The Not-So-Young and Restless

When I decided to start a blog, one principle guided me: it had to be an honest, real account of my journey.  No scripted moments in the Wideaux’ Peek!  So now, I’ve come to a point that I’ve debated sharing, then decided to just go with it. 

Have you ever noticed that when you want something, everyone else seems to have it?  Like when you’re trying to get pregnant, you can’t go anywhere without seeing massive baby bumps.  For the past couple of days, I’ve been pretty blue.  I miss Bunny, but I really miss the affection you can’t (or shouldn’t) get from a blood relative.   It seems everywhere I look, I see couples holding hands, or kissing or hugging or talking, heads together over dinner or coffee.  Then I thought how nice it would be to Skype my mother; she’d be full of wise-cracks and platitudes.  Of course, you know how that turned out.  For those of you who came in late, my mom died 27 days after my husband.

So, back to my current situation.  I love hugs and kisses and hand-holding and all that mushy stuff—I always have.   The Irish and French blood in me seem to dominate: I am fiery and fierce and passionate.  In the words of Janet Jackson’s song I Miss You Much, “I’m not the kind of girl who likes to be alone.”   So, to find the supplier of this much-needed affection, I turned to the place I always do to look for things: the Internet.  For those of you who think it’s too soon, I can only say this: my sitting home alone isn’t going to bring Bunny back.  He fully expected that I’d be looking for companionship, and is probably a bit surprised that I waited as long as I did.

Before I get to the good stuff, let me be clear: I don’t need a man in order to survive.  I’ve been on my own before, and I’m dealing with all the day-to-day things—bills, chores, house upkeep—without much difficulty.  I’m comfortable with who I am and don’t need another person to validate me.   As much self-esteem as I have, though, I can’t hug and kiss myself.  

I’m probably the least patient person on earth, but I’m at least I’m decisive.  No debating for days on end here—once I decide to do something, I do it.  A few weeks ago, I signed up to three dating web sites: eHarmony, Plenty of Fish and Our Time.  Hey, a girl’s gotta cover her bases!   I filled out the profiles on each (which are basically the same) and uploaded the best pictures of myself that I could find.   So far, the results have been…underwhelming.

Granted, I’m no Angelina Jolie, but I’m not Quasimodo, either.   I could stand to lose a few pounds, but I’m trying.  Plus, I haven’t gone back to smoking, despite the fairly overwhelming stressors in my life.  I kept my profiles positive and said the only things I was looking for in my match were intelligence, a good sense of humor, and a kind heart.   Not too much to ask.   Each of the sites purports to match people based on shared interests or qualities, but you can further narrow the search with preferences.  I set my preferences:  age between 45-65, location within 25 miles, any race, any religion, any education level.  

I’m pretty open-minded, but the age limitation was a comfort-zone kind of thing.  I’m comfortable dating a little younger, and a lot older.  Bunny was the youngest guy I’d ever dated, and he was still 10 days older than I was.  The oldest I’d ever dated—Dexter, a detective that those of you from back in the day in the AP probably remember—was 16 years older than I was.  I was a newly-divorced single mom at the time, and my mother was opposed to my dating someone that much older.  My step-father, though, took the approach that life is too short to be concerned about age differences, and his opinion on the subject got Mama to back off.  As for the geographical restriction, I just don’t have the kind of time or energy for a long-distance relationship.

Plenty of guys look at my profiles—I know, because each of the sites lets me know who’s checked me out.  I’ve sent some messages to a few of my “matches” when I felt like we had a lot in common.   I’ve gotten a few messages from my “matches,” but more from guys who could not have been even remotely matched to me.  

eHarmony was the first site I signed up to.  After a fairly exhaustive questionnaire, I was confident that the matches I’d get would be promising.  So far, not so much.  Of the three, eHarmony seems to have the best-dressed, most attractive demographic.  It has a guided communication option, which most people seem determined to use.   The farthest I’ve gotten is Step 2 (there are at least 4).  I’ve tried cutting to the chase and going outside the guided communication to send e-mails directly, but haven’t had any luck with that route.  eHarmony doesn’t seem to take my preferences into consideration—it sends me a lot of matches from the Vero Beach area, which is nowhere NEAR where I live.  Maybe I should move to the east coast.  Nah!

My cousin Vicki suggested Our Time, the idea of which kind of rankled on me at first, because it advertises to the over 50 set.  However, reality-checking told me that—duh—I was about to be 50, so I bit the bullet and signed up there.   Surprisingly enough, there are lots of people on Our Time who are way under 50.  And even more who are not.  Our Time, in addition to skewing older, seems to attract surprisingly picky men.  One Joe Pesci look-alike,  who describes himself as good looking and 5’8” is “looking for an attractive, slim, or toned in shape brunette or blond non-smoker social drinker” and ends by specifying that potential matches be “YOUNG LOOKING” and “NO PHOTO NO RESPONSE---- DON'T WASTE OUR TIME.”  Newsflash, Pisano—I can lose weight and get plastic surgery, but nothing you can do will make you taller.

I did get a nice note from a guy who clearly fell outside my preferences, hailing from Dallas (Texas, not Georgia) and being a very young 73.  I don’t know how Daddy would feel about my dating a guy older than he is, but the geographic distance, alone, makes this guy undesirable.   I’ve also noticed a lot of guys on Our Time have their e-mail addresses spelled out in their profiles, like lizlanier at rocketmail dot com.  These are guys who are putting their contact information out without having to pay for a membership.  You could look at this maneuver several ways: either they’re: 1) thrifty/crafty; 2) cheap; or 3) poor.  Any way you look at it, they’re not committed enough to invest in the process.  Since a lot of them are retirees, maybe they’re living on fixed incomes. 

Finally, there’s Plenty of Fish, which now calls itself POF.  This site seems to have a mix of the eHarmony and Our Time crowd.  Some of the guys here do the membership-dodging trick, too.  Of the three, this site has been the most fruitful.  I’ve gotten lots of messages from guys I’d never have considered (although I do prefer men with teeth and good grammar), including one very young admirer (32) with whom I’ve chatted online a few times.  He’s black, which doesn’t bother me, but so very young!  I’m no Demi Moore, and look how that whole thing turned out for her, anyway.  He’s only two years older than Joey, and that’s the sticking point for me.  

I’ll meet him for coffee as soon as I get a moment, and see if I can overcome my age objections.  JoCo, meanwhile, have been throwing Lisa Lampanelli-esc barbs my way, but I think it’s funny.  I told 32 that, if things went anywhere between us, it would be like How Stella Got Her Groove Back.  I hope he’s not so young that he didn’t understand the reference.  

Driven to Distraction

My love affair with driving began early: my grandfather taught me to drive his tractor when I was eight.  Now that I have my own nine year old granddaughter, I question the wisdom of his decision, but I suppose that’s one advantage of rural living: wide open fields make for a fairly safe learning environment.  It wasn’t a state of the art tractor, anyway—he’d probably had it since my dad was young, and it topped out at 15 mph.

Up in “The Country,” as our New Orleans cousins called it, there were two brands of vehicles: Ford and Chevy.   Our cousins would come up on weekends or special occasions driving such exotic brands as Pontiacs and Toyotas.  My cousin Rene’ had a Corvette and cousin Nelson had a yellow Porshe that I was absolutely crazy about.  I learned early on that city folks had much cooler rides.

The first car I learned to drive was my dad’s AMC Gremlin.  Daddy lived near LSU at the time, and we went to the stadium parking lot on a Saturday for the lesson.  It was a stick shift, and we went round and round the parking lot as I learned the art of the manual transmission.  Back then, kids in Louisiana could get their driver’s licenses at 15, and a week prior to my test, he came up to The Country to teach me to parallel park.  As it turned out, parallel parking wasn’t part of the test, but Daddy was an exacting teacher—even today, I can parallel park just like the folks from up North.

We didn’t have nearly as many cousins on my mother’s side of the family, but our cousin Bryan had several exotic cars of his own, including a convertible.  Bryan was a true bon vivant, and lived just outside Atlanta in a rambling, antebellum home. He was about 10 years older than my mother, and way more easy-going. He loved a good time, and came to Louisiana several times to sample the good times there.    Once, he had my uncle drive him over (Bryan couldn’t actually drive his cars because he was legally blind) in the convertible.  Oh, were we an excited bunch of country mice! 

I had just gotten my license a few months prior, but Bryan fearlessly handed me the keys so that I could chauffer him around town.  My sisters and neighbor, Lisa, piled into the back and we were off.  We drove all over Mansura, being sure to wave at everyone we saw.  Bryan was a history buff, so we had to stop at every historical marker so that he could jump out and stand next to the signs and read what had happened on those spots.  When we were going at any rate of speed, the wind would whip our heads so strongly that we couldn’t carry a conversation until we slowed.  I think it took a full week for me to get all the tangles and knots out of my hair.

After high school, I married an Air Force guy stationed in Germany.  The first car we had was a BMW, the second a Mercedes.  That’s not as impressive as it sounds: in Germany, even the taxis were Mercedes.   Driving the German-engineered cars gave me a taste for performance cars, though, and I enjoyed having cars that we couldn’t have afforded in the U.S.

My preference in cars was set by then: I liked them small and fast.  As a newly-divorced mom back in Mansura, the first car I bought all on my very own (with my mother co-signing and threatening me with death if I missed a payment) was a red Mercury Capri.   I named her Baby.  My family has the odd habit, which I trace back to my maternal grandmother, of naming vehicles.   Baby was followed by Jett, a black Ford Escort with manual transmission.

We moved to Atlanta and Jett was stolen within six months.  If you’ve ever had a car stolen, you know that it’s a pretty traumatic experience, especially if it’s later found totally stripped.  Such a violation!  After that experience, I decided to pick the least-stolen car available to replace my fast little ride: a maroon Toyota Corolla wagon.  I had sworn off Ford by that time, because both my prior cars had had mysterious radiator problems.  She wasn’t too pretty to look at, but PDW (Precious Deaux Wagon) could maintain a good speed (did I mention I like to go fast?) and was quite serviceable to shuttle Joey and his friends around. 

PDW never needed anything done to her, other than routine maintenance.  She got me through college and law school, and had over 150,000 miles on her before I decided to trade her in.  I got a red Honda Civic, the name of which escapes me at the moment.  That’s the car I drove down to Florida when we moved.  That little car saw a lot of miles before I finally traded her in.

At that point, I was making a good salary.  I could have gone up in class of cars, but the frugal side of me prevailed.  As I had explained to my son when he was younger, there’s a big difference between wanting and needing, and I didn’t need an expensive car.   I found a fun economy car, a Mazda 3.  It was 2004, the Mazda 3’s first production year.  It only had four cylinders, but had all the pick-up of six.  Zoom-zoom indeed.  Her name was Mikki.  She was a dark blue color that people sometimes called purple.

When it became too difficult for Bunny to climb in and out of his truck (about two years ago),  I convinced him to take Mikki and sell his truck (Nicky Nissan) to Joey.  He was happy with this solution, as he (like everyone else who drove her) loved Mikki.  Poor Mikki eventually met her demise just before Christmas last year: Joey was driving her back to our house (he’d been shuttling Bunny back and forth to doctors’ appointments) when some idiot made a left turn directly into Mikki. 

When Bunny got Mikki, that’s when I got my second Mazda 3, Sylvia.  When I was trying to decide what to get, I toyed with the idea of an Audi TT—my dream car.  I’d loved the TT since I’d first laid eyes on it.  Bunny even gave me a toy one for Christmas one year, until I got the real thing.   It would be silver, just like the model he’d given me.   Once I started the actual narrowing down process, though, I once again yielded to my frugal side.  That much for a car?  Holy cow!  I could buy TWO Mazda 3s for that price!  I didn’t need a luxury car—Mazda got me everywhere I wanted to go.

Then last year, my Aunt Kathy got a black Mustang: Nazgul (it’s a Lord of the Rings name).   She was fresh from divorcing Uncle David, and was on her own for the first time in more than 30 years.  I was excited hearing about her adventures with Nazgul, and happy that Aunt Kathy was blossoming in her new life.  During my mother’s wake, I had gone out for some air and walked down the sidewalk when I saw it: Nazgul, in all its glory; sleek, sporty, luxurious.  I looked it over all the way around.  “You know this thing SMOKES the road,” Margeaux whispered.  I had driven Mustangs as rentals, so I knew what they could do: go very, very fast.  And I do like to go very, very fast.

A few weeks ago, Corey took on the task of making the arrangements for Bunny’s memorial service.  Even though he died in January, Bunny wanted his memorial on what would have been his 50^th birthday, April 20^th.  It will be a Star Trek-themed event with Catholic influence, also at his request.  Someone asked me if those were my ideas.  HA!  Not in a million years!  It’s pure Bunny, who always celebrated his birthday like it was a national holiday.  His 40^th birthday celebration lasted an entire week.

My own birthday is 10 days after his.   I’ve never been one to have huge Bunny-type celebrations, but I decided that this year I would get myself a really nice present.  Taking a page from Aunt Kathy’s book, I decided what it would be: an Audi TT.  If I was going to be 50, I was going to be 50 in style.  Naturally, I did my research to make sure it was still a good car, and it is.  The fact that one reviewer called it a “Cougar Car” didn’t deter me.

There are only two Audi dealerships in the area, and one night a few weeks ago I went to the closest one.  There was only one TT on the lot (they’re a limited production model).  I didn’t want to test it at night, so I returned the next day and, with a nervous salesperson riding shotgun, took it for a spin.  I felt like Speed Racer!  There were two drawbacks: no back seat at all, and a humongous blind spot.  The first didn’t bother me as much as the second: I’m a very fast driver, but I’m also a very safe one.  My dream car had now become much less desirable.

I turned my attention to the Audi A5: still sporty, but without the Cougar stigma.   The salesperson, Chris, showed me the various styles, and mentioned a convertible on the lot.  I told him I really wasn’t interested in convertibles, because they were so noisy and bad for the hair.  He assured me that convertibles had improved quite a bit over the years, and we took out the A5 convertible.  I didn’t feel so Speed Racerish driving it, but wow!  It had get-up and go to spare, and was as comfortable as a velvet glove.  

At first, I wasn’t wild about the color—at dusk, it looked very dark.  It would take two months to order one in a lighter color.  I don't have that kind of patience!   I went back in the daylight on Friday, and was happy to see that, with the sun shining bright, it looked more blue-gray than charcoal.  That’s when I knew that Audrey would be coming home with me.  Nelson called me yesterday to tease me a bit, then said, with all seriousness, “You’re going to need a radar detector.”  Yes I am!     

Step by Step

I cleared a big hurdle tonight: it was my first night out in a big group setting.   I’d been out in a small group in my home town when my mom died (detailed in I Know Why the Irish Drink), and I’d been out with one or more attorneys when we were at loose ends out of town, but this was the first large group setting--with a mix of friends, colleagues and law students.  For some reason, just the thought of going to a cocktail party filled me with anxiety.   Not my usual pre-cocktail party mindset, for sure.

The worst part about the lead-up was that I didn’t know why I was so anxious.  These were all people I liked, and I’d always had a good time at past events.  I tried to explain it to a friend who called this afternoon but just couldn’t articulate my feelings.  Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to answer any questions, or because I knew I wouldn’t have someone to come home to who’d be full of questions about who I’d seen.   I didn’t know why, but I was a bundle of nerves.

I psyched myself up all day: I’d find a reason not to go, and Margeaux (my alter-ego) would convince me that I NEEDED to go, or it would get easier to blow off the next event and the one after that, and soon I’d be a recluse.  Guilty confession: I tried to go to an event with another group last night, but chickened out.  Margeaux pointed out that I’d missed spending time with a fun group of women and hearing a great speaker (Tampa’s female Chief of Police).  So Margeaux and I squabbled all day, and as I almost changed my mind for the umpteenth time, I finally pushed myself out the door.

Maybe I didn’t want to get The Look again.  The first time it happened was about eight months ago.  I was having dinner with a group of fellow nurse attorneys, and one of them asked how Bunny was doing.  I told them he was Stage IV (the worst you can get).  They all expressed sympathy, but one of them gave me a look that was as clear as if it had been written on her forehead: pity.  Her eyes said “Oh you poor thing, I feel so sorry for you—I pity you.” 

She meant well, of course, but it made me furious.  I didn’t want anyone’s pity!  So many people have been through so much worse in their lives than I have that I’m absolutely blessed in comparison.  Pity is for people who’ve suffered the unendurable, the Job-like trials.  Even though I’ve felt a bit like Job from time to time over the last few years, it’s a feeling that quickly passed.

I got The Look a few times at my mother’s wakes, either directly or vicariously through my sister, Julie.  As I mentioned in a previous post, people often mistake Julie for me and vice versa.  Several times during those two days, someone would approach me and offer condolences on my mother’s passing.

“Are you the one who lives in Africa?” they’d ask.

“No, that’s my sister, Julie.  She lives in South Africa,” I’d reply.  Julie was continually irked that people left the “South” part out.

“Oh.  Poor, thing, she just lost her husband.”  They’d say it somberly, and give me The Look.

“Nnnnoooo…that was me,” I’d say, somewhat amused when their expressions changed from pity to horror and they made hasty retreats.

So, steeling myself against The Look, I made my way into the bar where we were meeting.  I got lots of hugs and expressions of concern, but not The dreaded Look.  I had a good time, and I escaped without even coming close to breaking down.  Margeaux was right—I needed to get out.  Now, the next time I go into a group setting, I’ll know that I can do it, and that the world won’t end, and it will get easier to go out each subsequent time.  Then one day—hopefully soon—I won’t stress at all about getting out.  

The Business of Dying

In my free time during the past month—which has been in short supply lately--I’ve slowly been winding up Bunny’s financial affairs.  For years, I asked him to write down all his accounts and access numbers, but he never got around to it.  Once it became clear that his outcome wasn’t going to be good, I urged him to make the list and to visit a friend of mine to draw up a will.  He put off doing that, too.   He always used to tease me about being superstitious, but I think he believed that actually sitting down and writing a will would hasten his death.

At any rate, his final spiral was so sudden that there was no time to properly get his affairs in order.  On his last night on Earth, he scribbled notes with passwords and account names.  It took me awhile to figure out some of them—another thing we had in common is poor penmanship.   Since he wasn’t working, Bunny took care of all the bills and left me free to devote myself to less mundane pursuits.  Fortunately, he paid most of them electronically from our joint account, so they were easy to track.   In retrospect, it was a mistake to leave all the finances up to him, because I had a steep learning curve once he was gone.   Lesson: if your partner does all the family accounting, at least touch base on the issue from time to time.

When I finally had the presence of mind to start the task, I thought of putting together a list of all the things I needed to get done.  Then I figured that wheel had already been invented, and went on a Google search for it.  Sure enough, there are several helpful checklists available with just a mouse click.  One thing I learned was that I would need several copies of the Death Certificate.  It takes about two weeks to get the Certificate, and you can’t get very much done until you have it in hand.   The crematorium would order them and give them to me when I went to pick up Bunny’s cremains.

Over the years, we’d had some of our beloved pets cremated, and the urns were about the size of a regular-sized box of Pop Tarts.  I knew Bunny’s cremains would be more substantial, but was surprised when I went to pick them up and the manager put a cinder block-sized box in my hands.  It weighed about as much as a cinder block, too.

“Wow!  That’s a lot bigger than a cat!” I blurted out.  Fortunately, he had a sense of humor, and laughed along with me.

We sat down and he explained about the differences in the two types of death certificates: one has the cause of death, and one doesn’t.  As the appointment came to an end, I asked whether he needed to see my ID.  Ever the lawyer, I was nearly appalled that he hadn’t demanded to see it when I first came in.  Lord knows, the pharmacies have no problem demanding ID for decongestants.  No, he believed I was who I said I was.

“What if I was someone else coming in to hijack the ashes?”

“Like who?” My security-consciousness amused him.

“Um, a disgruntled family member.  A mistress, perhaps.”  I could play this game all day long: my pessimistic side can conjure up every worst-case scenario for any occasion.  He didn’t want to encourage me, though.    Bunny’s ashes and I were soon on our way.

I’ve faxed, copied or mailed the Death Certificate many times since then.  On Thursday, I took it to a credit union where Bunny had a small account.  I explained to the teller that my husband had died and I wanted to close out his account.  She sent me to the manager’s office.  The manager was a pleasant, pretty young woman with a slightly lilting, island accent.  I learned that she was born and raised in Antigua. I told her what I needed and she took the Death Certificate I offered.  Her eyes widened when she saw Bunny’s name.

“Oh my gosh!  He said he wasn’t leaving until the summer!” She looked genuinely distressed.

“That’s what we thought. It was very unexpected.”

“Did his son make it down here?” She was on the verge of tears.

“Yes, he and his family moved down in early December, so they had the whole month together.”  Relief seemed to wash over her.

“Oh, good!  So he had his son and granddaughters with him for Christmas!”  Just then, the assistant manager passed her door, and she called him in to tell him of Bunny’s passing.

“Oh, no!  Did his son get down here in time?” To his relief, I assured him that he had.

I wasn’t surprised that these strangers knew minute details about Bunny’s life.  Ever since we dated, he loved to chat up people like they were friends whose only interest was what was going on in his life.  Once he was diagnosed with cancer, no one was spared the details, and once it was clear that he was on a short lease, he would bust out the news without provocation.  For example, one day we were looking at potential houses to buy as investments.  As we walked through one and the real estate agent was explaining the features of the house, Bunny surprised her with his news.

“I have less than a year to live!” he announced, in the same upbeat manner with which one announces a new puppy or baby in the family.  Needless to say, the recipients of this news were always a bit startled by it.

Cashiers were a favorite target of Bunny’s chat fests.  When Joey was little, Bunny would talk to a cashier for about five minutes, oblivious to the people waiting behind him.  If the subject of college arose, as it often did, Joey would proclaim “My dad has three degrees!”  I would just roll my eyes.

Bunny was also extremely nosy.  He eavesdropped on every conversation he possibly could, and would explain to me the dynamics at play between the couple arguing at the table next to ours, or the fellow theatergoers engrossed in conversation before a movie.  Whenever he claimed not to have heard something I said, I always pointed out that he had no problem hearing total strangers across a room.

He loved children, and if he saw someone with kids, he’d listen for their names.  Then, he’d either ask the parents a question about Timmy or Jessica or would actually engage Timmy or Jessica in conversation.   The parents would almost always abruptly answer or shuffle their kids away. 

“You’ve got to stop doing that!” I urged.                                                                    

“Why?  Kids love me, and they think I’m magic because I know their names.”

“Yeah, but it freaks their parents out.  They think you’re perving on their kids.”  The thought had never occurred to him.  He still continued to talk to kids, but didn’t call them by name.  Their parents seemed fine with that.

Bunny spent lots of time at the credit union, since it’s right down the road from our house.  Whenever he got chemo or blood transfusions, the nurses were his chat subjects.  The lady who cut what remained of his hair always brightened when he walked in.  I think his curiosity was why people remembered him so well—of all the customers they dealt with in a given day, he was probably one of the few who took the time to have any meaningful conversation with them, much less show interest in their lives.