Live and let live. Throughout his life, Max has believed it is important to accept other people as they are, although they may have a different way of life. He reasons this is not only logical and fair, but also the moral and right way to conduct himself. We live the life we choose and must respect others’ right to do the same.
Max’s guiding principal of respect and tolerance were honed throughout his life. Born to Egyptian parents in Cairo, he never lived in the country of his origin and had to learn to quickly adapt to other cultures. His father work for an American company in the Sudan, where a young Max went to Catholic school and learned English. When the political situation in the country soured, the family transferred to Athens, Greece. From the ages of 9 – 22, Max attended American schools in Greece alongside youth from all over the word, of every color and creed, the children of expatriates and diplomats.
Whether it was the international exposure or his curious and questioning mind, Max began to have doubts about the Islamic faith that his family held as dear. Instead, his guiding belief in the principal of ‘live and let live’ became even more firmly rooted. Although he respected the traditions of his parents, Max stopped practicing Islam by the time he became a graduate student in Chicago.
Max met Ken, an outgoing, friendly American student, during this period while attending graduate school. The two became best friends and maintained a close relationship for years. When Ken got married, Max was a groomsmen in his wedding. Later Ken joined the Air Force, and Max made a point to visit him wherever he was stationed. The topic of religion started to come up only after Ken joined a small Christian church in Florida. Max respectfully listened. He felt happy his friend had found something, which brought meaning and comfort. But when Ken started to proselytize, Max explained he didn’t feel compelled to join or follow any religion.
Two Christmases ago before he was stationed in Germany, Ken gave Max a book called “God Loves You My Muslim Brother.” Max was troubled by the gift and never opened it. When Ken would press on the topic of religion, Max would eventually ask the topic be dropped.
But Ken hasn’t dropped it. Last week he told Max that the Koran encourages Muslims to be terrorists. Max was stunned, but not rendered speechless.
“Ken, you know me. You know my family. Why would you ever think this?”
“An Egyptian man and former Muslim spoke at church on Sunday,” Ken replied.
“Do you believe everything you read and hear? Max asked. “People can take a random passage in any book of faith and interpret it any way they want to. You know that I do not follow Islam, Ken. But I can tell you with absolute certainty that this man does not describe my parent’s faith. My parents our sickened by the extreme factions of Islam.”
Later, Ken followed up on his conversation with an e-mail explaining how the Bible has never been mistranslated. My husband never bothered to respond.
Max is a patient and open-minded man, but this last conversation has caused him to question whether he and Ken should remain friends. My husband doesn’t care that Ken is Christian. My family is Christian. We also have friends who are Protestant, Catholic, Jewish, Buddhist, Hindu, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormon, agnostic, and atheist. But Max feels that he couldn’t, or maybe even shouldn’t, remain friends with someone who could hold another group of people (not to mention those of his own family and background) in such poor regard. Ken’s words weren’t those of godly love; they were words of hate.
This would be an easy decision for me. If you have a gangrenous limb, you lop it off. If you are in a toxic relationship, you end it. But, this is Max’s decision to make. And he is wrestling with whether he should turn the other cheek once again, accept Ken for who he has become, or end a 17-year friendship. I’ve never seen my husband so sad and preoccupied. Live and let live, but at what cost?
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friends. Show all posts
2.25.2008
9.28.2007
D-day
I've got my bag packed. Once those contractions start, I'll head to the hospital.
That's right. I've been keeping a secret from you.
No! Not THAT, sillies.
My dearest friends Shannon and Scott have asked me to be in the delivery room for the birth of their first child. I cannot even begin to tell you how honored I am by their request--also a little nervous, but honored just the same.
People ask me if I think about what the experience will be like. I don't think about it. Although I've never been pregnant, I do know every birth is different. Why should I dwell on it? At this moment, I only think about two things--being a witness to a new life entering this world and giving my sweet Shannon what she needs during that time. I don't have a clue what that is, but I guess I'll find out on the big day...
Which, by the way, should be any day now. We are well into week 39. In fact, I'm practicing my breathing exercises as I type this post.
****
It's Friday and my second attempt at podcasting has been posted. Check here if you have 3 or 4 minutes to spare. You'll need Quicktime to hear it.
That's right. I've been keeping a secret from you.
No! Not THAT, sillies.
My dearest friends Shannon and Scott have asked me to be in the delivery room for the birth of their first child. I cannot even begin to tell you how honored I am by their request--also a little nervous, but honored just the same.
People ask me if I think about what the experience will be like. I don't think about it. Although I've never been pregnant, I do know every birth is different. Why should I dwell on it? At this moment, I only think about two things--being a witness to a new life entering this world and giving my sweet Shannon what she needs during that time. I don't have a clue what that is, but I guess I'll find out on the big day...
Which, by the way, should be any day now. We are well into week 39. In fact, I'm practicing my breathing exercises as I type this post.
****
It's Friday and my second attempt at podcasting has been posted. Check here if you have 3 or 4 minutes to spare. You'll need Quicktime to hear it.
9.24.2007
Max’s Harem
During our honeymoon cruise, Max and I spent every night salsa dancing at Boleros, a Latin lounge featured on select Royal Caribbean ships. And because we were regular fixtures there, we met many other passengers, who also frequented the club.
The Garcia’s (with a tall, elegant husband, beautiful wife, and three statuesque, 20-something, daughters) joined our group of newfound friends. But even though the entire clan hailed from Latin America, not a one knew how to dance salsa.
So it didn’t seem odd that on our last night, as Max and I danced away, husband Baltazar Garcia approached and asked if we’d be willing to give he and his family an impromptu lesson. We happily obliged.
At first, we tried to demonstrate the basic step and turns. However, when my husband and I saw the family struggling, we decided to switch off partners. Max danced with the mother and daughters; I danced with Baltazar.
Our impromptu lesson over, I headed back to our table of other friends. Cindy, also a newlywed, addressed me under her breath.
“You’re a better woman than I am,” she said sharply.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Those women (the Garcia daughters) are gorgeous. I wouldn’t let my husband near them,” she explained. “You’re not bothered if Max dances with another woman?’
“Not at all.” I responded. “I wouldn’t have married Max if I had any doubts about his character.”
And with those few words, the conversation ended. Cindy may have felt that I was being naïve, but I am wise to the problems of infidelity. She couldn’t know I’ve previously experienced two unfaithful husbands.
But what Cindy also didn’t know is I am use to seeing my husband socialize with beautiful women. He owned a modeling and talent agency several years ago and has maintained lasting friendships with both former employees and clients. And even if Max hadn’t been ‘in the industry,’ he would still have lots of women friends. In fact, half the people invited to our small wedding of twenty five were Max’s very best friends—and all female.
I often get asked if this bothers me. But to be honest, I consider it a sign of Max’s good character. He never dated or slept with any of his women friends. The relationships stayed plutonic before I was in his life. Why would I worry now? Max appreciates good conversation. He knows fine wine, likes to shop, and thinks the Houston Astros play football. In other words, he is every woman’s favorite, non-gay, male friend. It would be pointless of me to try and fight nature.
And why would I? My husband’s friends have all become my close personal friends,too. And my friends have also become Max’s friends’ friends. Sometimes, we all party together. And when we do, Max tags along— like the master of his own personal harem. But so long as I stay his “head wife,” I won’t have any issues. Would you?
The Garcia’s (with a tall, elegant husband, beautiful wife, and three statuesque, 20-something, daughters) joined our group of newfound friends. But even though the entire clan hailed from Latin America, not a one knew how to dance salsa.
So it didn’t seem odd that on our last night, as Max and I danced away, husband Baltazar Garcia approached and asked if we’d be willing to give he and his family an impromptu lesson. We happily obliged.
At first, we tried to demonstrate the basic step and turns. However, when my husband and I saw the family struggling, we decided to switch off partners. Max danced with the mother and daughters; I danced with Baltazar.
Our impromptu lesson over, I headed back to our table of other friends. Cindy, also a newlywed, addressed me under her breath.
“You’re a better woman than I am,” she said sharply.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Those women (the Garcia daughters) are gorgeous. I wouldn’t let my husband near them,” she explained. “You’re not bothered if Max dances with another woman?’
“Not at all.” I responded. “I wouldn’t have married Max if I had any doubts about his character.”
And with those few words, the conversation ended. Cindy may have felt that I was being naïve, but I am wise to the problems of infidelity. She couldn’t know I’ve previously experienced two unfaithful husbands.But what Cindy also didn’t know is I am use to seeing my husband socialize with beautiful women. He owned a modeling and talent agency several years ago and has maintained lasting friendships with both former employees and clients. And even if Max hadn’t been ‘in the industry,’ he would still have lots of women friends. In fact, half the people invited to our small wedding of twenty five were Max’s very best friends—and all female.
I often get asked if this bothers me. But to be honest, I consider it a sign of Max’s good character. He never dated or slept with any of his women friends. The relationships stayed plutonic before I was in his life. Why would I worry now? Max appreciates good conversation. He knows fine wine, likes to shop, and thinks the Houston Astros play football. In other words, he is every woman’s favorite, non-gay, male friend. It would be pointless of me to try and fight nature.And why would I? My husband’s friends have all become my close personal friends,too. And my friends have also become Max’s friends’ friends. Sometimes, we all party together. And when we do, Max tags along— like the master of his own personal harem. But so long as I stay his “head wife,” I won’t have any issues. Would you?
9.19.2007
Martinis for two...
But last night, I wasn’t sipping them with my usual companion. With my husband away in Germany, I’ve been looking for ways to fill my appointment book. Luckily for me, Suvii, fellow blogster, Latina extraordinaire, mother of an adorable two-year old, came to town and graciously accepted my invitation for dinner and, in this case, a martini or two.
It’s rare when you meet someone that you feel as if you’ve known for a long time, but Suvii make it easy to feel that way. She’s a great conversationalist with diverse interests, and most importantly, a good listener. I was quite the chatterbox during our night on the town. And if you’re reading these words, Su, I apologize if I talked your ear off! It’s just that Charlie hasn’t been much of a conversationalist since Max has been away.
Suvii is only the third blogger I’ve met in all my time in the Blogsphere. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Jamy of Grateful Dating and dearly departed (from a blog standpoint, at least) Sethro of the Brain Dump. These experiences turned out to be very positive for me. And Suvii was no exception.
But I have heard of blogger meetings that haven’t gone as well. Have you ever met a blogger that you wished you hadn’t? You don’t have to provide names, of course. But come on now—go ahead and dish. It will be our secret. ;-)
It’s rare when you meet someone that you feel as if you’ve known for a long time, but Suvii make it easy to feel that way. She’s a great conversationalist with diverse interests, and most importantly, a good listener. I was quite the chatterbox during our night on the town. And if you’re reading these words, Su, I apologize if I talked your ear off! It’s just that Charlie hasn’t been much of a conversationalist since Max has been away.
Suvii is only the third blogger I’ve met in all my time in the Blogsphere. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting Jamy of Grateful Dating and dearly departed (from a blog standpoint, at least) Sethro of the Brain Dump. These experiences turned out to be very positive for me. And Suvii was no exception.
But I have heard of blogger meetings that haven’t gone as well. Have you ever met a blogger that you wished you hadn’t? You don’t have to provide names, of course. But come on now—go ahead and dish. It will be our secret. ;-)
8.09.2007
Milestones
In previous posts, I’ve described what it’s like when Jules and I get together, and last night was another one of those occasions.
In fact, she’s upstairs sleeping in my guest bedroom as I type. Max and I refer to our top-floor suite as “Jules’ room” because she is by far our most frequent guest and may have used it more than we have. I’m not complaining. When I wake up with a hangover and Jules is still around it can mean only one thing: we had another great night.
Two empty bottles, remnants of a South African cabernet pinotage and an Argentinean malbec, provided fuel for our fodder. With Jules and me, it doesn’t take much to entertain. Conversation flowed, as always, and the topic at hand was...what else? Boys.
Jules finds herself in another relationship with someone who is recently separated. I say “another” because this is the third straight time she has dated a man just out of marriage. But, in fairness to Jules, the mid 30-something dating pool has plenty of swimmers on their second lap around. In fact, it’s a rare occasion when an age appropriate man hasn’t been married before.
Still, being the first woman after a man’s ex-wife isn’t an enviable position. Often she becomes the “transition girl,” or the woman the man dates before he’s emotionally ready to date.
“I don’t want to be that girl again!” Jules moans.
And who could blame her? When her last boyfriend, Job, ended their 6-month relationship with the “I just got out of a marriage and not ready for anything serious” line, Jules took it pretty hard. She’s been there, done that. And it looks like she’s doing it again.
“Because it worked so well for you in the past?” I ask sarcastically, knowing full well she wouldn’t dare waste a good wine by throwing the malbec at me.
“Call me crazy,” she replied. “But I can’t help but think there’s potential with Will. He’s in a much healthier place than Job.”
I’m not going to question Jules’ judgment. She’s a bright woman with her act together in many ways. But what I do know is once Jules and a man cross a certain line, her focus completely narrows on the man, even when she knows he’s not making himself wholly available to her. As a damaging result, she no longer puts herself in a position to meet other eligible men.
Jules thinks she’s just being “old fashioned,” but I call it a mistake.
“So, what am I suppose to do?” Jules asks this as a rhetorical question, but I answer it anyway.
“If you want to pursue a relationship with Will, go ahead. But at least set a few unspoken mile markers for him to meet.”
“Mile markers?” she asks.
“These markers are a sign that the relationship is progressing. If he meets the marker, you proceed. If he doesn’t, you can still proceed, but you also begin to open yourself to date other people.”
Maybe it was all the wine, but Jules felt my proposal was fair.
I then pulled out eight little sticky notes, lining them up on the table. On average it takes divorced men two years to remarry, so I decided Will should get 8 markers representing 3 months of time.
Jules decided on the goals. These were the signs of progress she would minimally expect to happen every 3 months. Remember, if these things don’t happen, Jules must take it as a sign that it is time to distance herself from Will.
And just because Jules reads this blog on occasion, I’ve decided to post her goals. It’s not as if we wrote these markers in blood, but I do want her to think about them from time to time as she and Will move forward.
Tell me if you think we were being unreasonable. Your comments as always are welcomed, but do be kind. :-)
After 3 months (of regularly dating): Jules and Will should have an agreement not to be dating other people
6 months: They should have taken a trip together
9 months: They should be regularly spending time with each other’s friends
12 months: He should have used the “L” word.
15 months: She should have met his child.
18 months: He should have introduced her to his family.
21 months: They should be talking about a future together.
24 months: More than talking, they should be taking concrete steps to solidify a future together.
In fact, she’s upstairs sleeping in my guest bedroom as I type. Max and I refer to our top-floor suite as “Jules’ room” because she is by far our most frequent guest and may have used it more than we have. I’m not complaining. When I wake up with a hangover and Jules is still around it can mean only one thing: we had another great night.
Two empty bottles, remnants of a South African cabernet pinotage and an Argentinean malbec, provided fuel for our fodder. With Jules and me, it doesn’t take much to entertain. Conversation flowed, as always, and the topic at hand was...what else? Boys.
Jules finds herself in another relationship with someone who is recently separated. I say “another” because this is the third straight time she has dated a man just out of marriage. But, in fairness to Jules, the mid 30-something dating pool has plenty of swimmers on their second lap around. In fact, it’s a rare occasion when an age appropriate man hasn’t been married before.
Still, being the first woman after a man’s ex-wife isn’t an enviable position. Often she becomes the “transition girl,” or the woman the man dates before he’s emotionally ready to date.
“I don’t want to be that girl again!” Jules moans.
And who could blame her? When her last boyfriend, Job, ended their 6-month relationship with the “I just got out of a marriage and not ready for anything serious” line, Jules took it pretty hard. She’s been there, done that. And it looks like she’s doing it again.
“Because it worked so well for you in the past?” I ask sarcastically, knowing full well she wouldn’t dare waste a good wine by throwing the malbec at me.
“Call me crazy,” she replied. “But I can’t help but think there’s potential with Will. He’s in a much healthier place than Job.”
I’m not going to question Jules’ judgment. She’s a bright woman with her act together in many ways. But what I do know is once Jules and a man cross a certain line, her focus completely narrows on the man, even when she knows he’s not making himself wholly available to her. As a damaging result, she no longer puts herself in a position to meet other eligible men.
Jules thinks she’s just being “old fashioned,” but I call it a mistake.
“So, what am I suppose to do?” Jules asks this as a rhetorical question, but I answer it anyway.
“If you want to pursue a relationship with Will, go ahead. But at least set a few unspoken mile markers for him to meet.”
“Mile markers?” she asks.
“These markers are a sign that the relationship is progressing. If he meets the marker, you proceed. If he doesn’t, you can still proceed, but you also begin to open yourself to date other people.”
Maybe it was all the wine, but Jules felt my proposal was fair.
I then pulled out eight little sticky notes, lining them up on the table. On average it takes divorced men two years to remarry, so I decided Will should get 8 markers representing 3 months of time.
Jules decided on the goals. These were the signs of progress she would minimally expect to happen every 3 months. Remember, if these things don’t happen, Jules must take it as a sign that it is time to distance herself from Will.
And just because Jules reads this blog on occasion, I’ve decided to post her goals. It’s not as if we wrote these markers in blood, but I do want her to think about them from time to time as she and Will move forward.
Tell me if you think we were being unreasonable. Your comments as always are welcomed, but do be kind. :-)
After 3 months (of regularly dating): Jules and Will should have an agreement not to be dating other people
6 months: They should have taken a trip together
9 months: They should be regularly spending time with each other’s friends
12 months: He should have used the “L” word.
15 months: She should have met his child.
18 months: He should have introduced her to his family.
21 months: They should be talking about a future together.
24 months: More than talking, they should be taking concrete steps to solidify a future together.
5.21.2007
Bikers & Bachelorettes
A constant rumbling anywhere you traveled throughout Myrtle Beach, South Carolina could only mean one thing. Motorcycle enthusiasts from around the world had converged on the Palmetto State for its annual Bike Week.Actually, the event lasted two weeks, but who was counting? After only a couple days of crowds, congestion, and V-twin engines, this bachelorette was ready to hightail it back to Raleigh in a horse and buggy, if necessary, to escape the constant growl of 80,000 thousands Harleys. In fact, even as I sit here typing these words, I still hear a humming in my head--the same one I heard through the walls of my condominium during the wee hours of the morning as I attempted to sleep off a hangover.
Aside from the noise issues, however, I found the bikers to be a friendly and fashion-forward group. I saw more leather bustiers and chaps in one weekend than I have in an entire life, and was almost inspired to buy my own tanned-hide bra. Then I remembered I already owned one. It certainly was a packing faux pas to have not including it among my choices for weekend wears. Despite this oversight, however, my fellow bachelorettes made sure I stood out and was appropriately attired with a pink feather boa and shot glass necklace. At least, my girls avoided the penis paraphernalia. Small miracles never cease.Speaking of the girls, we bachelorettes were six strong. We shopped; we drank. We flirted, danced, and sometimes used our feather boa on club floors for impromptu rounds of limbo with groups of penis-clad bachelorettes from around the country. Had I not known any better I would have sworn that Myrtle Beach also hosted a bachelorette event in conjunction with the bikers’ week. The numbers of brides-to-be were staggering.
Even though I was enjoying good times with a great group of girlfriends, I couldn’t help but wonder how my bachelor was fairing. Far from the carefree and revelrous life of a bachelorette, Max had joined a couple families in holding a large yard sale in an effort to pare down our two households into one. During a quiet moment as I browsed an assortment of “Smack That” thongs, I called him to know how the yard sale was going.“I’ve sold just about everything,” Max boasted. And you’re never going to guess what I traded my old desk for...”
He didn’t give me a chance to guess, though I wouldn’t have supposed this swap in a million years.
“A bassinet and a car seat...” he continued.
“A what?!?!” I asked incredulously.
“A bassinet... It’s for a baby,” Max replied. “Both pieces are in excellent condition and I thought...”
“But I’m not even pregnant yet.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, which was both sweet and scary at the same time.
“I know, Diane. But we agreed to start trying right away and it seemed like a good deal.”
Max was so excited, and I wasn’t about to burst his bubble. What else could I say other than I'd check out his finds when I returned home on Sunday?
5.07.2007
Out there
When a girlfriend is in the throes of PTBD (Post Traumatic Break-up Disorder), an unspoken rallying cry goes out to her inner circle of sisters-- all hands on deck!
My friend Jules is in such a situation. After weeks of overanalyzing the end and finding consolation with her posse, the time had come for Jules to shake off her pain and get back "out there".
Of course, it doesn’t matter where that is. Putting yourself "out there" is more of a metaphysical state than it is a physical location. Women understand that being there, wherever that is, can be an exhausting, daunting, and demoralizing place. Sometimes, we just can’t go it alone. And on Thursday night, Jules called me up to active duty to serve as a wingwoman during her first night back "out there"" and on the town.
Here in downtown Raleigh, "out there" usually happens on Glenwood Avenue South, home of a small strip of bars, lounges, and restaurants with inviting (though not particularly inventive) names such as Aura, Red Room and Sullivan’s. Although they share a similar address (as well as drink specials), each of these establishments attempts to distinguish itself by creating a unique atmosphere and catering to a particular crowd. It’s a smorgas board for singles trying to meet other singles. So it seemed only prudent that for her first night back, Jules tackled the strip of bars by treating it much like she would a sample platter, which meant one drink and move on.
Jules wanted to start at Sullivan’s. It’s my least favorite bar mostly because it attracts a crowd of wealthy, older, cigar-smoking men along with a subsequent smattering of gold-digging, younger women. No matter-- this was Jules’ night and I was along for the ride.
Fortunately, after one drink she wasn’t feeling the scene either and we quickly moved on to April and George’s, a wine bar of my choosing. First Thursday is Argentinean Tango Night, and I hoped it might offer interesting scenery for my broken-hearted friend.
The bittersweet sound of the bandoneon managed to muffle the crowd noise as Jules and I took our seats at the bar to watch the dancers move to the complicated rhythms. Unlike American or international ballroom, Argentinean tango dancers hold each other as if they are embracing while moving slowly around the dance floor. Maybe during happier times, Jules would have enjoyed the scene. But in the aftermath of a break-up and especially in the middle of a second glass of $15 a glass cabernet, the sight of people holding each other closely, dancing to romantic and melancholy music was more than she could bear. Her eyes welled up, and she began to talk through her tears. I knew it was time to distract her until the waitress brought our bill.
“Blah, Blah, Blah…can you do push-ups?” Only half paying attention, I wasn’t sure why Jules had asked about my fitness ability. Or, maybe I had misunderstood her.
“I don’t know, let’s see.” Without even thinking and to Jules' surprise, I dropped to the floor in my heels and began doing push-ups…
military style.
This may have been the strangest thing I have ever done completely sober in a bar. And even though the tango dancers didn’t notice, at least I put myself out there for a friend in need. It was worth it. Jules perked up with my spontaneous display, managing to hit at least three more bars on the Glenwood south strip.
My friend Jules is in such a situation. After weeks of overanalyzing the end and finding consolation with her posse, the time had come for Jules to shake off her pain and get back "out there".
Of course, it doesn’t matter where that is. Putting yourself "out there" is more of a metaphysical state than it is a physical location. Women understand that being there, wherever that is, can be an exhausting, daunting, and demoralizing place. Sometimes, we just can’t go it alone. And on Thursday night, Jules called me up to active duty to serve as a wingwoman during her first night back "out there"" and on the town.
Here in downtown Raleigh, "out there" usually happens on Glenwood Avenue South, home of a small strip of bars, lounges, and restaurants with inviting (though not particularly inventive) names such as Aura, Red Room and Sullivan’s. Although they share a similar address (as well as drink specials), each of these establishments attempts to distinguish itself by creating a unique atmosphere and catering to a particular crowd. It’s a smorgas board for singles trying to meet other singles. So it seemed only prudent that for her first night back, Jules tackled the strip of bars by treating it much like she would a sample platter, which meant one drink and move on.
Jules wanted to start at Sullivan’s. It’s my least favorite bar mostly because it attracts a crowd of wealthy, older, cigar-smoking men along with a subsequent smattering of gold-digging, younger women. No matter-- this was Jules’ night and I was along for the ride.
Fortunately, after one drink she wasn’t feeling the scene either and we quickly moved on to April and George’s, a wine bar of my choosing. First Thursday is Argentinean Tango Night, and I hoped it might offer interesting scenery for my broken-hearted friend.
The bittersweet sound of the bandoneon managed to muffle the crowd noise as Jules and I took our seats at the bar to watch the dancers move to the complicated rhythms. Unlike American or international ballroom, Argentinean tango dancers hold each other as if they are embracing while moving slowly around the dance floor. Maybe during happier times, Jules would have enjoyed the scene. But in the aftermath of a break-up and especially in the middle of a second glass of $15 a glass cabernet, the sight of people holding each other closely, dancing to romantic and melancholy music was more than she could bear. Her eyes welled up, and she began to talk through her tears. I knew it was time to distract her until the waitress brought our bill.
“Blah, Blah, Blah…can you do push-ups?” Only half paying attention, I wasn’t sure why Jules had asked about my fitness ability. Or, maybe I had misunderstood her.
“I don’t know, let’s see.” Without even thinking and to Jules' surprise, I dropped to the floor in my heels and began doing push-ups…
military style.
This may have been the strangest thing I have ever done completely sober in a bar. And even though the tango dancers didn’t notice, at least I put myself out there for a friend in need. It was worth it. Jules perked up with my spontaneous display, managing to hit at least three more bars on the Glenwood south strip.
4.30.2007
A woman's best friend
One of my very best girlfriends, Shannon, is pregnant with her first, and the timing couldn’t be more perfect--for me. Understand that I know almost nothing about babies except for a general idea about where they originate. These scant facts, notwithstanding, I’d almost prefer to believe the stork just drops the new bundle off to his or her expectant parents.
Having never been (or had many close friends who were) pregnant, I wasn’t motivated to research the subject. Ignorance was bliss until the day came when I walked in on my sister breastfeeding. The sight of her raw nipples convinced me that child bearing was entirely overrated. From that point forward, I decided to be content in my role as the nieces’ favorite aunt—that is, just as soon as the children could say “Gucci,” and not a day before.
Being a “barren” woman, as my father referred to me, had its advantages. Despite my parents’ pleas for grandchildren, I remained steadfast and never felt conflicted about whether to have children of my own. Choosing to believe my self-indulgent lifestyle was really more self-actuating than it was selfish, I thought I had it all figured out.
Then, Max entered the picture, and all my certainty about having children went the way of the stork.
When it comes to child birth and rearing, I have nothing but questions--especially now that I see a baby in my future. So when Shannon announced her pregnancy, I received the news with more than the usual joy and interest.
“You need to keep me informed. I want to know all the gory details.” I told her.
Shannon was a candid guide through her first trimester, sharing personal experiences, as well as tidbits from all the maternity books she read. She even offered to put the books aside for me, but I passed in the hopes of finding a Cliff Notes versions. Still, I appreciate her efforts. Over the last few months, she has tolerated my idiocy and answered the silliest questions. My trusted friend has assured me all the inconvenience and sacrifice associated with pregnancy is worth it.
And she almost had me convinced, until the day we went shopping for her new, maternity wardrobe at the Gap.
“You mean to tell me all the pants have elastic waistbands?” I asked incredulously.
“Trust me, darling,” Shannon replied in a soft, southern, drawl. “When you’re pregnant, elastic is a woman’s best friend.”
I was mortified. It was hard enough to accept weight gain as a precondition for pregnancy. Did I really have to go 9 nine months as a fashion faux pas, too? It hardly seemed fair that, especially after the obligatory baby shower, my child would enter the world better dressed than me.
Perhaps it was that sixth sense of motherhood kicking in early, but Shannon seemed to read my mind. Ignoring my outburst, she grabbed a few outfits, headed to the fitting, and left me alone to hyperventilate like a woman who needed to practice her patterned breathing exercises.
A few minutes later, she emerged looking like the cover model for a maternity catalog. I wouldn’t have known those demi-panel jeans had even a hint of elastic.
“How do I look?” Shannon asked, her hands resting at a slightly noticeable midsection.
And suddenly, I saw beauty--not only in the physical manifestation of my friend’s pregnancy, but also in the miracle of life that she had the privilege of helping to bring forth.
“You look great… really great.” Elastic or no elastic, I meant every word.
Having never been (or had many close friends who were) pregnant, I wasn’t motivated to research the subject. Ignorance was bliss until the day came when I walked in on my sister breastfeeding. The sight of her raw nipples convinced me that child bearing was entirely overrated. From that point forward, I decided to be content in my role as the nieces’ favorite aunt—that is, just as soon as the children could say “Gucci,” and not a day before.
Being a “barren” woman, as my father referred to me, had its advantages. Despite my parents’ pleas for grandchildren, I remained steadfast and never felt conflicted about whether to have children of my own. Choosing to believe my self-indulgent lifestyle was really more self-actuating than it was selfish, I thought I had it all figured out.
Then, Max entered the picture, and all my certainty about having children went the way of the stork.
When it comes to child birth and rearing, I have nothing but questions--especially now that I see a baby in my future. So when Shannon announced her pregnancy, I received the news with more than the usual joy and interest.
“You need to keep me informed. I want to know all the gory details.” I told her.
Shannon was a candid guide through her first trimester, sharing personal experiences, as well as tidbits from all the maternity books she read. She even offered to put the books aside for me, but I passed in the hopes of finding a Cliff Notes versions. Still, I appreciate her efforts. Over the last few months, she has tolerated my idiocy and answered the silliest questions. My trusted friend has assured me all the inconvenience and sacrifice associated with pregnancy is worth it.
And she almost had me convinced, until the day we went shopping for her new, maternity wardrobe at the Gap.
“You mean to tell me all the pants have elastic waistbands?” I asked incredulously.
“Trust me, darling,” Shannon replied in a soft, southern, drawl. “When you’re pregnant, elastic is a woman’s best friend.”
I was mortified. It was hard enough to accept weight gain as a precondition for pregnancy. Did I really have to go 9 nine months as a fashion faux pas, too? It hardly seemed fair that, especially after the obligatory baby shower, my child would enter the world better dressed than me.
Perhaps it was that sixth sense of motherhood kicking in early, but Shannon seemed to read my mind. Ignoring my outburst, she grabbed a few outfits, headed to the fitting, and left me alone to hyperventilate like a woman who needed to practice her patterned breathing exercises.
A few minutes later, she emerged looking like the cover model for a maternity catalog. I wouldn’t have known those demi-panel jeans had even a hint of elastic.
“How do I look?” Shannon asked, her hands resting at a slightly noticeable midsection.
And suddenly, I saw beauty--not only in the physical manifestation of my friend’s pregnancy, but also in the miracle of life that she had the privilege of helping to bring forth.
“You look great… really great.” Elastic or no elastic, I meant every word.
4.28.2007
Till Death Do Us Part
“Remember when you asked what was next for me?”
I didn’t remember. Over the last seven months, James and I have had so many conversations, but this one seemed different.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about the next steps,” he continued. “Obviously since Faith’s death, there has been a hole in my life.”
I nodded, but said nothing.
“…and although I can never completely fill the hole, I realize that I miss the intimacy and companionship that comes with a relationship.” James said.
I started to get a little nervous, wondering where this conversation was headed. In an effort to help Faith’s family in the months after her passing, I’d been a regular fixture at the house—taxiing the kids home from school twice a week, enjoying James' home-cooked dinners, playing Scrabble with the family. But in all this time, James had never spoken so personally with me. I tried not to let my uneasiness show and remained silent.
“So, what do you think of Match?” he asked.
Match? I couldn’t believe that the spouse of my deceased friend was asking me about an online dating service. “I’ve never tried it,” I said. “But friends of mine have with various levels of success. However, I’ve heard that eHarmony is better.”
As our discussion continued, I felt a sense of overwhelming guilt. Here I was offering dating advice to my friend’s husband. It felt both surreal and awkward at the same time. But as we chatted, I had a flashback of an entirely different conversation--one that Faith and I had shortly after receiving her stage-4 diagnosis. Lying in a hospital bed, weakened by the chemotherapy we hoped would save her, she expressed a desire that James might someday move on and find someone.
“I’m going to start taking applications for the position of James' next wife,” she joked.
I immediately took the defensive. “Faith, don’t start talking nonsense. It’s not even funny. You are going to be fine.” Maybe I was being a little abrupt with her, but I couldn’t bear to think of a life without my friend. I needed her to be optimistic.
But Faith needed to talk, to prepare herself for the inevitable.
“We’ve had such a wonderful marriage. James has always thought of my happiness first. He is a wonderful husband, and deserves to happy again.”
I listened as she talked about their blissful twenty years together and felt envious. I hadn’t known many couples that were as happy as Faith and James. Burned by love so many times, I took comfort and found hope in their relationship. It was possible that two people really could fulfill those martial vows ‘till death do us part.’
And then I came back to my present conversation with a shy, serious, 52-year old man, who’d actually lived those words and now found himself without his dearest companion. Faith would not have wanted this for James; and I should not be hesitant to want something more for him either.
“…There is also this group called “It’s Just Lunch,” I heard myself say. “When I come next week, I’ll bring you the number.”
It’s been said that people who have experienced happy marriages are the most eager to find love again after the death of a spouse. Moving on and beginning again isn’t an insult to the memory of a loved one. It is a tribute to a love that the surviving spouse can't live without.
I didn’t remember. Over the last seven months, James and I have had so many conversations, but this one seemed different.
“Well, I’ve been thinking about the next steps,” he continued. “Obviously since Faith’s death, there has been a hole in my life.”
I nodded, but said nothing.
“…and although I can never completely fill the hole, I realize that I miss the intimacy and companionship that comes with a relationship.” James said.
I started to get a little nervous, wondering where this conversation was headed. In an effort to help Faith’s family in the months after her passing, I’d been a regular fixture at the house—taxiing the kids home from school twice a week, enjoying James' home-cooked dinners, playing Scrabble with the family. But in all this time, James had never spoken so personally with me. I tried not to let my uneasiness show and remained silent.
“So, what do you think of Match?” he asked.
Match? I couldn’t believe that the spouse of my deceased friend was asking me about an online dating service. “I’ve never tried it,” I said. “But friends of mine have with various levels of success. However, I’ve heard that eHarmony is better.”
As our discussion continued, I felt a sense of overwhelming guilt. Here I was offering dating advice to my friend’s husband. It felt both surreal and awkward at the same time. But as we chatted, I had a flashback of an entirely different conversation--one that Faith and I had shortly after receiving her stage-4 diagnosis. Lying in a hospital bed, weakened by the chemotherapy we hoped would save her, she expressed a desire that James might someday move on and find someone.
“I’m going to start taking applications for the position of James' next wife,” she joked.
I immediately took the defensive. “Faith, don’t start talking nonsense. It’s not even funny. You are going to be fine.” Maybe I was being a little abrupt with her, but I couldn’t bear to think of a life without my friend. I needed her to be optimistic.
But Faith needed to talk, to prepare herself for the inevitable.
“We’ve had such a wonderful marriage. James has always thought of my happiness first. He is a wonderful husband, and deserves to happy again.”
I listened as she talked about their blissful twenty years together and felt envious. I hadn’t known many couples that were as happy as Faith and James. Burned by love so many times, I took comfort and found hope in their relationship. It was possible that two people really could fulfill those martial vows ‘till death do us part.’
And then I came back to my present conversation with a shy, serious, 52-year old man, who’d actually lived those words and now found himself without his dearest companion. Faith would not have wanted this for James; and I should not be hesitant to want something more for him either.
“…There is also this group called “It’s Just Lunch,” I heard myself say. “When I come next week, I’ll bring you the number.”
It’s been said that people who have experienced happy marriages are the most eager to find love again after the death of a spouse. Moving on and beginning again isn’t an insult to the memory of a loved one. It is a tribute to a love that the surviving spouse can't live without.
4.13.2007
Ides of May
By the time a woman gets around to planning wedding #3, she has hopefully developed a clear understanding of what she wants and, more importantly, doesn’t want-- if not in her choice of husband, than at least in regards to the wedding itself.
With my impeding nuptials, I am pretty firm about what I don’t want, with the "don’t list" rivaling the guest list. In fact, aside from an open bar, a kick-ass cake, and the groom (not necessarily in that order) there isn’t much about this wedding that I feel particularly passionate about. I just want it over, legal, and with as little fuss as possible.
Some assume that I don’t feel "right" about celebrating this occasion, since it is not my first. When friends learn that I’d rather go for root canal than register at the local department store, or that I haven’t given a moment’s thought to what I’ll be wearing (other than it won’t be white), they look as if I’m the Grinch that stole the wedding.
It isn’t that I am against any of the typical bridal trappings. I’ve had them all before. Really, for a third-time, 40-year-old, bride, like me, all of the pomp and ceremony would seem to be a bit cliché, if not redundant. And aside from being married twice before, I am anything other than redundant.
But now, despite my protests, gal pals Jules and Sonia have decided to ignore my anti-bridal platform and gone and done something truly awful.
They’ve planned a bachelorette party.
Don’t think for one minute that my friends are trying to do something nice for me. I do believe their motive is revenge for the time I duped them into going to the bachelor auction.
To make matters worse, it’s not just a party. It’s a girl’s weekend in my honor in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina—the Redneck Riviera for those of you unfamiliar with the eastern coastline. Myrtle Beach is a place where Michelob Ultra and Budweiser flow freely, and where romping wet t-shirt contests take place under the all-knowing eyes of the black velvet Elvis hanging above. And while I can throw back a Bud with the best of them, a bachelorette party anywhere and for any reason is unacceptable.
I’m convinced that the whole practice dates back to the days of the Vestil Virgins of ancient times. These women, who were forced to remain celibate for 30 years under the penalty of death, walked in procession through the streets of Rome and were always a spectacle for its citizenry. I can’t help but think after one of the virgins finished her term, she threw one major bachelorette party complete with marble penises, phallic symbols, and every pagan in town. Ironically, my modern version of this ancient tradition is going to be held during the Ides of May—the very same time when the ancient Vestil Virgins of Rome performed a rite to ensure the supply of water for the coming year. This is a sign, for sure. And all I’m saying is that I'm hitchhiking back to Raleigh the minute the first penis necklace comes out of hiding.
Bah humbug!
4.06.2007
Lately I’ve spent a lot of time lamenting the strained relationship I have with my parents. But this evening, I spent quality time with a young man who recently lost one parent—his mother and my dear friend, Faith.
It’s been six long months since Faith lost her battle to lung cancer, and hardly a day passes that I don’t think of her. In the months leading up to her death, I did what I could to help the family by picking up James and Faith's two boys from school on Monday evenings. After Faith died, I continued the routine, which been expanded to twice a week and now includes dinner with James and the boys, who are 12 and 17 years old.
It’s been a pleasure getting to know Faith’s family, and a fast friendship has formed with everyone, but especially the oldest son, David. A somewhat shy fellow, David has taken an interest in ballroom dancing, his mother’s passion and how she and I first met. David’s interest peeked when some of Faith’s dancing friends performed during a weekend event in her honor. He decided he wanted to learn to dance, too.
As it turns out, the local university offered free ballroom classes on Monday nights and David, James, and I have participated every week since January. In the last several months David has learned the basic steps in Fox Trot, Tango, Rumba, Swing, Polka, Cha Cha. Every time I see him dance in class, I cannot help but think how pleased Faith would be. It’s a bittersweet feeling, to be sure.
Part of David’s interest is encouraged by the fact that prom is only a couple weeks away. He has invited a girl from class to be his date—his first ever.
“So what are you wearing to prom?” I asked one evening over dinner.
“I don’t know. I haven’t figured that out yet,” he replied.
“Do you need help picking out a tuxedo?” I asked. Like most teenage boys, David lives in jeans and t-shirts. Formal wear might as well be a space suit. David was happy for my guidance, and we made a date to shop for prom.
David researched what the going rate would be for tuxedo rental in our area, and decided it made better economical sense to buy one from a formal wear outlet. On this night alongside scores of mothers and sons, we browsed racks and racks of jackets, vests, and ties, pulling a number of combinations to take back to the fitting room
With each ensemble, David emerged from the dressing room seeming more confident than before. And every time I gushed over his new look, I also felt a twinge of sadness that David’s mother was not there to witness this transformation. Faith did not fear death, but she did mourn not being able to see her boys grow into men. And as I stood in the fitting room, arms loaded with the rejected outfits, I realized this was one of those milestone moments that Faith had longed to see. How overwhelmingly unfair that I, a relative newcomer to David’s life, stood for even a moment in his mother’s absence to share in this occasion.
It’s been six long months since Faith lost her battle to lung cancer, and hardly a day passes that I don’t think of her. In the months leading up to her death, I did what I could to help the family by picking up James and Faith's two boys from school on Monday evenings. After Faith died, I continued the routine, which been expanded to twice a week and now includes dinner with James and the boys, who are 12 and 17 years old.
It’s been a pleasure getting to know Faith’s family, and a fast friendship has formed with everyone, but especially the oldest son, David. A somewhat shy fellow, David has taken an interest in ballroom dancing, his mother’s passion and how she and I first met. David’s interest peeked when some of Faith’s dancing friends performed during a weekend event in her honor. He decided he wanted to learn to dance, too.
As it turns out, the local university offered free ballroom classes on Monday nights and David, James, and I have participated every week since January. In the last several months David has learned the basic steps in Fox Trot, Tango, Rumba, Swing, Polka, Cha Cha. Every time I see him dance in class, I cannot help but think how pleased Faith would be. It’s a bittersweet feeling, to be sure.
Part of David’s interest is encouraged by the fact that prom is only a couple weeks away. He has invited a girl from class to be his date—his first ever.
“So what are you wearing to prom?” I asked one evening over dinner.
“I don’t know. I haven’t figured that out yet,” he replied.
“Do you need help picking out a tuxedo?” I asked. Like most teenage boys, David lives in jeans and t-shirts. Formal wear might as well be a space suit. David was happy for my guidance, and we made a date to shop for prom.
David researched what the going rate would be for tuxedo rental in our area, and decided it made better economical sense to buy one from a formal wear outlet. On this night alongside scores of mothers and sons, we browsed racks and racks of jackets, vests, and ties, pulling a number of combinations to take back to the fitting room
With each ensemble, David emerged from the dressing room seeming more confident than before. And every time I gushed over his new look, I also felt a twinge of sadness that David’s mother was not there to witness this transformation. Faith did not fear death, but she did mourn not being able to see her boys grow into men. And as I stood in the fitting room, arms loaded with the rejected outfits, I realized this was one of those milestone moments that Faith had longed to see. How overwhelmingly unfair that I, a relative newcomer to David’s life, stood for even a moment in his mother’s absence to share in this occasion.
3.07.2007
I remember those dates!
I received this e-mail from a girlfriend and it struck I chord.
Needless to say, I'm ditching Max for the evening and accepting her invite. I mean, really, after a date with a guy who carries a man purse...I think the poor woman is in need of some girl time. Am I right?
Jules and Diane,
Hey girls, I just got off the phone with my friend Sara and she has had a really bad day. So bad in fact, that she just finished having a lunch date with a guy who has braces and a man-purse. We weren't sure whether to laugh or cry, so instead we decided that she should come up to visit on Saturday and go out and drink to the start of a new week.
If you guys are free and can join, please let me know. The more the merrier!
Needless to say, I'm ditching Max for the evening and accepting her invite. I mean, really, after a date with a guy who carries a man purse...I think the poor woman is in need of some girl time. Am I right?
2.11.2007
Do I hear 250??
While I've been living in the La la land of engagement rings and wedding planning, two of my best gal pals, Jules and Sonia, have hardly been fairing well in the dating world.
Jules has spent the last 6 months dating a nice enough man, but he isn't fully relationship ready having just recently divorced from his wife of ten years. Sonia, on the other hand, has decided to limit herself to dating only men that share her same religious tradition-- a very minority religion--thus ensuring her hunt will be as tedious as the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack. And while I support the relationship decisions of both my girlfriends, sometimes it is hard to watch the women I love trudge through the murky waters of the dating pool.
Tired and weary as well, Jules and Sonia were understandably disheartened with their current state of affairs as single women. With Max off securing his parents' blessing for our upcoming nuptials, I decided to use my alone time to do what any decent friend would do. I was going to surprise my sisters with a night on the town, but not just any old night...
"What did you say we are doing tonight?" Jules asked for clarification just after I requested she come to my home in a formal gown. It was wrong of me to inform her of the dress code just hours before the event, but this was part of my master plan to keep her off guard until the very last minute. After all, had I told her where we were REALLY going, she probably wouldn't have accepted my invitation.
"Oh, it's just a fund raiser-- a charity event for the battered women's shelter." I replied.
I gave even shorter notice to Sonia, because I doubted she had met a date-worthy man at church the previous week.
"I'm picking you up at 6:45p on Saturday night. Wear that black gown I gave you. And for goodness sakes, please put a pair of thongs underneath. We can't have you showing panty lines tonight."
Sometimes, I wonder why my friends don't just slap me.
We entered the hotel lobby and spotted many women dressed to the nines. Off to our left, the buffet line was forming as the sounds of live music echoed from inside the main ballroom. A woman approached with programs in hand.
"You're here for the bachelor auction?" she asked.
Sonia and Jules look at her as if the woman had two heads.
"Yes. We're here for the auction." I responded.
I took the programs and handed them over to Jules and Sonia. I hadn't lied to my friends. This WAS a black tie fundraiser for the women's shelter. However, I had neglected to mention that all monies spent also went toward the pursuit of local, eligible men.
At the event, women could woo a bachelor one of two ways. The sure fire, and most expensive, way to secure a date with the man of your choosing was to be his highest bidder. However, if you didn't want to pay the big bucks (the bachelors went from $250 - $3,500 this particular night), a woman could possibly secure a phone number by participating in speed dating rounds, couples dances, and other harmless activities with various bachelors by using what was known as "diva dollars."
I gave both Jules and Sonia book worth 20 diva dollars.
"Go! Be fruitful! Populate the room with your phone number to as many men as possible," I commanded.
Out of curiosity, does Max know you are doing this?" Jules asked.
"Who do you think bought our tickets?" I answered. This had been the very same bachelor auction Max had participated in a year earlier. A date with Max went for a mere $800--a bargain if ever I saw one.
At first a little leery, Jules and Sonia quickly got into the spirit of the event by flipping through the program guide, which featured profiles of all the bachelors to be auctioned off that night. Forty men from the ages of 20-60 had made themselves available for sale. A few were local celebrities-- a saxophone player for a popular band, a newspaper columnist for the News and Observer. Others were successful businessmen--a nightclub owner (who Jules found particularly handsome), a real-estate developer, doctors, lawyers, and the like. As Sonia flipped through the many pages to determine her preferred bachelor(s), she ran across a few with whom she'd already crossed paths.
"Oh my god. I KNOW him! ... And this one... I dated him!" she laughed.
Jules and I agreed that Sonia had been trolling through waters of our local dating pool far too long. Sonia was at the point where she ran a high probability of catching men she'd already thrown back once. Nevertheless, even Sonia saw a few new faces among the bachelor profiles. It was time to get to work. Together, Jules and Sonia proceeded to the speed dating tables, while I made my way to the cash bar. My work for the evening was now complete.
I looked around the large, stately room. By my estimates, 800 women, representing all ages and races, attended this event. A few, like me were there for moral support, but the vast majority was single women looking for a new venue to meet eligible men. I did the numbers in my head--40 men for 800 women--and couldn't help but feel a twinge of uncomfortableness.
As the evening progressed and the various rounds of bidding proceeded, my uneasiness was replaced with a little embarrassment for the desperation displayed by some of the women present and even more outrage at the cockiness of a few of the bachelors. I turned to a woman seated next to me.
"Could you ever see men bidding on women, the way we do with men?" I asked.
"Yes, sweetie. It's called prostitution," she replied flatly.
She was right. Still, my friends were thoroughly enjoying the evening, participating in all of the events with as much seriousness as you'd have walking through a carnival fun house. And in the end, fun was really all I had hoped for. And as a bonus, Sonia had handed her number to no fewer than six of the bachelors. It seemed like there were still some fish out in them there waters. It was just a matter of trying out some different bait.
Jules has spent the last 6 months dating a nice enough man, but he isn't fully relationship ready having just recently divorced from his wife of ten years. Sonia, on the other hand, has decided to limit herself to dating only men that share her same religious tradition-- a very minority religion--thus ensuring her hunt will be as tedious as the proverbial search for a needle in a haystack. And while I support the relationship decisions of both my girlfriends, sometimes it is hard to watch the women I love trudge through the murky waters of the dating pool.
Tired and weary as well, Jules and Sonia were understandably disheartened with their current state of affairs as single women. With Max off securing his parents' blessing for our upcoming nuptials, I decided to use my alone time to do what any decent friend would do. I was going to surprise my sisters with a night on the town, but not just any old night...
"What did you say we are doing tonight?" Jules asked for clarification just after I requested she come to my home in a formal gown. It was wrong of me to inform her of the dress code just hours before the event, but this was part of my master plan to keep her off guard until the very last minute. After all, had I told her where we were REALLY going, she probably wouldn't have accepted my invitation.
"Oh, it's just a fund raiser-- a charity event for the battered women's shelter." I replied.
I gave even shorter notice to Sonia, because I doubted she had met a date-worthy man at church the previous week.
"I'm picking you up at 6:45p on Saturday night. Wear that black gown I gave you. And for goodness sakes, please put a pair of thongs underneath. We can't have you showing panty lines tonight."
Sometimes, I wonder why my friends don't just slap me.
We entered the hotel lobby and spotted many women dressed to the nines. Off to our left, the buffet line was forming as the sounds of live music echoed from inside the main ballroom. A woman approached with programs in hand.
"You're here for the bachelor auction?" she asked.
Sonia and Jules look at her as if the woman had two heads.
"Yes. We're here for the auction." I responded.
I took the programs and handed them over to Jules and Sonia. I hadn't lied to my friends. This WAS a black tie fundraiser for the women's shelter. However, I had neglected to mention that all monies spent also went toward the pursuit of local, eligible men.
At the event, women could woo a bachelor one of two ways. The sure fire, and most expensive, way to secure a date with the man of your choosing was to be his highest bidder. However, if you didn't want to pay the big bucks (the bachelors went from $250 - $3,500 this particular night), a woman could possibly secure a phone number by participating in speed dating rounds, couples dances, and other harmless activities with various bachelors by using what was known as "diva dollars."
I gave both Jules and Sonia book worth 20 diva dollars.
"Go! Be fruitful! Populate the room with your phone number to as many men as possible," I commanded.
Out of curiosity, does Max know you are doing this?" Jules asked.
"Who do you think bought our tickets?" I answered. This had been the very same bachelor auction Max had participated in a year earlier. A date with Max went for a mere $800--a bargain if ever I saw one.
At first a little leery, Jules and Sonia quickly got into the spirit of the event by flipping through the program guide, which featured profiles of all the bachelors to be auctioned off that night. Forty men from the ages of 20-60 had made themselves available for sale. A few were local celebrities-- a saxophone player for a popular band, a newspaper columnist for the News and Observer. Others were successful businessmen--a nightclub owner (who Jules found particularly handsome), a real-estate developer, doctors, lawyers, and the like. As Sonia flipped through the many pages to determine her preferred bachelor(s), she ran across a few with whom she'd already crossed paths.
"Oh my god. I KNOW him! ... And this one... I dated him!" she laughed.
Jules and I agreed that Sonia had been trolling through waters of our local dating pool far too long. Sonia was at the point where she ran a high probability of catching men she'd already thrown back once. Nevertheless, even Sonia saw a few new faces among the bachelor profiles. It was time to get to work. Together, Jules and Sonia proceeded to the speed dating tables, while I made my way to the cash bar. My work for the evening was now complete.
I looked around the large, stately room. By my estimates, 800 women, representing all ages and races, attended this event. A few, like me were there for moral support, but the vast majority was single women looking for a new venue to meet eligible men. I did the numbers in my head--40 men for 800 women--and couldn't help but feel a twinge of uncomfortableness.
As the evening progressed and the various rounds of bidding proceeded, my uneasiness was replaced with a little embarrassment for the desperation displayed by some of the women present and even more outrage at the cockiness of a few of the bachelors. I turned to a woman seated next to me.
"Could you ever see men bidding on women, the way we do with men?" I asked.
"Yes, sweetie. It's called prostitution," she replied flatly.
She was right. Still, my friends were thoroughly enjoying the evening, participating in all of the events with as much seriousness as you'd have walking through a carnival fun house. And in the end, fun was really all I had hoped for. And as a bonus, Sonia had handed her number to no fewer than six of the bachelors. It seemed like there were still some fish out in them there waters. It was just a matter of trying out some different bait.
10.27.2006
Faith
I stopped writing about my friend Faith, who has been battling cancer since last October. Writing brought me little comfort as she and her family wrestled with treatment decisions in an effort to battle this horrible illness.
Faith has fought bravely. After well known and traditional remedies ran their course, she tried new and somewhat experimental treatments, which extended both the length and quality of her life for months after doctors predicted. She hasn't been afraid of death, but felt the need to do what she could to stay around as long as possible for the sake of her two sons.
Faith and I have stayed in touch, but rarely had long conversations. We mostly played phone tag and left little messages for each other. There has been no way of predicting the good days versus the bad ones. Often when I phoned or left messages, Faith would be resting, and because the cancer had spread to her brain, she wouldn't always remember that I called.
In an effort to do something to help, I've started picking up the boys from school on Wednesdays and any other time Steve, Faith's husband, needs me. It's a small task, but one that I yearn to perform each week. I'm always reminded of my friend's one-time vibrancy through her boys, especially her younger son Alex.
Alex not only looks like his mother, but he has inherited many of Faith's mannerisms, especially when speaking. She has a slow way of conversing--enunciating clearly, hitting each consonant very precisely. Alex speaks with the same deliberacy, and when he hits his Js, tears well up in my eyes. He sounds just like his mother.
Being with the boys this past Wednesday was especially difficult. I'd learned earlier in the day that my friend's condition had taken a dramatic turn for the worse. She could no longer speak, and was mostly unresponsive to even the simplest question. On that very Wednesday and with all her options exhausted, Faith was being admitted to a hospice, where she would spend the last days of her life. Given the suffering, I hope she doesn't have many days left.
I've decided not to visit Faith in the hospice because, knowing her the way I do, she wouldn't want this to be my last memory of her. I appreciate that hospices are well thought out facilities, staffed with sympathetic professionals who make the unbearable, more bearable. However, I choose to remember my friend, a lover of all things ballroom, on the dance floor--the place where we first met and spent many happy times together.
I will never forget her.
Faith has fought bravely. After well known and traditional remedies ran their course, she tried new and somewhat experimental treatments, which extended both the length and quality of her life for months after doctors predicted. She hasn't been afraid of death, but felt the need to do what she could to stay around as long as possible for the sake of her two sons.
Faith and I have stayed in touch, but rarely had long conversations. We mostly played phone tag and left little messages for each other. There has been no way of predicting the good days versus the bad ones. Often when I phoned or left messages, Faith would be resting, and because the cancer had spread to her brain, she wouldn't always remember that I called.
In an effort to do something to help, I've started picking up the boys from school on Wednesdays and any other time Steve, Faith's husband, needs me. It's a small task, but one that I yearn to perform each week. I'm always reminded of my friend's one-time vibrancy through her boys, especially her younger son Alex.
Alex not only looks like his mother, but he has inherited many of Faith's mannerisms, especially when speaking. She has a slow way of conversing--enunciating clearly, hitting each consonant very precisely. Alex speaks with the same deliberacy, and when he hits his Js, tears well up in my eyes. He sounds just like his mother.
Being with the boys this past Wednesday was especially difficult. I'd learned earlier in the day that my friend's condition had taken a dramatic turn for the worse. She could no longer speak, and was mostly unresponsive to even the simplest question. On that very Wednesday and with all her options exhausted, Faith was being admitted to a hospice, where she would spend the last days of her life. Given the suffering, I hope she doesn't have many days left.
I've decided not to visit Faith in the hospice because, knowing her the way I do, she wouldn't want this to be my last memory of her. I appreciate that hospices are well thought out facilities, staffed with sympathetic professionals who make the unbearable, more bearable. However, I choose to remember my friend, a lover of all things ballroom, on the dance floor--the place where we first met and spent many happy times together.
I will never forget her.
10.10.2006
No place like home
Admittedly, I am straying from my normal babble about my hair, Max, and the new little puppy to bring you a true story about one man's struggle to become a U.S. citizen. I originally wrote this piece, not for my personal blog, but to highlight to injustice of a friend's personal plight. While great attention is paid to illegal immigration and its numerous and polarizing issues, very little is written about the woes of legal immigrants, who face an increasing xenophobic climate and struggle with bureaucratic bungling and red tape of a crippled immigration agency.
As a first-generation American, I may see this problem more personally than the average citizen. But whether our ancestors have been here 20 years or 200, most of us in the Unites States are the product of immigrants, who, individually and collectively, in both small and great ways, influenced this nation's laws, culture, and civilization.
I post this story as a sign of solidarity to my friend, whose saga will hopefully end this month. I can only hope his story ends with the words, "happily ever after." I'll keep you posted on the outcome.
For as long he can remember, Ahmed Ali has been without a country to call his own. After 20 years and four countries, he thought he'd finally found a home until conflicting U.S. laws and an overstretched immigration agency threatened to crush the young man's dreams.
Ali, 32, was born in Jordan. His father worked for a U.S.-owned company and moved his family to Sudan when his son was still a toddler. The young Ali has vague recollections of Sudan. "I remember my Ethiopian nanny. I remember the Catholic school that I attended, and summer vacations in Jordan."
But even as a boy, he knew that Sudan was not home. An alien-resident in the land, he was part of a small, but diverse community of ex-patriots, who worked for the company. As a result, the young immigrant grew speaking English as his primary language, and had to take especially arranged classes to learn the Arabic of his parents.
After five years, Ali's father announced that the family was moving again, only this time out of Africa and away from the Arab community altogether. Spain became the third country in which the now 8-year-old would find himself.
"I was excited. I liked Spain--the people, the food, the culture," Ali remembers. However, because the best schools were private and English-speaking, he says that he did not have opportunity to immerse himself in Spanish culture. Just as it was in Sudan, he lived in a small, close-nit neighborhood of foreigners and continued to attend American schools.
When it became time for higher education, however, Ali decided to move again--this time to the United States. He attended graduate school in Chicago, where he fell in love with the city. Most importantly, Ali felt that he had finally found a place to call home. "The melting pot of cultures offered by the United States fits my diverse upbringing. I knew instantly that the United States was where I belonged."
Still, feeling at home and having a home are entirely different matters. How could Ali stay in the United States, he wondered? Not long after graduating, he landed a job with a large corporation, which sponsored his work visa. Two years later, he married his girlfriend, an American citizen, and obtained a green card, giving him permanent-resident status.
Ali worked to make a life for him and his wife. However, problems in the marriage began increasing. Although he was only a few months from obtaining citizenship, he decided to end the marriage. "I didn't marry her to obtain my citizenship," Ali said. "I wasn't going to stay married for this reason."
Despite the fact that he supported his wife through the separation, Ali's divorce turned ugly. After months of living separately, his wife went to authorities and claimed abuse. "I was never violent toward my wife," he proclaims. "She was angry because she didn't want the divorce." His wife even went to the doctor after the alleged abuse, but no evidence was ever presented.
Even without real evidence, the claim made its way to court. Ali's wife, however, did not. "The district attorney knew my wife was lying," he says. "He wanted to drop the charges, but because it was a domestic violence claim, he could not until I agreed to a psychological evaluation." Ali gladly signed the paperwork agreeing to an evaluation and the charges were subsequently dropped.
Ali felt his life was on a solid course and that citizenship, now 11 years in the making, was inevitable. He had already completed the interview process and was just waiting for word. But instead of citizenship, he received a notice for immediate deportation back to Jordan, a unfamiliar country that he had not lived in for more than 30 years.
Why was he being deported? The allegations of abuse claimed by Ali's ex-wife two years earlier, had come back to haunt him. "By signing the paper and agreeing to a psychological evaluation, immigration courts viewed me as having consented to a felony," he says. Ali hired an immigration attorney and called the original district attorney who had dropped the case.
"He knew how to change the paperwork, so that criminal law and immigration law agreed." Within a couple days, the mix-up was handled, but not quickly enough to stop the deportation process, which has been painfully slow for an immigrant trying to maintain a semblance of home.
About the same time Ali received deportation notice, the U.S Justice department put the entire immigration system on review. Reforms to immigration appeals courts after 9/11, which changed three-judge panels to one judge, slowed the process to a near-stand still. The review was also prompted by repeated complaints that some judges were rude or incompetent.
Ali says he has first-hand experience with these problems. "After getting notice to appear in court, I drove 7 hours to Atlanta the day before Thanksgiving, only to drive back that same day because the judge didn't bother to review my case," he says. "Another time, I flew to Atlanta only to discover court was closed because the judge was sick. Then, I was pushed off the calendar due to a scheduling error."
Ali reports that he has spent $11,000 on attorneys because the deportation process has been dragged out for over a year. Other problems daunt him as well.
"This situation is not only embarrassing; it is also hurting my career. The vice president keeps asking when it will be resolved," complains Ali. "Attorneys recommend that I do not leave the country because I may not be allowed back home." Now a production manager, who once traveled internationally as part of his job, Ali finds his wings have been clipped. "I have coworkers making presentations for me," he says. "My company is growing impatient."
Personally, the deportation has also been devastating. Ali cannot travel to be with his father, now sick and elderly. He also missed his uncle's funeral in Jordan.
Despite the problems, however, he tries to remain positive about his future, focusing energy and free time on charitable pursuits, most notably as a wish granter for the Make-A-Wish foundation.
Ali gazes at a picture of one of his Make-A-Wish children, who died at the age of four. "Being with these brave children inspires me and shows me that, ultimately, my problems are nothing," he says.
He is scheduled for an October 2006 court appearance--a fourth attempt at a legal resolution and where a judge will ultimately decide what place Ali will finally call "home."
As a first-generation American, I may see this problem more personally than the average citizen. But whether our ancestors have been here 20 years or 200, most of us in the Unites States are the product of immigrants, who, individually and collectively, in both small and great ways, influenced this nation's laws, culture, and civilization.
I post this story as a sign of solidarity to my friend, whose saga will hopefully end this month. I can only hope his story ends with the words, "happily ever after." I'll keep you posted on the outcome.
For as long he can remember, Ahmed Ali has been without a country to call his own. After 20 years and four countries, he thought he'd finally found a home until conflicting U.S. laws and an overstretched immigration agency threatened to crush the young man's dreams.
Ali, 32, was born in Jordan. His father worked for a U.S.-owned company and moved his family to Sudan when his son was still a toddler. The young Ali has vague recollections of Sudan. "I remember my Ethiopian nanny. I remember the Catholic school that I attended, and summer vacations in Jordan."
But even as a boy, he knew that Sudan was not home. An alien-resident in the land, he was part of a small, but diverse community of ex-patriots, who worked for the company. As a result, the young immigrant grew speaking English as his primary language, and had to take especially arranged classes to learn the Arabic of his parents.
After five years, Ali's father announced that the family was moving again, only this time out of Africa and away from the Arab community altogether. Spain became the third country in which the now 8-year-old would find himself.
"I was excited. I liked Spain--the people, the food, the culture," Ali remembers. However, because the best schools were private and English-speaking, he says that he did not have opportunity to immerse himself in Spanish culture. Just as it was in Sudan, he lived in a small, close-nit neighborhood of foreigners and continued to attend American schools.
When it became time for higher education, however, Ali decided to move again--this time to the United States. He attended graduate school in Chicago, where he fell in love with the city. Most importantly, Ali felt that he had finally found a place to call home. "The melting pot of cultures offered by the United States fits my diverse upbringing. I knew instantly that the United States was where I belonged."
Still, feeling at home and having a home are entirely different matters. How could Ali stay in the United States, he wondered? Not long after graduating, he landed a job with a large corporation, which sponsored his work visa. Two years later, he married his girlfriend, an American citizen, and obtained a green card, giving him permanent-resident status.
Ali worked to make a life for him and his wife. However, problems in the marriage began increasing. Although he was only a few months from obtaining citizenship, he decided to end the marriage. "I didn't marry her to obtain my citizenship," Ali said. "I wasn't going to stay married for this reason."
Despite the fact that he supported his wife through the separation, Ali's divorce turned ugly. After months of living separately, his wife went to authorities and claimed abuse. "I was never violent toward my wife," he proclaims. "She was angry because she didn't want the divorce." His wife even went to the doctor after the alleged abuse, but no evidence was ever presented.
Even without real evidence, the claim made its way to court. Ali's wife, however, did not. "The district attorney knew my wife was lying," he says. "He wanted to drop the charges, but because it was a domestic violence claim, he could not until I agreed to a psychological evaluation." Ali gladly signed the paperwork agreeing to an evaluation and the charges were subsequently dropped.
Ali felt his life was on a solid course and that citizenship, now 11 years in the making, was inevitable. He had already completed the interview process and was just waiting for word. But instead of citizenship, he received a notice for immediate deportation back to Jordan, a unfamiliar country that he had not lived in for more than 30 years.
Why was he being deported? The allegations of abuse claimed by Ali's ex-wife two years earlier, had come back to haunt him. "By signing the paper and agreeing to a psychological evaluation, immigration courts viewed me as having consented to a felony," he says. Ali hired an immigration attorney and called the original district attorney who had dropped the case.
"He knew how to change the paperwork, so that criminal law and immigration law agreed." Within a couple days, the mix-up was handled, but not quickly enough to stop the deportation process, which has been painfully slow for an immigrant trying to maintain a semblance of home.
About the same time Ali received deportation notice, the U.S Justice department put the entire immigration system on review. Reforms to immigration appeals courts after 9/11, which changed three-judge panels to one judge, slowed the process to a near-stand still. The review was also prompted by repeated complaints that some judges were rude or incompetent.
Ali says he has first-hand experience with these problems. "After getting notice to appear in court, I drove 7 hours to Atlanta the day before Thanksgiving, only to drive back that same day because the judge didn't bother to review my case," he says. "Another time, I flew to Atlanta only to discover court was closed because the judge was sick. Then, I was pushed off the calendar due to a scheduling error."
Ali reports that he has spent $11,000 on attorneys because the deportation process has been dragged out for over a year. Other problems daunt him as well.
"This situation is not only embarrassing; it is also hurting my career. The vice president keeps asking when it will be resolved," complains Ali. "Attorneys recommend that I do not leave the country because I may not be allowed back home." Now a production manager, who once traveled internationally as part of his job, Ali finds his wings have been clipped. "I have coworkers making presentations for me," he says. "My company is growing impatient."
Personally, the deportation has also been devastating. Ali cannot travel to be with his father, now sick and elderly. He also missed his uncle's funeral in Jordan.
Despite the problems, however, he tries to remain positive about his future, focusing energy and free time on charitable pursuits, most notably as a wish granter for the Make-A-Wish foundation.
Ali gazes at a picture of one of his Make-A-Wish children, who died at the age of four. "Being with these brave children inspires me and shows me that, ultimately, my problems are nothing," he says.
He is scheduled for an October 2006 court appearance--a fourth attempt at a legal resolution and where a judge will ultimately decide what place Ali will finally call "home."
6.05.2006
Wedding Crashers
I count myself among the people who groan at the thought of having to attend a wedding--my own included. I mean, really, how many times must someone be subjected to a dewy-eyed couple dancing to Nat and Natalie King Cole's "Unforgettable?" Just like Heinz ketchup ruined the commercial viability of Carle Simon's "Anticipation," first dances have tarnished an otherwise perfectly fine romantic ballad.
Mind you, it's not the marriage part of the wedding that bugs me. Actually, I believe every young couple is entitled to at least one, big church wedding with all the fixings. But despite the fact that friends and loved ones are happy for a couple on their special day, it doesn't necessarily mean that guests will enjoy the event itself.
So, it was with a bit of a wince that I accepted an invitation to my friend Chet's wedding--although I take full credit for the 30-year old groom even having a wedding.
Chet and his bride, Anna, prove the five-degrees-of-separation theory of relationships. (Get a pen and paper out. Prepare to flowchart these connections for your greater understanding.) I met Chet through Tonya, my old roommate, and invited him to a dinner party at our place. I also invited Stephanie, who I met through Carlos, to the same event. There at my dinner party, Chet met Stephanie, who instantly thought of Anna, her close friend. After the dinner party, Stephanie arranged a meeting of Chet and Anna
...and rest is history.
A year and a half later, all parties gathered at the local Marriot hotel to witness the nuptials of our friends.
What I didn't completely understand, was that this was not going to be like any wedding I'd attended before. It was a Hindu wedding--a most fascinating ceremony and totally unlike the traditional Christian wedding. After attending this wedding event, I am convinced that I could be Hindu. These people know how to have a great time!
Like a comet with a glistening tail, the groom arrived by a white stretch limo with a group people trailing behind him, playing drums, singing songs, and literally dancing in the streets. Local city police, in fact, closed the block surrounding the Marriot to make way for the passage.
The bride family waited for the groom at the entrance of the wedding hall. They greeted him placing oil on him and throwing flowers. All guests and the entire entourage entered the wedding chamber with the groom as he awaited the bride. And in this ceremony, the groom was the one wearing veil--a hat with decorative cords hiding his face. On the other hand, when the bride made her way through the hall, she kept a single leaf in front of her face, only dropping it when she faced the groom for the first time.
There were a couple other things I liked about the Hindu ceremony. The bride had to accept the groom before the ceremony proceeded. And, after offering rice grains to the goddess of fire, the bride led her groom around the fire for the first of the seven rounds. As this portion of the ceremony went on, I worried whether the hotel smoke alarm would go off. Thankfully it didn't.
Hindu wedding ceremonies earn bonus points for other reasons. Food was offered to guest on three occasions: prior to the grooms arrival, during a cocktail reception, and then at dinner. Most guests wore brightly colored saris (for women) and dhoti (for men) including the bridesmaids and groomsmen, most of whom were American.
I can tell you with all certainty that none of these would wind up on Uglydress.com. And, if you've never witnessed Indian music and dancing, make your way to a Indian wedding. The music and dance, alone, were worth the price of admission.
I, wedding cynic and critic, walked away with only the happiest thoughts and fondest of memories at Chet and Anna's wedding And should I ever walk down the isle again, I might have to choose Calcutta or Varanasi over Las Vegas.
But, only if I snagged a flying Elvis impersonator for the ride over.
Mind you, it's not the marriage part of the wedding that bugs me. Actually, I believe every young couple is entitled to at least one, big church wedding with all the fixings. But despite the fact that friends and loved ones are happy for a couple on their special day, it doesn't necessarily mean that guests will enjoy the event itself.
So, it was with a bit of a wince that I accepted an invitation to my friend Chet's wedding--although I take full credit for the 30-year old groom even having a wedding.
Chet and his bride, Anna, prove the five-degrees-of-separation theory of relationships. (Get a pen and paper out. Prepare to flowchart these connections for your greater understanding.) I met Chet through Tonya, my old roommate, and invited him to a dinner party at our place. I also invited Stephanie, who I met through Carlos, to the same event. There at my dinner party, Chet met Stephanie, who instantly thought of Anna, her close friend. After the dinner party, Stephanie arranged a meeting of Chet and Anna
...and rest is history.
A year and a half later, all parties gathered at the local Marriot hotel to witness the nuptials of our friends.
What I didn't completely understand, was that this was not going to be like any wedding I'd attended before. It was a Hindu wedding--a most fascinating ceremony and totally unlike the traditional Christian wedding. After attending this wedding event, I am convinced that I could be Hindu. These people know how to have a great time!
Like a comet with a glistening tail, the groom arrived by a white stretch limo with a group people trailing behind him, playing drums, singing songs, and literally dancing in the streets. Local city police, in fact, closed the block surrounding the Marriot to make way for the passage.The bride family waited for the groom at the entrance of the wedding hall. They greeted him placing oil on him and throwing flowers. All guests and the entire entourage entered the wedding chamber with the groom as he awaited the bride. And in this ceremony, the groom was the one wearing veil--a hat with decorative cords hiding his face. On the other hand, when the bride made her way through the hall, she kept a single leaf in front of her face, only dropping it when she faced the groom for the first time.
There were a couple other things I liked about the Hindu ceremony. The bride had to accept the groom before the ceremony proceeded. And, after offering rice grains to the goddess of fire, the bride led her groom around the fire for the first of the seven rounds. As this portion of the ceremony went on, I worried whether the hotel smoke alarm would go off. Thankfully it didn't.
Hindu wedding ceremonies earn bonus points for other reasons. Food was offered to guest on three occasions: prior to the grooms arrival, during a cocktail reception, and then at dinner. Most guests wore brightly colored saris (for women) and dhoti (for men) including the bridesmaids and groomsmen, most of whom were American.
I can tell you with all certainty that none of these would wind up on Uglydress.com. And, if you've never witnessed Indian music and dancing, make your way to a Indian wedding. The music and dance, alone, were worth the price of admission.
I, wedding cynic and critic, walked away with only the happiest thoughts and fondest of memories at Chet and Anna's wedding And should I ever walk down the isle again, I might have to choose Calcutta or Varanasi over Las Vegas.
But, only if I snagged a flying Elvis impersonator for the ride over.
2.16.2006
A Moment of Silence
I have neglected my blog this week. Normally when I go days without posting, I give notice. I give reasons. I prepare myself, fellow bloggers, and those who happen to stumble upon this site (these days, usually folks who are googling the "agony of defeat ski jumper"), for the brief respite.
But not this time. I just abandoned my blog, without cause or justification.
In my "real" life, so many friends battle tremendous problems and obstacles, making me understand that my issues are so very, very minor in comparison. It's the same sensation you get after gazing at the stars on a particularly clear night and the feeling of overwhelming smallness and insignificance that overtakes you. I like to think of this as Mother Nature's way of kicking you in the groin and screaming, "Get a life. Who do you think you are anyway?"
That's how I'm feeling these days. I've got it good. I really do. I have a close group of friends--the family I chose for myself. I've got my career, my house, my health. I never lack for something interesting to do and a story to tell. I am single; but I'm not alone. And while I whine about available men, or the lack thereof, we all know that most of my whining is done for the social enjoyment of it more then anything. How else could I complain about my vagina turning into the Great Dustbowl (it hasn't, by the way)? In what other forum could I discuss whether a man is "sheetworthy"--worthy of my $900 sheets (which of course begs the question, what sort of person goes and buys $900 sheets just for the sake of owning them and the story to tell? But I digress...)
So here I am-- ranting and raving about nothing particular, while others I love deal with grave and life altering issues. My dear friend Faith battles cancer and, barring a miracle from a recently approved drug, won't make it another year. My friend Kelly lost her job. Mary Beth found out her daughter is using cocaine. Nader might be deported. And with the seriousness of my friend's dramas, suddenly, I don't feel like dishing about my last girls' night out or latest boy issues. In fact, I don't feel like writing at all. "Get a life. Who do you think you are anyway?" I keep coming back to the smallness and insignificance of it all.
Don't mistake this for depression. I've got nothing at the present moment to be unhappy about. Rather, take it as a sign of respect-- a moment of silence for everyone, everyday, who suffers while the world selfishy and obliviously goes on.
But not this time. I just abandoned my blog, without cause or justification.
In my "real" life, so many friends battle tremendous problems and obstacles, making me understand that my issues are so very, very minor in comparison. It's the same sensation you get after gazing at the stars on a particularly clear night and the feeling of overwhelming smallness and insignificance that overtakes you. I like to think of this as Mother Nature's way of kicking you in the groin and screaming, "Get a life. Who do you think you are anyway?"
That's how I'm feeling these days. I've got it good. I really do. I have a close group of friends--the family I chose for myself. I've got my career, my house, my health. I never lack for something interesting to do and a story to tell. I am single; but I'm not alone. And while I whine about available men, or the lack thereof, we all know that most of my whining is done for the social enjoyment of it more then anything. How else could I complain about my vagina turning into the Great Dustbowl (it hasn't, by the way)? In what other forum could I discuss whether a man is "sheetworthy"--worthy of my $900 sheets (which of course begs the question, what sort of person goes and buys $900 sheets just for the sake of owning them and the story to tell? But I digress...)
So here I am-- ranting and raving about nothing particular, while others I love deal with grave and life altering issues. My dear friend Faith battles cancer and, barring a miracle from a recently approved drug, won't make it another year. My friend Kelly lost her job. Mary Beth found out her daughter is using cocaine. Nader might be deported. And with the seriousness of my friend's dramas, suddenly, I don't feel like dishing about my last girls' night out or latest boy issues. In fact, I don't feel like writing at all. "Get a life. Who do you think you are anyway?" I keep coming back to the smallness and insignificance of it all.
Don't mistake this for depression. I've got nothing at the present moment to be unhappy about. Rather, take it as a sign of respect-- a moment of silence for everyone, everyday, who suffers while the world selfishy and obliviously goes on.
1.24.2006
With Jules as my co-pilot
Sometimes you can't see the forest through the trees. During those times, good and honest friends serve as gentle guides who lead you through the darkness and toward the light. Other times, friends just give you a swift kick in the ass to get you moving in a new (and hopefully better) direction.
Thursday night has become girl's night out--my night to dress up and hop from place to place with my dear friend Jules and whoever else wants to tag along. This past Thursday, Jules and I ventured out, enjoying each other's company and some fine red wines.
Toward the 11 o'clock hour, I received an unexpected text from a man who I have known casually over the last year. The man had just arrived back in town from a business trip and wanted to say hello. I showed the text message to Jules.
"Invite him to join us!" Jules insisted.
"His plane just landed," I protested. "He'd never come out for a drink at this late hour."
"Come on! What's the harm in trying? Just do it," she snapped back. Jules shoved the phone in my direction.
I hate text messaging for reasons blog readers might remember. But, in the face of peer pressure, I typed out a response.
"Friend and I are at XYZ. Come for a night cap! My treat..."
Within 20 seconds after sending the text, my phone rang. It was the man. "Hey! I got your message. XYZ is not far from where I live. I'd love to see you."
I was stunned.
Twenty-five minutes later, he showed up. I introduced Jules and the man. You would have thought the pair had known each other for years the way their conversation flowed. And before I knew it, Jules was organizing a dinner party at my house for the following Monday.
"Diane is an excellent cook and would love to have dinner at her home, wouldn't you." she said.
"Uh... yeah, sure. I'd be happy to," I responded without a lot of certainty.
"Excellent. It's all settled." Jules said gleefully.
Before I had time to wonder whether this dinner party was for my benefit or not, Jules abruptly ended her part of the evening.
"Diane, I hate to cut this short, but I am really exhausted. Would you mind if I take your car home?"
Then, in the same breath Jules turned to the man, "You wouldn't mind giving Diane a ride to her car later, would you?"
"I'd be happy to drive her," he said with a smile.
With those words and just like that, my girls night out had turned into late night drinks with a new fellow along with ready-made plans to meet again. I'm not going to tell you what time I finally made it home. But it's sufficient to say that I am now a convert to the idea of a wingman (or wingwoman), especially one that maneuvers as well as Jules and, more importantly, knows when to hand over the controls.
Thursday night has become girl's night out--my night to dress up and hop from place to place with my dear friend Jules and whoever else wants to tag along. This past Thursday, Jules and I ventured out, enjoying each other's company and some fine red wines.
Toward the 11 o'clock hour, I received an unexpected text from a man who I have known casually over the last year. The man had just arrived back in town from a business trip and wanted to say hello. I showed the text message to Jules.
"Invite him to join us!" Jules insisted.
"His plane just landed," I protested. "He'd never come out for a drink at this late hour."
"Come on! What's the harm in trying? Just do it," she snapped back. Jules shoved the phone in my direction.
I hate text messaging for reasons blog readers might remember. But, in the face of peer pressure, I typed out a response.
"Friend and I are at XYZ. Come for a night cap! My treat..."
Within 20 seconds after sending the text, my phone rang. It was the man. "Hey! I got your message. XYZ is not far from where I live. I'd love to see you."
I was stunned.
Twenty-five minutes later, he showed up. I introduced Jules and the man. You would have thought the pair had known each other for years the way their conversation flowed. And before I knew it, Jules was organizing a dinner party at my house for the following Monday.
"Diane is an excellent cook and would love to have dinner at her home, wouldn't you." she said.
"Uh... yeah, sure. I'd be happy to," I responded without a lot of certainty.
"Excellent. It's all settled." Jules said gleefully.
Before I had time to wonder whether this dinner party was for my benefit or not, Jules abruptly ended her part of the evening.
"Diane, I hate to cut this short, but I am really exhausted. Would you mind if I take your car home?"
Then, in the same breath Jules turned to the man, "You wouldn't mind giving Diane a ride to her car later, would you?"
"I'd be happy to drive her," he said with a smile.
With those words and just like that, my girls night out had turned into late night drinks with a new fellow along with ready-made plans to meet again. I'm not going to tell you what time I finally made it home. But it's sufficient to say that I am now a convert to the idea of a wingman (or wingwoman), especially one that maneuvers as well as Jules and, more importantly, knows when to hand over the controls.
12.14.2005
Seeing Red
Every night before I go to sleep I log on to AOL to see if Wei, my friend and future Chinese hostess happens to be online. Usually, she is and, for a few minutes, we chat excitedly about my upcoming trip to Beijing. After we dispense with important travel details such as wardrobe selection, this particular night Wei and I talk about the subject that most occupies single women's minds--
Boys.
The last time I ventured to discuss Wei's personal life, she was happily coupled with a Greek businessman living in China. With many a connection to embassies around the city, "The Greek" (as he has always been known to me) had manage to nab both Wei and I an invitation to a western New Years Eve party at an embassy. I was so excited-- imagining just what a party with foreign diplomats might be like. I spent many a night perusing my closets for the perfect Audrey Hepburn-type outfit.
It was only natural, then, for me to bring the subject of "The Greek" up through the course of our conversation.
Me: "How's the Greek?"
Wei: "Greek is out of the picture. There is a new guy...hahaha"
Me: "Oh?"
I tried not to seem disappointed, but my heart sank with the words, "Greek is out of the picture." Did this mean my fabulous New Years Eve embassy party had also gone the way of "the Greek"? Suddenly my mind drifted longingly to visions of a swanky gathering laden with James Bond-like emissaries offering me a martini or perhaps the finest of wines...
Wei: "A French"
Me: "A French what?"
Wei: "A French MAN, silly. His name is Nico."
What? A NAME??!!?! Wei gave me his name? We had talked about "The Greek" for months. No name had ever been dropped. I couldn't help think that this thing with "The French" must be serious.
Me: "Nico, huh? Sounds as if you like this guy. Tell me more."
Wei: "Well, he's wonderful and makes me very happy. He's five years younger, but that is not the problem..."
A problem??? My hopes were beginning to brighten that the Greek, along with my fabulous embassy party, might not be out of the picture yet.
Wei: "Well, he's poor. And, I would have to keep us in the lifestyle I've grown accustomed. Hahahaha..."
Please, understand. For me, poverty would not be an issue. But Wei is a diva among high-maintenance women, not to mention very practical about such matters.
Me: "Poor? So what? This doesn't have to be a deal breaker, Wei. You need to be looking at other more important qualities. Is he industrious? Is he wise with the money that he does have? Does he have ambition?"
Wei: "Yes... yes...yes. He is all of those things. He's a teacher, but it doesn't pay much."
Me: "But teaching is a worthy profession."
Wei: "Yeah, he's a teacher/communist/humanitarian. Nico spends his summers helping in Africa. I admire him so much."
Woa! Let's back this sentence up a few words. Nico is a teacher/communist/humanitarian. Obviously for Wei, Nico's communist activities aren't a problem, only the fact that he is poor. Although I am a live-and-let-live sort of person, this concept boggles my mind. Wei, although Chinese, is a capitalistic American citizen working for a Fortune 100 company.
But then I remember, Wei lives in China. Her country is full of communists. And if you are going to date in China, chances are you'll land a communist from time to time. I guess it's not such a stretch after all.
Me: "I wonder what Nico, your French, teacher/communist/humanitarian, boyfriend is going to think about you're all-American, capitalist, girlfriend?"
Wei: "Somehow, I don't think you two will have a problem."
Yeah, one thing is for sure--this trip to China will be filled with all sorts of unique characters and new experiences. However, I do fear that instead of a swanky embassy party, my New Years will be spent in some dark, red, hole-in-the-wall shack with pipe-smoking communist philosophers, who will have no appreciation for Audrey Hepburn dress that I'll be sporting. Maybe I should go out and purchase a red beret?
Nah, I don't think it will go with the dress.
Boys.
The last time I ventured to discuss Wei's personal life, she was happily coupled with a Greek businessman living in China. With many a connection to embassies around the city, "The Greek" (as he has always been known to me) had manage to nab both Wei and I an invitation to a western New Years Eve party at an embassy. I was so excited-- imagining just what a party with foreign diplomats might be like. I spent many a night perusing my closets for the perfect Audrey Hepburn-type outfit.
It was only natural, then, for me to bring the subject of "The Greek" up through the course of our conversation.
Me: "How's the Greek?"
Wei: "Greek is out of the picture. There is a new guy...hahaha"
Me: "Oh?"
I tried not to seem disappointed, but my heart sank with the words, "Greek is out of the picture." Did this mean my fabulous New Years Eve embassy party had also gone the way of "the Greek"? Suddenly my mind drifted longingly to visions of a swanky gathering laden with James Bond-like emissaries offering me a martini or perhaps the finest of wines...
Wei: "A French"
Me: "A French what?"
Wei: "A French MAN, silly. His name is Nico."
What? A NAME??!!?! Wei gave me his name? We had talked about "The Greek" for months. No name had ever been dropped. I couldn't help think that this thing with "The French" must be serious.
Me: "Nico, huh? Sounds as if you like this guy. Tell me more."
Wei: "Well, he's wonderful and makes me very happy. He's five years younger, but that is not the problem..."
A problem??? My hopes were beginning to brighten that the Greek, along with my fabulous embassy party, might not be out of the picture yet.
Wei: "Well, he's poor. And, I would have to keep us in the lifestyle I've grown accustomed. Hahahaha..."
Please, understand. For me, poverty would not be an issue. But Wei is a diva among high-maintenance women, not to mention very practical about such matters.
Me: "Poor? So what? This doesn't have to be a deal breaker, Wei. You need to be looking at other more important qualities. Is he industrious? Is he wise with the money that he does have? Does he have ambition?"
Wei: "Yes... yes...yes. He is all of those things. He's a teacher, but it doesn't pay much."
Me: "But teaching is a worthy profession."
Wei: "Yeah, he's a teacher/communist/humanitarian. Nico spends his summers helping in Africa. I admire him so much."
Woa! Let's back this sentence up a few words. Nico is a teacher/communist/humanitarian. Obviously for Wei, Nico's communist activities aren't a problem, only the fact that he is poor. Although I am a live-and-let-live sort of person, this concept boggles my mind. Wei, although Chinese, is a capitalistic American citizen working for a Fortune 100 company.
But then I remember, Wei lives in China. Her country is full of communists. And if you are going to date in China, chances are you'll land a communist from time to time. I guess it's not such a stretch after all.
Me: "I wonder what Nico, your French, teacher/communist/humanitarian, boyfriend is going to think about you're all-American, capitalist, girlfriend?"
Wei: "Somehow, I don't think you two will have a problem."
Yeah, one thing is for sure--this trip to China will be filled with all sorts of unique characters and new experiences. However, I do fear that instead of a swanky embassy party, my New Years will be spent in some dark, red, hole-in-the-wall shack with pipe-smoking communist philosophers, who will have no appreciation for Audrey Hepburn dress that I'll be sporting. Maybe I should go out and purchase a red beret?
Nah, I don't think it will go with the dress.
12.09.2005
East meets West
After weeks of waiting, it finally arrived at my doorstep courtesy of DHL--a Chinese visa granting *me* permission to enter the country as of December 27, 2005.What were the Chinese thinking? Have standards been set so slow?
Quite honestly, I worried my application might get turned down. Governments can find reasons to turn applications for entry down just like eligible men can find reasons to disqualify perfectly suitable women. For instance, visa applications can be turned down for being too illegible or even using the wrong colored ink. And in the case of the Chinese visa application, I was required to list who I would be visiting, her name, phone number, and address. This fact worried me most of all.
Who am I visiting, you ask?
She is my long, lost, twin Chinese sister --Wei. No, we may not be flesh and blood by means detectable through genetic testing. We are, however, single soul sisters whose sometimes self-serving, yet carefree styles, coupled with sharp and silver tongues provide a veritable force to be reckoned with whenever we land on the same continent. The People's Republic of China will have no idea what hit them.
Born in the PRC, Wei married an American businessman at a relatively young age. She moved with her husband to the United States, was educated here, and eventually transformed herself into a career woman. Years after the marriage ended, Wei returned to China as an American citizen working for an American company.
Her unique blend of an eastern heritage and Western sensibility makes this woman a challenge for her countrymen. And though she doesn't say it, I understand the clash of cultures is an internal conflict for her as well. Though I consider myself a thoroughly modern, independent woman, like Wei, I wrestle with the old world, conservative traditions with which I was raised.
As single women in their 30s, Wei and I also share certain philosophies and mottos and we try to live by them.
>Work hard, play even harder.
>Never be overly dependant
>Feel no huge rush to settle down or you run risk of settling.
>If you are going to be single, be fabulously single.
Obviously, I have looked forward to visiting China for not only the cultural experience, but also the sheer joy of being in Wei's company (AND, of course, the social aspect. Wei informs me that the nightlife is amazing.).
So, with the nondescript, DHL package that arrived at my doorstep this morning comes the official approval from the Chinese government to let the adventure begin.
18 days and counting...
18 days and counting!!!
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