The Story of How We Met

Photo taken the first night Emmett and I met.  Its our first kiss.  Sam is to my right.

Throughout the many (and I do mean many) years of dating, one desire always prevailed… I wanted an interesting story of “how we met.”  Obviously, everyone thinks their “how we met” story is interesting because it so personal to them; I just wanted our story to be a fascinating one… different from all of the others.  I’m a story teller so it was frightening for me to think that I might not have a story to tell.  As it turns out, I had nothing to worry about.  The story of how Emmett and I met has regaled many… all I have ever needed to say is “I married my bellman.”

In October 2005, a group of girlfriends and I had decided to do a “girly girl” weekend in Miami for Columbus Day Weekend.  The group consisted of Laura, Jessica, Sophia and me – four women with a mission to forget all of our responsibilities and just have a wonderful time.  None of us had a thought about meeting anyone in South Beach.  For those who do not know, South Beach is akin to San Francisco or Provincetown in terms of the male gay population.  We all figured we would have a great time and maybe hang out with some fabulous new friends.

Once we arrived in Miami, we checked into the Miami Loews Hotel.  It was beautiful.  It sits right on the main stretch of the beach and is about as glamorous a hotel as you would comfortably want.  It has a huge private pool (overlooking the ocean) where guests can cool off and lounge showing off their designer bathing suits and new post op bodies.  The lobby of the hotel is done in all granite (or is it marble… I never do know the difference) and everything gleams, including the staff.  It is impressive.

We valeted our car and at once a tall, nice looking bellman approached and asked us if he could assist us with our bags.  I’m not sure he realized what he was getting into offering to assist four women with their weekend luggage.  Believe me when I tell you that the number of bags went into the double digits.  Still, our bellman (who sported the name tag “Emmett”) was cheerful as could be and before we knew it our bags were up in our room.  During this time, I had received a call from my bank as I was working out a car loan with them.  I was otherwise diverted and did not notice that Emmett was spending an extraordinary amount of time showing the other girls around the room.   Later Emmett would say that he literally spent 45 minutes showing Laura, Jessica and Sophia all the amenities the room had to offer and explaining in great detail the night life of South Beach – all the time hoping that I would get off of the phone and he could meet me.

After Emmett had shown the girls where all of the electrical outlets were, and I still had not got off the phone, he realized he had to go back to work.  Sophia had noticed that Emmett had been glancing over at me in an interested way.  Being the matchmaker that she is, she wondered if he might be interested in joining us out that night – maybe he could show us around.  Emmett immediately agreed and he gave Sophia his phone number.

At dinner that night, we all got to talking about our lives.  Two of the women (Laura and Sophia) were divorced, Jessica was married and I was still single.  All of us discussed the difficulties of our current  relationships or lack thereof.  I stated that I thought mine was the hardest because they had all been married and had children.  I had not had the opportunity for either and didn’t know if I ever would at this point.  I was 39.  It hadn’t happened.  Would it ever I wondered?

Sophia set her salad fork down on her plate and looked at me with all earnestness and said “you have not learned to let your walls down.  Once you do, you will meet someone.  Can you let your walls down for this weekend?”  I thought about what she said and declared I would give it a shot.  “I just want to say though, it’s not like I don’t look for someone to meet.  I’m 39 folks.  All I do is look.  If I’m in the shower alone, I look.”  It never occurred to me that I had already met my future husband and I hadn’t even noticed him in particular.  No wonder I was still single!

We never did meet up with Emmett that first night.  It turns out we had copied down the wrong number.  The next morning, Sophia and Laura saw Emmett in the lobby and rushed over to him telling him that they had the wrong number and still wanted him to come out with us. They corrected the number situation and that night, when we were at Sky Bar, Sophia called Emmett and handed me her phone.  “But I don’t even know him,” I objected.  I hate talking to people I don’t know on the phone.  “That’s the point,” she explained.

Fifteen minutes later, Emmett and his brother Sam were at Sky Bar.  I noticed them right away but was busy hanging out with my friends.  Emmett and his brother were not rushing over to talk to us either.  They had found a group of bachelorettes and were busy entertaining the lovely and drunk ladies.  At some point, I believe I saw Sam with a bridal tiara propped up on his head.

Eventually Emmett and Sam made their way over to us.  Emmett sidled up next to me, draped his long arm around me and asked in his soft Southern accent “now why is it that itty bitty girls like you always like big tall guys like myself?”  I was a little shocked at his cockiness but also I thought he was gay to honest – this was South Beach wasn’t it?  Guys here are supposed to be gay (or else big time Rappers).  “I didn’t know I was,” I declared.  Emmett looked me straight in the eye and said “If you aren’t now darlin’, you will be.”  I don’t think either of us had any idea how right he was going to be.

After the entertainment value of Sky Bar died down for the group, Emmett offered to take us to “the Back Door.”  It wasn’t until later, that I realized he meant that he was bringing us in the back door of Mansion (the hottest, most in-your-face club on the beach).  I thought “the Back Door” was the name of a gay club – again being South Beach and all.

Mansion was insane.  The music was thumping as loud as city ordinances (if there were any) would allow.  People were in various states of dress and undress.  Everyone was dancing.  The club was dark save the laser light show that was zipping all about the club.  Emmett got us all complimentary drinks and then stuck by my side like glue as we made our way around Mansion.

As we started talking, Emmett kept trying to hold my hand.  I was resistant at first – not because I still thought he was gay.  I had abandoned that thought earlier when I had caught him staring at the front (or lack thereof, of what is now referred to as my “lucky shirt”).  I was resistant because I was on vacation; because he was six years younger than me; because I am not what I would consider a “cougar”; because, because, because…. Because my walls were up, I suddenly realized.  I let them down, if only for the evening.  I let Emmett hold my hand.  I let Emmett accompany me to the ladies room.  I let him come in the ladies room and I let him kiss me in the lobby of ladies room for a good half hour.  I lost track of my friends and just had fun with this tall, good looking, funny guy.

Before we knew it, four o’clock rolled around.  I took a quick tour of the club and when I couldn’t find my friends, let Emmett walk me back to the Loews.  As he worked at the hotel, he was not allowed to be in there with a guest.  We sat on a bench close to the hotel and talked for another hour or so.  During this time, he picked up my hand, looked into my eyes and said “I’ve looked my whole life over for a girl like you… now that I’ve found you, I’m never letting you go.”  To be honest, it was both delightful and frightening to hear such a statement… not to mention that my bullshit meter went off.  How many times, had I heard empty declarations from guys?  Whatever their reasons were (drunk, lonely, a little of both); it had never worked out.  I had no illusions that this would be any different and told him so.  Emmett just smiled and said “I’m from Missouri – the Show Me state.  I can show you better than I can tell you.”  Again, I don’t think either of us really knew how right he would turn out to be.

Emmett and I ended up dating long distance from October until the end of May that next year when he moved up to Massachusetts to join me.  A few months earlier I had tried to break it off with him (as much as it hurt) because “I can do long distance but I can’t do long term long distance.”  He surprised me and told me (without any hesitation) that he would move to Massachusetts.  I had never had anyone make such a grand gesture of love.  I was so used to breaking up with guys because they were “too busy” or “confused about old relationships” or “moving to another country. “ The reasons were endless.  I had never had one person offer to go out of their way to stay with me.  I was floored; I was scared but I was happy.

On my fortieth birthday, just eleven months after Emmett and I met, during a gianormous birthday bash that my family and friends threw for me, Emmett asked me to marry him.  I was really happy for so many reasons but a huge secret reason was now I knew I would have a really interesting “story of how we met.”

Jessica, me, Laura and Sophia on our "girly girl"  weekend away on South Beach

Emmett and me on our wedding day (June 24, 2007)

Duct Tape + Glue Gun = Red Neck Martha Stewart

Judy and Ollie (with Judy's handy dandy pink tool bag next to her)

I know it seems impossible to think of the term “Red Neck” and the name Martha Stewart in the same sentence… you would have to meet my sister-in-law Judy to know that it actually can make perfect sense. 

Emmett and I were married for four and half years when we moved from Plymouth, MA to Montgomery, AL.  One of the benefits of moving down south, other than the more temperate weather, was that we would be closer to the rest of Emmett’s family too.  It was almost a miracle when we managed to buy a house with a backyard that backed right up to my brother-and-sister-in-law’s backyard.  What were the chances?  How convenient was this?  I would definitely get to know Tom and Judy a lot better; that was for sure.  I was particularly interested in getting to know Judy as I had left most of my girlfriends and my sisters behind in Massachusetts and was in dire need of girly time.

I had heard all about Judy (or Judy Love as everyone loved to refer to her) since meeting Emmett.  I had heard how handy she was.  I had heard that she could fix anything with duct tape and a glue gun… a red neck Martha Stewart if you will. Everyone in the family deeply respected Judy’s ability to make something from nothing.

 Judy and I met briefly during my wedding week but hardly got to know each other as I was otherwise diverted  (and on Xanax to prevent the dreaded bridezilla from rearing her ugly head) and she was drinking red wine (which I have since learned is what often gets her creative juices flowing).  I liked her and found her interesting but didn’t get to see her in action… until I moved to Alabama.

I first got a sense of what people were talking about when we were unpacking (have I ever said how much I hate unpacking?).  The morning after the moving van dropped off all of our belongings, Judy came over to help.  She propped a ladder up on the fence between our two yards and hopped over.  I had no idea where to start, as it was completely overwhelming, however, Judy knew just where to start: “The kitchen girl!  You gotta eat.”  Judy has a way of referring to any woman she likes as “girl.” It’s very endearing.  Within a few hours my kitchen was completely organized and I was operational.  She worked harder setting up my kitchen than either Emmett or I did. She was a virtual whirling dervish.

Emmett and I often go to Tom and Judy’s and inevitably she has a project going.  Recently, she was cracking pecans she had gathered from her back yard.  I asked what she was doing with the pecans and she told me that she was candying them to put into a little decorative jar to give to someone for a Dirty Santa gift (what Northerners refer to as a Yankee Swap – guess they don’t like the word Yankee down here).  She made her gift rather than buying it.  She spent an afternoon cracking pecans and roasting them, in order to make a special, one-of-a-kind gift, rather than just go to Walmart and buy a $15 doodad that would be run-of-the-mill. 

A few days before Christmas, Judy asked me if she could use some of my wax paper for a project.  I had no idea what she was doing but found out sure enough on Christmas morning when Emmett opened up his gift from her. She had traced a photo of Emmett’s father (he passed away when Emmett was 16) and made beautiful portrait.  Everyone was oohing and aahing over the present – the boys and their mom were tearing up.  It was really special.  I noticed that Judy was retrieving the cloth that the portrait had come wrapped in.  She held it up to me proudly for display “it’s one of my chair covers,” she announced.  She had taken a dining room chair cover, wrapped the portrait carefully in it and tied a few Christmas tree balls for flourish.  How clever!  No one would have ever known if she hadn’t point it out.  When I commended her for her ingenuity, she just laughed and proudly pointed out that when she ran out of wrapping paper and tape, she used butcher paper and staples to wrap the rest of the gifts.  She definitely is not someone who has been consumed with keeping up with the Jones’.

Getting to know Judy, I have come to learn that she is able to make something from seemingly nothing; how she has no shame in recycling items around her house to make gifts (and in fact takes pride in it); how she seems to be able to fix anything (she carries a mini tape measure in her purse) and will go to great lengths, and some pain (she drove a screw driver through her finger fixing a frame for me) in order to “get the job done.” The term “jury rig” should really be “Judy rig.”  The answer lies in her background.  Judy was raised in an orphanage in northern Alabama.  She literally had nothing unless she created it for herself. 

They say that necessity is the mother of invention and I believe that Judy is living proof of that.  If there was an outfit she wanted, she couldn’t buy it, so she would figure out a way to make it.  She knew to never throw anything of any possible value out because she would inevitably need it later.  Her husband sometimes questions why she saves scraps of cloth, mismatched beads, half melted candles or a broken coffee pot but inevitably he comes to realize that her savvy hoarding and willingness to learn new skills has saved them money.  As proof, he hasn’t had a professional hair cut in eight years as Judy can do the job just fine.

Knowing Judy has been a great learning experience (and pleasure).  She has a PhD in street smarts with a minor in ingenuity and is happy to share her knowledge.  As a result, I have become more conscious of what I am throwing away and what I am keeping.  It turns out that the Dollar Store is a virtual treasure trove for cleaning supplies and small hardware items.  I am learning how to save money by not spending it thoughtlessly.  I look forward to my future lessons and hope to someday show the professor something new myself.

When I first came to really know Judy, I referred to her as a Red Neck Martha Stewart.  Most women I know would have been insulted to have the word red neck used in reference to them; however, Judy just laughed gleefully and said “you got that right girl!”  In my opinion, there ought to be a lot more of this variety.  It could only make the world a better place.

Portrait of James (Sonny) Moore done by Judy for Emmett and presented to him on Christmas 2011

Mr. Red Flag-Dead Flag

Years ago, when I was waiting tables at the Charthouse in Boston, I met a good looking guy named Ron.  Ron was in his mid-thirties, with thick dark hair and deep (dreamy) brown eyes. Ron was also waiting tables.  Even though I knew virtually nothing personally about Ron, I knew pretty much off the bat that I wanted to go on a date with him and I set about making sure that my flirting would not be ignored. Soon enough Ron fell into my sweet flirt trap and he asked me out. 

Over drinks Ron told me about himself (and what a sorry story it turned out to be).  He was an ex-Green Beret who had been a member of the Delta Force involved in the Black Hawk Down situation. His unit had been ambushed when they had tried to capture a Somali war lord.  Ron had been hospitalized for quite a while because of shrapnel being lodged into his head, back and butt. While he was in recovery, his 30 year old wife died of pneumonia.  As I sat across from Ron, listening to him tell this horror story, I wondered how he was able to tell me this story without breaking down crying.  What he’d been through would break most people and yet he held it together… or so I thought.

A few weeks after we started seeing each other, I invited Ron over to my apartment in Milton.  I loved my little, two-bedroom apartment and was proud of it.  As I gave Ron the two minute tour, which would, of course, end in my bedroom, I noticed that he was acting peculiar.  He was opening up all of my doors, including closet doors to see what was inside.  Of course, when he opened my closet door, he was immediately rained down upon with dirty laundry.  I had “cleaned” in a hurry and shoved my dirty laundry up on a high shelf in the closet never imagining that my date would be inspecting my closet. Ron actually went into my bathroom and peered behind the shower curtain and walked the perimeter of the house as well.  When he was done with his thorough inspection, I asked him what the hell he was doing.  To his credit, he hung his head and told me that after the Somali ambush, he couldn’t help himself; he had to locate all exits and make sure that no enemies lurked.  He was suffering from some serious Post Traumatic Syndrome.  Although his behavior should have been a huge red flag, I felt bad for him and let it go; after all, I wasn’t so perfect myself (i.e. dirty laundry in the closet).

A few days later, Ron felt comfortable enough with me to ask me to come to his house for dinner.  He lived in a little town north of Boston in a little cottage.  We had a lovely dinner together without incident.  All was going well, or so I thought, until I asked him if he had photos of his past.  Now in my experience, when you ask people to share photos of their past, they like it.  They usually pull out their family photo album and tell you stories of their family as they flip through the pages.  It’s a great way to get to know someone. You find out about their family and friends; you find out how they tell stories or if they even tell stories at all.

When Ron pulled out his album, I didn’t know what to expect but it most certainly was not an album full of dead people.  Ron had taken pictures throughout his time as a Green Beret of dead people.  Whether he had killed them himself of whether a colleague had killed the person, it didn’t matter.  The pictures weren’t just of dead people lying on the ground; the soldiers had propped up the bodies into different positions and had posed them for the camera with cigarettes in their mouths or holding a gun or sitting in a vehicle with a flag of Somalia waiving.  The pictures were so horrifying to me that I honestly can’t even remember most of them. I was too busy trying to figure out how to escape this house and this man without seeming like I was freaking out and running away.  This was definitely a red flag that I could not ignore.  It didn’t matter how cute the guy was; this was just over the top. Somehow, I managed to make my excuses and slip away.  Ron must have realized things had gone horribly wrong because he quit the Charthouse right after the date.  I was relieved and resolved to put my sweet flirty trap on suspension for a while as clearly my crazy man radar was off kilter.

Years later, I look back on my time with Ron and am thankful for the lesson he taught me: you might ignore a red flag or two with a man, but not when he shows you pictures of dead people holding flags.

Separate checks please!

Often, a great meal with friends is spoiled because of the check splitting issue.  Many a time, in my younger years (and recently as well, as a matter of fact), I have gone to dinner with a bunch of friends (even though I probably could not really afford it) and ordered a salad and a soda while someone else ordered a filet mignon and a bottle of wine only to have the steak eater suggest an even split of the check.  When I have money, I’m not too worried about it.  Heck, if I hit the lottery, I’d just pick up the whole check every time.  However, normally it's just annoying because I’m put into the position of either seeming cheap (“I just ordered a salad and soda… “), or shutting up, paying up, and eating Ramen noodles until my next paycheck.  It has caused some moments of resentment and left a bad taste in my mouth.  In Montgomery, Alabama they have solved the problem of post-dinner check resentment.

Last night was my first night working at Roux (a wonderful, upscale Cajun style restaurant).  I was training.  I noticed that Mathew (my trainer) was entering orders by seat number on each check.  I assumed it was so that other people who were running the food might know who ordered what instead of auctioning off the plates.  It turns out that the real reason is that in Montgomery, Alabama, most diners prefer their own check.  At first I thought that it must be such a pain for the server to give everyone a separate check but then I realized that the guests expected separate checks and that separate checks are part of the service automatically offered by the restaurant.  No calculators needed.  No embarrassing admissions (Um, I only have $30…).  No reviewing the check and asking “who had the steak?”  And, no one is leaving feeling like they paid more than their fair share.  Genius!

A table of five young women came in and everyone ordered dinner and drinks.  Some of the women ordered a bit more extravagantly and some ordered a little more carefully.  At the end of the meal, Mathew printed out five checks and delivered them to each of the women.  There was no one pulling out calculators or explaining that they didn’t have the money to pay for food that wasn’t theirs.  There was not a cross face at the table.  Everyone left feeling satisfied that they paid for what they ordered and not a penny more or less.

Another table ordered appetizers and a bottle of wine to share. “Who to charge it to then” I wondered.   “Whoever orders,” Mathew explained.  It was that simple. Separate checks did not elicit an eye roll from him.  He did not act as if the guests were asking him to perform advanced math skills. It was a service he was happy to provide automatically.

I propose that we Northerners take another look at the way we dine out together.  Why enjoy a wonderful meal only to spoil it with someone feeling as though they were taken advantage of?  For what we all spend for meals out, dining should be an altogether stress-free and enjoyable experience. If restaurants are not automatically offering this service then request a separate check at the beginning of the meal and leave the bad taste behind.

Does This Fig Leaf Make My Butt Look Big?

I’m convinced that since the beginning of time women have had self-image issues and have worried needlessly about the way they look.  I envision that the moment Eve slipped on her first fig leaf, she turned to Adam and said “Hun, does this fig leaf make my butt look big?”  And, it was probably the first time a guy ever lied.

A few weeks ago, in an effort to find our own personal style, my sisters, my mom, my niece and I spent an afternoon with an image consultant who promised to give us all a Supreme Makeover.  We were all looking forward to finding out ways we could improve our look, after all, what woman doesn’t want to learn a few tricks of the trade and bring her sexy back?  We didn’t really know what made the makeover “supreme” though. 

Our image consultant, Catrina Welch (catrina@catrinawelch.com) explained the concept in her book Know Who You Are, that: “A makeover accentuates your beauty for the day; a Supreme Makeover reveals the beauty you were designed for and sets you free to walk in the confidence of knowing who you are.”  Catrina uses scripture to teach people to understand and feel comfortable with their inner beauty.  “Genesis 3:1 The temptation was not a delicious apple, but ‘Do you know who you are?’ A poor self-image reflects a poor image of God.”

My family and I, if you don’t already know, are spiritual people but not religious per se.  We all believe in God (ladies correct me if I am wrong) but we don’t live by the word of the Bible.  I would say that we follow the Golden Rule and the other rules too for the most part.  I don’t think any of us ever thought of makeovers in terms of religion.  We all know the axiom that “Cleanliness is next to Godliness,” but there’s not a saying that I know of that says “Thou shalt apply a second coat of mascara.”  

Although I enjoyed Catrina’s personality and knowledge, the session itself felt awkward because her approach to a makeover was through allowing the Creator to bring out the beauty.  She was very adamant that loving God is “the plan.”  Since we are not really very observant, but did want to get the most out of the makeover, my sister Kalliope asked if she (Catrina) had a Plan B?  Catrina did not.  In her opinion God was the only way to true beauty.

Religion and outer beauty are not two subjects that I would think of that go together naturally.  I can think of no religious group that focuses on personal outer beauty.  In fact, they seem to strive for the opposite.  Think of monks with their odd bowl haircuts; Hassidic Jews with their bushy beards, devout Muslims who ask their women to wear burkas to hide their beauty.

I do agree that to be truly beautiful, you must feel beautiful inside.  I have met many a stunning man or woman who I thought at first was the epitome of what I thought of as beautiful only to find that their vanity, their cockiness, their entitled behavior made them some of the ugliest people I’d ever met.  And, I’d also met some people who were not all that attractive at first glance but after getting to speak with them and know them a little, they became some of the most beautiful people I’d ever met.

True beauty comes from the inside, regardless of religious beliefs, and cannot be hidden… however bad a haircut, however bulky a burka, or however ill-fitting a fig leaf.

Home-Style Green Bean Casserole (Light)

My sister Kalliope asked me to make a green bean dish for Thanksgiving this year.  As I am moving (and don’t have a kitchen to call my own), I found it difficult and instead volunteered to bring any and all appetizers... However, it did get me to thinking that if I were to make a green bean dish, what would I make?  I’m trying to keep my diet somewhat light and considering I am moving to the land of pork back and Crisco, it will for sure be an uphill battle.  Still, being a life-long Weight Watcher, I do know that substitutions can always be made and that you should always try and figure out a new way to make an old standby.  Green Bean Casserole is one of those new dishes that have become a tradition at many of our tables.  Below is Southern Living’s light version.

Home-Style Green Bean Casserole

Ingredients

·         1 1/2 pounds fresh green beans, trimmed

·         2 tablespoons butter

·         1/4 cup all-purpose flour

·         1 1/2 cups 2% reduced-fat milk

·         1/2 cup nonfat buttermilk

·         1 tablespoon Ranch dressing mix

·         2 teaspoons chopped fresh thyme

·         1/4 teaspoon salt

·         1/4 teaspoon pepper

·         1 teaspoon butter

·         1 (8-oz.) package sliced fresh mushrooms

·         Vegetable cooking spray

·         1 cup French fried onions, crushed

·         1/2 cup panko (Japanese breadcrumbs)

·         2 plum tomatoes, seeded and chopped

Preparation

·         1. Preheat oven to 350°. Cook green beans in boiling salted water to cover in a Dutch oven 4 to 6 minutes or to desired degree of doneness; drain. Plunge into ice water to stop the cooking process; drain and pat dry.

·         2. Melt 2 Tbsp. butter in Dutch oven over medium heat; whisk in flour until smooth. Cook, whisking constantly, 1 minute. Gradually whisk in 1 1/2 cups milk; cook, whisking constantly, 3 to 4 minutes or until sauce is thickened and bubbly. Remove from heat, and whisk in buttermilk and next 4 ingredients.

·         3. Melt 1 tsp. butter in a medium skillet over medium-high heat; add mushrooms, and sauté 6 to 8 minutes or until lightly browned. Remove from heat; let stand 5 minutes. Gently toss mushrooms and green beans in buttermilk sauce. Place in a 13- x 9-inch or 3-qt. baking dish coated with cooking spray.

·         4. Combine French fried onions and next 2 ingredients; sprinkle over green bean mixture.

·         5. Bake at 350° for 25 to 30 minutes or until golden brown and bubbly. Serve immediately.

Southern Living
NOVEMBER 2011

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Story: Karma's an Itch

Years ago, when internet dating was still considered the realm of the “creepy and desperate,” I myself was desperate enough to join Match.com.   This was before most people knew how to upload photos and before most people knew to ask for photos.  There were only a handful of sites and Match.com was the most well-known, thus this was the site I selected for my trial run with internet dating.  I hoped to find a date but what I found was more like a karmic lesson.

I was very excited to try internet dating. What possibilities.  There was unlimited window shopping without commitment.  I could literally look at hundreds of profiles and read all about people who could possibly be “the one.”  How cool was this?  And, knowing how difficult it is to write an interesting profile, I loved to logon and see how these guys wrote under pressure.

One profile in particular did catch my eye.  Although “Steve” did not have a picture (which I now know was for a good reason), he seemed really interesting.  He was an engineer, well-traveled, liked to ride motorcycles and seemed pretty laid back.  I asked him for a picture and when he told me his scanner was down, I was naïve enough to believe him. 

Steve and I agreed to meet at a Pizzeria Uno’s.  As I sat at the bar watching the customers file in, I wondered if I would like him and what he looked like.  I got momentarily excited when I saw a gorgeous, young guy walk through the door and toward me.  He noticed me too, looking me up and down before walking right past me to a table where he was greeted by a young woman with a baby.  I was so busy watching the hot guy, that I didn’t notice Steve until he was upon me.

I heard his breathing before I saw him.  That is never a good sign.  I turned my head toward the heavy breathing.   A man with a full beard, not unlike a Taliban beard, short and heavy, not only in his breathing but in his stature, stood beside me.  Great; I should have asked for a picture.

I mentally shook off the fact that this guy was not all that I dreamed of and just hoped he would not be a nightmare.  I smiled welcomingly and invited him to sit on the stool beside me.  He hopped up on to the stool to my right, leaning his cane (which I just then noticed) up against the bar next to him.  Steve smiled big and said, “I hope you don’t mind that I’m sitting on this side of you but my left ear is my good one.  My right ear is only operating at 30%.”  I raised my eyebrows. “Really?  What happened?” I asked.  “Gulf War,” he responded.  “In fact,” he told me, “my right hand has only 60% use, my right knee cap was shattered in a motorcycle accident and I have Gulf War Syndrome.”

I was, of course, horrified for him.  The poor guy!  And, I couldn’t help but think that this is what I deserved for not being more discerning in my on-line interview process.  I was also very curious.  “What exactly is Gulf War Syndrome? I mean what are the effects?”  He was nice enough to answer even though he must have known that the answer would seal the fate on this ill-fated date.  “I get uncontrollably itchy as though bugs are crawling all over my skin.”  What?!  Gross.  I thought, “the poor guy.”

At the end of the date, we walked out to the cars and said our goodbyes.  I thanked him for an interesting time and wished him well.  I really thought that this man (who in my mind was relegated to “Mr. Itchy Scratchy”) would never cross my mind again.  How wrong I was.

Flash to a year later.  I am in Geneva, Switzerland and have just had the week of my life and probably one of the best dates of my life.  Let’s just say it involved Thai food and breaking into a private beach club at midnight to reenact the pivotal scene from “From Here to Eternity.”  Lake Geneva was fantastic but unfortunately, I developed a raging ear infection from the lake water.

I went to the local hospital where they prescribed amoxicillin.  Apparently neither the doctor nor I realized that I was allergic.  I went through the full course without incident only to find myself waking up, the day after I had stopped taking the drug, scratching my chest. 

Now I was in London visiting my friend Fiona.  In response to my single state, she had set me up on a blind date with the most eligible man she knew.  His name was Hugh and he was a Scottish Olympic downhill skier. Fiona promised me that although he wasn’t very tall, he was drop dead gorgeous.

 Fiona was going through a divorce at the time and was living her life vicariously through me.  She hoped I was going to have a really scandalous date – in the best way possible of course.

The morning of the blind date I woke up at Fiona’s house, scratching my chest.  I got up went to the bathroom only to observe that I had a rash that was not only on my chest but it was creeping up my neck and down to my belly.  Immediately I went to Fiona and showed her my rash.  “Well obviously we’ll have to cancel on Hugh” I told her.  “We can’t,” she said, “I don’t have his number…besides it really isn’t that bad and the bar will be dark.  He’ll never see the rash.”  I sighed in resignation and hoped that she was right.

As the day wore on, so did the rash.  It got to such a bad state that we went to a local pharmacy and asked the pharmacist what cream would help.  “My dear,” he said, “There is no rash cream that is going to help you with that.”  In a last ditch effort to hide the rash, we bought a lovely neck scarf.  That might have been okay normally but it was June and looked a bit ridiculous.  Still, Fiona insisted that I go on the date.  Her sister Wendy assured me that red wine is a natural antioxidant and that if I drank enough of it, the rash would go away.

I got to Tiger Tiger bar early to scout out a dark place to sit, drink some red wine and wait for Hugh.  I noticed when Hugh arrived and Fiona was right; he was really good looking.  Hugh took a turn around the bar and did not see me… probably because I was sitting in the dark.  Finally, when he looked in my direction, I waved a hello to him.  He raised his eyebrows in surprise and came over to meet me.

The date with Hugh was not very memorable for the most part. He was “nice.”  He was seemingly understanding of my raging rash and was even gallant enough to invite me to a Wimbledon party he was attending that evening.  I knew he wasn’t interested though as he made me pay for all of my drinks and flirted with other women in front of me.

Meanwhile, my rash was getting worse by the moment, creeping up to my face and down my legs.  Not helping matters much, I was getting increasingly drunk on red wine.  When were those antioxidants going to kick in?  I was so uncomfortable and drunk that I found myself rubbing up against anything and anyone to scratch my itch.  If I hadn’t been drunk, it would have been embarrassing.  Finally though, I conceded that I’d had enough.  I needed to get to a hospital.

I found Hugh and alerted him to the fact that I would be leaving and going to the hospital.  “Why?” He asked.  “What’s wrong?”  I know he was a blind date but he couldn’t be that blind.  “I normally don’t look like this Hugh.  Normally I’m rash free.  I think I’m allergic to something and I need to be treated.” 

At the hospital, I waited in the triage line with great trepidation.  I had heard about socialized medicine and I wondered how long it would be until I was treated.  A patient in front of me asked the triage nurse how long the wait was and she told him that it would be “forty five hours.”  What?!  “Forty five hours!” I exclaimed.  “You must be kidding!”  The nurse looked confused, “No dear… that would be four to five hours.” That was much better.

I checked in and sat amongst the other Tuesday night ER denizens.  I looked around.  The guy next to me had a nail through his foot and a guy across from me had a slash across his forehead (he told us his girlfriend had stabbed him).  I felt fortunate.  Itchy but fortunate.

Because I had an allergy, I was fast tracked and was admitted in less than two hours.  I found myself laid out on a gurney with a Benadryl IV attached to my right arm.  The nurse wheeled me to a curtained area where I lay waiting to see a doctor. 

As I laid there listening to some poor guy getting resuscitated in the room next to me, I had moment of clarity and started to laugh.  I really deserved this. I had judged some poor guy on the fact that he had an itch condition, and here I was a year later, on a first date (again) and I was the one who was uncontrollably itchy and being passed over for it.  I was the deserving victim of the karma from Mr. Itchy Scratchy and boy was karma an itch.

Me in Switzerland that summer

A Goodbye Dilemma

One of the things I realized early on in the moving process was that there is a heck of a lot of goodbyes to say.  In every facet of my life, there are people who I’ve built relationships with who I now have to say goodbye to.  Many of the goodbyes are temporary ones.  They are people who I will not see as often but I will see them again (parents, sisters and good friends).  Some of the goodbyes may be for forever goodbyes – one such goodbye has really stuck with me.  How do you say goodbye to your therapist?

A few weeks ago, I went to my last session with my therapist Connie, and told her that I would be leaving for Alabama within the month. For once it was Connie who looked distraught. “This can’t be our last session. I wasn’t ready for it.”

Connie’s reaction got me thinking. With all of my other “service” relationships in my life I either will see these people again when I come to town (I am so making an appointment with my esthetician and hairdresser whenever I come back to Plymouth) or else they were not very consequential in my life so it’s not that big of a deal. My relationship with her is very unique though.

I’ve been with Connie for nearly twelve years.  That is longer than many of my friendships.  I first came to her in early 2000 after a series of breakups with a series of boyfriends.  I had started to come to the conclusion that maybe it wasn’t “them” as much as it was me that was the issue.  The constant in all of the breakups was me.  So, being the perfectionist Virgo that I am, I decided that therapy would be a great idea. 

When our first session was over – after I had gone into great detail about exactly why I was there, feeling slightly embarrassed about the number of boyfriends and scenarios I had just rattled off to her – I asked her with great trepidation, “Am I crazy?”  Bless her heart; she said “you are about the least crazy person I think I know.”  Phew.

I suppose I could have just taken that as I sign that all was well and that I didn’t need therapy after all (just better judgment when it came to men), but here’s the thing… I really liked my new therapist.  I enjoyed our session.  I looked forward to future sessions.  So, I continued to see her for almost twelve years, calling it my mental hygiene.

For nearly twelve years I have poured my heart out to this wonderful listener.  I have been able to tell her my heart's desires, my sorrows, my fears, my joys, my everything.  Now, I have to walk away and possibly never see her again.  I know that there is a professional line between a therapist and a client that must never be crossed; that they must not become friends.  But, what if I was no longer her client?  Could I ask her to stay in touch with me?  Would it be weird? Is it inappropriate?  It’s such an awkward conversation to bring up to my therapist.

Suppose we did stay in touch.  Then what?  Our relationship has been based on one-sided conversations (essentially) for nearly twelve years.  Can you change the nature of a friendship?  All of these questions have been swirling around in my mind.  It occurs to me that now I will need a therapist to help me get over my therapist.  How ironic is that?