Goodwill Hunting

Saturday, 6:30 a.m.: I awaken, shower, dress, and brew and pack a thermos of strong coffee before heading across the Bay to Berkeley to visit my friend Joanne.

“You need to talk to my mother. I’m worried about her.” In the message she left for me two nights ago, Jan sounded distressed. “She’s a woman obsessed. Call her and ask her to tell you what she’s been up to.”

I dialed Joanne, who picked up on the second ring. “Heh-loooooo. Where have you been, you bitch?” Her characteristic greeting for me gave no indication anything was amiss.

“Around. Busy. Work. You know. But we need to catch up,” I said casually. “Can I come for a visit?”

“Sure. Saturday. But dress low-key. Nothing flashy. We’ve got work to do. You’ll ride along with me.”

Saturday, 8:00: a.m.: I swing the car into the driveway of Joanne and Nathan’s Spanish-style house, within walking distance of the campus where Nathan teaches. I cross the garden to the front door, and Joanne greets me with a hug and a kiss. Jan calls a sleepy hello from upstairs.

Joanne brews me a perfect cappuccino (strong, hot, light foam) and plies me with fresh-baked muffins and jam. I catch her up on news of Harrison, work, and my love life and then gently guide the conversation around to the purpose of my visit.

“Look,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I think Jan’s worried about you. Really worried.”

“Why? There’s nothing to worry about. I know what I’m doing. You’ll see.” Joanne looks at her watch. “Shit! C’mon, get your things. It’s time to roll.”

Saturday, 8:50 a.m.: We are in Joanne’s car. She drives like a maniac, pulling into the huge parking lot of a Goodwill store downtown. “Stay put a moment,” she says, scanning the line of people filing into the store.

“Joanne?” I ask. “What are we doing here?”

“We are Goodwill hunting,” says Joanne.

Saturday, 9:01 a.m.: We enter the front door of the Goodwill store. There’s a lot of stuff. Rounders of clothing, grouped by color, populate the main floor. To the right are wall-to-wall shelves of dishware, crockware, cookware, and glass as well as racks of electronics and small kitchen appliances. To the left, more shelves of books, records, and CDs; stands of shoes and handbags and bins of toys and even bicycles. I am overwhelmed.

Joanne steers us purposefully to the far left side of the store, back toward two swinging double doors. “Stand near the bookshelves,” she hisses at me, and then flattens herself against the wall near the doors. I pretend to browse the titles (Berkeley fare: The Physics of God, A Gradual Awakening, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance) and watch out of the corner of my eye as Joanne sidles over to the doors and pushes one open about four inches, peering inside. She’s back at my side in a flash.

“They’re almost ready to bring out the first cart,” she whispers.

Saturday, 9:27 a.m.: We’re on stakeout near the doors through which the goods will come. We’re still pretending to peruse the book and video titles when we hear the rumbling of the cart. Joanne is on it as it comes through the swinging doors, and almost before the Goodwill employee has set the brake on the cart, she’s picked off a pair of shoes and a retro-looking lemon squeezer.

She hands me the lemon squeezer. “Here. This will look great in your kitchen.”

She’s right. “How do you do that?” I ask.

“What do you mean? I told you – I’ve been doing this for years. I know what your place looks like, and Ruthie’s place and Susan’s place. I know what the kids need. I keep all of this in mind, so when I see things that might work, I get them,” she says. It’s true, I think, recalling the ergonomic sofa (obtained from a closing chiropractor’s office) she’d given me a year ago saying, “This will look great in your little living room and should work for your back too.”

“Ah. Is that why you’re getting the shoes? Shopping for someone?” I ask, looking at her diminutive size 6 feet. “Those are at least an 8.”

“Do you know what these are?” she asks. “These are good shoes. Do you understand? Cole-Haans.”

“But. . . “

“No. They’re not for anybody specifically,” she says. “You’ll see. Come.”

I follow Joanne over to the handbag section and then over to the main counter, where there are more leather goods. She takes a quick inventory.

“Nothing more here,” she says. “We’ll be back later.”

Saturday, 10: 15 a.m.: Joanne drives us to two more Goodwill locations in town and nearby. When we enter the third store, I spot a woman who seems familiar. I place the face.

“Didn’t we see her at the first store?” I ask.

Joanne looks pleased. “You’re catching on,” she nods. “She’s one of the regulars. And that bitch is good. She has the hand when it comes to glassware.”

“ ‘The hand’? Do you mean ‘the eye’?” I ask.

“The hand. The eye. Whatever,” says Joanne. “The point is, she knows her glass. From piles of crap, she will always reach in and pull out the one beautiful thing there.

“That’s how it is,” she continues. “The regulars, most of us, have specialties. For her it’s glass and ceramics. Others go for bicycles. Others electronics.”

“And you?” I ask.

“I’m into leather.”

Saturday, 11:00 a.m.: We’ve returned to the first Goodwill location. Joanne is back at her station, hovering near the double doors. She peeks her head in, and engages in a brief conversation with an employee.

“The next cart will be out soon,” she says. “Follow me. I want to show you something else.”

She leads me to a rack of sleeping bags, on hangers, and feels the bottom of first a mustard yellow one, and then a green and brown plaid model, clucking to herself.

“Ahhhh. Here we are!” She reaches into the sleeping bag, up to her shoulder. “Here’s my stash,” she says, pulling out a chartreuse sweater and a pair of shoes. “Do you see what I’m showing you?” she asks. I raise an eyebrow, afraid to commit either way. “I find things and then I tuck them away,” she explains.

“But why?”

“That should be obvious! For the sale days.”

“Ohhhhh.” I say.

“Other people try the same thing, but they’re not so smart. One time I hid two pairs of shoes here, and when I came back to pick them up, one pair was missing. I felt around, and two sleeping bags over, I found the other pair of shoes. Pitiful!”

I realize it can be dog-eat-dog on these floors. In this environment, weaker minds such as my own might become corrupted with avariciousness and grasping – and the thrill of beating out others in the race for the goods.

Saturday, 11:30 a.m.: I’m hungry, and I can’t pretend to scan the same book, movie, and (vinyl!) record titles over and over again. I pull out the Stephen Levine book on meditation and try to center myself while standing near the swinging double doors. It’s busier than it was earlier, and in addition to the woman with the “hand for glass,” I see three or four faces I recognize from other Goodwill locations. One has a shopping cart full of small appliances and electronics. The other is eying a bicycle propped along a wall. The third, a macho biker type, slouches nearby, waiting, a huge pile of used designer jeans slung over his shoulder.

Suddenly the cart is pushed through the doors. The crowd surges around it, engulfing Joanne, and within minutes, glass, ceramics, three handbags and four pairs of shoes have been claimed, as has a large industrial-strength blender and three lamps missing shades and with various busted parts. I raise a quizzical eyebrow at Joanne when she emerges, unscathed, clutching a handbag.

“Yes, there’s a lighting person too,” she nods.

Saturday, 12 noon: I am starving now, and I don’t think I can continue with the Goodwill stakeout. I start whining like a baby, and Joanne capitulates; we go to lunch. Over dim sum, I ask her how often she visits the Goodwill stores.

“Often. A few times,” she says.

“A few times a month? A week?”

She shrugs. “A few times a day.”

“A day? Every day?”

“Every day.”

“Joanne -” I start to say.

“Oh for God’s sake,” she cuts me off. “I’m not crazy. You still don’t understand, do you? I’m building a business!”

“A business?”

“Yes. I’m building a nearly-new handbag and shoe retail business on eBay. I go Goodwill hunting – and hunting in other places too – for leather goods in decent condition. Then I clean them, repair them, and resell them on eBay. And I donate some of those profits back to places like Goodwill.”

Wow – and whew! My dear friend is not stricken with OCD. At least it’s not hoarding on the pathological end of the spectrum; there’s a method to her madness. My fear for her sanity somewhat allayed, I’m now curious about her entrepreneurial chutzpah.

“And . . ?”

“I’m doing great,” she says. “The biggest problem is I can’t get the merch up fast enough. Last week I sold 12 items, which cost me only $38 plus my time, and I made $647 in profit.”

A look of satisfaction crosses Joanne’s face when my jaw drops.

Saturday, 1:30 p.m.: As we’re leaving the restaurant, a call comes through on Joanne’s cell. It is her son, Ari. “There’s a problem with eBay,” she says to me tersely, cupping her hand over the phone.

A vigorous conversation ensues. Joanne encapsulates when she hangs up. “Someone accused us of fraud. Said we were selling fake goods. Ari researched the bags online and found a site that features this particular Louis Vuitton epi leather bag. He figured out that the problem was how we described the color of the bag. We had labeled it ‘yellow’ – but it turns out that all ‘yellow’ epi leather bags come with a fuschia suede lining. He found another bag described as ‘vanilla.’ That’s the correct name for it. He’s trying to resolve the issue with eBay now.”

I had no idea that selling required such precision.

“Hell yes,” she nods emphatically. “Our reputation is at stake.”

Ari calls back a little later to tell us that everything’s cool and the merch is back on the block.

Saturday, 4:00 p.m.: After repeating the Goodwill circuit – twice – we are back at Joanne’s house, and she’s showing me the goods.

It’s not what I expected.

In the stores, these things are dusty, sometimes dirty; banged up, used. They are the things people have outgrown, tired of, or cast off because of upsizing, downsizing, tastes, trends, death. But here, in Joanne’s “stockroom,” as she calls it, they are a collection of objets d’art, restored to their original, formerly prized condition. They are, in a word, beautiful. I survey the handbags: Rich brown, deep blacks, unusual combinations of green and blue leathers. There is a smooth, burnished red leather purse with classic lines. And there are shoes. Pair upon pair of elegant, clever shoes.

“I had no idea, Joanne,” I say. “These things are absolutely stunning!”

“There may be a scratch or two, here or there,” she says, modestly. “But I’ve figured out ways to restore these pieces.”

We speak of “these pieces” as if they were part of a museum collection. I handle each one carefully as Joanne points out details on the purses, details that indicate that the item is the real deal. “See, this is stitched on, not glued on,” she says, showing me the Dooney & Bourke logo on a caramel leather bag. She holds up the vanilla epi leather Louis Vuitton purse, which surprises me with its delicate folds of thin leather. It is a work of art.

“Wow,” I say. “Wow.”

“Now you understand,” says Joanne.

Saturday, 5:00 p.m.: Jan calls me as I’m on the highway back to Paly.

“So? What do you think?”

“Well,” I say. “Your mother has the hand. The eye, I mean. The hand and the eye. She knows how to find the treasure.”

“That’s not what I mean,” says Jan. “Do you think she needs help? Therapy or something?”

“I don’t know,” I say slowly. “She’s passionate about what she’s doing, she’s learning about her passion, and she’s channeling that passion in a productive way. I mean, as long as she’s not doing harm to herself or to others . . . or selling your personal handbag and shoes on eBay without your permission . . . “

“Not so far,” says Jan.

“Good,” I say. “But you call if she should ever try to, okay? Now, put your mom on the phone.”

Joanne picks up. “Yeeeees?”

“Um,” I say. “About that red leather handbag . . . “

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.

Harrison Comes. And Harrison Goes.

Harry’s Mom! George texts me. When does Harry get in?

Word travels – by phone, by email, by text, by Facebook.

Too slow at texting, I dial George and leave her a voicemail. “George! Can’t wait to see you guys! Harry gets in this Friday. She’s here for two weeks. Dinner at the house the week after we get back from vacay. Everybody’s invited. Spread the word.”

* * * *

Harrison (like most of her friends) has just finished her sophomore year in college back east. It’s a long way away, and it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her. She’s coming home, but only for two weeks. This summer, she’s staying in Boston.

A day after she arrives, I’m taking Harrison to Mexico. It’s been four years since we’ve had a real vacation. And it’s been five months since I’ve seen my baby. I need time to know her again.

* * * *

My intention is to let Harrison go. My hope is that if I do so, she’ll choose to come back. Just because she wants to.

“I am like a beautiful butterfly that’s just burst its chrysalis,” she told me as a junior in high school. “And you are like an eight-year-old boy who wants to trap it. You have your little cup, and you’re trapping the butterfly with it, and then you’re sticking it in the refrigerator to slow it down, and then you’re making a little leash of dental floss and tying it around its neck. Why? Why would you do that?”

I don’t want to leash the butterfly. So my intention is to let Harrison go.

* * * *

Over dinner before her return for second semester last January, I acknowledged Harrison’s emancipation. I toasted her decision-making, her initiative, her resilience, and the myriad ways in which she was stepping up into her independence. Sentimental perhaps, but we both teared up. Maybe it was the benediction we needed to begin moving into the “adult stage” of our relationship. Sometimes corny speechifying is just the thing.

Back in Boston, Harrison started calling more often. Not to ask for advice or money. Just to talk over classes. Issues with her roommate. Her boyfriend. Politics. She called to tell me she was staying back east for spring break. A few weeks later she called to tell me she as staying back east for summer.

“Fuck!” I said as I got off the phone after that conversation. “FUH-UCK!”

* * * *

In Mexico, once settled in at our hotel, the first thing we do is have a beer together. Harrison takes a picture of us both and our cervezas and limes, holding the digital camera out and away from our smiling faces.

* * * *

In Mexico, we do four things: We play, we rest, we eat, and we talk. We seem to share the space easily. We are mostly companionable, and Harrison lets me know when I’m backsliding into mama mode. I remind her that it takes time to make big transitions, and as she’s evolving, I am too.

“You’re uptight,” says Harrison in exasperation one night, as I try to find us a taxi back from a rather deserted downtown, nervous as stray dogs begin gathering around us, sniffing at our boxed leftovers.

“I’m cautious in new surroundings,” I say. “And don’t forget: That character trait contributed to you successfully reaching adulthood.”

* * * *

Talk is all well and good, but the time spent together reveals all; shared experience either makes (or doesn’t) a relationship.

In Mexico, Harrison and I take the taxi to a small village with a good swimming beach and spend the morning and early afternoon in the warm, azure water. I suggest that we get a little more exercise by hiking the shoreline back to our hotel. When the sandy beach disappears into rocky cliff, we decide not to turn back. We share the tense adventure of picking a path across cliff tops about a half mile over to the next beach.

It takes us a while and we get badly sunburned and very cranky at the prospect of tumbling down the jagged rock, but we make it. We are rewarded with beer and tacos at an open air restaurant we happen upon, right on the beach. We sip from our bottles and gaze out over the blue into the bright cloudless sky that stretches as far as the eye can see. We hail a taxi to take us the rest of the way back to the hotel.

It becomes a running joke: Too cheap to take a taxi, I almost get us killed falling to our deaths in Mexico.

Now that’s a shared experience.

* * * *

“Best advice you’ve received?” I ask Harrison, sitting on the beach watching the sunset as the waves crash at our feet.

“ ‘Don’t listen to my advice.’ ”

“Worst advice?”

“’ Trust your gut.’ I say: NEVER trust your gut. Why would you trust important decisions to something that takes stuff and turns it into shit?”

I howl with laughter. Did I mention that Harrison’s an ENTP on the Myers Briggs, while I’m an INFP?

* * * *

We play, we rest, we eat, and we talk. By the end of the week, our sunburns are deep cinnamon tans, and we are relaxed and reconnected. We take a taxi back to the beachside restaurant and eat tacos and ceviche as the sun sets. We laugh (surreptitiously) at the gringo who plays a guitar and sings oldies from the 60s and 70s, with a cheap synthesizer providing the backbeat. We sing along to help when he forgets the words to John Denver’s “Country Roads.”

We are companionable as we pack and travel home.

* * * *

Back in Cali, our first stop home from the airport is Scout’s place. As we have done for years, since the two first started hanging out together in 7th grade, we swing by to pick her up at her house in the Paly hills and bring her back down to spend the night with us.

As we pull up, Scout dashes out from behind a parked car, waving and shouting. I slam on the brakes, and Harrison and I hop out. Big group hug – and then the girls whip out gifts for each other, part of their ritual greeting. Harrison hands Scout the bracelet she haggled for in the marketplace in Mexico, and Scout hands Harrison a carved wooden penis – a souvenir from her week’s travel in Bhutan.

“For prosperity and abundance,” she says.

“You win,” says Harrison.

* * * *

It is Reunion Week, week two of Harrison’s visit.

Out of school now, all of Harrison’s friends are back in town and stopping by. They exchange gifts and gossip. They are a roving flock, moving en masse about Paly, from house to house, to shopping mall, to frozen yogurt shop. I am glad I’ve had my week with Harrison. Now she spends time with her father and the gang, and so there’s only the occasional sighting until our group dinner.

Thursday evening before Harrison’s weekend departure, the kids start showing up at the house around 5:30. We’re celebrating George’s birthday two weeks in advance, since Harrison will be back in Boston before the official “quincinera” as George has dubbed it – and we’re celebrating summer and everyone being together again. Harrison, George, Lucy, Parker, Roxanne, Ginger, and Rina are all here, and we are doing our usual: grilled flank steak, grilled vegetables, potatoes, chocolate cake.

All in dresses, the girls are, I realize, stunning young women. All (except George, who will be soon) are 20 or 20+. They photograph each other incessantly – most of them are amateur photographers, and all of them are hams, so the shots are arty and cool – but I suspect they just want the mementos.

* * * *

Harrison leaves tomorrow. Word travels by text message and by phone. If they can’t reach her, they call me. Where is Harrison? We all lie in wait as she runs around town doing last-minute errands with her father.

Lucy and I go to dinner while we’re waiting. We brainstorm places where she might shop for a dress for a friend’s upcoming wedding, and Lucy catches me up on school and news of some of the kids I haven’t seen in a while. A month ago, the first of their high school classmates got married. It stuns me to realize that they are of age and only two years younger than I was when I married.

“Want to go to the movies next week?” asks Lucy.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” I say. I tell her that Kate and Jake and I have already agreed to continue last summer’s Summer Sundays, the weekly backyard barbeque tradition we started with Harrison and the girls. Even if Harry can’t be with us and attendance varies, we think it’s a good idea to keep up the practice so whoever is around can meet up. “If we plan it, they will come,” we agree.

Lucy likes the idea. “Great. Let me know.”

“So, I guess you guys don’t think it’s weird to, umm, hang out . . . even without Harry . . . ?” I ask.

“Kinda,” says Lucy. “But we’re getting used to it. So you could probably try calling us once in a while. Just don’t be a stalker.”

Unbeknownst to me, Lucy has made arrangements in advance to pay for dinner. The check comes with her credit card, and she signs the receipt. I am touched and impressed. “Thank you so much! What a sweet and generous thing to do. You’re such a planner!” I say.

“You’re so surprised because you still don’t get that we’re grown up now, do you?” she retorts.

* * * *

It’s the night before Harrison flies back. The crowd congregates once more at our house.

They are loud, ever in motion. Three are there – Lucy, Scout, and George – with George handling incoming calls from Parker and others. “No, Harry’s still packing. No, we’re at Harry’s mom’s house. Harry’s mom says come over. No, don’t come over. Harry’s leaving soon. We’re stopping by Rex’s house. No. We’re not partying, just saying hi. ‘K. I’ll call you when I know what’s happening.”

* * * *

While the rest are in the other room, I go to help Harrison find things in hers.

“Do you have everything?” I ask.

She’s leaving again. It hits me as I stand in her room, which she will leave, as always, a wreck. And I realize that, with practice, I am getting better at letting my daughter go. But mostly, it’s easier because I know that Harrison is happy and excited about the life she is creating for herself.

Harrison reads me though. (Always has.) She walks over and hugs me. I hug her back and this time, I don’t let go. I realize we are both crying.

* * * *

In the other room, George noodles with the guitar. Lucy lounges in the armchair. Scout keeps up a running commentary. “Hey, Harrison, don’t forget to pack your Bhutanese dick. You ARE taking the Bhutanese dick, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“What? You’re not? I carried that dick – on my back, on MY BACK, for God’s sakes! – all the way from Bhutan!”

“I’m taking the dick. I was just being coy.”

“And where did THAT get you? Now you’re dickless. I’m so viciously offended.”

“Shut up and give me back my dick, dammit.”

And so it goes.

* * * *

Finally, Harrison is ready to go. Everything is packed. Well, almost everything.

Lucy picks up the Bhutanese souvenir. “Wait. Why is there a wood carving of a penis?”

It’s a long story, Lucy. We’ll tell you later.

Note: The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.

Dumped. (In which I discover the curative properties of agave.)

After weeks of the ambiva-dance, Doc dumps me. By email. Ouch. Owie. Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch.

His message pops up in my inbox one quiet Tuesday evening. It is a well-crafted note, and as a writer, I can appreciate the thought he must have given the words he uses to tell me he’s met someone, feels awkward now about things between us, and hopes we can be friends . . . although (I find myself thinking) . . . a truly skilled writer would have more carefully considered his audience and not attempted the light-hearted tone with a grown woman and lover (given the circumstances), realizing it could too easily be misinterpreted as flippancy and thus offend. . . (and then I think) . . . Had he cared, he would have more carefully considered me . . .

The realization broadsides: But he did not. And then my stomach twists, my heart breaks, and I begin hyperventilating.

Still, I have enough control of my faculties to know I need to reach someone to stop myself from calling him or writing back. The Doc can’t – won’t – help me now. But if I don’t get some help, and fast, it’s going to be bad. Real bad.

I start dialing the phone. Libby. No answer. Cyn. No answer. Horst.

“Yep?”

“Horst! I just got a Dear Jill note from Doc,” I choke out the words.

“What? Are you STILL talking about that guy?” Horst says. “Why? I thought we were done with him.”

“Aggghhhh,” I wail. “Agggghhhh. I’ll call you back.”

I can’t stop to explain to Horst, coherently, right at this moment, what it is I need, right at this moment. This is relationship amputation, and I need to handle the pain that is starting to take me over from head to toe. I need an ambulance. The emergency room. Triage. STAT! Above all, I need to avoid dialing Doc and causing further injury to myself and to another.

And I cannot be left alone to bleed out.

I go to my next-door neighbors,’ knock, and let myself in when Kate and Jake call out, “Come in.” They are sitting at the dining room table, eating burritos. They raise their eyebrows – simultaneously – in question when I half speak, half sob, “I have bad news!”

“What? Did White Cat die?”

“Agggghhhhh! No! White Cat did not die. White Cat will never die,” I wail. “No! I got a Dear Jill email from Doc. Agggghhhh.”

“Is she STILL talking about that guy?” Jake asks Kate.

“Shhhh, shhhh, yes.”

“Agggghhh,” I howl.

“Come. Sit down,” says Kate, in her always-calm voice. “We’re just eating dinner, but you can sit here with us.”

I do. I sit down and I put my head on the table. I take a deep breath, try to gather myself, and then I begin to weep, unabashedly, nakedly, openly, while they chew their burritos and bear witness. Tissues are placed near my hand, and I reach for them, one after another, in a short time amassing a pile of tears and snot.

When I can’t cry anymore, they offer me sugar. I nibble the band-aids of cookies and chocolate, but feel my stomach heave when I think of the email again, trivializing and dismissive in a one-two punch. And so, having already exposed myself in my state of emergency, I dispense with all remaining propriety and ask Kate and Jake if they will read and delete the message for me. “It will fester,” I say simply.

“Okay.” Kate leads us into their office, lets me log in to Web mail, and puts on her reading glasses. She is quiet as she reads, and then she says, “No. You don’t need to read this again.”

Jake, standing and peering over her shoulder, agrees. “Delete. Done. You deserve better. In fact, come here.”

We follow Jake back to the dining room, where he reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a cloth-wrapped bottle.

“Patron tequila. The best of the best. For you. Here,” he says, pouring some of the light gold liquid into a cut crystal tumbler. “Try this. It should help.”

This tequila is smooth and silky on my tongue. It slightly burns the back of my throat as I swallow, but it does not make me snort and cough through my nose and, heaven forbid, make a fool of myself. In a very short time, the medicine takes effect, and I feel different – thankfully different. Thankfully dulled. And, detached now from the pain, like a clinician I can diagnose what I’m experiencing: the shock of Doc’s rejection and my grief about losing a connection in which I’ve delighted and for which I’ve held such hope.

“I like this,” I say, downing a second pouring. “Very much. May I have some more?”

Kate and Jake and I drink. We talk. We drink still more. As the night deepens, we talk about relationships and breakups and the ways in which we all blew it at one time or another. We acknowledge that it’s difficult either way – to be left or to leave. We toast to how hard it is to do either bravely, with honesty and with kindness, let alone with any modicum of grace, when there is no way to do either without some measure of pain for everyone involved.

“Do you think you’ll respond?” asks Kate, some time later.

“Ironically, words fail me,” I say. In a glimmer of drunken clarity, I realize that nothing I could say could be any better than the peace of silence and the natural resolution of time.

“It’s done,” I say, finally. “It’s better now to just let it go.” I lift my glass to them both. “Thank you for helping.”

Eventually, I am so drunk that I am incoherent and conversation abruptly ends. I rise and stagger into a wall, which feels, unexpectedly, like soft rubber. But I am okay and I know I have done the right thing, although it’s been messy. Hurt, I sought immediate help. We have cleaned the wound, bandaged it, and applied the agave anesthetic, however topical and time-limited the effect. Healing can begin.

Kate and Jake walk me home and help me into bed. “Sleep now,” says Kate. “No more thinking.” No worries there, I try to tell her as I succumb.

I awake the next morning, early, no pain in my brain. I am hangover-free, thanks to the purity of the spirits. It is my heart that is tender and sore, and I know I will move slowly – very slowly – for a good while.

But in time, I will mend.

Note: The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.

La Vie en Paly

It’s late Sunday afternoon and I’m watching Meryl Streep as Karen Blixen in Out of Africa. She’s doing that thing. You know that thing I mean: That thing where she tilts back her head and lifts up her shoulders, her face lit with that remarkable smile. It is a signature gesture of Streep’s, this full-body experience of delight – surrendered yet exultant in life’s lusciousness.

I pause Meryl mid-laugh when the doorbell rings. It is Roxanne.

“Hey!” “Hey!” Big hugs. “Can I put some ice in this bitch before we get going?” She holds up her water bottle.

“Yes,” I nod, switching off the TV and tucking my wallet in my backpack. We leave the house and wheel our bikes out to the street. “I’m starving. Where shall we eat?”

When Roxanne calls out of the blue, like today, I join her if I can. She delights. She is a sharp observer of human nature, unconventional in her conclusions; a brilliant conversationalist with a dry sense of humor. Roxanne runs clever circles around me intellectually, and I know it. It pleases me. And all the more so because I have known young Roxanne since she and my daughter Harrison raised hell on the kindergarten playground together 15 years ago.

We agree on pizza as we cycle the tree-lined streets to downtown. It is a perfect summer evening in early June, warm air and slight breezes carrying the mingled scent of roses and star jasmine. As we ride, we catch each other up on the various and sundry: those pizza spots with the best crusts (Spot! Pizza for bready, thick; Pizza Antica for thin, crispy artisanal); ex-boyfriend sightings (both of us, today! – we must stop dating locals); movies recently viewed (Dan in Real Life (on video) – two thumbs up). We compare notes on Harrison’s doings since last we each spoke with her (school’s over; she’s moved house; she’s interning at PBS). We decide to set up a dinner with our much-adored friends and my neighbors Kate and Jake when Harrison is back in town in a couple of weeks.

Over after-dinner coffee at a small café on our town’s main avenue, Roxanne asks me what I’ve been up to. Shopping, I confess with some embarassment – because, suddenly, a woman in ripe midlife, I find myself feeling quite, well, girly.

“I want to buy clothes. And not just practical wear-with-everything black clothes – colorful clothes. Clothes that show cleave. And I want to wear perfume. And get my nails done. And do my hair. And then just sit at a sidewalk café, sipping coffee and watching people. Much as we are now,” I say. “Such frivolity.”

“Daaaaahling!” says Roxanne. “You’re a grownup, you’re single, you’re free, you’re not depressed! You’re enjoying your life.” She takes a deep slurp of her latte and comes up with a foam mustache. Dropping her voice to a manly growl, she says, in impeccable french, “Mon cherie, tu decourvres le romantisme de la vie!”

And she is right.

I am discovering the romance of life – the romance of my life. There is time for this now, what with the serious business of the last 20 years discharged. I have composed a life of family, of work, of community, of some meaning. I’ve been tested and tempered and have a sense of the depth of my capacities. I have raised a daughter to womanhood and independence. A period of hard work is done.

There is time now for this romance, and perhaps more true, there is appreciation. These recent days, I am life’s unhurried lover, courting and being courted slowly, deliberately, with the newly gained luxury of time and an appreciation born of experiencing all that comes with the passage of time, easy and hard. Now I can perceive and delight in the unfolding of this romance, with its sometimes subtle, sometimes bold flirtation.

Challenges will come. Bien sur! They are there, perhaps in just the next moment, hour, day, or week or year. I will either meet them – or not. But I know how important it is to let myself savor the sweet and tender details of this time now. Everything will change, again, and again still. And if my own memory is not enough, Roxanne, sitting before me now, young woman where once was little girl, reminds me of that inevitability.

I lift my cup and toast my young friend. “To you, my dear. And to the romance of life. Thank you.”

Roxanne inclines her head. “De rien.”

The evening turns gold and rosy, bathed in sunset’s light. We linger over our coffee, companionable. We watch the passersby. Life is good.

I smile. And I do that thing. You know that thing I mean.

Note: The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.

“I’ll Call You.”

“So?” I ask Zoe, as we sit down to lunch in the campus café.

“Mmmmmm. Yeah. No. He said he’d call.”

“Oh.” I observe a moment of silence and then offer condolences. “I’m sorry.”

Zoe and I got smart a while ago. We know there’s no point in analyzing a date’s potential if a tryst has ended with those three words.

“They must know we know, right?” asks Zoe. “I mean, the moment they say ‘I’ll call you,’ we KNOW they’re never going to call. In fact, they’re going to stay as far away as possible from the damn phone until they need booty, a pizza, or their mother.”

“I wonder what they think they’re saying?” I muse. ““Let’s poll a few of our pals here at the office.”

We do.

“So, guys, when a guy says, ‘I’ll call you,’ is he going to call?”

“Maybe,” says Hank. “But he’s definitely not sure he wants to get together again, and he doesn’t want to make that call – yet. He’s going to think about it. Yeah. Definitely maybe.”

Lance says, “Geez, it’s been so long since I’ve dated, being married for 17 years and all and not really dating, but if I said I was going to call, I’d call.”

“If I tell a lady I’m going to call her,” says Takeo. “I do. Unless I forget.”

Otto ponders. “Hmmmm. Depends on whether she offers her number or he asks for it. If she offers it, and he says ‘I’ll call you,’ that means he might or might not call. But if he asks for her number and says ‘I’ll call you,’ that means – and here’s where there’s a very subtle distinction – he might or might not call.”

“Call?” says Adam. “I’m gonna call HR if you keep this up.”

Zoe and I step into my office and close the door to discuss the findings. We agree they’re inconclusive. By which we mean useless.

I know the use of this phrase isn’t the worst of the dating offenses, believe me. But the little things do count. And this one just rankles, like a pimple chafed at the panty line.

I sigh. “Anyone who’s ever interviewed for a job – man or woman – knows what’s up when The Man says ‘We’ll call you.’ Same on a date. The phrase is dismissive – and implies that the other person is a candidate for a position as your biatch.”

“Exactly,” says Zoe. “But this is not a job interview. It’s not all about you and your needs! This is about PEOPLE, people! – and that sweet and tender emotion – love – you know, where every so often you stop and consider someone else’s well-being above or at least on par with your own.”

“Yeah,” I nod. “What if those of us swimming – or floundering – in the dating pool asked ourselves how we might use dating to get in practice for that big juicy love? What if we were less self-centered and more gracious? You know, he or she may not be the one for me or you, but that person IS going to be the one for somebody. Think of the good karma we’d be creating if we left them feeling appreciated.”

“Yeah. That would be pretty damn enlightened,” says Zoe.

“HR!” Adam taps the wafer-thin wall between our offices. “Hey, you two. Go start a club. Preferably outside the workplace. And P.S. It’s not a crime to tell someone you’ll call them. Everyone says it!”

The point is, Adam, and all of us boys and girls: We can do this thing better. We can be kind, real GROWNUPS out there on the dating scene.

So, before our next date – with a man or woman who would love to be loved but in the meantime would love not being dissed (umm, hello! that would be ALL of us) – let’s stand in front of the mirror and repeat this until we can say it comfortably and genuinely at the right time and in the appropriate language:

“Thank you. I had a nice time. I’ll ca-”

STOP! . . . Try one of these handy phrases instead:

- “I really enjoyed our dinner. Thank you!”
- “This evening was a lot of fun. Thank you for spending the time with me. I really enjoyed it!”
- “You’ve got some sweet conversational skills! I had a good time. Thank you.”

“Yeah! And special note if you’ve slept with someone,” adds Zoe. “Never, ever, ever say ‘I’ll call you,’ unless you’re trying to make that person feel like they’re a complete and total ho – who didn’t even get paid. I mean – dude! – if you’ve been dating for a few weeks or months and you finally do the deed and then you disappear and then she calls and then you say ‘I’ll call you’ and then especially if you in fact do not call her, well then damn straight you deserve whatever happens to you the next time you’re in a dark alley.”

Ahem.

Yes. Well. Remember: Bitterness is not attractive. Let’s each do our part to avoid creating any more of it.

“So, give me an example of a ‘thanks-but-no-thanks’ ending that worked for you,” I ask Zoe.

“I met a gentleman on match.com last year,” she says, after some thought. “We liked each other’s photos and really enjoyed emailing and talking on the phone. And the moment, the very first moment we met in person, you could see all our hopes crash and burn. There was absolutely NO physical attraction. None whatsoever. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

“We’d driven miles to meet, and we decided to spend the afternoon together anyway. It was enjoyable – friendly, but no spark. But that was okay, because, at the end, he took my hand and said, ‘I enjoyed meeting you very much; I am struck by the similarities of our life stories. You are kind, and smart, and funny, and I find you beautiful too. I’m very sad that I don’t feel the chemistry that would have made us a great match. I hope you find a good man who will love you as you deserve to be loved. I was lucky to experience some part of you for a period of time. Thank you.”

“Wow,” I say. “That is a-MAY-ZING.”

“Totally amazing,” agrees Zoe. “It really would be. If it was TRUE!”

Note: The Word Wench Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental.