The Break-Up Conversation

Exactly one month after my divorce was final, I had to have the Break-Up Conversation.

With someone I was not only NOT dating, but someone that I wouldn’t date in a million, zillion, kajillion years.

He is my neighbor. We’ll call him Eager Beaver. EB for short. He came over on the day that Ann-Marie and I were putting the For Sale sign out in front of my house. And like a couple of girls, we couldn’t get the job done. He muscled it into the ground for us and when he asked about the move to San Diego, I let him know about the divorce and the Indiana Plans. Before he walked off, he mentioned that he wanted to take me to lunch before I left for putting up with his extensive crap while I worked at the Association. While he was not the worst Resident, he was a pain in the butt... with some rage issues. But he was always polite to me. And not thinking much of it, as he is not the only one to make such an offer, I said yes.

But then like a date, he opened every door for me (even after I told him to cut it out). And during the course of lunch, he suggested that we:

1. go hiking
2. go hit golf balls
3. go to dinner
4. go shopping because he “needs a woman’s opinion”
5. go to the beach

All of which I politely refused. (This is also the Lunch Date that did not eat.) He did not get the picture because about a week later, he called me and asked me out. I told him, “I’m sorry, EB, I’m just not ready to date and the kids aren’t ready for me to date yet.” Somehow I got him off the phone that day, but then later, he came into my office to ‘chat’. Then I saw him driving past the back of my house several times (in 2 years I have NEVER seen him drive by - he lives in the building perpendicular to mine and doesn’t have to drive down the street behind my house, where I park, to go anywhere.) Then last week, he called to ask me out again, at which point I reminded him of my earlier “I’m-Not-Ready-To-Date” Speech, to which he responded, “It’s not a date. I just enjoy your company and you’re leaving in a month anyway, so it’s not a date.” I told him I was just not comfortable with going out no matter what he called it, and he would Not Take NO for an answer, prompting me to reach in the deep, dark, recesses of my memory and drag out what I remember of The Break-Up Conversation - I even think I threw in a, “It’s not you, it’s me” or two. I apologized, I told him I was flattered but just not ready, and it was just not going to happen. There was an awkward moment where I said, “I’ll see you around.” A stunned silence during which I said, “Bye”, and hung up in disbelief. And I thought it was over. That was last Friday.

But it was not over:

EB came into my office yesterday to pay his HOA Fee, and looked right past Beth and Julie (new girl) who were sitting there, and said to me, “You’ve got to come outside and see what I got.” I was hoping it was a bunny or maybe some cookies. I like cookies.

It wasn’t. It was a car. A sports car. A Black, Toyota Supra WITH A GIANT FIN ON THE BACK. Folks, it is physically impossible for me to get worked up over a car. And as far as cars go, while I don’t judge a person by what they drive, I do believe that what you drive says a lot about you. And a Black Toyota Supra WITH A GIANT FIN, on a 43 year old single guy says, “I may be 43, but I’ve never matured past 23.” Holy Crap.

Then, while we were standing there, he asked me out AGAIN. I said no AGAIN. He BEGGED. He said he was “smitten” with me (I swear to God, I am not lying. I couldn’t MAKE this stuff up!) and that I was “his type”. How could I possibly be His Type when he is the Antithesis of My Type?!?!?! He was literally standing in the middle of my parking lot, with his arms out, asking me what he had to do to get me to go out with him.

And because I am WEAK, I told him that I will not change my mind, but if I do, he will be the first to know. So he gave me his email address. And home number. And cell number. So that no matter what time of day it was, if I decided to go out with him, he would know immediately.

Dear God,

Why does Hell look like Northern Virginia?

Paige.

In the Pink

It will surprise no one that Mac has Pink Eye and if Dillon and I (can Taiko get Pink Eye?) manage to escape uninfected, it will be a miracle. When I called the Base Clinic this morning, I was number 19 in the hold queue. I took that to be a bad sign. I was right. No appointments for today or in the foreseeable future (assuming that June 14th is the “foreseeable future”). But the Duty Nurse “referred us to Inova Urgent Care at [DeWitt Army Hospital’s] expense”. When we got there to check in, the lady at the front desk had no idea what that could mean. We’ll see....

So after sitting in Urgent Care for 2 hours, I took her prescription to CVS where they told me it would be ready in 30 minutes. We ran errands for 55 minutes, after which we returned to CVS where we were told that it wasn’t supposed to be ready until 5pm, wasn’t even in the computer yet, and I should sit down because if I wanted it now, it would be 15 minutes. As my patience for Virginia is shot, and I had already wasted my afternoon away with some of Fairfax County’s most infectious, I didn’t take that well. And unfortunately, the Pharmacist didn’t quite understand the finer points of Customer Service (because you all know I am an Olympic Gold Medalist in Customer Service - ahem), and instead of just apologizing for the mix-up and filling my prescription ASAP by putting the damn eyedropper in a bag, she just stared at me, did not apologize, and had the nerve to tell me that it would be a while because they were just now putting it into the computer and there were CUSTOMERS AHEAD OF ME.

I did sit down, and I did wait patiently, but don’t worry, I didn’t leave before s-l-o-w-l-y and gently explaining to her why it was not acceptable for me to be told 30 minutes and then to expect me to wait longer with a sick child because someone in her department made a mistake.

I still don’t think she got it, but when I turned around to leave, the elderly gentleman behind me looked right at me and smiled and said, “Good job. I don’t blame you.”

Don’t poke the Mama Bear.

Photo Credit - Mackenzie

Weekend At Candi's

About a week ago, I started to panic when I realized that while anxiously waiting for My Time Here To End, My Time Here To End snuck right up on me. I had about 4 weekends left, and about 3200 friends with whom I wanted to hang out. I added and re-added my remaining free time, but the math wouldn’t work out - there’s no way for me to do everything and see everyone I want to see before I go. But what I could manage to work out was seeing two different friends this weekend:

For the past 7 years, I’ve had this friend, Nicole. We’ve watched each other’s kids grow up, we’ve been there through each other’s moves, we’ve (along with Bec) rooted for each other through exercising, laziness, and thick and thin (literally, thick and thin). Unfortunately, we had never met. Until yesterday. She was spending the weekend with her sister about 40 minutes away and invited Mac and I to their family BBQ so we could finally meet in real life. And exactly as I expected, as was the case when I met Bec last summer, I felt like we’ve known each other for years. There were no awkward lulls in the conversation, no personality differences, no watching the clock, waiting until I could gracefully exit. It is a fact that you can meet a True Friend on the internet. I know because I did. Twice.

When I left Nicole’s sister’s house yesterday afternoon, I headed on down Southern Maryland to Pax River to see Jes (the Candi to my Brandi) and the Babies one last time. It always amazes me, how much we can find to talk about every time we’re together. Mac was with me this time and she was very patient with the little kids - you know how intolerant she can be with the preschool set. So the kids watched “Footloose”, the moms drank Caipirinhas, and everyone was happy. Until the next morning, that is. I woke up at 4am to vomit (I only had 2 Caipirinhas - it was not the booze), after which I felt fine, Mac woke up with her eyes crusted shut - when we finally pried them open, they were bright Pink.


And despite the massive wipe-down I did with the anti-bacterial wipes, I don’t expect to be invited back soon. (And thus the reason I’m risking life and limb by posting a photo of us. Hi, Jes, Love You!)

So as I type, we’re sitting in my bed, watching Season 3 of M*A*S*H, and being generally useless.

Welcome, Summer!!!

Silenced

So. Lately, the writing has become a chore. What was once an escape for me has become tedious. What I started in 2003 to keep in touch with my friends and family while I lived overseas has recently made me feel as though my privacy has been compromised.

I used to post thoughts and stories that I would have been comfortable sharing at a dinner party or over coffee with friends, but lately I've felt a greater need to edit my thoughts and what I share with the internet and it has made my writing disengenuous.

Therefore, I am taking a hiatus from writing and will make Cartwheels At Midnight completely private by Monday.

(I will continue to make updates regarding The Journal at its Blog.)

Serendipity

While Mackenzie and I were taking our walk today, we passed a home with a picket fence, which brought to mind a long-ago picket fence I used to walk by while pregnant with her. And as we were walking, I told her the story of that picket fence (which was white, I think):

Back then, we rented a little 1920's bungalow in a little neighborhood in San Diego called Golden Hill, which resides at the southeast corner of Balboa park. The neighborhood to the south of us was a little sketchy, sprinkled with old unkempt Spanish-style houses, century-old cottages maintained with love, and what were once mansions, now made into pink stucco apartment buildings. To the north of us was a neighborhood aptly named South Park. It was a little wealthier, the homes a little bigger, the streets a little safer.

And every day, Dillon (who was still not in kindergarten) and Dakota (our Alaskan Malamute), and I would take a walk in South Park among the turn-of-the-century mansions overlooking the park and the stately craftsman-style homes. One of these homes was a big yellow house (it's yellow in my memory, with white trim), with a porch big enough for a table, on a corner lot, surrounded by a white picket fence. At 26 years old, I thought this was the perfect home and I would sometimes wave hi to the woman who lived there. There were children's toys strewn about the yard, sometimes a magazine or glass of tea left on the porch: others, there was evidence of recent gardening, and a dog that lived here who loved to play fetch. Every day, as we passed his house, he would greet us, and if there was a ball near enough to the fence that we could stick our arms through and grab it, he would play fetch for as many times as we would be willing to throw his ball.

Eventually, one day when we walked by, the mom was outside with her son, who was a toddler. Their dog came running up to us, and we stopped to say hello and play a little fetch. There were big yellow construction vehicles over at Balboa Park, which was close enough to see from where we stood, and the mom told me how ever since they had arrived, she had to stand outside several times a day with her son, who could never get enough of the "trucks." We talked a few times after that, but soon enough, my family and I moved up to a new, safer, less eclectic, but more school-friendly neighborhood called UTC. But I never forgot about that little yellow house, in the beautiful old neighborhood, with the little perfect family.

Five years, three apartments, one house, and one country later, we were living in Japan where I met a new friend who had also come from San Diego, and serendipitously, was the mother of Mackenzie's New Best Friend, Eliza. And one day while the girls were playing, she was telling me about her family, and her sister who happened to live in a little neighborhood on the southeast corner of Balboa Park. I could not believe the coincidence! I told her about how we used to live near there, and how I used to take a walk every day and how I loved this house with the mom and the boy and the toys and the dog and the white picket fence.

And while I sat and described the Home of My Dreams, a look of recognition came over her face. I was describing her sister's house. I had talked to her sister. We had to move all the way to Japan to reconnect with the family we never really knew, but loved anyway.

Happy Feet

So Jes went to Florida.

And she bought me these.

I love her.

HGTV Should Totally Give Me a Show

...in under 8 days.

Just Some Stuff

Stuff I Don't Like:

• When I go out to lunch with a friend, who happens to be a guy (it was NOT a date), and he eats WAY less than I do. I'm not ok with that. (You know who you are - if we happen to go out to lunch again, you need to eat more so as to make me feel comfortable. :) )
• My job. (31 days and counting!)
  
• When I make a Smoked Turkey Sandwich for lunch but neglect to pull the little wax paper off the slice of Muenster Cheese. And I also don't like how it took me more than half the sandwich to realize I was eating paper. (I was hungry. Probably because I didn't get enough to eat at aforementioned lunch.)
• Stone lions at someone's front door. (Unless you live in a palace. Or a temple. Then I'm ok with that.)
  
• When two different realtors call to tell us they are each going to make an offer on the house last Friday, and then don't.
• Ironing.
  
• Women who call my office all riled up and complaining that the landscapers mowed her grass today and did a "terrible job and left the grass bumpy". (I don't even know what this means! How do I fix it? Especially when I don't care...)
• Realtors who leave my front door unlocked after showing my house.
  
• Receiving my final divorce papers in the mail today. (It was final as of April 24th.) "Hello, Paige, here is tangible evidence of yet another failed marriage. One more and you're eligible for the Frequent Divorcer's Discount."

Stuff I Like:

• When two different realtors, who saw the house Saturday, call us today to say they are writing an offer tomorrow. (If only to validate my feelings that I have an awesome house and one of these days, someone is going to want to buy it.)
  
• Women who call my office and complain that the landscapers mowed her grass today and did a "terrible job and left the grass bumpy" in a really thick spanish accent so I can make fun of them for the rest of the day.
• Cookies.
• When I'm having a crappy day at work and my friend Julian calls because he's having a Really Crappy Day (new transmission - $4,000) and said he just needed to hear a happy person so I tell him, "I'm sorry, you have the wrong number". And it makes us both crack up and by the time I hang up a few minutes later, we are both smiling.
• My boss. (Hi, Beth!)
  
• Veterinarians who don't blow me off saying, "Oh, it's a reaction to some [mysterious] allergy," when I ask her about Taiko's skin-ick. She FINALLY has an idea what might be wrong with him. Fungal infection. Nasty. (Miss Jackson...)
  
• When Dillon is eating something he Really, Really likes and looks up and me and says with the intensity of a two-year-old, and the seriousness of a judge, "This is delicious."
  
• My super-freaky-clean-house.
• Taking Taiko to work with me because A) he can jump over every baby-gate ever made, and B) when I double baby-gate him in the laundry room, he cries for longer than socially acceptable. Though my neighbors are awesome and haven't complained. Yet...
  

• Getting a card in the mail from Omm with five dollars in it, and Mother's Day Cards from Annie and Jes.
• Watching Mackenzie sing in a chorus of 900 6th graders.

• Opening my fortune cookie to this fortune: "You have a strong desire for a home and your family comes first."

Stuff I Don't Like But Still Makes Me Laugh:

• This photo:

...and this one...

Janet Jackson Keeps Calling...

...but is too shy to say hi when I answer the phone.


What do you suppose she wants? Decorating tips? Parenting advice? My Lasagna recipe? The down-low on the Caipirinha? To borrow a bra? Perhaps some bangin' dance moves?

The next time she calls, I'm going to invite her to come hang out. I don't have much going on these days and from what I hear, neither does she.

What's Better Than Multiple Orgasms?

Multiple offers.