After my disappointing experiment with Chemistry.com, one would think I’d steer clear of online meeting sites, but I have to admit it wasn’t too long before I went slinking back to the Internet, looking for love.
And out of the blue, there he was, staring me right in the face. I was intrigued by his picture — handsome, yet somehow vulnerable. His profile tugged at my heart: A southern gentleman, he had some issues: uncertain parentage, health problems, excessive shyness, fears of abandonment; but nothing that the love of a good woman couldn’t resolve. Did I say I’m a sucker for a pretty face?
We communicated through a third party until we decided to meet, face to face. The Jersey Shore is a little out of my dating range, but I decided to make an exception for this guy, and on an unremittingly gloomy day, I braved the Tappan Zee bridge traffic and headed south on the Garden State Parkway. I was as nervous as a schoolgirl as I approached the house two hours later; I knocked tentatively on the screen door.
Or maybe it failed me. God knows I gave it the old college try. A couple of months ago I signed up with Chemistry.com, Match.com’s answer to eHarmony. And I was cautiously optimistic. Unlike Bob from Brooklyn, who was “seeking cosmic love, I was just looking for someone to pal around with (hopefully NOT a terrorist!), who was interested in travel, the arts, liberal political discussion.
I didn’t find him. Or anyone even close. What I did find was a born again Christian truck driver who was still living with his parents, a retired sanitation worker, a guy who worked in chemical waste treatment and a whole slew of men who haven’t read a book since The DaVinci Code. I received profiles of men describing themselves as: “in pretty good shape for my age and still have my hair” and guys who were not particularly particular about their matches: “Our common interest should be that you're woman and I'm a man. Height: four feet to seven feet; body type: no preference.”
I want to play by the school's rules, honest I do. But when they are just plain stupid and possibly endangering my child's well being, not so much.
Even with continued therapy, K's panic attacks are an issue. If I knew then what I know now, I would have skipped steps one through 10 and just hidden her stash in a mint box. (Then again, after hearing about the Supreme Court case of the poor girl who was strip searched on suspicion of carrying Advil, maybe not.)
I went to her doctor, who filled out the proper forms and expressed her medical opinion that K should be able to self-administer her anti-anxiety meds in school as necessary. Delivered to school nurse.
Permission denied.
So I brought in a supply of 0.5 mg Xanax — in original container — so the nurse could dispense them as needed. That is, if K could actually get to her.
Her first attack took place at the beginning of history class. K told the teacher she needed to go to the nurse. His response: "We’re having a quiz — if you don't stay, you'll get an incomplete for the quarter."
The only thing worse than suffering through your very own first heartbreak is experiencing it a second time, through your daughter. And it's been a pretty wild ride through the wake of The Boy's exit from K's life. Starting with a terrifying five hours in the emergency room.
The night before, she had crawled into bed with me at two in the morning. She hadn't done that since she was about 10 years old. She was clammy to the touch, sobbing, unable to tell me what was wrong. I held her, murmured sweet platitudes in her ear until we both fitfully fell asleep.
The next morning, she told me she couldn't go to school, she felt nauseous, couldn't breathe. A few hours later, in a near panic, she told me her heart was racing — and she really couldn't breathe. By the time we got to the doctor's, she couldn't walk or talk either. When the doctor tapped her knee with that little rubber hammer — nothing happened. He sent us to the ER, looking grim.
As I've explained in earlier blogs, mine is not the party house. I don't have the big screen TVs with the accompanying Wii, Xbox, or Guitar Hero games. No swimming pool, no hot tub, no recording studio complete with drum set and piano.
So when my kids and their friends choose to hang out at my house rather than their dad's, I'm pretty thrilled. Either they like my company, or my cookies. Probably both. And the fact that my late best buddy's sons actually wanted to come hang out with me while home from college pleased me no end. It was an occasion for breaking out the sugar and spice and everything nice. Mine is the baking house.
As we were whipping up a batch of snickerdoodles, my girls and I were wailing along to my current iPod playlist: Taylor Swift ("You're Just Another Picture to Burn"), Carrie Underwood ("The Next Time That He Cheats"), and the Dixie Chicks ("Goodbye Earl"). It suddenly occurred to me that, perhaps, I was not being a Good Role Model.
The most honest holiday card I received this year started out with a bit of Christmas blasphemy: "Bah Humbug" it read, followed by a litany of recent woes:
"I went Christmas shopping today and a woman backed out of her parking space and whacked my car...Billy broke his ankle skateboarding. It required an operation and two screws. That's the good news. The bad news is that he's still skateboarding...Cal lost his job last March...We lost half our life savings in the stock market. Now when people ask my kids, 'How's your mom? They reply, 'She's never going to be able to retire.'"
A pretty bleak picture indeed.
But my friend goes on to say that her car is still drivable, Billy likes looking at the X-rays of the screws in his bone, Cal found a job in October, and her older son was transferring to an in-state college ("He always kind of wanted to go to UGA anyway"). And as for retirement, she is really quite thankful to have a job.
Okay, so Peter from Pelham never panned out. But the hits, they keep on coming, complete with lots of pep talk ("we're excited you're interested in Joe The Plumber!) and mumbo jumbo about my chemistry profile: it seems I'm a negotiator/explorer who is gracious, enthusiastic, and flexible (why thank you very much) who would have "jolly times" and "hearty laughs" with my matches.
And so far, I certainly have had some hearty laughs over their idea of my matches. I couldn't have been clearer that I'm a card carrying, blue state, bleeding heart liberal. If there had been a box that said Would Bear Obama's Children, I would have checked it. So why is chemistry.com sending me so many conservatives?
Or liars, like Wayne, who billed himself as being 53: "I'm a creative, caring, and passionate renaissance man who is 68 chronologically, but 53 in mind, energy, and spirit."
