Something New Every Day

I don't believe I will ever get used to it here, let alone like it. In spite of all the people who live here who do love living here.

I went on a date with one of these last night. We went, of course, to a casino, to a bar. This casino is supposed to be one of the better ones, as it is attached to a large resort outside of Las Vegas. The finer distinctions of evaluating the quality of casinos are beyond me. I find them all pretty much of a muchness. You have the lights and the bells and the cigarette smoke and that funny air-conditioning smell. Sure, some are shabbier than others, while others have a veneer of luxury or that in the decor that is supposed to make you feel as if you have a lot of money, but the appeal is lost on me. When people point out features that are supposed to make this or that casino special, I am always mystified that they find such features charming.

The bar was fine, with comfortable low square couches in black or beige, but I was distracted by the large screen televisions and by the scraps of cloth the cocktail waitresses were trying to pass off as dresses. I saw so much of the cocktail waitresses, above and below, that I felt myself blushing. (I will never again worry that I am showing too much cleavage. My version of too much cleavage is like the outfit of a novitiate at a nunnery compared to these ladies.) And then here is the thing about the cocktail waitresses, or at the least the ones at the bar last night--they looked only at the man, smiled only at the man, spoke only to the man. He seemed to like the attention, though, so I guess that was nice for him.

It's been a while since I've been on a date, and I forgot to adhere to some basic rules, such as give the date a time-stamp; refrain from mentioning other men or dates, NO MATTER HOW MUCH PRESSURE YOU ARE UNDER (the man I was with relentlessly interrogated me about matters better left unsaid in such circumstances); and leave when the good times stop. Which in this case would have been immediately after dinner. Although "good times" is rather strong. Maybe I should say, "Better than a dentist appointment."

The evening wasn't a complete loss, as this man gave me some interesting feedback. He had reflected on some things I had said, and offered little gems from his inner commentary, which may be summed up as: He thought I was a bitch.

Which surprised me no end, as I had dimmed the inner lights considerably, sort of guessing that Me in all my Me-ness might be a bit much for him. I am aware that I expressing Myself freely can be an acquired taste. So I was on my sweet behavior. Smiling. Nodding. Being agreeable. I am no stranger to Myself, you know that I look Myself in the mirror each day, and I am familiar with my many, many faults, one of which is my temper, and another is that yes, indeed, I can be cantankerous and cranky. As far I could tell, I did not display these faults last night. I did make a few jokes, most of which he took amiss. It didn't upset me when he opened his heart, but I was very surprised.

It was his turn to be surprised when I thanked him for expressing himself so freely.

Would You Rather

I can usually find something to like about almost everybody. What a lovely little sparkly gift from the fairies I was given at birth, eh. It is very, very handy, I will tell you. In fact, I had occasion to use it last night, at a wine-tasting event at my local Trader Joe's. I was at a table with a man who wore the stereotype of a crashing bore as if it were tailored to his exact measurements.

He was bespectacled and balding, of a Humpty Dumptyish shape, and wearing his pants belted slightly too high and his tie slightly too tight, and he talked and talked and talked, heedless of interruption, oblivious to all the subtle (and not so subtle) social cues that others might want to converse, rather than listen to him lecture. Especially when we were A) not his subordinates in the office and B) not at a county planning meeting (he being a county planner), but rather, a group of strangers meeting at a social event. Drinking wine.

Until he arrived at the table, we had been finding a lot to laugh about. We (the three of us not married to him) did our best to lighten him up, to make jokes, to turn the conversation to more interesting topics, but once he got a hold of a topic--and I know you all know what I'm talking about--why, he was a pitbull with a death grip on a squeaky toy. (His wife, whether out of habit or fatigue or boredom-induced coma, stood silently by. She nodded a couple of times and gave a ghostly glimmer of a smile once or twice. Over the course of the evening, she said no more than two dozen words.)

And yet, some of what he said was interesting. He certainly knew a lot about the history of the region, and even more about the county regulations governing land use. (I learned you can keep 30 chickens, but only 1 rooster within the county. I also learned how much land you need in order to keep a horse, but I have since forgotten.) And there is something hypnotic about such a person, someone who absolutely will not under any circumstances yield the floor once he's got it. I confess that I usually submit. I nod a lot, an unfortunate habit, because it is interpreted as encouragement. Poor thing, he could be likable, but he just won't let anyone else be present, he won't have a conversation, he insists on telling you everything he knows. In the immortal words of Voltaire, the secret of being a bore is to tell everything.

But I would a million times rather be stuck in a corner with him than with the women who came up with this repulsive idea, that of slipping high heels onto a baby's foot. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with people?


P.S. You are wondering about the title? Many years ago, A. and B.'s father and I used to amuse ourselves with a disgusting game called "Would You Rather," in which we'd offer each other what we thought of as two equally horrible options, e.g.: Would you rather suck all the snot out of a dog's nose or sleep on the floor of the men's room at a bus station?

Absolutely Nothing's Changed

. . . in the immortal words of Tina Turner.

The more time passes, though, the more I wonder what miracle might have to happen for me to be in a relationship again. Really, I can't imagine it. But then again, I never would have imagined my relationship with He, and I was foolish enough--in love enough--to not only enter into that mess, but to stay there for a while, truly believing that one day things might change. That He might change.

I had a dream about He that might be funny if it hadn't made me feel so terrible.

Somehow--which is kind of how all dreams begin, isn't it--I ended up being where He and Those People He works with on the way to a show. He was driving the car, and his girlfriend of the day was in the passenger seat. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and his right arm was around her.

I was sitting in the backseat. Fuming, as you could imagine. I reached up and gave her hair a yank, and she yelped and turned around. No catfight ensued, but He turned his head around and gave me a look of Extreme Disapproval, a look with which I am familiar, a look He gave me at various times for various transgressions, including but not limited to my use of the f word colorful language.

The next morning, I found myself walking down the hallway alongside another new girlfriend of the day. I told this one of He's Perfidy. She nodded politely, but clearly didn’t believe me. I realized that He had prepped her with a story about My Crazy.

I had dreamt about He because I had been thinking about He because He had gotten in touch with me about two weeks ago. He missed me, He said, and for a second, that little bird hopped on a little branch in my soul. What exactly I was hoping for, I'm not sure. Could I have really thought that He had changed? Eventually, I did the unthinkable, and asked He not to call me anymore.

At the time, the circumstances were kind of funny, funny in that way in which you recognize the sometimes funny and stupid truths of life, as much as you might get hurt on them. It'll be funny again sometime. I don't regret what I said, it was necessary, He wasn't listening to me, He was just showing up in my life every time He thought of me and in so thinking, started wishing that He had again what I brought to his life.

People don't change like that. Or if they do, you see ready evidence: they stop doing what they used to do and they start doing some new thing. I am a great believer in change, but even I must acknowledge that people won't change simply because I want them to.

Subject to Change Without Warning

Last night, I felt a little unhappy. I stubbed my feelings on a friend--not that she intended it, but I felt it. And I'd spent maybe 12 hours trying to figure out the computer mess. And I was alone. And. And. And. Yet I told Myself that who knows how quickly my feelings might change, I could not even guess at what might happen to change them, life bes like that sometimes.

Today, a big manly friend came to my aid with the computer problem. Though I had solved the virus, I had not managed to rid my life of its effects, and my friend did so. I am grateful, and grateful for his good nature in so doing.

Then I received an unexpected email from a kindly stranger who requested some of my writing in order to consider reprinting said writing, which means--if it happens--unexpected money. Which would be wonderful, as one of my worries was that I had spent all day yesterday not earning money.

And then I took Myself out to dinner tonight. We went to Lucille's and ate in the bar, and our server, Kim, was so attentive and welcoming that we considered spending the rest of the evening there. While we waited for our dinner, we read a terrific book, Black Noir, which Chicago C. had sent to us. Not what we usually read, but the writing is so good.

(Unfortunately, we did happen to overhear the conversation of three middle-aged men who were also dining in the bar. One regaled the other two with a charming story about how he'd met a woman in a bar, and she'd asked if he could sing, so he launched into a rendition of a song he insists was called "Let's Get Drunk and Screw." It got worse than that. I was seated very near to them, so they must have known I could hear everything they said. I think it gave them an extra little thrill to be extra disgusting, as they spoke loudly and self-consciously, and kept looking around to see if anyone was looking at them. I did not look at them, nor did I allow my face to betray my feelings. I am a rock. I am an i-i-i-i-i-i-island.)

Then we walked around with a cup of tea and looked in shop windows and bought a corkscrew and thought about how nice it was to walk around at night in the warm summer air.

Also, we met a big handsome man, but when he asked for our business card, we thought he literally wanted our business card, and we truthfully said that we didn't have one, only to realize later that he had been asking for our telephone number. Oh, well. Missed again, eh. We are sometimes a little slow on the uptake.

(Why am I referring to ourselves in the second-person plural, you may ask. I think because tonight I was very much enjoying my own company. Especially with the contrast seated in triplicate at the table next to me.)

Infected

Computer virus. Been trying to figure it out all day. Missed a whole day of work. Pants.

I'm getting into the pool now. I'll be partially submerged the remainder of the summer.

Bright Spots

Since I moved here, I've been thinking that I would like to go out more--not to clubs, you know that is not my cup of tea, but to restaurants. At first, I just thought it would be fun, and A. and B. love to go out, too. (They LOVE it. They are ladies of luxury. Their idea of Heaven is a hotel with room service and air conditioning.) Then once I started my wineau training, I thought it would be helpful if I went out and paid particular attention to the beverage service.

Toward that end, whenever my fellow students in the wine classes talked of different restaurants, I often asked for details. One restaurant recommended to me was Firefly, and now I can add my recommendation to theirs. Everything was just what I like in a restaurant. The service was friendly but unobtrusive, and mostly efficient (though it took a lot of effort on our part to get our water glasses re-filled); I love the decor (the walls are red, and there's a lot to look at, lanterns and paintings and an aquarium over the doorway, and the moldings are real wood complete with dents and scratches, as opposed to shiny new pre-fab pieces of junk that you see in a lot of chain restaurants); and the food was fantastic. And not expensive.

As for the wine service, there was nothing for me to learn, unfortunately. Not that kind of restaurant. I tried two glasses, one was the 2007 Twin Vines Vinho Verde, a light, refreshing, high acid, low alcohol dry white wine from Portugal with the characteristic spritziness that is perfect for this weather. It was a good pairing with our first dish, a mushroom tart with boursin cheese. This wine is a solid value--you can pick it up for $10 or less.

My second glass was the 2006 Finca Roja Malbec from Argentina, a wine I am having trouble finding online, which makes me wonder if A) the wine list has an error, and the vintage was actually 2005 or 2007, both of which I could find, or B) the 2006 was not such a great year. This wine, a deeply colored dry red wine, promised a lot on the nose that it did not deliver on the palate. It smelled like all the dark fruits and a bit of cocoa, and seemed rich and a little smoky, but as soon as I sipped it, the taste fell away in a little trail of ashy bitterness. Though there was no finish to speak of. Drinking this wine is like being with someone who is a great kisser but bad in bed. So it's not such a shame that I couldn't find any links, because I can't recommend it. I'm glad I tried it, though. I had been tempted to go with the Zinfandel (which I looked up and people seem to like), to return to the comfort and familiarity of My One True Love, but--again, as part of my education--I'm trying to drink as many different wines as possible in order to expand the inner library of tastes.

After dinner, I convinced one of my companions, a former colleague from Great Big Huge Company who is here visiting S., to come over and float in the pool. I left the colored lights on (and kept my bathing suit on), and we floated and looked at the full moon and chatted for nigh on two hours with no awareness of the passing of time. See, if you came to visit, you could also float in the pool at midnight when it is still in the 90s outside.

That's All

I was watching the news last night and there were a few minutes about an event at which He would be present today. He is there now, I am sure. The same thing had happened in February (news coverage of an event where He would be), and it made me kind of sad then.

Last night, I was tempted to be a little sad, but as I thought about it, I reminded Myself of all the tears I had shed for He, and all the times I turned myself inside out trying to make things work with He, and I asked Myself: Really, my darling, what have you lost?

The answer was quick and clear, because Myself and I have had this conversation many times before: I lost someone who let me love him.

That's all. It probably doesn't seem like much--it really wasn't much--but at the time, I let it be a lot.

But as I was floating in the pool and looking up at the moon, which was big and bright and just short of full, I felt as if it were almost impossible to be sad. What an insult to the universe to surrender to the temptation of sadness under those circumstances, which included an evening spent with friends, eating good food and drinking good wine and then coming home to slip into the water and float under a moonlit sky.

And it seems to add time and space to my life, these times when I'm aware only of how it feels to be in the water and how the palm trees cast their shadows and how the birds fly from tree to tree and how the crickets chirp and how bright is the moon.