Ladies, Men Have Changed!

Ladies, men have changed.

That which was once most easily acquired through your local Yenta, or in college, or in a bar, is now a commodity readily available on the World Wide Web.  All you have to do is ask.

I am not so recently divorced, but recently single, having exited last summer (at the tip of His Boot) from a long-term domestic arrangement which failed both partners miserably in the end.

Somewhere between July and October of last year, I began to recover from the anger, grief, denial, and other emotional wreckage sustained as the old domestic deal finally collapsed (in favor of The Other Woman).

And, somewhere between October and the end of January, I began to wonder what my options were for a social life.  I had relocated to a new state, a new and unknown community.  My long-time friends from Texas and Pennsylvania are now long-distance friends as well.  Due to the geographic remoteness and demographic factors of my new community (tr: not many people), the availability of that singular, hoped--for, safe, considerate, age-appropriate SINGLE MAN was nil.

I turned to the computer, to various Web chat forums to make friends with men, or at least to find them, and I did.  In great profusion!  My first new computer-aided friend is a journalist, a happily married family man who lives in another state.  He is one of the most entertaining people I have ever encountered on the screen, and I treasure our e-mail friendship.  He is not, however, a prospective single-guy dinner date.  At least, I hope not!

The chat rooms bore other fruit, and specifically quite a few fruits and a sprinkling of bores!  Cyber-sex-spammers would hurl their graphic invective at me without invitation.  Punch the “Ignore” button, report them to the ISP-Nazis, whatever.  For the most part, I resorted to correcting their spelling and punctuation errors with Liquid Paper and a red felt tip pen on the computer screen (e.g.: touch my crock, baby!)

Oh, and then there is the sick, predatory network-programmer in Maryland who insisted that he would strip to music for me in my home, but who was INCENSED when I could not recall his first name, which is Jim.  By the way, this fellow’s Yahoo! “Nick Name” is “MaleStrip_MD” if you ever want a truly dismal experience on Yahoo!, but be careful.  Jim doesn’t take “No” for an answer, at least not immediately.  I had to explain to Jim a/k/a MaleStrip_MD that my FIRST NAME was Susie, but my middle name was “hey babe.”  I do not think he really ever got the point.

Eventually, I took to disinfecting the computer screen, mouse and keyboard with Lysol.  Lysol works quite well to remove all traces of cyber-scum, but I still haven’t figured out how to get the Liquid Paper off of the glass screen.  Oh, well, that’s just the blonde coming out in me.

More on Jim a/k/a MaleStrip_MD.  Attempting to press his suit, he inquired as to who else lived in my house with me besides my dogs and my horse (who does not actually live in the house at this time).  I explained to him that I live with Betsy.  And who, he inquired, is Betsy?  I explained to him that Betsy is my Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum Chief’s Special, and that I think Betsy is a pretty special kinda gal.  He has not written to me in several days.  Perhaps he is busy servicing his network.  Maybe he fell down and can’t reach his mouse.  A girl can hope, can’t she?

I got one promising hit in the chat rooms.  Larry.  Lives not far from here, and we were both shocked at that.  So, we had dinner.  Larry is 5 years younger than I am.  He separated from his spouse last summer, and has filed, or is filing, for divorce (story keeps changing here), and they are preoccupied passing legal paperwork back and forth.  His soon-to-be-former-wife is not happy with Local Larry, and they have two young boys to fight over.  Larry is an extremely nice person, a community volunteer on several fronts, and he holds down a good management job in a public utility.  He is a quiet, sober, responsible, kind person.  At least I think so.  I terminated the acquaintanceship.  I fear the deranged, estranged spouse more than I want romance with this man.  Off the hook, back in the pond.  Still, a hit’s a hit, right?

I quit the chat rooms.  Way too rough a place for this tender-foot to venture often.  Yahoo! kept sending me prompts to take out a free personal ad looking for a prospective date mate.  I accessed the personals, built a couple of profiles, read many of the outstanding ads, and finally launched myself into the cyber meat-market.

I wrote what I hoped was rigidly specific, truthful, sensitive, humorous invitation.  And, to-date I have received about 30 e-mail responses to it.  Not one of the responses violated the covenants of my ad.  I did have to explain to “Wishful Wonder” that ‘No, I do not wear thigh-high boots when I ride,’ and that with all of my endurance gear and my helmet on I look a bit like a Martian on horseback.  Long distance riding is just not a very cute or sexy equine sport.  I then referred “Wishful Wonder” to the slutty, but more fashionably attired Dressage and Hunter Jumper set just in case those ladies have a use for him.   “WW” has likewise quit calling.

So far, the e-mail responses have resulted in two “dates,” both of which I survived and learned from.  The first date was a formal dinner invitation to one of Charlottesville’s toniest establishments.  My date was an executive who works in a high profile position with a publicly traded corporation.  He is 9 years younger than I am, but maintained that “the age difference” did not bother him at all.  Well, it sort of bothered me, but not enough to refuse an elegant dinner at the Boar’s Head Inn with all the trimmings.  And, per normal, this was all the excuse I needed to go hit the mall.  I purchased two terrific new outfits (on sale), shoes (on sale), a handbag (on sale), and a pair of rather good earrings (you guessed it).  I am wearing the earrings right now while I am working on this bit.

I had my hair cut and styled, and I even got a manicure.  Bright red nails, if you must know.  All dressed up and pointed toward Charlottesville.  Yes, I am 41 years old. And, I looked just marvelous, the rose-cheeked maiden in action. Driving a truck.

My date was absolutely polite, and formal to the letter.  Conservative, magna cum laude business school graduate, accomplished, self-effacing, a real gentleman.  Fortunately for us both, he lives in another state and only calls on his minions in Charlottesville for the quarterly business review.  I have exactly zero interest in pursuing any form of romantic liaison with this one.  He is quite handsome, and all male.  I hope he asks me to entertain him again.  I would love to do so, but on strictly a platonic level.  Because he is so damned young that I just cannot develop a vibe for him.  He wrote me a very polite thank you note.  I wrote him a very polite (and uncharacteristically short) thank you note.  If he had sent me flowers, I would have written him a longer thank you note.

My second date took me shopping.  No, really!  It was fabulous, and I had a great time.  This man is a world traveler, a writer, an engineer by education and training, and most importantly, a virtuoso jazz pianist.  He is older than me, but within acceptable limits.  He is very tall, quite fit, and I find him personally attractive.  No major vibe there, but his face is open, he is not afraid of smiling, and I believe there was kindness in his eyes.

We met for coffee.  Then, we drove to Harris Teeter to shop.  What, you ask, is Harris Teeter?  Only one of Charlottesville’s most expensive and exclusive (it is huge) grocery stores.  Lots of organic stuff.  Did I say it was expensive?

My date had to prepare an evening meal for his 17 year old son who is a strict vegetarian and a slob (Dad’s precise description, not mine).  So, he needed a few items for “15 Bean Cajun Soup.”

We entered the store through the produce department.  We squeezed and prodded produce and loaded our baggies.  I bought organic asparagus, some sort of really huge mushrooms with the feet still attached to them, and two bunches of cilantro.  I lost sight of my date after the first turn onto Aisle Two (separate carts, you understand).  But, I caught up with him about 20 minutes later when I had completed assembling my bagels-and-buns selection.  The date had already cleared check-out, so I was naturally slightly embarrassed at running behind.

I parked my cart in the shortest possible check-out lane and walked over to him.  He needed to leave right away (it was nearly seven o’clock) to go feed the teen-aged son.  We exchanged polite parting shots, and I paid for my grocery order.

Well, the evening was young, so I walked Reilly O’Dog up and down the Barracks Road shopping center (caveat: always take Reilly O’Dog with you on a “date” just in case your date bails early).  We went to the Lynne Goldman Studio to see if Reilly’s new friend Sophie was working.  Unfortunately, many of the shops had closed at six o’clock.

Sophie is one classy bitch, I must say.  She is a Giant Schnauzer with great lines.  Sophie’s friends Lynne and Steve always give out doggie treats when we go into this exclusive gift shop.  Yes, of course they let Reilly O’Dog inside their store!  They specifically invited Reilly O’Dog to come visit Sophie at Lynne’s studio.  We have to hold Reilly O’Dog down though when he visits Sophie so he does not wreck their aisle displays with his tail.

After a quick trip through Barnes and Noble, sans pooch, I took Reilly O’Dog out to dinner at a local surf & turf spot.  I saved the choice protein treats for him in a carry-out container.  I fed him his supper on the lawn at the restaurant, and let him wander around for a few minutes before returning home to my own bed, and the reassuring peace and quiet of Mrs. Dorsey’s Old House.

In summary, my initial bid for a romantic liaison has been experientially informative and productive to a point.  Not richly satisfying yet, but hey! I’m just warming up.  The chick is, after all, a little out of practice.

My last respondent post on the AdLib-Free_Style personal ad before I deleted it from Yahoo! was , of all people, Local Larry!  Found me out, sly critter!  He pretended to be a man from Fredericksburg, trying me on for size, hoping I would put that hook back in his mouth.  However, I recognized the misspellings and grammar errors in his text, and I called him on the phone.  We had a good laugh.  I asked him to call me and tell me when he was really, truly, completely single and available again.

I suggested to Larry that if and when he is ever able to “present” in a less unilateral posture, we could take his boys fishing on the Rapidan River together, or just log in to the DC current events chat room for some tag-team virtual horseplay.  Larry is a good guy.  I like him, but I honestly feel that he does not comprehend what I am saying to him.  Probably will not go out with him again on a “date.”

I am going to change the subject radically to tell you about one of my favorite long-term male female relationships.  I have bored you all to tears with this in the past, especially if you agreed to read The Horse Chronicles out of politeness a couple of years ago.

My horse, Tez.

Last April, our personal relationship was at an all-time low.  Tez hated my guts, and I was openly afraid to get on his back.  I made Katie ride him since she was young, stupid, and expendable.

It has only been in recent months that my overwhelming apprehension at dying or being critically maimed by this hot Arabian horse has been replaced by more constructive attitudes, and my more credibly authoritative role in his daily life.  This morning, I went out to feed him his carrots.  On a whim, I attached a lead rope to his halter, climbed the fence and slid over on to his back.  I rode him around the paddock at a walk and trot in the halter.  Yes, that’s correct. Susie rode the axe-murderer bareback with only a halter and lead rope.  Then, I spent the same amount of time scratching his neck, his ears, his face, his back and withers.  He lauded my efforts by grooming my sweater with his upper lip.  The dust in his thick winter coat, (which won’t come out until he sheds), and the tangles in his mane mangled my shiny new red “date” manicure.

This, I believe, is love.  Two radically different beings finding a point of conciliation, following the line through strife and hardship to a second point of resolution.  And discovering that by acknowledging their essential, natural differences there is indeed a common meeting ground for comfort and trust, a medium for tangible and intangible exchanges.  This is a boundary I have found. Not a line of limitation, not a barrier between us, but a zone of comfort which I can now lean against with confidence.

I scratched his neck, and he told me with the expressions of his body and the wiggles on his face how good it felt to be touched so affectionately.  I told him out loud in people-speak that I loved him, and I prayed that he understood what I was saying to him.
Syria, Virginia
February 1999