The Wishing World

I read a book last year about a woman who wished her way into a relationship. She'd go around all day imagining that the right Mr. Next would show up, and sure enough one day, there he was, out of the blue knocking on her door.

After reading her book, I did what she had done. I wrote on a slip of paper the type of partner I wanted to find, then folded it up into a little square and hid it under my mattress.

I guess in a way it worked. My ex did reappear last year after an hiatus of four months and everything reignited, wildly and passionately, until it didn't. With my logical side of my brain, I can identify many tangible reasons why it eventually sputtered out. But with my magical side of thinking, I wonder if the problem was that I wasn't specific enough with my wish.

Yes, I wrote what I wanted in a relationship - a man who is bold, generous, playful, spiritual, curious, political, who loves children and the outdoors. But what I forgot to put down was that I also wanted him to stick around. My bad, as my son used to say. In this world, as well as the wishing world, I guess you can't take anything for granted.

So I'll try again. And while I'm at it, I might as well throw in a couple of more things like... smiles a lot, passionate about his work, owns a house in the south of somewhere, and just to be on the safe side, that my son will also really like him.

Hexagram 35

I think it must be a sign. Five days after receiving an email from my ex, saying "maybe we'll talk this week" and then not hearing a word, I got an email from Selective Search, an elite matchmaking service. I'd sent my info in a couple of years ago, but hadn't heard a thing and even forgotten about it, until yesterday when I glanced at an old email account and saw the message inviting me to come to their office to meet in-person.

I'm ready. Match-making services have thrived for centuries so there must be something to them. Admittedly, all my attempts to fix up friends have failed miserably, but my only criteria was that everyone was available. These people have a pool of 900,000 women, according to their website. Plus they charge the men (women don't pay anything) tens of thousands of dollar. You'd think that more often than not, they must come up with something, otherwise, they couldn't still be in business.

So with two internet dates and a match-making meeting lined up for next week, I can't help myself. I throw the I Ching. It lands on Hexagram 35, "Progress." Terrific. But then I read further. "...It may be that we meet with no confidence. In this case we ought not to try to win confidence regardless of the situation, but should remain calm and cheerful and refuse to be roused to anger..." Not exactly the best prognosis, but hey, it's only a date or two. Or possibly three.

Stasis

I did it. I didn't wimp out. I phoned Date #15 and explained in a kind but concise way that I didn't think we had a future together, not even short-term, like in a day.

Sure, I could have left his call unanswered, which I've been known to do. But my latest resolution is to be the kind of woman who speaks up. What to say was the only question.

My girlfriend Eustacia suggested I make it about me, like in: I'm just not ready to get involved again.

"But that's not true," I told her.

"Why make him feel badly?" she replied.

Since we'd only gone out twice, I couldn't imagine him feeling that badly. Still, I didn't want to lie. So I asked my son, who was reading Road and Track on the couch, what he thought.

"I don't know," he answered.

"No, tell me what you'd say."

"I don't care. How about, 'no, I don't want to go out with you again?'"

"That's all?"

"Okay, no thank you. The girls I know, do it all the time."

"Do the boys feel badly?"

"Depends on the boy."

"You mean some boys don't?"

"Mom, let me read."

And so I did, then went into another room, called Date #15, and basically said no thank you to going out again.

I think he said, 'okay,' but maybe not, because suddenly there was this horrible static sound followed by a strange beeping.

"Hello? Hello? Are you there?" I shouted. Then I looked down at the phone and saw he was gone.

For a moment I felt terrible, and considered calling him back. But what would I have said except something lame like maybe we could get together as friends, which I really didn't want to do.

So instead I just sat there, felt badly a while longer and crossed my fingers that the next time the karma's finger wouldn't be pointing at me.

Hannibal's Elephants

Took myself to a State of the Union Watch party last night, walking the mile and a half past a park filled with ten-foot high, snow pillars in preparation for the weekend's snow sculpture competition.

Immediately, I called my son, who earlier in the month had stood for hours in zero degree weather watching a block of ice evolve into a rhino. "Remember how in 'Lost,' one of the characters was staring at a metal door and talking about how Michelangelo could see “David” in a block of stone. It’s just like that with these ice pillars. You can almost see what's about to come out.”

"Good," said my son. Then he added, “Bye.”

Brevity is my son's trademark when he's at his dad's. I've come to expect it. Still, I continue to call. After all, change is always lurking in the background and I don't want to miss it if it happens.

A dozen of us had signed up for this State of the Union party. Except for the host and her son and daughter-in-law, no one knew anyone. Still, the conversation was lively and the snacks, delicious. The host had set out green grapes and French cheeses. One guest baked chocolate chip cookies. An intriguing, dark-skinned man brought cashews. It almost felt like we were family, gathered around the living room TV waiting for Bing Crosby to sing his way through "White Christmas."

After the speech, I made my way over to the cashew man. He told me he's from Tunisia - the country which Hannibal crossed on his way to battle the Romans, employing 300 elephants.

"Amazing. My son was just talking about how elephants were used in ancient wars," I said and eagerly, jumped into the conversation. Until, that is, a woman with a long ponytail joined us. Straight-away, Mr. Cashew told her he's from Tunisia, then started in again about Hannibal and his elephants.

Definitely, it's a good story. But I didn't stay to hear it a second time. Thanking the host, I said my goodbyes and trundled out the door. Bottom line, I had a good time, plus an elephant tale to regale my son with when he came back home.

Something Odd

Tonight, my son is with his dad. I can go hear Gary Wills talk about his new book, "Bomb Power." Attend a panel discussion and film screening about "Complicit Destruction: Money Mines and Militarization in the Democratic Republic of Congo." Join a State of the Union Watch party. Or do what I really want to do which is to stay home, light some candles, and catch a couple of episodes of "Lost."

That watching TV is my first choice is indeed odd given that haven't I watched TV in decades, and our set doesn't even work. A few weeks ago, however, a friend suggested that if I was serious about writing a blog, I need to become more savvy about popular culture. The quickest way to do it, she said, was by watching TV. So I clipped a list from the local newspaper of the top ten TV shows of 2009 and started viewing the initial episode of each - Chuck, Sons of Anarchy, Modern Family, 24, and then Lost.

I didn't get any further. Now, evenings after my son (who until a few weeks ago wasn't allowed to watch TV except for Saturday morning cartoons) finishes his homework, we sit on the floor in my bedroom with the laptop on a foot stool, working our way through Lost. After last night's viewing, we're at Season 1, Episode 13.

I'm not sure what it is about the show that's hooked me, but it might be something as simple as its title. After all, if I'm truly searching seriously, doesn't that imply something is lost. Carry that to its logical conclusion and the most obvious something is me. Of course, my daily dramas are a bit more tame than those the characters face. But lost is lost whether you're on an island or in your own home.

I recently read that "It's natural to feel lost. Especially if you're not looking in the right places." What a hopeful thought. It means that being found is simply a matter of perspective. And isn't that what happens in "Lost?" A character finds strength when he's at his weakest; love when surrounded by evil. It's perfect and simple and just what I need after a messy day.

Any Which Way - Date #2

I was supposed to meet Date #2 last night but canceled on the guy when, at the last minute, I got a ticket to see a dance performance by Taiwan's Cloudgate. I know it was a rotten thing to do, and my karma will undoubtedly catch up with me, sooner rather than later. But I guess when it came down to choosing, I preferred my own company at the concert to meeting Mr. "New Freedom."

He sounded nice enough. And of course, it was absolutely fair that he wanted to meet halfway at a bar in a strip mall in one of Chicago's western suburbs. But there was something about his emails, so loaded with acronyms, that I felt like I was reading my 13-year-old's text messages.

I'm not faulting the man. The problem, I think, is in the system. There's something about the process of getting to know someone in a vaccuum that brings out my most judgmental self. Take "Tall and Handsome" who went on and on about himself without asking one question about me, then concluded his missive by asking if there was anything else I'd like to know about him. Delete. Or the guy who can't stop bragging about his kid, who has straight A's, won the national debate contest, raised a million dollars for Haiti, plus is on the Junior Olympic Fencing Team. Yes, I'm sure he's a chip off the old block, but no thanks.

Likewise, I'm sure I've been unfairly judged. When I wrote the "Hairdresser" that "I've always wondered what hair stylists are really like, since when you go to a salon, everyone who works there is always so concerned about how they look, that you always end up feeling second-rate no matter how many beauty services you've purchased," did I hear back? Not a word. And that was one of my more interesting messages. Most of the time, I tend towards the boring. I just can't seem to get into the swing of writing about myself when I have no idea whom I'm writing to.

That's why I think internet dating etiquette needs to be revised. Yes, I know there's a safety reason behind the recommended procedure - first emails, followed by phone conversation, and only then face-to-face - but when I follow the program, my interest invariably wanes.

I once went out with a man who later murdered someone. So I can't say I have great radar. But the way I figure, dating is a risky business any matter which way you look at it.

In Space and Time

I've decided. Enough of my wishy-washy meandering. It's time for the three-prong plan. Fourth and fifth prongs can be added as needed, but for now, here it is:

1) Nights when my son is with his dad, I take myself out - to concerts, classes, lectures, even just for a run. It doesn't matter where or what I do. Everything counts.

2) Enforcement of the two-date-minimum rule with anyone who asks.

3) Opening my heart to whatever feelings come my way. And that means anything.

Number 3f will be challenging. In fact, this morning, it already was. It happened while I was putting my son's overnight bag in his dad's car. "Have fun," I called out.

My ex-husband didn't reply, so I said it again. Finally, without looking up, he answered, "We will."

A nothing response that I'm sure he wouldn't even remember. But for me, the guillotine dropped. Maybe it was the combination of melting snow, gray skies, the smell of 35-degree weather. But in the instant after he'd uttered that innocuous, throw-away line, I was carried back to our time together in Vermont, when he'd be sitting in the Subaru while I buckled our son into his car seat. Careful not to slam, I'd shut the back door then climb in up front, alongside my husband, our bodies fitting together in space and time, without either of us uttering a word.

It was just a momentary flash, but the feeling lingered and didn't go away till I got back upstairs, grabbed a can of Comet and started scouring the stove that hadn't been cleaned in months.

An older friend, a widow, whom I met in Vermont, once told me that at night, when she couldn't sleep, she'd get up and scrub the bathroom tiles with a toothbrush. This morning I understood why.