Rethinking

Man, When I get too much time on my hands (i.e.: when my children are gone) here’s what happens:

1. My laundry stays caught up. This is a good thing.

2. My house stays very neat. This is not such a good thing, because the second they come home I’m astounded at how quickly it becomes a cluttered swamp.

3. My refrigerator empties out. I don’t drink milk or juice, or use bread or butter or cheese when I cook for myself. Today’s inventory: Peaches, Pesto & Pinot Grigio. HAH! Swear to dog, I didn’t plan that.

4. I get all skinny. See #3.

5. I miss having the boys around to cuddle and hug and kiss and run my fingers through their hair.

6. It reminds me of what my uncle’s fiancée said: That being lonely when the kids are gone will make them feel guilty about leaving. She’s probably right, and I should probably start, like, dating or something.

Ire Land

So, while people seem bent on concerning themselves with everything I do and my mother’s reverted to High Martyrdom, Kelly’s in Dublin on business. We met at a hotel near the airport to have sex before he left. Well, also to kiss and take a shower together and stuuuuuff. Cos it’s fun to have sex in hotels.

Anyway, I gave him a flash drive with music. Cos that’s what he does. He makes me playlists and this was the first time I’d made one for him, and I sort of worried about whether he’d think I was sappy or in luuuv or whatever (WHATEVER), and I thought that maybe I shouldn’t give it to him because now that I listened to it on the drive over, I think maybe it’s cheesy and awful and weird.

It is cheesy, but I give it anyway. It’s a sweet thing to do. As many sweet and goofy gestures as Kelly has done, I am put to shame, and nothing I do with a stupid iTunes mix is going to trump his collection of stunts.

I have never seen High Fidelity (and no, Kelly’s never stood outside my house with a portable stereo), but I think that mix tapes (cds, thumb drives, whatEVER) should tell a story, or at least make sense to somebody, and not just be some random collection of songs that somebody happens to like. So here’s our story, I guess.

I give you a selection from this music I gave this person who has had five sexual relationships in his life and who calls me from his seat while they’re telling people to turn off their portable electronics just to say thanks for the music, SugarPop, I had no idea you liked the Ramones.

First up: Fluorescent Adolescent by The Arctic Monkeys

You used to get it in your fishnets
Now you only get it in your night dress
Discarded all the naughty nights for niceness
Landed in a very common crisis
Everything’s in order in a black hole
Nothing seems as pretty as the past though
That Bloody Mary’s lacking in Tabasco
Remember when he used to be a rascal?

Opposing Counsel

Some of you who follow my Twitter updates may have noticed a short tweet last night that went something like this: “Omg, rudest date ever.” Here’s the (longer than 140 characters) story:

Joe called last Saturday, after basically three months of silence. It’s cool, we didn’t have an exclusive relationship, goodness knows, but I tend to gravitate toward the “Hey, let’s take a break for a while, no hard feelings” line of breaking things off, rather than screen and ignore calls or emails which he seems to favor.

I like Joe. He’s fun to hang out with and go to football games and watch basketball games and Mike & Mike in the Morning. You know, buddy-style. And while I am, in his words, “damn sexy,” we have never had penetrative vaginal intercourse (Ew, sex ed.) I look good on his arm at parties and restaurants and I’m smarter than most women he knows, which is a big turn-on.

So, last Saturday I picked up the phone and he asked me to dinner on Monday, after he finished his hearing at the courthouse.

(Did I mention that I referred my sweet little brother to Joe, who is a hell of a divorce attorney?)

I met him at a bar downtown, we had a glass of wine and I admired his suit. I’ve never seen him in pants other than jeans, and never in dress shoes. Like, ever. He started telling me about the hearing, and how clueless my sister-in-law’s attorney was. I could tell he was in lawyer mode, and silently thanked the universe that I didn’t have to face him in court. Since this was a dinner date and I was starving, I suggested we finish our wine and go down the street for sushi. And that’s when the real trouble started.

Instead of sitting at the table to which we were shown, Joe scooped up the menus and moved over to a different table. I have no idea why; they were right next to each other. Then, when our server came to take our order, he wanted her to have the chef make half an order of the sashimi assortment because, as he said, “20 pieces of sashimi is too much food.”

For two people? Seriously? That’s 10 bites of food each.

I ordered a spicy tuna roll and he rolled his eyes.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You’re just going to fill up on rice. It’s a waste.”

“Even so, I would like the spicy tuna roll, please,” I said to the server.

Joe threw up his hands. Poor server walked away with our order and my apologetic look.

Soon the server was back. “Excuse me, I’m very sorry, but the chef cannot halve the sashimi plate.”

“Why not?”

“It’s restaurant policy.”

Joe laughed menacingly, as if this server and the sushi chef had conspired against him and he was now prepared to make their lives a living hell, “Bring the menu back.” Then, “Give us the seven-piece tuna sashimi. And some more sake. Hot.”

No “please.” No nod of acknowledgment when things were presented, much less a “thank you,” which I attempted to deliver, embarrassed by his lack of etiquette. I fucking hate that.

So, dinner for two consisted of one seaweed salad, one spicy tuna roll and seven pieces of sashimi. What?

Midway through the salad, he mentioned something which gave me a chance to tell one of my famously funny sushi stories. Two sentences in, he corrected a detail about a James Bond movie, “It’s blahblahblah,” he shot. I replied, “Huh, really? I thought it was blahblahblah.”

“Listen, I’m the 007 expert here. It most certainly is blahblahblah; I’ll bet you a hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars.”

I sat there, stunned.

What?

“Um, okay.”

“Finish the story.”

“No.”

“Just finish the damn story, Linnie.”

“I will not tell the story simply to finish the story. It’s not funny anymore.”

I took a bite of seaweed. The couple at a nearby table were looking over nervously. We sat in silence.

“Listen, you could have at least waited until I’d finished before you–”

“Shot you down?”

“–interrupted me and shot me down. I’m not opposing counsel.”

He apologized to me, but maintained his rudeness to our server for the remainder of dinner. I didn’t see the check, but I’m sure he didn’t tip her nearly enough for having to put up with him and his pompous, condescending attitude.

We walked out, and said goodbye on the corner. His car was at one end of the street, and mine was at the other, “I’ve missed you, baby, we should see each other again soon.”

I smiled wanly, “Thanks for dinner, Joe.”

I waited for the light while he walked to his car. I turned on my heel and walked back into the restaurant. The hostess held up my umbrella, “Back for this?”

“Oh, I forgot about that! Thanks, but I actually wondered if you could please give this to our server with my apologies.”

I handed her a ten dollar bill and went home hungry.

I Have a Secret Heart

Feist

C’mon, secret heart, tell her how you feel.
I love this song. Feist makes me want to fall backward onto my bed and hug a pillow and Ron Sexsmith is an awesome songwriter. Elvis Costello says so.

Today I met my mother for coffee. It was Starbucks’ coffee, at the SuperTarget in my city, and since I had to go to Target and get the final details for the boys’ costumes, it was basically a “we’re both going to be there, so why not do our shopping together” sort of thing.

I had largely forgiven her for her “I have a question; where exactly do you stand with all the people you are seeing?” infraction from last week. Seriously, WTF? Just to be clear, I was appropriately deferent and basically said, “That’s none of your damn business.” Sheesh.

She didn’t ask any probing questions this morning, and shopping at UberTarget commenced as we sipped our Grande Pumpkin Spice Lattes (two pumps, thanks), and later had Tomato Basil Bisques at some lunch spot, after I’d procured the appropriate skeleton hand gloves for Miles’ Halloween costume.

Several IMs into our lunch, she asked who I was talking with.

“Kelly.”

“Oh.”

And that was that.

But imagine getting an IM from Kelly asking if he could “finger your pussy and your ass simultaneously” when you met on Friday and you’ll understand my predicament.

Cut to the Used Furniture Store 30 minutes later when (without my mom) I answered Kelly’s phone call and stated my great desire to suck his cock, peppered with my descriptions of the huge dresser with the huge mirror which I thought would look spectacular in my bedroom, let alone the amount of free space it would give me, to which he replied, “sounds great, how big is the mirror again?”

It’s being delivered Wednesday.

He’ll be here on Friday.

I sort of can’t wait to prop myself up on pillows so I can watch him do naughty things to me.

Ritual de lo Habitual

I am a sucker for rituals.

For years I thought it’d be cool to be Catholic, so I could go to confession, light candles, dip my fingers in holy water and cross myself. Also, there’s the whole priest-putting-communion-wafer-on-my-tongue thing. That’s pretty hot.

They lose me, though, with the whole lamb of God/died on the cross thing. No that there’s anything wrong with people who believe that’s how things went down, it’s just not my tradition.

I’m not terribly religious. Like, I don’t go to services every week, or even every month. I’m always there for holidays though, and let’s face it, Jews have a lot of damn holidays, and Rosh HaShanah is my favorite.

So I was in services this morning and they’d finished the torah reading. The rabbi called up this seriously tall and gorgeous man to be Hagba and hold one of the scrolls while it was covered and put back in the ark.

His royal blue dress shirt accentuated the stripes in his tallit, not to mention what it did for his eyes. They were piercingly blue. Nice touch with the dark brown hair and closely trimmed beard. Man, but he was handsome.

The rabbi looked around, needing someone to do the Gelilah and “dress” the torah which was being held in the lap of said gorgeous man. So, you know, the rabbi picked me. This is a seriously big honor in the circle of the Heebs, and I don’t want to cheapen it by telling you what I thought as I approached the front, but you know, I’m going to anyway.

“Heeeeeeeee,” I thought to myself as I walked up to the bimah, “gorgeous guy sitting in a chair in front of me…um, what am I supposed to do, again? Right, right, I’ve seen this done before. Focus, Madeline, this is serious.”

I walked over and took the velvet elasticized band which clips over the centers of the scrolls and holds them together. I bent down, glanced at him and smiled, “Hi.”

“Hi,” he smiled back.

I took the velvet cover and threaded the wooden handles through the holes in the top, bringing the gold and white embroidered fabric down, brushing his knuckles. My heart did a little leap.

The metal breastplate was next. I hung its chain over the handles and straightened it, leaning forward and peeking from behind the torah which separated us. Then the silver Yad pointer, which hangs on its chain from one of the tops. It chunnnked into place when I laid it down.

“Good job,” tall gorgeous man whispered.

I smiled, “You, too.”

“It’s my first time,” he said.

“Really? It’s my first time, too.”

And there are not too many things I can say that about.

Many glances were exchanged for the rest of the service, as he sat up front holding the torah and I sat in my seat.

Later, the rabbi made a special effort to make sure I knew that he considers Yom Kippur a “hookup holiday,” since once your 25-hour fast is over, you’re supposed to like, get it on. Apparently it says this in the bible somewhere.

Then he winked at me and invited me to lunch at his home.
So now tall gorgeous man and I have shared gefilte fish, hummus, mandelbrot and coffee at the rabbi’s house. He is a Mac user, Honda owner and our Treos had sex as we beamed our business cards to each other. I don’t think I said anything stupid or ridiculous but how would I know, really? My mind kept wandering to how handsome he was, and how I came just to his collarbone. How he would have to bend down to kiss me.

I love the High Holidays, with their familiar rituals and liturgy, the same prayers every year, the sounding of the shofar and the whole spirituality of it. I love the way that, at Rosh Hashanah, things seem infinitely possible. As the past year closes and we prepare for the next, everything seems new and alive and sweet. For the rest of the world, it’s just another couple days of the week, but for Jews it’s so significant. That’s pretty awesome.

I love, too, how the last few days have been a minor drag for me with some family drama and yet I felt so serene as I walked the dog tonight with my boys, excited about this guy–about the possibility that this guy represents–and smiled all dreamy-like.

We left the rabbi’s house together this afternoon, tall gorgeous man and I. I walked with him to just short of his car. He took my hand and didn’t shake it, just walked backwards to his car and looked at me with those eyes.

Catharsis

They come out of hiding as soon as my children are gone. Friends and lovers calling to check in. I am grateful for the contact, as it is much too quiet here.

Over the next two days I have plans with nearly all my friends (and several lovers, two of whom I’ve already seen since returning). Here’s hoping the activity level can be sustained and continued over the next two weeks.

I’m busy working and writing, too, and doing big projects in the house, so to all of you who said, “Just keep busy, Maddie. It’ll help pass the time,” check my shit out, man.

Oh, I got another phone call from Jack yesterday, and one this morning at 6:19. Gack. I’m sure the hushed tones as I hid in the bathroom piqued the interest of the person half asleep in my bed:

“Baby, I love you. You are my brave, sweet boy. I know you’ll have a good visit. I saw your photos from day camp and it looks awesome! Take hugs and kisses, and call me whenever you want.”

Scowl

Joe is having a cardiac catheterization this morning.

Luckily for him, he’s nice and doped up on Valium. I am, however, preoccupied with the idea. Not only is it something I didn’t think I’d be dealing with at my age (he’s twenty years older than me–welcome to the wonderful world of May-December, ladies), but I’m in a particularly delicate position.

I was the first person he called.

He told his sister and kids on Monday night. They don’t know about me.

Chances are that everything will go well and he’ll be home by the end of the day. But if things don’t go as expected, he’ll be having surgery. He promised to let me know either way.

But if he can’t call, there is no one else who will.

Feeling helpless = Worst thing ever.

Update: Next to someone whom I love very much slurring his speech in amorous drunken exultation of me, I’ll take someone whom I like very much calling to tell me his procedure went well while he’s all loopy on pain meds and amnesiacs. Cuute.

Brunch

After a 22-hour long date with Joe involving NCAA men’s basketball tournaments, king crab legs as big as my arm, copious quantities of alcohol, cigars, weed and a crazy blowjob, I met my girlfriends for brunch. It was all very SITC but with less skin and nobody was wearing a trashy gold necklace.
Joe was making coffee that morning when I got a text message from Vix:

Vix: My tummy hurts. It’s been partying like it’s 1999 all week.

Me: You too? Dude, I don’t remember going to bed, and I’m starving.

Vix: Me, too! Should we have brunch?

Me: I’m leaving Joe’s place in 10 minutes and I’ll call you. I can’t find my shoes and there’s come in my hair. Let’s go someplace nice!

We Will Become Silhouettes

madeline: at the risk of sounding like an asshole, why do dudes feel the need to fall into extreme like with me?
is it because i’m unavailable emotionally? because i don’t fall over myself to make them commit–in fact, just the opposite?
because, really, i think i’m like the perfect sex partner in that regard.
and seriously, if one of my sex partners starts getting weird and lovey, i’m so done.

meg: well, then allow me to be an asshole right along with you because seriously, i am SICK of guys trying to be possessive and up in my business. come ON, i am offering you the ultimate in no strings sex!
sheesh.

madeline: THANK you.

meg: i’m just saying.