You Didn't Pass the Audition

You know, at the first, he had me. Yes, I was on his side, even though - on paper - this wasn't an ideal match. I'd now had a little dating experience. I wasn't precisely jaded or cynical, but the words "almost spent" come to mind. And while I'd had a few snickers, maybe one or two actual guffaws, never once had I had even a hint of that slight lift of heart and mood that comes when . . . well, I know it comes sometimes. It's happened to me.

He was responsive to e-mails, something to which I attribute perhaps too much merit. He was literate in those e-mails, something of importance to me. On the other hand, he showed no symptoms of the great sense of humor I value. His look wasn't dead-on, and may I elaborate on that, please? In all my life I've never weighed going out with a man based on his extreme good looks. No male models needed here. I have written about being blown away at age 15 when I met a young man who turned out to be gorgeous. I'd never considered that possibility, but only wanted to get to know him whom I'd met and so enjoyed in conversation on the telephone. "Gorgeous" was an unexpected delight. Following my long and bitter divorce, someone important in my life referred to Ex as an "ugly fuck" and I went off! Oh, yes, an alcoholic who ruined his health and was not an ideal spouse to me - guilty. Ugly? Maybe to you, but not to me. So, while there are some deal-breakers, such as the man who looked identical to Stepfather in his latest years, mostly I accept people as they look, within wide reason. Bald? Not a problem. Large nose? Likely OK. Physique imperfect? Let's talk about that, because I am an imperfect person, too. Generally, if I reject a possibility based on looks, it relates more to attitude projected by the look than actual physical traits.

So, he suggested a coffee house that was located 2 blocks from my office and I thought, "Well, that's pretty easy. I drink coffee, anyway." He looked average in his photos: height, weight, hair, coloring. He was age appropriate and able to converse about a variety of topics. He worked in an industry I knew nothing about and I was going to mark that down as a plus - I could learn something new. He owned a car and had that job (so he said), putting him miles ahead of some Las Vegans who put themselves on the open market. The car claim might be put to partial proof when I arrived at Starbucks, providing he hadn't borrowed one. Yes, I would meet for coffee.

When I pulled into the parking lot and left my car, I glanced around, tidied my shirt and slacks and immediately received a text message. "I'm already inside. Your coffee awaits you." Oh. All right. That's nice, though I felt just a touch odd being watched through the window. But that's what one might get when meeting in public places. As I walked in and aimed for the table, he stood up to greet me - nice. Lots of men don't do that any longer. He'd got my coffee correctly and I sat down to a nice conversation. I knew quickly that there weren't going to be any fireworks on my side, and I didn't know him well enough to know if he would experience any. I hoped not, since I couldn't be reciprocal. But we talked congenially about things the other knew nothing about, each seeming to be interested in what the other had to say. I'm not sure we could have been much less likely matched, but that was OK. If I was west, he was east, I read, he watched TV, etc. We agreed to a second cup of coffee, neither with a gun held to our head.

Over the second cup, he told me something that many people would not easily share, at least not in a first meeting. He suffered from an acute case of genital herpes of longstanding, resistant to drugs and spread beyond the area one might expect. This did not make me run away or start eyeballing the door. You see, just as I don't judge first on any person's appearance, I do not attach stigma to anyone who has an illness or who has suffered some attack or wrong by another person. There are certain medical descriptions that may ultimately cause me some distress, but I knew a little about this condition and it wasn't harrowing for me to hear. I also knew I wasn't ever going to engage in any activity that would put me in harm's way in that respect. It was safe discussion and I rather credited the man with being straightforward about something many sufferers hide from their associates until it is too late for them to make informed decisions. Besides, maybe it helped him to speak openly about a problem and not be censured. This cost me nothing except the price of the second round of coffee. No, I'm not patting myself on the back for my humanity. I'm suggesting that it costs little to be nonjudgmental.

The second coffee was getting low and I was about to say, "Well, thanks, it was really pleasant to meet you." I wouldn't mislead with any complicated comments. Besides, if he was drooling over me, he hid it well. Agreement is a good way to end a meeting, right? And then he said it. I looked up quickly to make eye contact so I could laugh along with him, though he'd made not one original humorous remark the entire time. "You didn't pass the audition. I'd never go with you. Would you like me to tell you the reasons?" Genuinely floored, I began to sputter, "No, oh no, thanks, but no . . .". Not to be rebuffed, Mr. Herpes told me I was a reject because I was well-traveled (true), well-educated (not as true) and had a job I loved (yes, very true). Though I am rarely at a loss for words, I couldn't think of any response, whether appropriate or idiotic. I began to gather my jacket and purse, not kicking over tables, chairs and cups, but decidedly ready to take my leave. Not really as hip, slick and cool as I'd like to be, as I got into my car, I thought, "Damn me for listening to my mother and Granny again! I thought those were the things I was supposed to reveal."

I regret to say it bothered me. I'm a little sensitive. I work rather hard to be well-liked and admired, though I will not be false. Over time, when I have felt myself in a situation safe enough, I've mentioned this put-down episode to friends. I have trouble saying "arrogant idiot" and stomping off. No, I have to analyze it. "What's wrong with me?" Though Mr. Herpes had left little doubt of what was wrong with me, unless he had more on his list that he didn't spew before I got up to leave. I've landed somewhere pretty solid. Likely his take on me was that I was independent and didn't need him (or anyone else) to fulfill me. That threatens some people or turns them off. They feel  extraneous. But wasn't he taught to keep his mouth shut and simply move on? I guess not. Like I was trying out for the lead in the school play!

Every now and then Facebook lands in my Yahoo mailbox attempting to woo me into their evil game. (I don't and, so far, won't Facebook, for reasons that are my own.) In their offering is a yoo-hoo from seemingly everyone I've ever e-mailed with. "Let's be friends!" Yeah. Uh-huh. Mr. Herpes is invariably in the mix, with a new photo since I met him. His face shows no evidence of having recently been smacked by some angry woman. I'm pleased to see his health is holding out. No, really.

Do You Want to Know a Secret?

Likely my dating confusion may be at least partly laid at the feet of Greg Clarkson who ruined me that beautiful spring for (many, if not all) other men. In the summer of 1963, we'd moved again from Los Angeles to Salt Lake City. I grew to my full adult height and from about 90 pounds to maybe 105 between the end of the last school year and my birthday at the end of the summer. My teeth were not snaggly new growth any longer, though it seems there were still a couple of molars to come, and the wisdom teeth that never did make it through the gums but were finally surgically removed when I was over 40. I could fix hair nicely, my own in a dark Gidget flip, and I washed and set my mother's to earn money. I worked cheaper than a professional in a beauty parlor (now called a salon). At the coming Christmas, I would receive makeup in my stocking - Angel Face pressed powder and the palest pink lipstick ever seen. Upon my body, curves existed where none had before and these made me feel just slightly awkward at the country club pool. (My parents eschewed the golf side of that club so I could make full use of the pool. It was a bargain to them to pay half-price and they knew I'd swim more than they would golf.) I turned 11 late that August.

The truck transporting our household belongings to Salt Lake was involved in a terrific accident along the way. Everything we owned was destroyed and my parents received a sizable insurance settlement. We gathered donated items from relatives to use in an apartment while we gathered ourselves. By early autumn, they had bought a house on the (then) far west stretches. Construction having just begun, there was still time to add a few custom touches and then we waited. We'd often drive out to the site after my dad came home from work. He'd hoist me up onto the second floor into what would be my bedroom and I could see all over the valley, lights beginning to twinkle here and there. I dreamed. This was to be the nicest home they ever owned, decorated nicely, with everything in it brand new. There was little development yet near Taylorsville. Everything needed to sustain life was also under construction to accommodate the booming growth in housing and residents. Oh, yes, there were gas stations and some mom-and-pop stores. But for major shopping, the library, and other necessities, we'd have to drive a bit. Dad would actually have a commute into the city.

Though some families were already moving into their completed new homes, the schools weren't springing up quickly enough to accommodate all the kids. The Valley West developer, whether a thoughtful Mormon father himself or under pressure from the new homeowners, devised a shortcut for the kids to take to the elementary school thereby avoiding Redwood Road. This heavily trafficked thoroughfare was used by everyone coming into and going out of the area and also by semi-truck drivers passing through. There were no sidewalks, the crumbly blacktop meeting the gravelly, weed-choked dirtpack irregularly. During the early autumn months, the shortcut flowed with a veritable river of kids going through the covered pathway and across a now-deserted sugar beet field. The school was an ancient, forbidding hulk of dark brick and no architectural relief, 3-stories and maybe 100 years old. Until the new schools were ready, the youngest children began their day at 6:00 a.m. and upperclassmen at 1:00 p.m., with school getting out at 6:00 in time for dinner, an imperfect temporary situation. When the snow flew, the shortcut became difficult and I remember trudging along Redwood Road in the afternoon, arms filled with books, heavy coat, gloves and boots. Soon enough I came to understand the honking, hooting truck drivers were not sounding "Hey, kids, get up farther on the verge to walk" messages, but "Hey, baby" salutations. Parents carpooled the kids home in the dark and snow, and soon enough John C. Fremont Elementary School was ready for us.

Normal school hours and a new facility, not yet even filled to capacity, made for a wonderful spring.  Softball began and counted as our PE portion of the day, with my 6th grade class pitted against the other. Remember the year: girls were not required to play softball if they didn't care to, but they had to go to study hall if they didn't play. Once a month for a few days, a girl could plead a physical excuse if she cared to. And then - the Promise Land - on softball days girls could begin to wear some form of trousers, but only on the diamond, not during the rest of the school day. That was OK enough for me. My father always, but always, treated me like his kid, not only like his daughter. I knew how to play softball. I was now bigger than most of the other kids and stronger, including the boys. I was fearless and skilled, sliding into base having never bothered me. I was pretty fast and I could catch a hurtling cannonball without dropping it. "Don't drop that ball, Les. Morgans play hard!" "OK, Dad!" But, oh!, the piece de resistance. My father owned a most wonderful wooden bat, 36" long and 33 oz. - a most manly bat and likely too much bat for me at the time. On softball days, I attracted some noise carrying in my bat and my bag, which I think was a bowling bag, with my pants and sneakers in it, for we also did not wear sneakers during the rest of the school day. These days were the highlight of my week and I learned much that spring. I learned never, ever to throw my bat again after making a young fellow drop to his knees in tears. I'd never much thrown my bat before that, but I got a little show-offy there on home plate, adding a little elan to my swing. I learned that some of the glee expressed by others on softball days had to do with me running the bases like the wind and getting in under a high pop fly. It wasn't so different from the swimming pool or the honking, hooting truck drivers.

"Hey, Greg Clarkson really likes you." A boy from the other 6th grade delivered this message and I flinched, I am sure. "Oh?" "Yeah, he thinks you play really well and you're cute." Uh-oh. "Oh." I walked away, completely unprepared for such an announcement and not knowing how to cope with it. Oh sure, I knew who he was. He was in the other class and may have been the only player more talented than I. Quite tall and very thin, he was strong and fast and tough. He stared me down at the plate and on the field. I always knew I had to play against Greg Clarkson and not so much against anyone else. The other pee wees kind of ran around and Clarkson was the only real competitor. I imagine he felt the same, in softball terms, about me. We always pretended not to be looking at the other, but now I noticed his hair was longish and curly, dark. Oh, not long hair as an original affectation like the Beatles who were taking over all of our pubescent or prepubescent minds. More like his mother had allowed him to skip one haircut because the Beatles had taken over his mind. Soon we began to exchange notes. I was comfortable with that, easily finding my voice in written word. He had miniature messengers at his command and the notes fairly flew back and forth. Then it was telephone calls. I began to use a phone upstairs so my parents, both with eyes bugged out at the notion of a boy calling me, would not be able to hear every (innocent) word of my side of the conversation.

The girls who were my friends were fascinated and began to suit up for softball so they could watch us on the field. The boys who were his friends seemed to watch him exclusively. Were they taking lessons from his example or had they been warned that I was his and they should not even look? We'd each dawdle on the grounds for a short time after school and finally a chaste, quick peck of a kiss was exchanged, some 20 child observers marking the occasion in silent awe. One afternoon he head gestured me to join him around the corner of the building. I looked toward my friends and weighed whether I would do this. I did. Around the bend, he wasted no time pushing a small parcel toward me, a jewelry box, to be precise. Taking it from him and feeling not on solid ground, I noticed he had dirt under his fingernails at the end of the day. Inside was a modest neck chain and a clear pendant with a mustard seed inside, perfectly appropriate for an 11-year-old girl heading for 12. Since that time I have heard a couple of different mustard seed legends, but when Greg asked me if I knew what it meant and I said I did not, he told me it represented "I love you." I did not respond to that in any verbal way, but I felt my eyes widen. Then he proposed what he knew to be my favorite tune as "our song", the meaning of which also had to be explained to me. We exchanged a kiss no more heated than the ones delivered in view of mesmerized 6th graders, he put the chain around my neck and we emerged onto the playground. I surmise Greg had older brothers or sisters because he was smooth - smooth! - and I knew nothing about any of the steps. But I liked the dance.

We became local celebrities, Greg Clarkson and Leslie Morgan. Even the teachers seemed aware of the chaste connection and smiled at us. The mustard seed pendant was much handled by young girls. I don't know what Greg had to deal with in his crowd of admiring boys. We held hands while walking in the hallway, though we would never have kissed openly and nothing, nothing changed on the softball field except that I tucked my necklace down the front of my shirt. The end of the school year approached following an idyllic spring and it was announced we'd have a 6th grade party day to include a movie in the cafeteria, "free dress" (slacks and sneakers ~ yay!), and if we brought our own records, we could play them and dance. A number of the moms provided better-than-school-cafeteria snacks and it was a red-letter day. Funny that I do not recall what movie was shown. But I remember that we sat close and held hands throughout as other kids exchanged looks and grins. No other young people so coupled up. What, we were enough for everyone, even if it was vicarious? When the music started, it was revealed that Greg arranged for our song to be played first. We danced, surrounded by silent classmates. He danced quite well, actually. Soon I saw some girls dancing together. When some fast tunes came on, some of the braver boys jumped on board. It was better than a prom.

He told me his family was moving to Alaska in the summer. I was good at geography and I knew his bike wasn't going to carry him to my house or the pool any longer. He reminded me we were nearly 12 - well, he actually was already. It wouldn't be so long until we could design our own lives and not be held hostage by our parents. My mother told me to invite him for dinner. She grilled steaks and did not act weird in front of Greg. My dad talked decently with him about baseball. He held my hand in front of them and kissed me goodbye at the door. They saw this. And then he was gone. He was an excellent letter-writer and he was allowed to call me once a month for 10 minutes. My parents allowed reciprocal phone calls. I did not cry or pine miserably, though I missed his company. Eventually it faded away, perhaps when we moved back to California in a couple of years. Or perhaps when the next youngblood said "My friend thinks you're cute." Or maybe Greg was attracted to a lovely young female in a parka. Anyway, it ended predictably, without rancor. I owned the mustard seed necklace for a very long time - decades. I do not know where it is now.

In my ears right now:  Oh, come on, what do you think?

(With Plenty of Experience Now) I Only Date My Own Species

I may sometimes come across as both articulate and loquacious which is sometimes interpreted to mean "outgoing, sturdy, not thin-skinned". Nothing could be farther from my actuality. I'm highly sensitive and somewhat easily hurt. But I take risks by showing myself and telling truths about me - the person - in almost every relationship I undertake. Why would I take a chance making myself vulnerable to people I don't know well? That's how I relate with other human beings. I'm not so comfortable with casual relationships or fleeting friendships. Relating only on the surface doesn't work for me. I'm curious about others and am willing to show myself, within reason. It is always my hope the other person will eventually show me at least something real about themselves. By nature and by training, that is how I interact with other humans. Does this point out how difficult it is for me to deal with the dating bullshitter, the closed-down and the tight-lipped? Oh, and one last thing: I am pretty scrupulous about not being unnecessarily harsh with others, even when they have sometimes set themselves up for such treatment. Even when . . .

He was literate and he read books on purpose for entertainment. He worked in a field similar to mine, so we understood one another's workday stories. He sought outdoor activities and claimed to be physically fit, liked some of the movies that were my favorites and had a sense of humor. We were age appropriate and had exchanged photos, finding one another attractive, or at least worth continuing to talk with. Until he found out my name. You see, he'd just been hurt by a Leslie and didn't feel he could engage with another so soon. Or that's what he said and I have no supporting information whatsoever to confirm that as truth or untruth. I was gracious. "OK, well, I certainly understand that. Thanks for chatting." I am not 100% certain I do understand that, as a common name never was a deterrent to me, but I felt no need to be nasty to a man who had been pleasant throughout.

Conversely . . . Before I learned to pull the plug at the first, not the seventh, warning sign, I let conversations continue past the date they should have ended. And this man was one waving red flags from the first e-mail. HE WAS ONE OF THOSE "ALL IN CAPS" FELLAS. I didn't know there were any such communicators left, but I now can attest there are. It annoyed me, but I didn't immediately say "Stop it." He said he kept 5 dogs and I felt further disinterested. Not hostile. Just not enthusiastic. "I CAN GET YOU INTO A 3-YEAR-OLD CAR THAT LOOKS BRAND NEW," he virtually screamed. "Oh, well, thanks. Mine is less than a year old and perfectly suited to me." I decided to try the path of least resistance, simply distancing myself by e-mailing less frequently and then not at all. It was my impression that online conversations faded quickly if one party slowed or stopped for 24 hours. He was slow to understand and, in fact, turned up the heat in direct proportion to my cooling. "WELL, AT LEAST LET'S EXCHANGE PICTURES." He attached his to that message. He looked exactly like Stepfather. I cringed, actually recoiled from my computer monitor, but said nothing. This did not satisfy him. "WELL, I KNOW I'M GOOD LOOKING, SO WHY HAVEN'T I HEARD FROM YOU?" I remained quiet and (foolishly) passive. He turned up his aggression, bombarding me with e-mails assaulting both my character and appearance, though he really knew nothing about either of those. I finally had to unload. "You look just exactly like my stepfather. It creeps me out." Never heard from him again.

I cannot say how many times I have been challenged with "Is that really your picture?" "Yes, it is me, taken 10 days ago." "It's not your daughter or your girlfriend or sister?" "Uh, no. It is me." "Ten days ago, you said?" WTF? "Yes, 10 days ago." I gather it is common for both women and men to send pictures that are 10 years old, 100 pounds lighter, or simply not their own photograph while still in the just-talking phase. I never understood that. If I send a misleading image of myself in order to snare a man into meeting me somewhere, will I not be exposed as a fraud the moment I walk into the place? Apparently it is not unusual. OK, so noted. I don't believe I ever met a man who had sent me someone else's photo, but I met several who selected pictures of themselves no longer very recognizable when compared to the reality.

Closely related: age, height and weight claims. "How old did you say you are?" I've told the man several times and it is in my profile. Why am I asked about this continually? Ah, because people pad or whittle these things by many years, inches or pounds. Almost always, I am told. I didn't understand that one, either. What if I flip open my wallet to pay the tip or the bill for coffee and expose my drivers license? What if I'm not good enough in math to adjust my entire life experience to an era 10 years later than my own? What if I just find it easier to tell my real age for simplicity and let him make an assessment of height and weight by looking at me and deciding whether the full package is worth pursuing or not?

The man was educated and brilliant (seemingly) in his field. I know when he went to lunch with a woman, his office called, paged and sent text messages constantly, he was so sorely missed. We engaged in e-mail, text and telephone conversations for quite some time before meeting for a bagel and coffee. We had to, you see, because he was going to have to get something out in the open before showing himself. Though I was not bragging to friends or dreaming about him, I thought this was an OK man. I was interested, not rabid. We discussed the headlines, politics, trade unionism and the ubiquitous "what brought you to Las Vegas?" I remain convinced each of us was truthful about previous marriages. After a month or so, he broke the news: "I am younger than you are." Hmm .  . what constitutes "younger"? I think I'm pretty moderate about that, feeling maybe a 5 year difference in either direction is rarely an issue and more than that should be discussed. I looked at his profile again. Yes, it was true. He didn't reveal his age there, as I had mine. I'd been juggling so many men, I had failed to check my assumptions. "OK, so how old are you?" I asked, pretty bravely. Yow. Significantly younger.

"OK, back to 5 squares negative of Square One: what are you doing? My profile divulges my age. What did you not get from your mother that you want from me?" We talked for another month or 6 weeks. He wasn't looking for money - he made more than I did, owned a nice home, had investments. This was not verified by me. I am repeating what he told me. He claimed no fantasies of parading me on the Strip in granny garb while he sported diapers. He made a strong case for simply being attracted to an older woman both because of appearance and common interests. To support this, he cited some musical favorites that actually fell between my own youth and his, but OK. He wasn't quoting current Top 40. We finally met several times for a meal and I learned some things about myself. I wasn't mortified to be seen "dating" him, though he was clearly quite a bit younger. I was really excellent about taking my turn at buying lunch or coffee. He did not take advantage of that. I began to relax and said I'd consider it when he asked me for a more serious date (as in after dark to a comedy club). He called before I could give my final answer. He was in a panic. He'd been called away to LA on business and he had a huge dilemma. Could I help him out? "Well, what's up? Do you need a ride to the airport?" No. No. His ex-wife, a drug- and gambling-addict who was camped out on his couch because he couldn't bring himself to throw her in the streets (this is not unusual in Las Vegas, either) was in the throes of her addictions and could not be relied upon to take care of Matthew in his absence. Though I'd never heard of Matthew, he was age 7 and his father had full custody. Would I be willing to take care of Matthew for "a few days"? I am sure the sound of my foot being pulled from the sucking mudhole was audible. I never learned whether Matthew was taken to LA and got to visit Disneyland, as I never heard from his father again. Some people look to their (figurative) mothers as problem solvers, caretakers. I probably disappointed, as I delivered a message filled with fiery "you might have mentioned" words.

Oh, I'm on a roll now and rather regret holding back for so long! Yes, I do realize there could be some old dudes out there who may think, speak or write about the goofiest woman they ever encountered and picture my face in so doing. That's OK! My point is not to take anything away from anyone. My point is that human beings are damned complicated, heavily layered things driven by stuff we may not even contemplate. When someone such as I, already feeling a bit challenged by these fascinating animals, is faced with stuff she does not immediately know how to handle . . things can get funny or sparky or mean or frightening. And I haven't even spoken yet of He Who Told Me What Was Wrong With Me (to whom I was never grateful), nor He Who Was Actually Kind of Scary in His Intensity, nor even He Who Would Have Been the One Worth Keeping for Awhile. Talk soon ~ I've got a date. Nah!

May I Offer You Some Dates?

All right, I've avoided it long enough. The taboo material. Oldster dating. Odd, because I have much to say on the subject, and I don't usually hold back when something is on my mind. Perhaps I've been too self-protective because I know that in telling the anecdotes I will be mortified from time to time. However, when I slipped in one short sentence on the topic a few posts back, esteemed follower JF responded that it seemed we had some experiences in common. Then I was taking a walk with another woman friend and said the "d(ating)" word. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Another good and decent woman of a similar age with some less-than-wonderful experiences. So let's talk about this. Disclaimer: no part of this post or future ones on the subject is meant to generally bash males. It is more to express my amazement and confusion at some human behavior. And, yes, sometimes even my own.

I am on record as having little understanding of other human beings and even less about males than females. My father, my husband of 32 years and the love of my life were much too close for me to make objective observations about the species. I know today that those 3 are pretty sterling examples of the breed. I was sheltered and fortunate for the men I knew well. I did not date from 1971 until 2007. I was rusty. Nor had I ever been the prom queen, so I was no serial dater, even in my teens. On my best day of life, which was many decades ago, I was likely a cutie and not a beauty. I was reasonably intelligent, dressed all right and was probably somewhat interesting. I could dance and I had all the newest records. I did OK. When Ex and I set up housekeeping together, I looked forward to a happy future, and was just a little relieved to be done with the dating thing.

To my surprise, in my maturity, I found myself uncoupled and I felt like a square peg. No, I didn't need anyone to help feed, clothe or house me. I simply wasn't sure what to do without a man hanging from me like a charm bracelet. I was in a female-dominated work situation and developed my plan after much consultation with women of all ages. After deciding all the safety measures I would exercise at all times, I went online. There were lots of men out there! All the websites said so. I made firm rules about always having my own car at hand, cash, credit cards and my cell phone. I would go on no date without telling someone where I was going and with whom. Bring someone back to the apartment? Not in the immediate future. Always park close to the doors under a light standard and don't be shy about telling someone, "I don't think this is going to work for me." Be both honest and truthful. Don't waste anyone's time. Talk to people just like I talked with business associates - this would just be a "getting to know you".  And do not cruise for a man on a free website. If both he and I had not paid a fee, I should not even consider him.  "OK, gotcha, roger and check. Thanks, ladies."

I know many more things now than I did then, about myself and others. I needed to spend some time alone, getting to know myself as I was "right now". Why was I looking for a date? What did I want or expect and what would I not tolerate? Did I have anything whatsoever to offer a companion, and what were the things that interested me?  What did I like to do and what would I like to learn about from someone else? Who knew? I didn't ask myself any of those things. I just blindly went looking for a date. It took no time to attract some e-mail attention. I am a quick learner. Men who seemed illiterate wouldn't be a match for me. Those who seemed to only check their e-mail once a week weren't operating at the same speed as I. Telling me in the first e-mail they were hopeful for a job and a car soon (hey, this is Las Vegas!) - delete. If "I make $150,000 a year!" was his hello, I thought, "I bet you don't, actually." Hey! I was a pretty quick study. This wasn't so difficult.

I was fortunate the first time I went out. He was a very kind, age appropriate, long-time recovering alcoholic. I'd ridden on the back of his fine motorcycle to the Fremont Street Experience. This was a completely different mode of transportation for me, and kind of fun, though I've never again sought it out ~ he'd thoughtfully provided both helmet and goggles. We stepped first into Hogs & Heifers Saloon where I was immediately knocked to the floor by a very large woman dancing like there was no tomorrow. Picking myself up and dusting myself off, I had to say, "I'm not really so comfortable in bars." My friend was OK with that. Walking outside, we came upon a Soul Food Festival and Street Fair. I stretched out of my comfort zone ~ the fried catfish was good. My friend insisted that I be photographed (twice) with the Chippendale's dancers on the street, which is also not at all what I do. But I did, with fairly good grace. I did not like this experience. I had to ask hotties how to pose. They told me. Hey - they pose with young and old women all day every day in little clothing and for a price. I wasn't anything new, special or different. They shave their backs. Apparently about once a week, judging by the prickly new growth. They autographed my picture frame. "Vegas, baby!" wrote Matt. In case I forgot where I lived, I suppose. He is the one with the offensive belt buckle and the Vegas tan. "Love Ricky," wrote the one whose zipper is down about an inch in the photo. He didn't have to spell as many words as Matt. I'd be the one who looks like a carousel horse mounted on the head of that silhouetted Chippendale's dancer. How did they get that so perfectly?  We rode on the motorcycle to the other side of the valley to hear live music. And finally, freezing on that bike at an hour I had forgotten existed, he yelled, "Want to come to my place?" I said no. "Can I come to yours?" I said no.

Returning to work on Monday morning, I was greeted by expectant faces and exhortations to "tell". I did so. Now the faces wore shocked looks. "How many of the rules did you break in one short evening? He could have boiled you into soup and eaten you!" I admitted to a few infractions of my own rules and adopted a hangdog look. I think the women felt I was behaving properly remorseful. I was. For not the reasons they imagined. You see, I was studying what I felt I should "do" with this man I now knew. He was pleasant and bright and he was interested in me, trying to present me with things to do that he thought I might enjoy. He'd called all weekend after our Friday night outing. I dodged the calls. For not only did I not know what to do with him, I wasn't sure I even wanted or needed anything to do with him. Although it took some thinking time, I was on the way to learning that I do not need or want a date or, necessarily, a man only for the purpose of filling time. For that, there are friends of longstanding and books and writing and camping and hiking and meditation and movies and music and walking and pets and shopping and any number of things. If I wanted a date for the specific purpose of developing a relationship with a man, then that was different. I didn't learn that until I was 55 years old and it would still take me awhile to land there firmly.

I've traveled a little. I've often tried to familiarize myself with some rudimentary phrases for communication in the native tongue so I'd feel more comfortable in a new environment. With the vast experience of one date tucked under my belt, I now felt qualified to analyze what should and should not happen for the dating future. I needed to speak the language more fluently, for sure. Absent a Berlitz course or Rosetta Stone, I decided I could use my own talents of observation and online research to develop dating eloquence and comprehension. Once again, I was a pretty quick study. It took me little time to understand that "This is not a recent picture" could mean the background music was K.C. and the Sunshine Band. "A few extra pounds" might mean 50-75 extra. I filed these away for future reference. The best early lesson, however, was the one that taught me not to lower my personal standards in the interest of "just going out". Oh, I knew better than to test this. I did it anyway, for I have a history of pushing the boundaries. "Considerate smoker," he wrote. "Don't do this, Les," thought I. I did it. The wind blew like hell and we were meeting at a coffee house. I thought maybe he'd forgo smoking for the short time it takes to meet, greet and down a cuppa Joe. But no. No. And that evening I learned that "considerate smoker" could be construed as a man who puffed like a locomotive, tucking his date against the stucco side of a building while the wind shrieked by at a sustained 25 mph. Almost as useful a discovery as "Donde esta el bano?"

My Guys - The Home Dudes

In my work, I am surrounded by males. I'm the only hen in the barnyard. This was not comfortable for me for a very long period, because I had never quite figured the species out. No brother. My father, husband and the love of my life were not good study subjects - they were too close to me to be objectively observed. It was a difficult learning process, but I believe I've caught on. I like this configuration. I've got the best seat in the house.

David is an entrepreneur. He had made a good deal of money in some of his endeavors and decided to open an additional small business he knew something about - carpet cleaning. He is a man who will only do things first class, and his new business was no different. All new everything, the best everything. From technology to service vehicles, from products to staff, it has to be the best. That's how he rolls.

I came along 3 months after the business opened and his office manager was about to move. His ad was not what typically would have drawn a response from me, but he was the only human being I reached that day. All other potential offers required me to e-mail, fax or speak to voicemail. I wanted to connect with a living being. I went to see him that afternoon. He said he would let me know within a few days. He called me an hour later and said to start working the next day. I knew nothing about carpet cleaning, small business, scheduling and dispatching, creating websites or any of the things I do today. He selected me for my broader experience and allowed me to learn the details. He's a good mentor. I'm a good learner.

It's been like that for us. We are both rather difficult and extreme people. We are polar opposites on the surface - our separate experiences and journey - but at the core we are twin brothers from different mothers. We work alike. We think alike. We emote similarly. He has put his million dollar baby business in my hands to manage and he steps away and lets me do so. More recently, on the occasions when I ask him to ring in on something, his answer is usually, "I want you to do what you think is right." It's heady stuff. I've never run a business. I've never even worked for a face, a person. I've worked for corporations and labor unions and places run by boards of directors. More will be written about my work, no doubt, but this post was meant to be about the home dudes.

Carpet cleaning technicians are just like any other box of chocolates and we've been through a lot of them. We've had those who embezzled us and stole our money as well as our innocence. We've had old ones, drama kings, misogynists, hell raisers, ladies men, functioning illiterates, marginal nice folks and some really fine citizens. When the recession slammed us unexpectedly 9 months ago, the last remaining difficult ones managed to pretty quickly fire themselves, to the relief of all of us who were left standing. And now we're a smaller, but mighty band of warriors made stronger by being the ones who stayed in, tightened our belts, committed to stay for the ride. And now we're resurfacing!

We developed a mantra some months ago, those of us who are the stayers. "Just keep doing it as right as we can do it. Under-promise and over-deliver. Be as good as we are - on every job." David adjusted budgets and cut expenses, began to pay some expenses personally and communicated openly with everyone. Soon we were managing a small profit. I became a statistician and learned to predict when we'd have more work - and my predictions are pretty dead on. I stopped going off at impossible people on the phone - I can't sacrifice one job to my sharp tongue. Our technicians became kinder to seniors and war veterans, single moms and assorted pathetics, just to keep every job on the books. They became less willing to leave a job that was going south because it would affect all of us.

We're a snapshot of an American phenom: a small business that held on despite some really dark days. We all adjusted how we do things. We kept communicating. We developed a foundation built on mutual trust and it feels powerful. We've truly become worth more than the sum of all our components. You're going to hear much about my home dudes!

In my ears right now: Lucinda Williams, "Over Time"

Why I like it/her: She's a real tough girl. Tough enough to show us that she could also easily bleed to death from emotional pain.

Something that charmed me today: The Badger's dawn e-mails: the weather conditions, his breakfast, his layers of cycling clothes. He is strong and confident going into this race. The gun went off 7 minutes ago. He's riding now and for another 1 1/2 hours or so. I wonder if the turns in those descents will still be muddy or dry and loose.