Ghosts of Different Days (Joce)

About the only thing that’s perfect about me is my vision. I haven’t taken an eye test in years but it’s never tested lower than absolutely flawless. As a kid, I thought I was really missing out on an accessory opportunity by not getting to wear glasses or bright blue contacts (keep in mind I was also jealous of the girl who broke her leg because she got to wear a pink cast.  Everybody signed it!). I’ve since come to realize that the additional expense of a medically required accessory leaves a little to be desired (sunglasses are more than enough) and I’ve reallocated my jealousies to wishing I had perfect hair, or perfect skin or a perfect ass. Even more unfortunately, there isn’t a glasses equivalent for the ass - that accessory that remedies the less than perfect characteristic. Unless you count Spanx. Which I don’t. Spanx are way less cuter than a pair of specs.

Supposedly hindsight is 20/20. Mine isn’t. The further I get from the past, the harder it is for me to recall what happened, what was going on, how I felt, what I said, how I reacted. I’ve never been one of those people that could recount, word for word, a conversation. Or remember a date, an anniversary. I’ve had lifelong friends that I can’t remember for the life of me what their birthday is. What year did I graduate from college? Good question. What was I wearing? Probably, likely, something cute, but, unless there’s a picture from the moment in question, your guess is as good as mine.

I’ve been going to a counselor lately to work on some life strategies. Clearly, I need some new tools for my toolbox. And he’s been asking me a lot of questions about the past, past relationships, past lives in past places. And, I don’t have a lot of details to give. He asked me the other day about Bryce, “what attracted you to him at the beginning?” (I’d asked him to help me figure out what attracts me to bullies, manipulators, tough and mean guys, so I don’t do it again, HALP!) Honestly, I couldn’t remember anything, anything except the basic timeline. I had to go back and read some emails, my blog, my diary, to fill in the details, to clarify.

 After that, I realized that Bryce was well-spoken, interesting, driven, not to mention, actively pursuing me. Mostly, he talked a good game. And I’m such a good listener that I didn’t bother to notice that he didn’t follow the talking up with action. He told me exactly what I wanted to hear, using the best possible words and he presented an elaborate façade that distracted me from who he actually was. He hid the hoarding part, the ‘roid rage, the pet abuse, the shifty financial situation. Until it was too late and I was so over my head that I was afraid to back out. I’m the kind of person who tends to put my money where my mouth is. If I say I’m going to do something, I make a concerted effort to do it. In other words, I’m a man of my word.

And, I tend to take a man at his word. Which is why, perhaps, I ended up with Bryce. And Ken. And Malik. And Conover. And, of course, Rocco. Each of these men presented a self, at least in the beginning, that was far different from whom they actually ended up being. They all said the right thing, talked a good game, but had a much harder time walking the walk. Each of them sold their refrigerator to an Inuit (me), but then couldn’t figure out (or never had the intention of) delivering a unessential major appliance to a remote destination.

To the moon, Alice! (You, Joce, Conover)

Dear Ones,

Last night the wind whipped like demons and rattled the trees like “plastic for Halloween” bones. There was an exorcism of the environment and I think, perhaps, it hailed. Winds of change? Here’s hoping. I think I’ve mentioned it before, but I’m not much of a sleeper, and when I’m not sleeping, I’m thinking. Last night, as I often do, I was thinking of you and this place. There are a few stories that are itching the tips of my fingers. A new quiz. And perhaps a musical interlude. But first…

I have a lot to say to you, but the thing is, I’m really busy with other stuff, including a new job, plus my old job, and planning a big bash for my 35^th, and being an insomniac, obviously, so you’ve taken a well-worn back seat. Plus, I haven’t been on a “date” (see below*) since January and I’m taking a break, I don’t know for how long, hopefully at least months, because dating is the pits. See The Big Book of Bad Dates.

And when I come back, you might notice some changes. In fact, you might have already noticed some changes. I have yet to finish Part II of this posting but one of the things I’d like to talk about is that I have known many, many wonderful men. Some of them I loved and some of them loved me back. I have not lived a loveless life and sometimes when I read back over my blog it feels like that is how I’ve been portraying the whole shebang. So, I’d like to talk about some of the good ones, the “best men,” if you will. The other thing is that I’ve managed to pigeonhole myself into only talking about one topic: dating, and I think I have other things to say about other things. So, because I’m taking a sabbatical from dating, maybe you’ll indulge me a few postings about my other interests.

So hang in there, kiddo. I’m still here. And I’ll be back.

Luv u 4-evah,

Joce

* Short story short, as often happens, there was an ill-advised re-rendezvous with a bad date. 

Catch and Release (Conover)

My roommate loves to fly fish. Several days a week he’ll get up before sunrise to tramp through the dead leaves on the river bank and sink knee deep, in rubber boots, into the icy grey river. The night before he’ll get out his rod and carefully choose his flies, sometimes referring to a thick slick book, The Ultimate Guide to Fly Fishing, to aid in his decisions. Saturday morning the smell of coffee will tickle my nose, but the warmer will have long shut off by the time I awake, this time to the crackle of corn meal crusty on a sizzling Brown Trout. Served with tiny green lentils and a seaweedy bed of kale, it is a campfire breakfast in the kitchen.

As much as he loves the humble brown fish, his true prize is a Steelhead. Thick-bodied and fierce, Steelhead are burnished on the side with speckled swaths of copper red, the uniform of a warrior fish compelled to swim hundreds of miles upstream from the ocean to fresh water. Their team motto: “spawn ‘til you die.”

Only a few of these monsters are released each year into the river by our house, and each fall the fishermen in the neighborhood compete to catch the elusive fish – for many the glimpse of a 30-inch beast – a silver torpedo, with teeth, swimming up river – is enough fodder for a bar stool story. There is simply no shame in letting such a formidable foe go uncaught.

______________________

The first thing I notice about him are his coppery eyes. I know it’s not unusual to notice eyes, first thing, but often I notice them and then easily forget their color, their nuances, their angle and tilt. I have a shy gaze and many people have forgettable eyes. But, I notice his coppery eyes and I find I can remember them, even after I turn away.