guarded

I've contended for a long time that my guardian angel is very busy.

Yesterday I went to the local grocery store for some comfort ice cream and another Die Hard movie (I'd driven eight hours only stopping once on Tuesday, which kindled a flare-up in my old back problems, rendering me stoic but quite miserable), and as I was checking out, the cashier, a slender cute teenaged girl I've always gotten along with, struck up a conversation.

"Do you know [Boy #1]?" she said.

"Yes," I answered, keeping my expression and tone neutral. However badly things end with a guy, or a friendship, or a job, I dislike participating in the spread of nastiness, so I tend to keep my mouth shut.

"Yeah, he said he'd been talking to a girl named Sarah who worked in a law office, and I knew your name was Sarah and when you came into the store yesterday, you were wearing your jacket with the law office logo on the back, so I figured he was talking about you."

"Yes indeed," I said.

There was a pause while the credit card machine malfunctioned and she pushed a few buttons. After a minute, she said, "I'm not on very good terms with him."

"Oh really," I said, perking up.

"Yeah. I had to call the cops on him."

"Oo, I want to hear all about this," I said.

She told me that, first of all, she was eighteen and Boy #1 was twenty-eight ("Yesss," I intoned), and that she had a boyfriend, which Boy #1 knew, but she'd been hanging out with Boy #1 thinking everything was cool, until one night while hanging out with him she told him she was going to her boyfriend's house. At which he exploded in temper. She left, got into her car, and drove to her boyfriend's. Boy #1 followed her, shouting the whole way, so when she got there, she called the police. He has since been prank calling her cell phone, and showing up at the store to call her nasty names (really nasty names). She said she had to block his number the day before.

"Well," I said, after expressing sympathy, outrage and horror. "I'm glad I'm not seeing him anymore."

"Yeah," she said. "When I figured out he was talking about you, I thought, 'Oh no, I have to say something to her! She's so cute and nice!'"

I thanked her and left the store thoughtfully. My first response was to acknowledge how much I love the sisterhood of being female. This is what we do -- we look out for each other, we are shocked and horrified and irate at each other's misfortunes, and we go out of our way to warn bare acquaintances about the bad apples in the barrel.

My second response was to wonder if she'd been telling the whole truth. I have no reason to doubt her; we barely know each other, and she's always struck me as nice. Still, despite the sisterhood, girls will sometimes screw each other over as royally as possible when it comes to men. It could be that she'd like to be with Boy #1 and was trying to eliminate any competition. That doesn't bother me a bit in this case; I've been done with him for a few weeks now.

Which she would know if she were really attempting to date him. I concluded that I'd take her story as the truth with a pinch of salt, because it does makes sense that way: If she already has a boyfriend, and Boy #1 is either jealous or attempting to groom her into feeling safe, he would have brought up my name as someone he's seeing currently, in order to accomplish his ends. (If this is something that pathological guys do. I don't know much about workings of the masculine psyche.) I'll assume she left out some details, however, as I'd seen no signs of that kind of behavior in him, though he was something of a jerk to bolt when he thought I was "getting too serious" -- which goes to show what he's really after. Also I'd detected a cruel streak in him, toward the end, although, again, I didn't see any signs of psychotic behavior.

My next thought centered around how not like that he'd been with me, and to wonder why. I'm older and not as vulnerable/powerless? He'd decided to get rid of me, and so all of that crazy behavior wasn't necessary? There was a lot the cashier hadn't told me and her situation with Boy #1 was starkly different from mine? It makes me shiver a little bit, because I was alone with him a lot, and he really could have hurt me if he'd wanted to. But he didn't -- he knew I can handle a gun, I never indicated weakness, and something kept him (mostly) within the bounds of decency. But then it also boils down to Boss-Man, who has a reputation about town, and would descend in a cloud of burning sulphuric legal wrath on anyone who gave me grief, so I walk around with a certain aura of confident protection. Everybody knows whom I work for.

Even so, I've felt a little sorry for my guardian angel over the years. He seems to be working a lot. Do beings of cosmic power ever need a vacation? (I hope not, for my sake.)

Glad to have gotten out of that one, and that unscathed.

I plead the First

When I went to fetch the office mail this morning, one of the post office boxes was sealed shut.

Thinking that perhaps we had been late with our annual rent, I popped in to see the clerk.

No, we don't need money, he said. We need information.

And proceeded to hand me a form requesting not only the name of each person authorized to use the post office box, but also two forms of identification for each said person.

I didn't keep my temper very well. I was exhausted from driving eight hours the day before and staying up too late trying to wind down from the driving; also in a foul mood from taking Prednisone for the latest migraine. I stared at the application in extremely annoyed disbelief.

The postmaster explained that two of the "hijackers" had used post office boxes with false IDs. I did not say, as I was thinking, "And it took our wonderful government SEVEN YEARS to get around to addressing that moot issue?"

I mean come on. Homeland Security is getting a little a.) tardy and b.) meticulous. Both in a bad way. Are they bored over there, or what?

I like to keep my political opinions offline as much as possible. But when I have to present two forms of ID to get my own mail, the government has gone a little too far. I don't like big government. I don't like the implicit attitude that each and every American citizen has become suddenly suspect of potential terrorism (what of our judiciary slogan, "innocent until proven guilty"? I realize a government should not be foolhardy, and that preemptive measures must be taken in some regards, but our mail? Isn't it enough that flying has become the world's biggest hassle?). I don't like the sense of being spied on -- 1984, anyone? I don't like every postal worker that waltzes through the local post office having access to my driver license and passport numbers -- especially because I saw completed forms with such information on them just lying around in the post office. And I don't like the absurd parallel to the one kid in fourth grade who throws his potato chip crumbs all over the floor and suddenly nobody's allowed to eat in class.

And some of the "ID" forms that are acceptable to the government strike me as being None of Their Business. Here's the list as I received it from our local post office:

- State Issued ID Card
- Armed Forces ID
- Vehicle Insurance Policy
- University ID
- Home Owners Insurance Policy
- Current Lease
- Certification of Naturalization
- Government ID
- Voter Registration Card
- Passport
- Recognized Corporate ID Card
- Mortgage
- Deed of Trust
- Alien Registration Card

Vehicle Insurance Policy? Home Owners Insurance Policy? Current lease? Mortgage? Since when did the federal government have any business at all sticking their noses into any of that? Does anyone else feel a certain reduction in dignity having to hand over copies of their insurance, lease, or mortgage to the post office, in the event they don't have a voter registration card or a passport? What next? Credit card numbers? Bank accounts?

No. This is ridiculous. I have been a staunch supporter of the "War on Terror" as the better of two evils for a long time now, while still thinking of it as an evil. But I've found the whole thing increasingly distasteful of late, and when this "War on Terror" hobbles my ability to do something as simple as gather the mail as a daily part of my job, I really don't think some of the higher-ups are doing theirs. What has Homeland Security been doing besides making daily life more difficult for the average citizen without any noticeable benefit or increased (hm) homeland security? Have there been more threats and fake IDs used to obtain post office boxes? Why not tell us then? What next -- the government opening and reading everyone's mail? (Maybe they already do this and I'm behind on the times.)

It doesn't make sense. I feel a distinct sensation of bureaucratic strangulation. Soon we'll be so numbered and tagged and ID'd that we won't be able to go anywhere or do anything without having our numbers tattooed on our arms or stuck in chips under our shoulders. How much does the federal government have a right to know? When did the Republicans start getting big government? Because this is practically socialist, and I'm no fan of that.

It's bad enough that the gas prices are soaring uninhibited by any grounds of decency or common sense, which is driving up the cost of every other imaginable thing -- goods, food, transportation -- to the point where services (like my small law office) suffer because the average person can't afford to pay the bills and eat and drive to work, much less obtain an attorney.

But having to prove myself twice over just to check the mail is insulting.

I'm annoyed. There are precautions, and then there are absurdities. I've been seeing a lot of absurdity. And I'm sure I'm not the only one wondering whether November's elections will bring any upward change, and how much longer the good American people can shoulder this increasingly unbearable pressure from those elected to care for them.

miscellanea

I couldn't do it. I contracted with myself to do it, and I couldn't do it.

I have this very old prejudice against televisions in the bedroom. Blame my parents. Or their parents. Come to think of it, no one even in my extended family has ever had televisions in their bedrooms. Maybe it's a weird Scotch-Irish/German American thing. I mean, we keep books in the bathroom. Why not TVs in the bedroom? But somehow it's a desecration. Beds are for reading in. (And other things, of course, if one is married. But even so, reading takes place in bed far more often than even that reportedly most enjoyable of activities. One doesn't need stamina to read a book for hours every night.) The television is an ugly, noisy, blue-light monstrous invader. Its place is in the living room where the whole family can gather around it (movies are for sharing, too). It belongs nowhere else.

The bedroom, in my family experience, has always been this sanctorum of privacy and quiet -- a place to go hide when the world, or even the rest of the house, becomes frustrating or threatening. A place to relax and let down all of the walls you keep rigidly in place outside of it. A place to find peace. A retreat, a haven.

Somehow quiet is critical to this concept. A TV is never quiet. Books are quiet. Books are friendly. Books engage the parts of your brain that allow you to forget, to escape, to become thoroughly absorbed in a different world and travel far away for awhile without any more movement than is occasionally required to adjust a pillow.

So, despite my stern decision to be like more people and lounge in bed with the TV blasting, I finished my movie in the living room, brushed my teeth, and crawled in bed with Bridget Jones.

I didn't make it to sleep by 10:00 either. I wasn't sleepy. Of course I am now, however, when my attention should be sharper and more focused. The perversity of the human body.

A funny thing has begun to happen. When I first started working a desk job where I had internet access anytime I wanted it, I wasted so much time surfing it was actually rather embarrassing. Now, though, I'm losing interest, and I'm trying to sort out why. I don't think I'm the only one, either -- over the years, the comments have dwindled, and so has my religious perusal of the blogs of every single person I might have met if only for five minutes at a party.

I think it's life. I know that for myself, I'm becoming increasingly hungry to live, to have my own life which totally occupies my attention, to be involved with people and not webpages. I'm impatient for that "real life" thing to take off -- I suppose it has to do with the post on "settling down" I wrote a month or so ago. I want to make roots. I want to be a part of what's happening around me. I want friendship and love and a home and all those domestic activities that seemed so boring when I was younger -- gardening, mowing the yard, painting the house. I want the miraculous beauty of ordinary life.

I'm working out how to get there. It won't require a husband, either, so no worries about interference with the New Deal re: dating. So I'm sorting things out. It's about time I came to life.

constitution for wednesday

So. Freaking. Tired. The ups and downs of dating are exhausting. It's like a never-ending exercise regime where there's unfamiliar music playing in the background and you can't tell when you're supposed to be running and when you're supposed to be resting and the whole thing begins to seem suspiciously like musical chairs but you don't know who your partner is or whether you're even supposed to have one.

With all that craziness, therefore (which isn't completely unenjoyable, just a strain on the out-of-shape dating form), I am drawing up a contract with myself for tonight. I get all jumpy and edgy and forget how to rest.

Tonight's strict itinerary: I will:

1. Go home immediately following post-work tutoring session.
2. Change into fluffy flannel pajamas.
3. Reheat leftovers for dinner.
4. Eat said leftovers in front of television, preferably Die Hard.
5. Once leftovers have been consumed, move TV into bedroom for temporary indulgence in utter decadence (existence usually being spartan books-only activities in bedroom) of sprawling full length in bed having brains turned to mush by mindlessly violent films of choice.
6. Turn the lights out, roll over and go to sleep no later than 10:00.

I will not:

1. Worry about mountains of unwashed clothes.
2. Bother myself about dishes cluttering the sink.
3. Try to rectify spacially challenged disaster in four of the five rooms of my house.
4. Entertain any thoughts or feelings of guilt whatsoever for Nos. 1-3; there's always tomorrow and I'm really really tired.

well, now

That's more like it.

Boy #1 is history. Old, dead, defunct, dry, moth-eaten history. [Yawn.]

Onto Boy #2.

I've known this one for awhile now, seen him about town, etc., knew he was interested but never encouraged him till recently, when I thought, What the hell? Why not. So I gave him just the teeniest bit of encouragement last week, and Bam! we're dating.

I'll call him CB, for Cowboy. This one, a bit like Boy #1, loves things that go fast and wreck other things. He also likes the great outdoors, killing the things that live there, or setting it on fire. He raises horses and pigs. He drives a huge and fast truck.

He's also the consummate gentleman. I haven't had to open a door for myself since I started seeing him -- truck door included. He won't let me do any dishes or help with the cooking; he won't let me pay for anything at all; he concerns himself with my comfort; he does all the work and all he wants me to do is sit there and be happy.

A girl could get used to this.

Actually, after most of a life of taking care of others and myself with as little help from anyone else as possible, I protest a little bit about not being able to do anything and having all my own needs taken care of. I mean, what's up with that? But whenever I say something like, But I want to help! or, You really don't have to do that, he just looks at me and crooks a grin and says, Get used to it.

Now, I'm refusing to do what I usually do and go all ga-ga and filmy eyed with soft-lensed visions of fat barefoot babies and tire swings. Nope; this is just dating, and it's just for fun. But he has surprised me. On a number of fronts. So I've decided to enjoy the surprises, take all the spoiling I can get, and see how well these two very differently backgrounded people who both also apparently love direct communication work together.

But so far, with my own New Deal, this is turning out exactly like I'd hoped. Life has more zest. Waking up brings me pleasure with a hint of excitement. Even my job is more fun.

Oh, two points of interest:

1.) My cat likes him. This is something of a minor miracle. My cat has only liked two men in my history of owning him, and neither of those previous two have been men I dated. Interesting.

2.) This boy has never been to college, doesn't do much reading. He's a cowboy. But he told me that what drew him to me from the first was my intelligence. That my being so smart meant he wouldn't have to worry about me because I know my own mind and don't need other people to make it up for me. This is something I've never heard before. I spend most of my time pretending I'm not as smart as I am, so as not to put the men off, and they usually mumble something about "big words" and vamoose anyway. CB likes the big words, figures out what I'm saying from the context. I've never felt more relaxed about speaking the way I speak, instead of performing mental contortions trying to reword my sentences in a way that doesn't sound too educated.

So I'm pretty happy with all this. And he's the one doing all of the calling and most of the texting; I'm just sitting back and having fun. And reminding myself not to take it seriously. (This is new to me, after all.)

Can't put more than one hook in the water, though. I think he's leaning toward a slightly more serious side of things, while reserving that interesting male skittishness toward the M-word, and even though I'm not (yet) serious in any fashion, I still just can't go out with somebody else. Now if things don't work out with CB, I'm jumping back on the horse and going after another right away; but until then, I guess you have to call me a one-man girl. True blue. Tunnel visioned. One-track-minded. Whatever you want. This hook is plenty of fun all by itself.

aha

Ahahahaha. I've figured it out.

Turns out Boy is not disinterested, and sudden squirreliness had little to do with politics. I heard from a friend of a friend who is a friend of his that he rabbited away because he thought I was getting too serious.

Figures, I said. The one time I'm NOT serious about a guy I get punished for it anyway.

Just play it cool, said the friend. And date. A lot. Play the field.

Now of course, my life being what it is, before my blind date with Boy I had never seen him before, even though it's a small town, so when it all seemed to be going up in smoke I thought, No biggie; I didn't run into him before, I probably won't run into him again. Wrong. Suddenly I'm seeing him EVERYwhere. Bank. Grocery store. And every road I'm driving on. Ridiculous.

But I employed the Play It Cool strategy and carelessly waggled fingers at him whenever I saw him and went about my business.

He stopped by the house yesterday. I was sitting on the porch with a friend, getting ready to grill, when a truck that I knew was his even without my glasses (I memorize vehicles quickly) drove by, honked, then turned around and came back. An hour of his telling stories ensued.

AHA! I thought. The strategy works. And my brain started outputting an analysis of the new situation.

See, I've known my own tack of desperate earnest eagerness hasn't been working -- it's never worked at all. But I've been clinging to this romantic notion that when I meet That One Guy everything will fall into place like the first five minutes of Enchanted. So I never changed my tactics; I figured when I met the right person, my tactics would be fine.

But when a strategy doesn't work, an intelligent person must learn to adapt. It might be uncomfortable -- I'm a homebody, I like cooking and grilling and watching movies and reading and sitting around with people I know well talking for hours over beer about the abstract problems of the world. I forget, though, that the people I know well took time to know well. I can't expect anything different in my dating life. And in order to meet people, I have to Get Out There. Prince Charming isn't going to consult a crystal ball and come charging up my driveway; I have to learn to do something new, so I can be seen.

Uncomfortable, yes. Unnatural, a bit. But it will get easier with practice, like learning a new technique on the piano. And if I view it as a fun mental exercise, I can enjoy what everyone but me has always known is a game. I've always hated games as phony and gilded, but it looks like I have to learn to play or sit life out on the sidelines permanently.

So I'm going to experiment, with all those things that women over time have said work, to see how effective they really are. Playing it cool. Playing hard to get. Playing it casual. Playing the field. (See how all these things start with "play"?) It's like chess. If I jump my knight completely over his bishop and pretend to be going after his rook, I can get his queen. And if that strategy doesn't work, I can try a new one. Lost this game? Onto the next opponent. Won this game but bored with the opponent? Time to move along. Play a few games at once? Better than playing solitaire.

I'm interested. My boundless curiosity is piqued. I'm going to look at it like a scientific enterprise, and I'm going to (finally) have fun with it. Lots of other people have said that dating is fun -- I want some of that fun, thank you! My life as it is is unbearably boring. And I used to be pretty good at chess. Looks like it's time to brush up my skills and start assembling the pawns.

as usual*

Damn. Damn. Damn.

9:15 a.m. Work. Get call from Boss, who inquires after my mental state, saying he worries about me. I tell him fine, not worried about loss of Boy -- though still confused about what happened.

Boss says he had brainwave regarding strange loss of interest from Boy: small town politics. Boy is friends with folks who hate Boss. Someone planted bug in his ear. I got caught in middle. Boy listened to friends rather than consult me for truth.

I tell Boss this actually makes sense because of odd conversations I had with Boy at around time his behavior changed, relating to Boss's finances and taxes, about which I refused to speak. Secretary means secret-keeper, after all. Boy wouldn't stop harping. V. bizarre.

11:00 a.m. Feel significantly better. Boy didn't suddenly decide I was ugly. Boy is simply a weak person who relies overly much on the opinions of his friends. Boy is sheep. I am sheep dog. I want another sheep dog, not sheep. Best to have found it out this early, good riddance, want loyal partner, etc.

12:00 p.m. Home. Phone call to mother incenses her further over Boy's already Neanderthalic behavior. I don't tell her I found said behavior irritating but attractive in Bam-Bam sort of way. Instead am even more disgusted by what appears to have been Boy's attempt to dig up dirt on Boss using me. Invent half a dozen imaginary ways of telling Boy off.

12:58 p.m. Return to office from lunch. See Boy's work van heading toward street I am driving on to reach office. Boy looking at traffic not me. Jerk. No. Good. I don't have to wonder whether or not I should wave. Put arm down. Zoom quickly into parking lot across street from office to avoid being seen...or maybe to get out and be seen more quickly when Boy drives by. (After all, am one of prettiest girls in town. Might as well rub in what he's missing.)

12:59 p.m. Shit. Shit. Boy is parking in front of building Boss's wife is building next to office. Boy is doing inspection work at new building! Have to run into him. Shit.

1:00 p.m. Cross street looking relaxed and confident. All good so far. Boy is on cell phone (as always), still sitting in van. Will just wave and saunter past.

1:01 p.m. Boy gets out of truck before have reached curb. Hanging up phone. Must pass him now.

God he's attractive.

1:05 p.m. Arrrrgh. Meant to be cool and aloof when next saw him, but instead smiled and said hey. Boy made usual comments about how self is lucky to wear casual clothes to work, lucky to have lunch break, he's been checking electrical work all day, etc. Smiled and told him guess that's how it goes. Ooo-ed over Boy's dirty hands like some blonde barfly giggling over war wounds. (Lovely huge work-hardened manly kill-something hands. Miss holding those hands. Want to touch those hands. No! No! Boy is treacherous, dirt-digging sheep. Go back to work.) Managed to get away before dignity completely cracked and fell off. Walked shaking into office and tried concentrating on something else. Like maybe if I look busy and important and responsible he'll notice if he comes in to see me.

1:08 p.m. Saw his van drive past office window. Stupid. Of course he wouldn't say hi, he doesn't like me anymore. Why? Why? Slam dictation tape into slot to begin transcription. Am important with crucial job. Have many highly critical things to do. Love work. Don't need Boy.

1:10 p.m. Can't stop thinking about it. Why would he let small town politics take precedence over me? I'm gorgeous and funny. Oh God. Know he's all over, it's toast, did right thing by deciding not to pine, but still want him. Ugh. Ugh. Hate dating. Hate self. Now have nothing to think about but how nicely Boy kissed -- no! That way lies insanity. Dictation! Think about dictation.

1:11 p.m. Really want cigarette. Force self to focus.

1:12 p.m. Keep making typos all over screen. Have to rewind damn dicatation tape over and over. Fingers don't seem to belong to self at all but to have begun some sort of rebellion where they dance all over keys in some kind of code telling me things that make no sense. Forcibly take control. Am supreme dictator of fingers.

1:15 p.m. Despair. I lurrrved him. Now he's gone and I'll never see or hear or touch or smell him again.

1:17 p.m. WANT CIGARETTE.

1:20 p.m. Finally done with dictation. Nobody in office. Cigarette!

1:21 p.m. Left cigarettes in car. Damn. No, good. Very good girl. Don't need filthy nasty evil noisome candy of Satan. Will power through momentary despair entirely on positive self-talk and force of will. Will be fine.

1:22 p.m. Must have drug of some kind. Will nip upstairs to break room for cup of coffee.

1:30 p.m. Spent seven minutes staring blankly down at sunny breeze-swept street. Am going to be alone for rest of life and wind up creaking in nursing home rocking chair with no visitors being beaten by attendants with bedpans. Brain knows Boy is Fascist idiot, but heart still hurts about it. Really liked Boy. Know he won't call, would force self not to pick up phone if he did call, but wish he would call so at least could ignore him and not feel cast off like old mitten.

3:19 p.m. Head hurts. Brain gradually persuading heart that heart is wrong and brain is right. Body not listening. Want cigarette.

* With acknowledgments to Helen Fielding.

monday bloody monday

Boy is it ever Monday.

Every once in awhile, it's almost pleasing to indulge in a bitter or sour mood. So, to compound my renewed status as a single woman (preemptively chosen -- I'm learning), an abrupt visitation by an evil head/throat/chest cold, and the onslaught of the least pleasant part of my monthly cycle, I have decided to quit smoking. Why? First of all, for obvious reasons -- health and money. Second, if all I'm thinking about is how grumpy I am because my head hurts and feels as though it's stuffed with wool, I am less likely to lose perspective on the other things because I won't be thinking about them.

Besides, having a chest/throat thing going on is a sensible time to quit. My current coughing jags make me sound a little like Darth Vader, and why make it worse?

Hello, Mean Nasty Monday. You're feeling about how I am. Let's be friends and go make somebody miserable.

a work-in-progress

The Fundamental Difference between Yes and No

The body says it first.
The cause is the effect,
action undifferentiated from intent –
the blind rooting at the breast
or the blood-filled face
compressed with effort.

Confusion comes with language
and social genuflections, when
word and deed signify
a subtle deconstruction -

but in their reverberation -
the virgin girl pinned braless
to the rough upholstery, the man
watching his wife back down
the driveway rolling gravel
under luggage weight -

the housewife swallowing the always
stillborn argument, the fourth-grade boy
shrugging the shirt's sting into cigarette
burns to dodge the teacher's question -

look to the eyes stitched tightly
at the corners, the planked gallows
in the shoulders, the bloodless
anchor in the jaw.

Look to the rakes forged from
the fingers, the fire flare
that rims the nose, the winched
cords pulsing in the neck.

The body says it first.