Knocking the Doors Down

Curled up and leaning on the trapunto stitched blue and white toile headboard on a lazy Friday night, my darling Grandma Alice, for whom I was named, would rub my back and tell me that all good things were in store for me.

We spoke of boundaryless travel and thousand-count boudoir linens and entertaining at home ... and of course, romance.

She was a restless romantic.

I inherited that from her.

We wear our hearts on our sleeves and turn a blind eye to faults and warning bells and red flags. And, flames. Wow, have the Alices been burned. But rub on the salve, cover the wound with cotton gauze and with a flip of the head race in for more.

I'd listen intently, soaking up her glamour. Her femininity. Her siren songs. Lost in the Rodeo Drive and I. Magnin wonderment of what was to come my way. The gold cigarette holders dangling gracefully from a turned hand while men in Packards sped me to a candlelight supper where the Los Angeles (that's a hard 'g') lights twinkled through the windows onto her dreamy world.

Ooops. Did I say me? I wanted, with every fibre of my being, her word would portend my future. That my darling Grandma Alice was a soothsayer about my future love life. The deep, dark and alluring matinee-idol eyes which would peer into my hazel green eyes glistening with wonderment ... and who would wine and dine me and line up down the block waiting to take me ... oui moi ... out on the town.

Ha!

Not on match.com ... nor jdate ... nor baddate.com. Sadly, not in the Harvard personals or an exotic airport lounge halfway around the globe ... nor the boardrooms of Manhattan ... a friend's dinner party. Nope. No line of eligible, drama-free, emotionally healthy males waiting for little ol' me. Much less clamoring and teetering to get past the butler through the portal to my lair.

But I know in my heart. I truly do. Every time it flutters with hope and knowledge. That my guy is out there. The one who will make my spirit sing and my soul giggle. Who gets me in a way that is natural. Who lets me be me. And, I him.

That we will connect inspires me. Motivates me. Ignites the fuel that will connect the two of us in some unimaginable way.

Cheers to my lover ... I am getting better with age ... and so is he!

Laughing Faces

What is up with the universe? No I mean it. What gives?

As soon as ... and I mean as soon as ... I drove away from his apartment complex he had rejoined (or maybe he never resigned) one of those online dating services.

So you are asking: How do I know? And, what was I doing perusing the catalog of eligible sixty-somethings in a part of the northeast some 200 plus miles away?

Simple.

First, I am not a paying member. Nope. Not for me. Five years ago, well that was another story. Yep, back then I went out with ... count 'em ... two and a half dozen unattached guys everywhere from here to Buenos Aires. And to be honest, only a handful were what I'd call datable. One is still a dear friend. But the others? I can honestly say that there are around 24 women scattered over the country that are waking up every morning with a huge smile on their faces and screaming: THANK GOD HE'S NOT SLEEPING IN MY BED ANYMORE!

So why the look-see?

Simple.

My darling friend, and fellow BSer, recently parted ways with her online dating partner after two years. They had grown apart. And if I do say so myself, weren't really headed in the same direction anyway. But that is not for me to judge. Anyhoo, she checked the site absentmindedly and drumroll ... amidst the sadness and crocodile tears that were streaming down the man's cheeks was his picture as big as day: Active within 24 hours.

So I said to myself: Hmmmm. Weren't those emails from the dating site in his gmail inbox when I last visited? You know right under the letter from his daughter that he asked me to read? No. He wouldn't be searching while he was professing that I was the love of his life. That he couldn't believe his good fortune that we reconnected again after 17 years. That I was: Easy to love and that he'd never let me go.

So he must have done an about face. Or was searching all along. Just in cases. But no. In one of his final communications he emphasized that it might take another few months to appreciate me and we should just be friends. Appreciate me? He has had, off and on, 39 years to figure me out. But I digress.

He wrote that he is a simple man and wants to focus on two things: his thirty year old daughter and managing his shrinking retirement funds which were downsized by the shift in the markets a few years ago. Out with his love life.

But I looked anyway. And lo and behold his gorgeous eyes were staring back at me from among the lineup of eligibles in his neck of the woods. ACTIVE WITHIN 24 HOURS. Whoa ...

In a nutshell, I was saved by his tantrum in the car a few weeks ago. Big time. His head in his hands.

So who is smiling now? Me!

Not because I am happy with this turn of events. I am not. I truly thought this was our forever. But because it is early. Any later and I would be devastated.

To my tomorrows ...

BP

Today officially ends the summer of wackos.

Capped. Cemented shut. Gushing no more. The Deep Horizon well. And, me.

Yep. Since spring of this year. BPs loom large. Wreaking havoc with innocence. Casting a pall. Shrouding the light. Science, technology and chemistry run amuk.

BP (British Petroleum): The gulf oil spill gunking up the waters, the shores, sea life for decades to come. Polluting the environment and the economy in catastrophic proportions.

BP (bipolar): Men mucking up my sense of stability. My good natured self. Wreaking havoc with my soul. Their tortured demons spilling into the calm of my sea. My compassionate self swept into their respective storms. One right after the other. Boom. A one-two jab. Sucker punched. Jerked back and fro by my own gullible doing. Their episodes rocking the boat. Capsizing my confidence. My sense of self. My dreams. Another crack in the lens of my once-rosy view.

The well that spewed millions of gallons of oil into the Gulf of Mexico is finally dead. So is the craziness of the summer. The ups. The downs. The all-arounds. Revived dreams. A make-good. Bringing my best self. Real. Honest. Compassionate. Giving. Loving. Trusting.

So today marks the end. Officially.

A permanent cement plug sealed BP's well nearly 2.5 miles below the sea floor, five agonizing months after an explosion sank a drilling rig and led to the worst offshore oil spill in U.S. history.

A tourettes-like rant out of nowhere, unsolicited, uncalled for, undeserved, devalued my values, intellect and belief system plugged my romantic heart, three hope filled months after being reawakened after seventeen years. Get out of the fucking country. What?! OMG. Jolted into reality. Exactly why it all fell apart twice before. [A girl can hope, can't she? Or, be stupidly blinded. Guilty as charged.]

Dead. Both the deep water oil well and the recent resurfacing of my so-called life love.

I dodged a bullet. Again.

The light filters in. Oddly I still feel that there is something great just around the corner. I just know it. Bring it on. This time leave the BPs out of the equation.

Back to the Future

To say that I am crushed is an understatement. I am overwhelmed that this man, my first real love, could disappoint me for the third time. It is over. Fini. Final.

Once again his inner turmoil, his pent up not-too-far-below-the-surface anger bubbled up. One insult after another. Rage. Battering my intelligence. My values. My belief system.

We are not meant to be. I’ll leave it at that. But this rejection. This pushing away. It manifested in less than a week. A shock to my senses.

Not that he hasn't behaved exactly the same. He has. In exactly the same manner.

But the words he professed. How easy it is to love me. His earnest desire to provide a safe haven. Emotionally. To never hurt me again.

The changes he swore he internalized over the decades. The declarations of love. Of honoring my spirit and protecting my soul. Of caring deeply, profoundly for the woman I became from the girl he knew. He betrayed that confidence. Not only with me. But my darling mother. And, my precious son. He vowed to the three of us that he was back in our lives forever and a day. To honor and cherish our deep bonds that span four decades.

Now he wants me to be just friends. To satiate his codependency. But that I cannot do. I am extraordinarily independent. And, more importantly, I do not trust him. Not as a friend. Nor an equal. I would have to carefully measure each of my words so as not to throw him into a tailspin. So that I am not shut down. Pushed aside. Ignored. It is not meant to be. In any capacity.

I am the fool. I believed. Deeply and utterly. And ... I must let it go. Learn from the experience the richness of what I offer. My boundless generosity. My patience. My serene nature. My exquisite love.

Solo I journey onward with grace. Stronger. Wiser. More loving than before.

To my resilience and inner strength ... cheers!

Shut It Down

Well it happened.

I was shut down. Again. In less than a week.

He really has no interest in what makes me, me.

Just that I jive with his rigid logic and fearful ways.

An adult, an attorney, I expected more. At least the courtesy of being heard. Then the debate, if necessary. A spirited discussion. Listening to the other. Not being swayed, just presenting the case. Debate in the true sense of the word. No animosity. Intelligent parlaying of ideas.

But that is not the way it is to be. If he doesn't want to hear it, doesn't believe in it, has no idea where I am coming from then ... poof ... don't say another word 'cause I am not listening.

Rude. Immature. Uncaring.

And this is someone who loves me? Swears up and down that I am the love of his life. Sa raison d'être. No way, José.

So I close my eyes. Roll to the far edge of the bed heart pounding loudly within my chest try to fall asleep. Not to brood. Dissipate his anger. His not-so-hidden rage.

Without an explanation, a decent one, this is the final blow. Perhaps the morning sun will shed some light on his tone. Maybe not. But I will quietly and calmly speak my peace ... then move.

Yikes. Shutting me out redux. No more. I want to be heard. Not agreed with. Just listened to.

Is this asking too much?

Mercury in Retrograde

It seems like it always happens.

The bubble bursts.

This time it took less than two months.

Unconditional love. Yeah sure.

Love of his life. Blah blah blah.

It took one reference. One. To a belief system he had no interest in. No knowledge of. No desire to understand. To shut me down.

This is the first time in this iteration.

There will be others.

A casual reference to that zany, unpredictable, sign-no-contracts phase of the stars. No alignment. Things out of whack. Askew.

One paltry mention. In passing.

If this were the 1600s and we were in Salem no doubt he'd have me burned at the stake ... or dunked in the pond. No ifs, ands or buts. But this is 2010. And hey, he's (by his own admission) a changed man. The father of a daughter. So he knows now how to be sensitive. Compassionate to his woman folk.

But no. He is curious as to what this is all about. My rigid, tied-up-in-knots friend. Wants total acceptance. But seems unwilling to turn the tables. Allow others freedom to think and be.

This is just the beginning. Or, with luck an anomaly. Fingers crossed that it is not history repeating itself.

If so, I am the dupe.

Mercury retrograde comes three times annually. It provides us the unique opportunity to adjust our thoughts, attitudes and decisions about issues and bend in a new direction as we move through 2010.

But this is numero tre. Our third foray. The last time. The charm. Right?

Mercury, the divine messenger, must really be in retrograde.

Party Like It's 1971

Things happen when I least expect them.

Surprises.

Teensy plastic trinkets wrapped in the crepe paper ribbons of the surprise ball. All for my enjoyment. Proof that I had a friend. Who had a birthday. And a party. And, most importantly, invited me.

The ubiquitous goody bag of 1950s birthday parties. Minute treasures unravelled one at a time. Streams of colorful paper revealing special treats. De rigeur. Our Betty Crocker moms in lock-step. Starched frilly aprons tied perfectly around their 26 inch waists belying childbirth. Pink preludins and martinis.

Flash forward two decades.

Pop culture is whirling frenetically trying to catch up with the mood. Hues of color flashes dimming. Jim Morrison is found dead in bath tub in Paris. Kent State ended the euphoria the year before. Four innocents murdered in cold blood. Their crime? Walking to class. Caught in the cross-fire. America's polarization begins. Flower power and the Woodstock nation's ebullience fades. Sex and drugs and rock 'n' roll slips into a quagmire. The military-industrial complex bullies the world. Tricky Dicky announces a "War on Drugs". It is dusk in the Age of Aquarius.

We have been ridden hard and put away wet. Ambling across that proverbial bridge over troubled waters. Aretha knows best.

It is November 1, 1971. Boston before high tech. Summer of '42 and Love Story romance my imagination. Marvin Gaye urging me to "Get it On". Janis crooning about Bobby McGee. I am primed.

A knock at the door. Placing the spoon on a plate, I wipe my hands on the ever-present dish cloth flung casually over my left shoulder and walk down the winding hallway of my Boston apartment. The one on the second floor a block from Symphony Hall and another from the Fens. The Boston Strangler's turf.

My long chestnut hair drapes gracefully over a billowy pink blouse color coordinated by my Southern self with wide wale cranberry corduroy elephant pants. A gold chain circles my hips. I am barefoot (forever the Kentucky girl). I smell a bit like the spaghetti sauce I am preparing for my ever tardy roommate. Can I pretty please start supper and make sure the wine is chilled. She is hosting a dinner party. I am to be paired with the friend. Probably because we are both Jewish. She wants the handsome one. Both are second year law students.

I open the door. A lightening bolt strikes down. Before me is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen. Our eyes lock. The rest of the night floats into morning as I miss my econ midterm. Oops. This is the handsome one. My roommate is pissed.

Trouble with a capital T.

Tumultuous passion, tender moments. Shared sensibilities. Topsy-turvy. Abandon cast to the wind. In and out of love. Dance like no one is watching. Give until it hurts. Pain is pleasure. N'est-ce pas? Why not?

His demons got the best of us then. Again in 1994. A do-over in 2010?

Careful, girlfriend. Be on guard. Watch out for the sharp bejeweled trinkets. Be skeptical. Remember. Those smooth, satiny pastel ribbons aren't always the confection they seem to be.

But hell, ninety percent of life is showing up. Three just might be the charm. I am a sucker for his gorgeous eyes. Wish me luck!

Blowing on the Embers

Several years ago, disappointed by travelling solo, I sent this missive out into the universe. My message in a bottle. Hoping, not so secretly, that the stars would align hurling little ol' me into a once-in-a-lifetime whirlwind. Ripping me from my comfort zone into the white hot intensity of connecting a most singular vitality pulsing with shared energy yet unexplored.

Elusive? Yes. Impossible? Hell no. It just wasn't meant to be. Not then.

Journeys, adventures, discoveries inspire me. I have little baggage, but my suitcases are always packed. Join me!

Raised in Kentucky’s rolling bluegrass, college and career in Boston and NYC, I relocated a few summers ago to coastal Maine, a delightful oasis between visits and travels away.

Multi-faceted with a passion for life and a penchant for travel to hidden gems around the globe, I enjoy spirited discussions, covered bridges, indigo mountains, films, jazz, blues, classic rock and country from my Oklahoma days sliding not too gracefully across the slickest of floors sprinkled with corn meal and soot.

You have lived large and not so; come of age in the psychedelic 60s when all things were possible; matured in the sophisticated city humbled by finding out that they are not; and now appreciate the exhilaration of life off the beaten path - a tapestry of experiences, enriched sensibilities.

Let's walk quietly at dawn or dusk or in night’s velvety dark, discover out-of-the way restaurants and hidden delights, explore tree-lined country paths near and far, dance in cities pulsing with energy, whisper in the shadow of ancient places hiding mysteries of time past. Trips to anywhere or nowhere. Come with me, be my co-traveler, treasured friend, convivant.

Are you my gentle man with utmost integrity and compassion paradoxically matched by a sense of the absurd and a hint of the bad boy? Are you not so jaded as to still be awed by surprises and impassioned by new discoveries? Like me, you want that 'je ne sais quoi' one-on-one. Rock our worlds. Let's shake our unbelieving souls by the roots. Throw traditions to the wind jolting us into that 'aha' moment ... intoxicating, electric, spontaneous, vibrant.

I look forward to our connection, the sound of your laughter, the feel of your arms wrapped around me, sharing your pleasures and knowing what makes you smile ... or not. But first, the spark! Imagine the possibilities. I am.

The spark evident at the onset. Ignited upon receipt of his initial correspondence. Innocent, really. Surprising me delightfully. We have known each other since childhood. Not seen each other in years. A lifetime, really. Several if you count the multiple chapters we have each pursued.

Me. In Maine at the threshold of my meanderings in this my 60th year toward the quest, the gold chalice, of moving beyond my comfort zone. Away from the familiar. Into a brave new world. Envisioning the vast opportunities barely beyond my reach. The lure of travel to exotic and emerging cultures. Of pushing my shirtsleeves over my elbows and immersing myself in the wonders of this expansive world we live in. Shaking things up. My lifestyle. My dreams. Tweaks requisite to be transported from the familiar to the extraordinary.

Him. Possessing life passively. From the outside. Disembodied. Bound unerringly and admirably by loyalty and commitment. Faithful. Settled. Sharing the dreams of his childhood friend adoringly. Vicariously. The intensity of his passion extending outward from the very essence of his being. Inspired, nonetheless, by seeds germinated deep within my being propelling me into the unknown. He understood. Got me. My darling friend. His restlessness born uneasily from an innate lust for life. Intertwined on his DNA. A wilderness explored with great vitality, but left to wither. Memories of adventures.

Us. Telepathic. Our connection. Poignant. Profound. Real. Chaste. Inextricably linked from commonalities of coming of age at a similar time, in the same scholarly community hurled into a future undefined.

We are survivors. Each possessing an immaculate sense of self. The wisdom brought into existence from successfully circumnavigating those rocks that littered our trails. The profound blessings bestowed upon us independently.

There is much to explore with my adored convivant. Infinite possibilities. The spark smolders unrequited. For now. Soon to be ignited into pyrotechnics that will ebb and flow with the rhythm of a partnership. Fanned, fueled, by our constant attention to keeping the embers alive. To altering the playbook. Consummate teammates. Co-conspirators extraordinaire. Our trajectory flourishing brilliant by our mutual devotion.

Cheers to an unexpected, much cherished journey. Igniting again and again. Love burning vibrantly ... forever and a day. Are you out there? The universe beckons.

B & B

The wooden breakfast trays under the bed in the charming yellow guest room might just come in handy. Yesterday they were pulled out and the dust kitties swept away. Lemon Pledge shines up the white oak slats atop pull-out legs. Yellowing packing tape holds them together for the yard sale this summer. Removed quickly with one zip. Like a bandage over freshly pink skin healing. The romance nearly disposed of for a few crinkled dollar bills revealed.

Virgin boudoir accessories. Kind of like me. At least of late. Half a decade or so. Hate to admit it. Bey hey, it's the truth. And you all know I never fib. Well, almost never. But this is the truth. Pinkie swear.

My darling guest will sleep in the very room where the breakfast trays resided for nearly six years. I imagine the sun peeking through the slats of the wooden blinds creating zig-zags of light playfully dancing across his face. His greying hair sparkles in the early morning light. The ceiling fan whirs gently overhead creating a sweet breeze. Cooling his skin. Mohair throws add a layer of comfort to the white trapunto coverlet delicately hand stitched in Portugal by the sea. The scent of coffee brewing on the kitchen counter wafts through the winding floorplan. Through tiny well appointed rooms. Stirring him from slumber. Peacefully. My heart aglow. Warmed by the whisper of one final romance. Universe, are you listening?

Upstairs in my crisp white room solo, I sleep cocooned in the multi-blanketed safety of my home. As sleep reached into the inner crevices of my mind's eye the night before, the moon rose mother-of-pearl in the May skies. A calm. A knowing calm washes over me. Transcends my being. Comforting me in a way I have never known.

To the promise of a new day dawning pink a'blaze with color, lightness and hope. Imagining infinite possibilities. Every single one of them could happen. If only.

The Lone Ranger

There is a cowboy, he lives on the range. His horse and his cattle are his only companions. The tune rolls through my mind. Pervades my thoughts. Random moments deep into the black night. Up with the dawn. Ever since my posting the other day about tripping at the feet of sweet baby James in the spring of my youth.

A part of me has always wanted a cowboy. The essence of one really. One of those stronger than iron menfolk who could wrangle calves (or deals) during the day then two step across the bar room floor as gracefully as Nureyev. Oh so smart. And funny. And refined. And sensitive. Okay. Okay. None of those coexist in a cowboy. Or, most men for that matter.

So THAT is where I have screwed up. Attributes at odds. Taming a bucking bronco is easier. Essentially I'm fucked. Have been on the proverbial lookout for one of those bad boys for the past couple of decades. But hey ... I can't settle down. So why should he? Too many adventures. Too many trail rides into the sunset. Too many distractions. So I am riding solo. The worn leather reins tightly held in my fist, the smell of wildflowers in my hair. My tan suede cowgirl boots swinging. Independent. Vibrant. Sensual. But not (and I repeat not) needy.

Lookin' For Love In All The Wrong Places

That's it. Johnny Lee crooned about my plight. I have been looking for love in all the wrong places. Or, I am too strong to be attractive to a ranch hand. Relax, L'il Lady. Whoa! Slow down. But hey. This Kentucky girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. First I headed to the big apple. Then bean town. Then back to the big apple. Lord knows there are manly men up here. Kind of. Next stop Oklahoma. The edge of the prairie. But my damn brains keep getting in the way. Tripping over them. Several times. A girl has to make a living. And the business world was where I prospered. No one believed I am ambidextrous. Can bring home the bacon, cook it and serve it with a flourish!

Now it is nearly a decade later and I reside along the sea. Quietly. Too quietly. There is an energy buzz urging me to get back out there before it is too late. I bide my time, planning. As responsibilities lessen, I will continue distant travel ... exotic discoveries.

In the meantime I still have four states to visit. Three of which I might do this summer. A quick train ride across North Dakota and Montana then drop down to Oregon. Fly back. Photograph and write along the way. Hawaii can wait until I head east to Asia again. Or (or maybe that is 'and') I can pop over to Nova Scotia in my trusty Volvo exploring. Wanderlust propels me. That and the ubiquitous search for the lone cowboy who is man enough for this gal. And who will ride by my side into eternity. Or not. Like him I love the solitude and the pink-red sky right before it turns purple black glittering with a zillion tiny lights across the horizon. Oh baby!

Mama, Don't Let Your Sons Grow Up To Be Cowboys

Cheers ... to my cowboy! Or maybe Waylon and Willie set his mama straight and she didn't let her baby grow up to be a cowboy after all.

The Heart of the Matter

Valentine's Day. Unites the world in a celebration of love. All kinds. A mid-winter romance with a warmer sun and the hint of what's to come. A peek. A tease. A lighter spirit. Unconditional family love despite, well, anything. Friendships spanning time, distance or moods. Neighbors around the corner whose passing smiles and chicken soup are welcome, unexpected gifts. Dear friends. The darling ones who touch my soul in ways unimaginable. Connections appreciated. Cherished.

I'm one of the lucky ones. Single women, that is. Realistic expectations. Boo-hiss on the medieval traditions of European culture and Renaissance declarations of courtly love where St. Valentine is inextricably linked to romance and fleeting passion. Down with the ancient Chinese custom of dining on black noodles to mourn my single life. Thumbs up to our south of the border neighbors where throughout Latin America acts of appreciation are shared generously with friends and family. No lonely old maid here! A vibrant, passionate adventurer delighted in the treasures I love along the way.

Raise your glass of bubbly. Toast love. Not the watered down Hallmark version, but to imagining the possibilities and finding bits of love. Braided together lovingly. A most bedazzled, rope intertwining magical moments from across the years.

Cheers to heart-shaped confections iced pink, chocolate dipped strawberries, deep pink tulips, lacy doilies, satin ribbon and red feathers ... ooops! ... a girl can hope ;-)