that I lack the ability to read text as well. You neurotypicals have it so easy and you don’t even know it. Seriously, the ability to read between the lines is something you do all day every day. Imagine how much harder that is for someone who doesn’t even realise that the lines are there in the first place!

I guess I should have known that a woman like her wouldn’t be interested is someone like me even if she was unattached. In fact I’m pretty sure that if she and I were the only human beings to survive the apocalypse she’d spend all of her time digging through the rubble searching for fresh batteries. Ah well, you live and learn, well, you live, anyway.

As I’m now single again this incident doesn’t bode well for the future. It was bad enough the last time and seeing as I’ve decided to stay this side of the water I’m looking at a much smaller pool of potential dates. Actually, it’s not so much a pool as a small puddle to be honest. One other thing to bear in mind is that unless I change my social situation completely I’m going to run into her on a regular basis. I really don’t want to do that and I hope that I won’t have to. One thing in my favour is that at no time did I actually hit on her in any way. Our conversations were always on safe topics and at no time did I make any gesture or movement that could be interpreted as threatening nor did I ever take the conversation anywhere near any mildly risque subject. Something else that may make life easier is that I apologised for my misreading of the situation and am not the sort of person who blames someone else for my ineptitude.

I’m pretty sure I’m not the first person she’s had to disabuse of his perception of the situation and with luck and some delicate footwork I may avoid any awkwardness in the future.

 

(Just Like) Starting Over.

Editorial: My last post, “Numbers”, resulted in me acquiring five new followers. Thank you to those of you who have just started following me, and welcome aboard. In all honesty I’d really like to know how you found my blog.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin.

It may come as no surprise to those of you who read “Five Years” to learn that only three days after my ex’s “On a break” phone call I reactivated my online dating profiles as I’d already decided that we were done and saw no reason to sit around moping and wasting time. I did have some trepidation over the whole thing. I’m six years older than I was when I last entered the dating pond, am actually pretty much the same weight as I was then, but I’m a little greyer around the chin and my dating skills, poor as they are, had been rusting for the previous five, like a lawnmower left in a drafty shed.

I also remember how expensive the whole undertaking was, especially when ferry fares were factored in. I therefore made the decision to only date this side of the water, a decision that severely limited my options, but with my work schedule, commuting just wasn’t an option. I duly updated my profile, answered some more of the endless series of questions and began looking. My main fear was that my inability to read social cues as well as general awkwardness around new people would put off potential dates. As it was a choice between biting the bullet, trusting to luck or just giving up, I chose door number one.

I do have to ask, ladies, why the reversion to silence? I can understand not responding to an initial message from someone who isn’t your type, but why just stop sending messages after a few exchanges? Why not say “I don’t think we’re right for each other, good luck in your search”? It would make life so much simpler, and I wouldn’t spend three days waiting for a reply that will never come. Ah well, such is life.

Naturally, I had little response to my outreach and I have to say that the programmers really need to work on their algorithm. Many of the women who popped up in my “Daily matches” tab were most definitely not my type in the slightest. What is the point of filling out a profile and clicking boxes only for the site to send you alleged matches that are totally unsuitable? However despite all this I engaged in a conversation with a woman who lives nearby. We had a mutual interest in a number of English new wave bands and decided to meet for a drink. I will say that I really don’t like the endless game of message tennis that seems to form so much of online dating, as I’d much rather just meet and get it over with. As I said in the dim and distant past, at worst, you’ve had an evening out.

The meeting seemed to go fairly well, and we ended up leaving as the bar was closing. My date’s occupation of “alternative healer” sent my woo detector up to 11, especially as she said she’d developed the regimen she practices. Oh boy! Don’t get me started on hippie wellness woo. In fact, head over to Skeptoid.com and take a look at all the bullshit that litters the field of “Wellness” and you’ll get some idea of where I’m coming from.

My instincts turned out to be right when she said she’d be going out of town on a retreat when I suggested we get together again.  I know what I said in the paragraph above, but she was tall, athletic, interesting and funny, so why not see where it led? Of course, when I texted her to ask when she’d be back, answer came there none. Ah well. I will, however, be visiting the bar again soon, as their IPA was very nice, if slightly too hoppy.

A few days after the date I received a message from someone who did interest me. One of the sites I use is aimed at people in my age group, and although I get messages and views on a regular basis, none of the women have raised my attention. This one was different, though. I won’t give much away, except to say that like me, she’s an immigrant and  has an accent. English is her second language, but not that that matters. We sent messages, then texted and agreed to meet for dinner at a local taqueria. I’d never even heard of it, despite living around here for some time, so it made no difference to me. She arrived before me and was waiting in her car when I parked. She seemed really sweet and her pictures didn’t do her justice.

I know I’m suspicious but I did wonder about her choice of venue. As she talked with the cashier I couldn’t help but imagine that she was saying something along the lines of “This is our first date, if this Gringo gets out of line, can you have Manuel come out of the kitchen and beat the crap out of him, please?” Anyway, intervention was not needed. We sat and chatted for over two hours, she telling me all about her awful marriage in great detail, and me telling her about my less horrendous but equally loveless one.

We certainly got along well, and began texting each other multiple times a day. Five days after our initial meeting she asked if we could talk on the phone. I was home at 7.30, so once I was fed and changed, I called her. We had a 3 1/2 hour conversation. Seriously. I had intended to watch the Liverpool V. Cardiff match once I was settled, so I had to push it back to nearly midnight. I’m not complaining, especially as the following morning we had a long text exchange that I will admit touched on certain subjects that don’t often come up before a second date.

Mind you, a 3 1/2 hour phone call during which we both had a drink, sherry for me, tequila for her, could, I suppose, count as a second date. Things went well, and we agreed to get together the following Sunday, which was yesterday. On Thursday I hadn’t heard from her by mid morning, and it came as no surprise that after contacting her she responded, saying she had pink eye. Hmm, I thought, more like cold feet than anything else. Her later texts announced that she didn’t want to date as her Seasonal Affective Disorder makes it hard for her to be around people, and she hates Christmas. Great. Just fantastic. I knew it was too good to be true, so I left it at that and went back to my routine.

Imagine my surprise this evening when she texted me! She apparently had had second thoughts, and as she’d just eaten, is an early riser, and it was getting a little late, the chance to get together right away had slipped by. We texted for quite some time, and it felt like we just carried on where we’d left off. She likes me, and has said so, so I don’t know what to think. We’re meeting for breakfast tomorrow, as she’ll be up early anyway and I have a late start.

I’m thoroughly confused but willing to see where this goes. I know where I’d like it to go, but I’m certainly not going to push my luck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Five Years

About two weeks ago I received a text from my “On a break” sweetie asking if we could talk. I put her off for a few days as I wasn’t really in the mood to talk to her and had already decided that we were done. I did think about sending her a text saying as much but decided not to. By this point I had already been on two dates (of which, more later), having reactivated my dating site accounts about three days after her telling me that we were on a break.

I had already bagged up all her toiletries, but left her clothes in the closet as I don’t really have a better place for them. As you can see, I’d already moved on, having realised that I  was the one making all the effort and getting very little in return. When the phone call did take place, it was all over in about two minutes. Of course, she had decided that we were done, no surprise there, and from my text agreeing to the call, she had reached the same conclusion regarding yours truly.

We had always joked to people that if we did ever split up, there’d be a custody battle over the espresso machine, but as it turned out, she said that I could keep it. Too bloody right, I was keeping it. I know it was given to us by a friend of hers, but she’s pretty much given up drinking coffee, except for the occasional purchased breve, but she also has nowhere to put it in her kitchen as it is too tall to fit in the space between the counter and the cupboards. I told her that I had intended to keep it anyway, and she didn’t argue. She would have been a real dog in a manger to do so, and we both knew it, so it ended there.

I told the kids about it last night, and my daughter claimed that she had “Sort of seen it coming”. I’m not convinced that I believe her, but she is a very astute girl, so I’m willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. It seems a bit weird that a five year relationship should end with such a sudden whimper, but I guess I had seen it coming too.

To be honest, not having to schlep over to Seattle every other weekend either directly from work or very early on Sunday morning has been very refreshing. I’ve enjoyed long lies in, had time to myself, done some cooking and been able to watch the Liverpool game without the need to balance a laptop on my knees and wear headphones. I know the above sounds selfish, but when you have no time to yourself, life can be a little wearing. To be honest, the first weekend I had to myself this year was in mid June when my now ex sweetie was away in Fiji and the kids were in Hawaii. Six months without a weekend to myself. Seriously, is it expecting too much to want some time in one’s own head and not have to fit housework, shopping and all the rest around other people’s schedules? I really don’t think so, at least, not for a single guy. Marriage is a full time commitment, but at least with marriage you have a partner with whom to share the load. Usually.

A lot has happened over the last five years, most of it good. We took several trips, including a week in Hawaii, I’ve learned a bit about wine, been introduced to the music of The Old 97s, seen films I wouldn’t have seen otherwise, visited new restaurants and had my horizons otherwise broadened. I’ll go into greater detail in a later post or two, but my recent dates have been quite encouraging, one of them extremely so, and that gives me some hope. I mean, I’m now five years older than I was at the start of my most recent relationship, and one does wonder about one’s shelf life, especially at my age. I will admit that I’ve lost some weight this year due largely to my decreased drinking, increased walking and improved eating habits, but still, there’s always an element of self doubt regarding one’s own attractiveness to others.

I do also wonder about my ability to maintain a long term relationship. Maybe my Aspergers and general selfishness and lack of empathy mean I’m not going to find someone with whom to live out my years, but that way madness lies, so I’m not going to think about that too much in case I go into an emotional death spiral.

I do wonder, however if she had started seeing someone else before we ended it. She took herself off for a weekend a few months ago, to “Think things over” and I did wonder then if anything was going on. She didn’t travel on her own for the first four years we were together and I admit that I examined the picture she sent me very closely for any sign of a second person, but that may just have been my natural paranoia.

I don’t have a snappy ending for this post, maybe because the end was so anti-climactic and unemotional. However, having made the decision to move on, I feel much better in and about myself. Details to follow.