Just A Regular Guy

I want to go all over the world
And start living free
I know that there’s somebody who
Is waiting for me
I’ll build a boat, steady and true
As soon as it’s done
I’m going to sail along in the dreams
Of my dear someone

One little star, smiling tonight
Knows where you are
Stay, little star, steady and bright
To guide me afar
Rush, little wind, over the deep
For now I’ve begun
Hurry and take me straight into the arms
Of my dear someone

Hurry and take me into the arms
Of my dear someone

I’m practicing this sweet little Gillian Welch song for my upcoming guitar lesson, the guitar being something I’ve taken up again as another channel for my energies in the wake of my last failed romance. (I decided: If I can’t make music one way, I’ll make it another.) I’m working on a new picking pattern and noticing—with no minor satisfaction—that the steel strings no longer feel like they’re shredding my fingertips, when I’m interrupted by the phone.

“Hello, Ms. Wench?” It’s Minnie from the dating service. “I’m calling to tell you we have a match for you!”

I signed up for It’s Just a Nooner a couple of weeks ago, after my friend Mick suggested it was time to pick up, towel off, and jump back in the ring. “You need to get out on some dates.”

“Eh.” I said, adding that I’d rather have a couple of root canals, or maybe redo my taxes for the last decade.

“No, really,” said Mick. “You were in a good place. You had some good momentum going. You’re ready to rumble. And it’s a numbers game.”

“Oh, and I thought it was a question of timing,” I said. “Or of not looking but letting love find me. Or some other such clichéd, trite truism.”

“Bitter, Party of One!” said Mick. “C’mon, Wenchie. Move on. Get going. Next chump!”

“Whatev, Pollyanna,” I sneered.

But I thought about it for a few weeks more, and then chatted it over with a couple of my girlfriends. “On the one hand, Mick may be right,” I said. “On the other hand, my heart’s not in it.”

“So figure out some way to stay open but not invest any time or effort in searching,” suggested Zoe. “Make the boys come to you. Or better yet, get someone to bring the boys to you. Friends, family. . . ”

. . . Or a matchmaker, I thought suddenly. I found the idea intriguing. Maybe somewhere out there was a wee little dried-apple-faced, babushka-headed old woman, ready to pair me up with a good man. So I did a little Google-fu, searching on terms like “yenta for goy,” until I finally ended up at the service’s Website.

The staffers weren’t a wizened bunch. Instead, as I discovered when I ventured into their offices for an interview, they were a gaggle of perky, upbeat young women, most only a few years older than Harrison. I wondered how the heck these fluffy little chicks could have the skill and insight required to successfully pair up men and women in their 40s and 50s—most heavily armored after failed marriages, broken families and financial setbacks but still, probably “against their better judgement,” holding onto a slim shred of hope that they might, just might, somewhere, someday, somehow, meet The One, or at the very least, someone with whom they might like to spend some time.

But then, it would probably take a SWAT team of highly trained psychotherapists to do justice to such a midlife matching challenge, and I didn’t think there was a dating service like that anywhere on the planet. It’s Just a Nooner was meant to be low pressure – a casual daytime meal for busy professionals—and if one found a friend, companion, lover, or mate while lunching, well then, that was an unexpected bonus. And if, to ply yet another trite cliché, it’s all just a crapshoot anyway, why not see what these kids could come up with?

On the phone now, Minnie sounds giddy with joy. No kidding; she is gushing. “Steve is tall, attractive, and smart.”

Whatever, I’m tempted to say but don’t. Skip the descriptors. Except for “tall,” they’re all subjective anyway. And even “tall” could be subjective. Besides, I’ll know it when I meet it. So let’s just cut to the chase. “Nice,” I say aloud and “Thank you,” after Minnie finishes briefing me on my prospective date’s marital status (divorced), family (two children), and his work (financial services).

“Oh, and we’re a good match because . . . ?” I ask just before we hang up.

“Well, you’re both smart and energetic,” she says.

Whatever that means.

Minnie tells me when and where our meeting will be. It’s an evening rather than a noontime tete-a-tete, due to our work schedules, and Steve is happy to come down to my neck of the peninsula. I decline, because I have a new rule: I refuse to either date locals or to go on dates in my town; it takes too long to clear out the memories if things go south. So, I ask instead to meet in the City, but I do give Steve points for being willing to drive.

A few days later, I’m waiting at the restaurant, a quiet little place in North Beach. I’ve made an effort to look cute, hair down in loose curls, leg showing in skirt and heels, cleave showing in a wrap top. I’ve applied perfume and goosed myself along with another cliché: You just never know.

A tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed, not unattractive guy approaches me, “Ms. Wench?”

“Steve?” I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

He gives me the quick head-to-toe once-over, and I must I meet his minimum requirements for attractiveness because he suggests dinner, rather than drinks. I find myself noting his precisely clipped and edged haircut, crisp collar, and very white smile. There’s a lot of tidiness going on there.

Seated at the table, we open with the textbook moves: Hellos, cursory comments about the weather and the day’s events, work. He offers the first compliment early in the game: “You’re just so warm and genuine.” He could be on the make, but I give him the benefit of the doubt; “You seem pretty nice yourself,” I return.

“I am,” he says. “I’m just a regular, nice guy.” And he flashes the dazzling white smile.

Yellow flag. Proceed with caution, Wenchie. I’ve learned to be particularly alert any time a person tells me what they are; there are usually sharks swimming in those waters.

“You say you’re in analyst relations. That’s so interesting,” Steve says. “Because I work with analysts often in my line of work.”

“Ah,” I say, “I think we work with different types of analysts. You work with financial analysts; I work with industry and technology analysts.”

“Oh,” he says. But he doesn’t seem interested in learning more. I switch into interview mode and learn pretty quickly about his success in the industry, the company he owns, how little work he does himself these days, how good he is at identifying talent to work for him, how much he enjoys being interviewed on television (it means he has to think fast on his feet) and how he’s going to write a book about his theory on building wealth (it’s an attitude). A look of annoyance crosses his face when the waiter interrupts to describe the day’s specials and take our orders.

“So,” I say after we’ve ordered, “Given all the opportunities you must have to meet people in your line of work, why did you sign up for It’s Just a Nooner?”

“Well,” he says, “I’m pretty well known, and people tend to put me on a pedestal. And then they’re not themselves with me. They just don’t get that I’m a regular guy.”

Oh really?

Over dinner, I ask the Regular Guy (his new moniker, I’ve decided) about his children. It seems that although he has joint custody, the kids don’t actually live with him regularly. Instead, he lets them visit when they want to–which doesn’t sound like it’s very often – and he takes them to Beverly Hills for the occasional shopping spree or to Disneyland for play weekends. Regular Guy doesn’t participate in the day-to-day childraising, although he does acknowledge that his children’s mother is wonderful.

“Why did you split up?” I ask.

“My needs changed. For years, I was a complete Type A, driven to establish myself, focusing on getting the prizes—money, prestige, the house, the car. You know. And then, once I had those things, I realized I needed something more.”

The waiter comes to clear our plates and offer us coffee and dessert. I ask for a cup of coffee, black, and the Regular Guy orders a decaf latte, double shot, extra hot, light foam, soy.

“And so you took stock of your relationship and realized that something important was lacking?” I continue to plumb the depths.

The Regular Guy pauses to reflect. “The best analogy I can give is this: One day I walked into the BMW dealership, and I took a look at one of their top-of-the-line cars, starting at 125 grand, and I realized, I could buy this, right now, with cash, but then I’d be on that treadmill of upgrading every year or so to get the latest and the greatest, and what a rat race that would be . . .”

“And at that point you realized the emptiness of pursuing things – and how important a good emotional connection is?” I’m trying to follow along, but I’m not sure how the BMW experience relates to the end of the Regular Guy’s marriage.

“No,” he says, and I’m left to puzzle what it all means, because just then the Regular Guy’s cell phone rings, and glancing at the display and without excusing himself, he picks up. It must be very important, I think. An important client perhaps.

“Yes,” he says, not bothering to modulate his voice. “My assistant should have been there to pick it up at 5. I’m not sure why she didn’t make it, but if she’s not there by 7, I will personally come by and pick it up tomorrow morning at 9. I will, yes.” He pauses. “I will personally ensure that it is picked up.”

The waiter serves our coffee as the Regular Guy finishes his conversation.

“Excuse me,” the Regular Guy says when he repockets the phone. “I had to take that call. My personal assistant – I have an assistant – was supposed to pick up a suit for me this evening. And that was my seamstress. She’s one of those big, scary Middle Eastern women – you know the kind – and you just don’t want to be on the wrong side of them.”

Mmmm hmmmmm.

“And what is this?” he continues, gesturing at his latte. “Why are they serving coffee in a bowl? How pretentious. I really can’t stand this kind of thing. I mean, I’m just a regular guy, and I just want my coffee in a regular mug. Waiter!” The Regular Guy calls our waiter over and speaks to him as if he’s talking to a three-year-old, his annoyance thinly veiled. “Can I get just a regular, normal coffee mug for this?”

“Thank you very much,” I add, making eye contact with our waiter and catching his fleeting look of annoyance just before he turns away from the table.

Mr. Regular Guy turns back to me, and says, “So, dinner’s almost over, but I’d like to hang out with you a little longer.”

Seriously? Surely you’re joking, I think. But before I can answer, the Regular Guy continues, “So, what do you say to a stroll, some ice cream, maybe a drive somewhere, or maybe – ,” he pauses, “And I gotta warn you, I’m a very spontaneous kind of guy—but if you don’t have anything else going on tonight, we could hop in the car, head to the airport, take the next flight to Vegas and get there for the 10 p.m. show of Cirque du Soleil’s Love. We could stay at the Wynn – separate rooms if you absolutely insist – and I could have you back for work tomorrow by 9. What do you say?”

Regular Guy has rendered me speechless. And not in a good way. “Thank you for your generous offer,” I say, finally, playing it polite. “But I really have a ton of work to do tonight.”

“Really? What do you have to do, really?”

I bite my tongue – hard–because he’s just so not worth it.

Bringing our dinner to a swift and very final close, I rise and thank the Regular Guy for the evening. At the door, just before we step outside, he pauses. “Tell me,” he asks, “Would you have gone with me to Vegas if you didn’t have work to do tonight?”

I stare at him and try to conjure compassion for this person who, I remind myself, will be just the right spice for someone’s life. But mostly I feel compassion for me, and I think to myself, Someday, someday, I’m going to be met by my equal, a man who’s willing to take the time to learn me, who’s willing to let me learn him, and who’s willing to learn what might be possible between us. But it’s not this man.

I sigh, and then I turn back to face the Regular Guy. “Three things you ought to know about me,” I say. “One: I hate Vegas with a passion. Two: I’m very spontaneous, but only once I feel trust. Three: I’m part Middle-Eastern.”

And then I walk away.

Back in the comfort of my safe little home, I strip out of the skirt and pantyhose, pull my hair back into a ponytail, and don my sweats and wifebeater. Next chump, I say out loud, to no one. And then I pick up the guitar and resume practicing. And once again, I marvel at how thick my calluses are becoming.

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. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com

Pimpin’ It

Lattes in hand, we’re heading out of the café on our way to the video store when George notices the shelf full of books on the wall and pauses to quickly scan the titles. “So what’s the difference between romances and porno anyway?” she asks.

“Great question,” I answer, holding the door for her as we head out to the car. “I think of romances as having plots and character development, with the sex being secondary and typically related to or forwarding the plot or development of a character or characters’ relationships, while porn—not that I’m an expert on porn,” I add quickly, since I’m something of a mentor to George, “—well, porn tends to be more about the sex, and primarily for purposes of stimulation.”

“Hmmmmm,” says George. “And what’s the difference between soft-core and hard-core porn?”

“Hmmmm,” I say. “Again, this is purely speculation on my part, but I’d say that ‘soft core’ is more about suggestion, leaving a lot to the reader’s or viewer’s imagination, whereas ‘hard core’ is pretty graphic, either visually or descriptively. Actually,” I continue, suddenly remembering, “I once kinda wrote soft-core porn.”

“You wrote soft-core porn? Wait ’til I tell Harry!” exclaims George. “This is going on Facebook.”

“No, wait!” I say. “It’s not quite like that. Seriously. No Facebooking.”

“So then ’splain yoself, ho,” demands George.

It was my first job out of college at 23. Despite having a degree in history and language, I was itching to write, and so of course I responded when I found the ad “Writer Wanted” in a peninsula newspaper. I called about the job every day for two weeks, until the managing editor finally called me back and had me in for an interview, and then I called every day for four weeks after that until she hired me. “I couldn’t stand getting another voicemail from you,” she said, when she finally gave me the job.

“You want to write? You’ll be writing.” That’s all she needed to tell me. Never mind that I’d be writing for an odd mix of magazines – a fitness mag, a women’s bodybuilding mag, and a swimwear mag – which essentially served as wrappers for a swimwear catalog, swimwear being the publisher’s other line of business. Talk about blind ambition; I was ready to do anything to be a professional writer.

“So here’s the deal,” explained Mona, my editor, on day one of the job. “Jed, Suzie and I,” she nodded at my two somewhat taciturn writer colleagues, “will handle the writing for the fitness and bodybuilding mags, since that’s our area of expertise.” (Aha! That explained Mona and Suzie’s necks, which although similar to Jed’s, were beefier than one usually sees on women.) “You’ll help out with those, but you’ll mostly handle editorial for the swimwear mag and the new cheesecake mag we’ll be launching soon. (Fitness, swimwear, food; an ever-more-eclectic editorial mix, but variety would keep things interesting, I thought.)

“Anyway, we’re officially on deadline; just a week before we go to press on the swimwear mag,” continued Mona, “And we haven’t started yet.” (Which, I soon came to discover, was always the case.) “So we need to get moving. And the first thing you need to do is write the Letters to the Editor.”

“You mean edit letters we’ve received from the readership?” I asked.

Mona, Suzie and Jed laughed. “Yeah, sure, if you can find anything worth printing. But most of them are from prisoners. You’ll see,” Mona said, smirking at my shocked expression. “You gotta make that shit up, honey. And it’s gotta be some good shit.”

I felt squeamish about pushing the boundaries of ethical journalism with faked reader feedback. So I did my research; I spent 12 minutes reading through the sorry little pile of letters to the editor, most of them penciled in all caps on folded sheets of lined notebook paper. The gist (minus the spelling and grammar errors) was this:

“Dear [insert name of model here], I really liked those sexy pictures of you in those sexy bathing suits in the last issue. I imagine your sexy self here keeping me company at night. I really would like to hear from you. Would you write to me and send me some more of your sexy pictures, maybe some sexy pictures especially for me? Signed, [insert name here], [insert name of prison here].”

The few that were not from prisoners were letters from young women who included pictures of themselves posing in their swimwear in amateur shots most likely taken by their boyfriends or husbands, although there was the occasional polished professional shot, identified by its hallmark soft focus. I marveled that they entrusted us (the “dear editors”) with these photos, but couldn’t imagine actually using them.

Gulp. Within minutes, I realized I would have to make shit up. We were on deadline, we had no content, my editor had told me it would be this way, and I guess my soul was a cheap sell; the lure of the opportunity to write was too powerful. First, letters to the editor, and if I proved myself with those, then who knew what next?

“So you did it?” asks George. “And this relates to soft-core porn – how?”

“I’ll show you,” I say. When we get back to my house after a stop at the video store, I rummage around in my filing cabinets and pull out a copy of the magazine I wrote for some 22 years ago now. I flip to the Letters section, skim it and cringe.

George grabs it from me and reads aloud:

“Dear Editors,

I happened to pick up one of your swimwear catalogs a few weeks ago. At first, I blushed at some of the designs—I knew I was too self-conscious to wear them. However, I’d spent the whole summer working out, and so I was feeling quite good about my body. Why not show it off?

Well, I ordered the white gauze bikini through your toll-free line, receiving it through the mail only a few days later” –

—“I thought that was especially clever,” I interrupt George. “I managed to work in the toll-free ordering and the fast fulfillment in the letter. Nice, eh?”

“Eh,” says George, and continues.

—“I tried it on immediately and found the fit was absolutely wonderful. Never have I felt so comfortable in a bathing suit. It was the closest thing to wearing nothing at all that I have ever experienced.

How true this was became readily apparent a couple of weeks ago when I was vacationing in Mexico. Needing to cool off a bit after sitting under the blazing sun, I decided to take a dip in the ocean. Upon re-emerging, I found the eyes of most of the people (and all of the men) on the beach were riveted on me—and my wet gauze wrapping. A disconcerting sensation at first, but one I’m sure I’ll get used to.”

“Ugh! Harry’s mom!” says George. “You were a TOTAL ho-bag!”

“I know, I know,” I say. “But it did have some redeeming marketing qualities: I plugged the excellence of the swimsuit fit, toll-free ordering, and fast fulfillment, all in one entertaining package.”

“Ugh,” says George. “Did you write other porno too?”

“Well,” I say, “That gig did lead to a bigger assignment, as I expected.”

Pretty soon, Mona started giving me the Letter from the Publisher, as well as articles for the fitness magazines. And not just because I wanted to write. Often it was because she was nowhere to be found. She disappeared from the office for days at a time, leaving Jed and Suzie and me to do our best, writing stories when we had material and making shit up when we didn’t.

My biggest assignment came a couple of months into my employment. On one of her rare days in the office, Mona called together our motley editorial crew and told us we were going to launch the new cheesecake magazine. “I LOVE cheesecake,” I said, “And I know of a few good places for cheesecake. But that seems light fare for monthly content, if you’ll pardon my cheesey joke, heh heh.”

Mona barked a laugh. “Honey, are you for real? We’re talking cheesecake cheesecake. As in pin-ups. We’re doing a magazine featuring the wholesome girl-next-door in her favorite cheesecake shot. Send in those photos, gals – it’s content on the cheap, baby! We’ll also do a feature on the winner of our recent swimwear competition, and, of course, spreads of our regular models. We’re giving our biggest fan base”—(and here she meant the prisoners)—“what they’ve been asking for.”

And just as I was about to say, “Gag me with a spoon. I quit!” Mona added, “And you can write as much of this new magazine as you want.”

Hmmmmmmmm.

“Wow, Harry’s mom,” says George. “Sounds like a real moral dilemma. I’m assuming you quit?”

“Actually, I didn’t,” I say. “And maybe I was fooling myself, but I thought about it and decided to stay and do the magazine because I figured heck, one: I’d get to do all the writing, Mona being Mona and most likely absent; and two: being that I’d get to do all the writing, I could do an inside job, and make the magazine non-exploitative. Wholesome cheesecake, if you will.”

And I did try. Over the next few weeks, as I essentially wrote that first issue of Cheesecake magazine cover to cover, I took pleasure in knowing that I was doing my best to make the copy as smart and respectful as possible of these trusting young women—many of whom were, granted, more than happy to share photos of themselves scantily clad, for free, if they’d end up in a national newsstand publication.

I tried to set the tone for the new magazine with the opening paragraphs of the Letter from the Publisher:

“If you tried to trace the beginnings of man’s interest in images of women, you could start with the drawings scratched on the walls of our ancestors’ caves. Admittedly, those primitive etchings left much to be desired as far as sexy visual representations go, but they were the beginning of a multi-millennial fascination man has had with viewing the female form.”

I threw in some more history, to serve as a rationalization for the mag, while staking out turf on the moral high ground . . .

“There is one period that captured the modern male’s love of women better than any other—the era of the pin-up girl. In its World War II heyday, the pin-up epitomized an appreciative representation of women that was sexy . . . and fun. The swimsuits revealed just enough to stimulate any young man’s imagination, and the classic pin-ups—from Rita Hayworth to Marilyn Monroe—were provocative enough, even fully clothed, to take most imaginations to new heights. The pin-up girl was beautiful and sexy, without crossing the line of morality and good taste.”

“Nice,” says George. “Sneaky, if not a little academic with the vocab.”

It was. But not as sneakily subversive as my interview with the centerfold, Cherry – or so I liked to think.

A centerfold spread was one of Cherry’s prizes for winning the Cheesecake Swimwear contest. With Mona once again AWOL—at three weeks, now her longest absence—and Jed and Suzie with their hands full writing the other mags, I took the interview.

We did it by phone, which was just as well, because as determined as I was to pull something pithy out of this beauty queen’s mouth, this girl was an airhead, and I had to put myself on mute several times to jab myself in the hand with my pen to stay awake. Nonetheless, in the intro to the final article I wrote:

“Cherry is a young woman of engaging presence. She is stunning; one glance at her pictures and that fact is obvious. Shapely and lithe at 5 feet and 9 inches, she moves with grace and ease. But Cherry’s is a beauty that is much more than “skin deep.” Talk with her for a while. In conversation, Cherry’s charm, wit and intelligence captivate. No wonder then, that the judges chose her as the winner in the recent Cheesecake Swimwear contest.”

In truth, our interview was full of a lot of nothing, but I did manage to make her sound like a woman who was savvy to what she was doing and very carefully and consciously managing her body as her brand.

Not that anybody actually ever read the interview. I knew they wouldn’t once I saw the almost-final layout. There was Cherry, body oiled and topless, arms strategically crossed to conceal, while simultaneously offering glimpses of the upper or lower curves of her tits and her ass. She sported the infamous white gauze bikini bottom, which revealed that she was waxed within a millimeter of her you-know-what, and a red-lipped, open-mouthed, wide-eyed expression on her face as if to say “What? My top has gone missing? And you can almost see my you-know-what? Oh my!” That line of morality and good taste I’d mentioned in the Letter from the Publisher, yeah, well, it was left way, way behind in the dust, without a backward glance as the magazine veered off-course into soft-core porn.

I had tried. And failed.

“Wow,” says George. “So, essentially you pimped yourself, just like Cherry.”

“Yeah, basically,” I concede. “Except I both deluded and pimped myself. Much worse.”

Once was enough. I didn’t want to do it again. After we got the magazine out—and Mona still hadn’t resurfaced—I decided to take our publisher up on his open-door policy and have a discussion, in advance, about the next issue of Cheesecake, and how we might do a better job of staying on the “wholesome” side of the line if we did a little more preparation and had something like, say, a bona fide editorial plan and calendar, with management behind it.

He listened to me without saying a word until I was finished, and then he asked, “How long have you been here?”

“Almost three months, sir,” I said.

“Three months,” he said. “And aren’t you the one who wrote that article on Cherry?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, pleased that he knew.

“Crap,” he said. “That was complete, total, boring crap. You could have done more with that interview. Fantasy stuff. Shit like that. And you tell me you’ve been here just three months. What the hell do you know? Why should I listen to you? Get the hell out of my office.”

I looked at him blankly for a moment. And then I realized: He was right. If I was going to do this thing, I had to do it hard core. I was surprised to feel myself flooded from head to toe with a feeling of complete and utter relief as his words sank in. “Yes, sir,” I said. “More than happy to, sir. At once.”

And I left his office, went back to mine, and packed my things.

“And?” asks George.

“And then I left. And never went back. That was it.”

“Wow, Harry’s mom,” says George. “Now that was hard core.”

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. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com

Monkey Baby Mama

“What’s going on in here? You planning on building a bomb with all that brown sugar?”

Neighbor Kate stands in my kitchen, surveying the chaos. I’m cleaning with purpose this Saturday morning, and since before dawn, I’ve been attacking the kitchen cupboards. In the clean out, I’ve found and stacked about eight two-pound bags of brown sugar.

“Hell, I would if it would blast me through this fuckin’ wall,” I say.

“Hmmmmm,” says Kate, her usual calm self. “It’s a process. You’re going to make it through this.”

Kate knows that of late I’ve been locked in a struggle of the psyche. My newfound freedom as an empty nester has a flip side: I don’t know what comes next. And after years of dressing up in nicely starched and pressed identities – mom, authority, advisor, breadwinner – suddenly, I’m not sure who I am and what I should be doing.

This weekend, though, I’m determined to break the impasse, employing the tools of meditation and housecleaning. The extra impetus to find some answers has come from a recent conversation at work with my friend Lance. After catching him up on news of Harrison, including her decision to stay in Boston over the summer, I’d admitted I’m finding it challenging to adjust to my new state.

“Yeah,” said Lance, not unsympathetically. “I was just watching a show about something like that. There was this woman, who, same as yourself, was having a hard time with the empty nest.”

“Yes? And?” I said, hoping to glean insight and inspiration from another’s experience.

“Well, she decided to adopt a monkey,” Lance said.

“What?”

“Yeah. It filled the void for her. She raised this little monkey as if it were her child – dressed it up, carried it around, took it with her wherever she went. It was wild.”

Adopted a fuckin’ monkey? WHAT THE HELL? I found myself thinking. Is this what I’ll be reduced to, at this stage of my life? In my prime and more than ready for my next meaningful endeavor (even if I don’t know yet what it is), I’ll end up parenting a primate? And one that won’t even grow up able to support me in my dotage? I had a hot flash on the spot.

Lance must have noticed; he asked, “You okay?”

“Wow, Lance,” I said. “Wow. I just didn’t see that coming. And I had thought it would be terrible if I ended up old and alone and the Cat Lady. Thanks for that.”

Although, rationally, I know this cannot possibly be my fate, the thought persists – I’m going to end up old and alone and some monkey baby mama. I try to shake it off, but in my mind’s eye I see me carrying a hairy baby ape, dressed in matching mother-daughter outfits as we sit in a mall food court somewhere in the Midwest and people walk by, gawking, “Look, ma, pa! Carny folk!” It’s torture. (Self torture, but still.)

So I’m determined to move beyond this. After Kate leaves, I take myself to the meditation cushion. I’m heeding the advice of one of my early Buddhist teachers: “If you can’t find your balance, take your seat.” I WILL sit here and penetrate to the heart of this monkey baby mama crap.

I am working with four questions offered by meditation teacher Byron Katie:

1. Is it true?

2. Can you absolutely know it’s true?

3. How do you react when you believe that thought?

4. Who would you be without that thought?

I start with the first question: Is it true that I’m going to end up old and alone and some monkey baby mama?

And my mind responds with (in my mother’s voice, surprisingly!): Oh for God’s sakes! Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it’s not true. I own only those pets that can manage some self care – like cats; cats are perfect pets. I don’t want to own a dog pet and I especially don’t want monkey pets. Personally, I think it’s ridiculous – and unfair to them – to own non-domesticated animals as pets. First monkeys, and then what? Ferrets? Llamas? Tigers? Black mambas? Sheesh. Nope. Not doing that. Plus, even if I did own a monkey, because, let’s say, someone gave it to me, or my sister herself was a monkey baby mama and willed it to me, I would NOT dress it up in a matching outfit and I certainly wouldn’t treat it as my baby. I’d donate it to a good zoo.

Hmmmmm. Or would I? I mean, if it was my sister’s beloved baby monkey, then I might feel obligated to open my home to it, and yes, if it was accustomed to wearing an outfit and seemed to be pining to wear one, I might even have to dress it up. On occasion. Sheesh. This is harder than I thought. But then, my sister doesn’t show any signs of adopting a monkey baby. Well, not yet. But I’m just saying, if she did. Could I end up a monkey baby mama after all?

Ending the answer with that question prompts me to ask and answer question two: Can I absolutely know that it’s true that I’m going to end up old and alone and a monkey baby mama?

I sigh and reply: No, thankfully, I cannot absolutely know that it’s true. In fact, chances are pretty good that I’m not going to end up a monkey baby mama (see paragraphs 1 and 2 above). Chances are also good that I’m not going to end up alone, although chances are pretty good that I am going to end up old. I mean, I don’t know, for sure-for sure, but who can know?

Who can know? This question leads me to question number three. How do you react when you believe the thought that you’re going to end up old and alone and some monkey baby mama?

Well, first of all, I have a hot flash. Then I get cranky. And then I just want to curl up in a ball, in a fetal position, and cry my heart out. Why? Why do I feel that way? I ask myself. Because I should have the answer, damn it; I’m supposed to have the answer about what comes next. I’ve been in this transition for a while and it’s about time now. I should know. I’m equipped and able-bodied, the beneficiary of so many wonderful opportunities, and there’s work to be done in the world. I should be ready to undertake the next important relationship, the next important creative endeavor, the next important contribution to the betterment of humankind’s or the world’s problems.

And then I realize that my restless mind is telling me – no, threatening me: You are destined to become old and alone and monkey baby mama if you DON’T figure out soon what it is that comes next. And it’s this story that is creating anxiety for me as well as aversion to the one who became the focus of it all – some woman, unknown to me, somewhere in the world, who came to love a baby monkey.

So, I find myself at the fourth and final question: Who would you be without that thought? And the answer cuts through the chatter of my monkey mind: I’d be a person in transition who just doesn’t know what comes next – and who may not know for a while.

Ahhhhhhhhhh. Bingo! Game rumbled. I exhale deeply and gently ask myself: So, can you take your seat? Can you try sitting with this uncertainty?

I re-settle myself on the cushion and turn my attention to my breath. Inhaling, exhaling, with awareness, I feel the breath entering and leaving my body, and feel my belly and chest swell and release. I feel myself on the cushion and feel my bones pressing down on the cushion’s firm surface. I hear the hum of the fan on the mantelpiece and feel the movement of the air on my face and hair. I hear the birdsong in the backyard and the sound of a lone fly buzzing in the room with me. I hear the wind moving through the leaves of the old elm, and I see the sunlight on the walls as it comes through the window. I observe as my mind continues to throw thoughts around, and rather than taking them up, I try to let them arise and pass away. Gently, gently, I move beyond the busy-busy thinking in the foreground and into the spaciousness of a much broader awareness.

I sit for a long while, observing my thoughts coming and going. I breathe and follow my breath in and out. I try to rest in awareness. I do not know what comes next. I am sitting with it. And in this moment, this is what sitting with not knowing feels like: I am not suffering; I am at peace. And I am not monkey baby mama.

Much later, I rise and I write:

Monkey baby mama

Object of mocking laughter

Cleared eyes see

Love in a funky wrapper.

And then I get back to the cleaning.

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. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com

The Wench Whisperer

It’s a crappy day at the office. Layoffs loom, my manager gives notice, and I’m passed over as her replacement, a position which goes instead to a friend and colleague. Despite years of Buddhist practice, I don’t transcend easily, so I opt for a practice I have mastered.

“I need a stiff one. Bad day,” I say when Horst picks up the phone. “Want to go for drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Let me put the groceries away and I’ll meet you somewhere.”

We both live in Paly, and we agree to meet at a place on Main Street – an easy bike ride for me and a two-minute walk for Horst. I get there first and find a table near floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto the sidewalk, so we can drink and people-watch. Horst strides up shortly after, and folds his athletic 6’3” frame into the rattan café chair.

“First things first,” he says, and gestures to the waiter. I order a cosmopolitan and he orders his usual, an extra dry martini with three olives. “So, what’s up?”

“I’m not ready to talk about it,” I say, and disclose my true reason for calling: “I need a good laugh.”

More than talking about it or drinking about it, I need to laugh. Laugh about the day, yes, but really, a good laugh or two about anything will help me shake the mood. And Horst can make me laugh; he has since my first week on the job three years ago. Although I’m not sure he believes it, I’ve told Horst that had it not been for his regular check-ins and the fact that I could look forward to a good ROFL (roll on the floor, laughing) at approximately 4 p.m. daily, I would have left within the first four months of joining the company.

Our drinks come and Horst proffers the plastic stir stick with the three vermouth-soaked olives. As is customary, I pluck the one off the end.

“So you need a good laugh. Great,” he says. “Let’s talk about your love life.”

“Shut up,” I say. “Let’s talk about yours.” Horst is in relationship limbo while his girlfriend Linnea travels the globe for a year.

Horst teases me, but I know he’s fishing to see if this is where the day’s trouble lies. He knows about Doc, and before Doc, Aaron. He knows it’s been a hard few months, and after both breakups, he checked in many an evening and got me laughing when, I suspect, he suspected my fingers might be itching to do some drunk dialing or emailing. I return the favor when I know he’s missing Linnea.

“Anyway, I’m not really dating right now,” I say.

“Good,” he says. “I was having a hard time keeping the names of all your men straight: Male Dom, the S&M gentleman who offered to dominate you; Playah Dom, Writer Dom, Geek Dom – oh, and let’s not forget . . . Nostril Dom-us, your guy with the third nostril . . . “

I crack a smile. “Fuck off. And it wasn’t quite a third nostril anyway. More like a large flap of excess skin.”

“Nostril. Flap of skin. Whatever. Enjoy your freedom, Wench. You’ll find true love someday – someday when you’re least expecting it. It’ll happen, hmmm, in the produce section at Safeway, right here in town. Yeah. That’s it. You’ll both be standing there, feeling up the avocados, squeezing those soft green orbs ever so gently – mmmm, ooooo, mmmm – and your eyes will meet, and then. . . “

He gets a giggle out of me. “Goofball.”

We order another round of drinks and add some appetizers. Over a shared calzone, Horst moseys the talk around to work.

“So it’s ‘strategery’ season,” he says.

“Boy howdy.” I nod. As is annual tradition, our management are circulating the business strategies for the new fiscal year. Email volume has increased threefold. Always a treat.

“I’ve been giving our company’s business strategy a lot of thought,” says Horst. “It’s been keeping me awake nights. And you know what? I think I have one that might work.”

“Oh?”

“I’m serious. And it’s so simple that I can boil it down to a three-letter acronym.” I roll my eyes; companies here in Silicon Valley are replete with TLAs; ours is infamous for them. “It’s short, sweet, catchy. Easily communicated.”

“So, what is it?”

“SFP.”

“SFP?”

“Yeah. SFP. ‘Sell Fucking Product.’” I snort my drink through my nose as a belly laugh catches me.

Horst lifts an eyebrow and purses his lips. “That’s really attractive,” he says. “And now you need more booze. You just blew half of it. Literally.”

We order another cosmo and martini, and eventually I tell Horst everything about the day and my conversation with my boss, including the part of the story where I might have come across as, shall we say, less than diplomatic. “Hmmm,” he says, “You fucked yourself for sure on that one. Here’s a consolation prize,” he adds and extends another olive.

“I know,” I say. “I just wish I knew how to shut up. Sometimes I’m a little too direct, and I know that’s uncomfortable for the nonconfrontational.”

“Nah,” he says, “I like your honesty. I admire that about you. I’m sure you had thoughtful, valid points, and I can’t imagine you were mean about it. Direct perhaps, but not mean. And don’t forget,” he says, trying to keep a straight face, “‘Courage’ is one of our prized corporate attributes.”

Another eye roll from me. “Yeah. Right.”

Horst pauses. But I’m ready to hear it; the drinks and the olives and the laughter have lowered my defenses, and I know he won’t be unkind. “Seriously, here’s the thing, though,” Horst says. “I’ve been in your friend’s shoes, stepping in as acting when a manager leaves. Look, Wenchie, I know you’re feeling a little unhappy about all the change in the situation; you’ve been dealing with a lot recently. And I think you did the best you could on the spot with the news today.”

I take a big gulp of my cosmo. “But . . . “

He nods. “That’s right; screw your courage to the sticking point . . . but . . . now it’s time to wish your manager well and get behind your friend and make things work.” He pauses. “And I know you will. I’m just saying.”

“I know.”

“I know you know.”

“I know you know I know.”

I sigh. Horst nods and makes a silly frowny googly-eyed face at me. Childish, yes. But I laugh anyway. It feels good.

It’s late when we finish our drinks. I’m missing the headlight on my bike and Horst is too inebriated to drive, so we swing by his house and he outfits me with a jacket and a flashlight. I bike home, cheerful, crappy day mitigated, thanks to better living through laughter.

Horst emails me the next day at work: Getting back on your game? I hope so. And by the way, Wench, I might have been a tad tipsy, but not tipsy enough to forget that you’ve taken my only tennis jacket AND my flashlight. Cough it up.

I reply: Will do. (Cough. Cough.) And yes, I’m better. Much better. Thank you.

He emails back: All in a day’s work. And signs it: The Wench Whisperer, at your service.

***

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. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail.com