“Sure, I would love to,” my date replies as he gets out of his pimped-out sports car. Like a gentleman who knows he is likely going to get laid, he comes around and opens the passenger door for me, and then walks slightly behind me, waiting as I unlock my door. Chivalry is not dead! I’m impressed.
“Fabulous!” I say, hearing my tone, which is way too enthusiastic for fucking leftovers. I mean, it’s meatloaf. It’s not that good. I’m comforted, though, that he recognizes that “meatloaf” is code for … obviously something else. Mericol greets us at the door. I scratch my nose. She smiles brightly, tells me that my daughter is fast asleep in my bed, as usual, and makes a quick exit. Guess my bed is taken, then. Noted.
As soon as we walk into my kitchen, we start kissing. He’s a good kisser. I’m inwardly relieved he isn’t really just there for the meatloaf. One never knows. Our clothes quickly come off, as if they are on fire, as we work our way from the kitchen to the living room, the promise of meatloaf forgotten. My blind date and I have mind-boggling sex on my living room couch, and I thank the sleeping gods for giving me a child who sleeps so soundly that not even fire alarms wake her. My friend was bang-on. One-Night Stand was, indeed, on the prowl, obviously delighted to be single again, celebrating his newfound freedom by getting laid as much as possible. What a coincidence!
One-Night Stand and I get back into our clothes, which form a bread crumb trail from the kitchen to the couch. I offer him a beer from a six-pack left behind by my recent ex, the ridiculously handsome yet ridiculously underemployed man who was definitely not father material. I crack open one of the cans and take a couple of sips. I don’t even like beer. But here I am, pretending to be a girl who likes beer and who is also up for a one-night stand. How fun am I? So fun!
It is, um, shall we say, a satisfying night, on many levels. I don’t think of my ex once. Rebound accomplished! I thank my date for the evening and tell him I need to go to bed, meaning “Bye-bye! Time to get the hell out!” I’m so romantic. Even though I had a surprisingly enjoyable time — yes, the hook-up was cathartic — I just want to crawl into bed with my sleeping daughter. The only warm body this girl needs in her bed is Rowan.
“I’ll walk you to the door,” I tell him, trying to speed up the process of getting him out. He looks surprised that I’ve asked him to leave. But I’m a mother! I have a sleeping child upstairs! Did he think he was going to sleep over and we were all going to sit around the table in the morning eating eggs and toast and drinking orange juice? It’s time to exit.
We kiss again at the door. Neither of us mentions the leftovers. What meatloaf? But when I open the refrigerator the next morning and see the casserole dish covered with tinfoil, I can’t help but laugh. Did I really offer my one-night stand meatloaf last night? Oy!
It’s been two days since the night of mind-blowing sex, and One-Night Stand just called and asked if I’d like him to come over after an event he has to attend. He doesn’t ask about the meatloaf. You’d think he’d be curious to know if it’s as good as I pumped it up to be. Nope.
He clearly is suffering from playboy-itis. But I can tell he also genuinely wants to see me again. I’m game. I appreciate his enthusiasm and initiative, and I wouldn’t be averse to another go-around, if you know what I mean …
He says he can be at my door in thirty minutes.
“Come whenever,” I say, all breezy. A second after we hang up, I’m upstairs, madly looking through my drawers for some cute casual clothes to change into. I’m trying to look sexy without looking like I’ve spent any time at all trying to look sexy. Oh, this old thing? is the “look” I’m going for.
The night goes very well. A few days later, we are at it again, and now we’ve also started talking on the phone every night, for hours, after our respective kids are asleep. We start going out for dinners. I’m starting to like him, more than a little, and not just because he is good in bed. I start looking forward to his calls and texts and our dates, though I’m still not looking to be in a relationship. Or maybe I’m kidding myself. I’m probably kidding myself. But that was never the plan with this guy.
Oh. Shit.
Are we dating? Is that what’s going on here? That was not the plan! Am I even ready to date someone seriously so soon? Is he? The answer is probably no, for both of us. Aren’t we supposed to take some time to reflect on our recent breakups, and where we went wrong, and what we learned from them? Meh. At this point, I don’t really give enough of a shit to analyze myself. But I also can’t control my brain, which is racing faster than a coked-up hamster on an exercise wheel. I can’t stop fantasizing about the so many what-ifs. The more time I spend with One-Night Stand, the more I try not to think about the what-ifs of this turning into something more permanent. I start imagining our families meeting. I even start imagining what our baby would look like. There is no Mr. Clean Magic Eraser for thought doodles, and I’m drawing images and scenarios in my mind whenever I see or think about One-Night Stand.
I am so fucked.
Well, shit. As it turns out, I am falling for One-Night Stand, and no amount of denial is going to change it at this point. Now what? Can I really see a future with him? I kind of do want to move forward to see where this might go. So does he, apparently.
The friends who set us up are one part happy for us and three parts cocky as fuck, as if this was their plan all along. I almost don’t want to tell them just how well their set-up worked, because now they’re already practically offering their services to co-emcee at our wedding. “Rebecca was rebounding. He is a notoriously good lay, so we figured they’d make a great match.” What a wonderful love story! My parents would shed tears of pride.
So yeah, we are officially dating exclusively. I’m now living my what-if scenarios and allowing myself to indulge in imagining what our life might look like together. Who knew that a one-night stand and a promise of leftover meatloaf could turn out to be something … meaningful?
It makes sense to invite our friends to go on a double date, and to pick up the tab to thank them, since they were our matchmakers. Let them see the fruit of their efforts! Their own relationship also moved at lightning speed. They started dating only a few months before we did, but they’re already living together, blending their families — she with her two children and he with his two. Both share fifty/fifty custody of their respective kids with their former spouses, and they have arranged with their exes to be on the same custody schedule. At least a couple of nights a week, and every other weekend, they are completely kid-free. The other times? Well, they have four children, two his and two hers, under the same roof, living a splendid blended life.
At least that’s what I thought … until our double date.
At the restaurant, after the four of us are seated and have ordered our drinks, my girlfriend and I head outside to share a cigarette. We need a few moments away from our men, who of course we are going to gossip about. We’re passing the cigarette between us, and she erupts like Mount Vesuvius. Turns out that not all is splendid in blended land. Behind closed doors, behind all the social media posts of their picture-perfect blended family on some fun-looking outing with all their kids, my friend is miserable.
“We almost bailed on you guys tonight,” my girlfriend admits, inhaling the cigarette madly. They are in a major stand-off tonight. They do a great job of hiding it. I seriously had no clue. “We haven’t said one word to each other in two or three days now.” My girlfriend, as always, looks beautiful. But tonight she does look bummed out. “I don’t want to get into it right now,” she answers when I ask her what the hell is going on. “It’s too long and complicated. I’ll tell you some other time … when we’re alone.”
Meanwhile, One-Night-Stand-turned-Boyfriend and I are busy being blissfully, deliriously, disgustingly happy. We are that couple that has posted numerous barf-worthy photos of us kissing and of me sitting on his lap at candlelit dinners. In this day and age, if you don’t post photographs of how fucking happy you are in your relation
ship, does the relationship really even exist? Though, given the bombshell my friend just dropped, it clearly doesn’t actually mean anything, either.
After dinner, we head back to my place, where we continue to drink and share a joint in my backyard. It’s a beautiful night, the kind of warm summer evening when you should be sitting in your backyard and drinking with friends. We are all drunk and now we are stoned too. Our friends, thanks to the flowing alcohol at dinner, are speaking to each other again. Sort of. Boyfriend and I exchange WTF glances as they constantly throw casual digs at each other. They’re not as subtle as they think they are. Maybe they don’t care to try to be subtle. All I know is, Boyfriend and I feel like we’re in the middle of two smiling assassins, waiting for the next verbal bullet to be shot, as we try to laugh it all off, take cover, and not get hit in the crossfire. I tell myself their bickering is just how their relationship is. Who am I to judge? Maybe this is their foreplay. It wouldn’t be the first time that a volatile relationship actually worked for a couple. For many of my long-married friends, volatility seems to be the foundation of their relationship.
Still, shit is awkward tonight. Boyfriend and I don’t want to be spectators to their foreplay, if that’s what this is. We are beyond blissfully happy, damn it! They are a total buzzkill.
Eventually, they’re gone, back to their own home, which is really his home. My girlfriend has shared with me that he always annoyingly seems to be reminding her of this fact, much like when that red check engine light turns on every time you start your car, and it has for months, and any time anyone sits in the passenger seat, they can’t help but point it out and announce, “Do you know your check engine light is on? You should really get that checked out.” Of course I know the check engine light is on! Yours isn’t? Likewise, my friend doesn’t need a constant reminder of whose house she lives in. She moved in with him! She’s not an idiot. She signed a cohabitation agreement, which clearly states that she has no rights to the property.
I’m relieved the night is over. It was all so fucking awkward.
“That was really uncomfortable. I feel like I need a shower. I feel dirty,” I say to Boyfriend after they leave. “Did you notice how they were arguing all night?”
“Yeah, I’m not sure what’s going on there,” he says, pulling me onto his lap and giving me a long kiss. I have a gut suspicion that blending households has resulted in a slight change of status in their relationship. When did they start bickering like two shrill Yorkshire terriers?
Maybe I am a little smug now, too. Boyfriend and I send nightly poems to each other, which, unlike that shit movie we saw on our first date, are so bad they are good. I’m embarrassed to share that, on a night while he’s out playing poker with his friends, I send him this high-quality poetry:
You are about to play a game
I’m realizing life without you would be very lame
I miss your smile
Thank god I can dial
Because your voice calms me
Like a sunset over the sea
I hope you win big tonight
I wish even more we never fight
With you I only want happiness
And every day one big kiss
Go forth and play poker
When you’re with me, you can play poke-her (me)
With your big hard cock
We definitely need to get a lock
I love you the most
So let’s make a toast
To US … always and forever. xo Me.
I’m fucking mortified, both as a writer and a human. I don’t see a Pulitzer Prize for poetry anywhere in my future. At least it’s not a haiku! Though, who doesn’t love a good haiku?
But it’s all true. Boyfriend and I have yet to have our first argument. While we send each other nightly barf-inducing poems, we’re still just dating. We haven’t discussed next steps. The idea of moving in together hasn’t come up in any conversation, even though I’m now so in love, I want to inhale him. But there are a few steps between where we are and packing up a moving truck. I haven’t met his children yet. He hasn’t really hung out with my daughter. Our children haven’t met each other. We are still acting like freewheeling teenagers, spending as much time as we can together in our blissful little bubble of two on the nights we are both kid-free. So maybe I am a little smug, with my new relationship, but at the same time, when I think of our bickering friends, I’m not all like, “This will never happen to us.” I’m old enough, and have dated enough, to know that life has a funny way of proving us wrong. But clearly we’re not fighters. Right? Because we haven’t yet, so that’s a good sign!
I am finally admitting to myself, and to Boyfriend, that I’m falling in love. Of course, I wait until he says the words before I do. I’m not that out of my mind with love. At the same time, though, I kind of am.
After that fateful night, when my friend’s shit relationship makes me see how awesome mine is, Boyfriend and I go full steam ahead with our blissful union. There are regular sleepovers now. We spend as many weekends together as we can, just the two of us, when our kids aren’t with us. We set up camp in his bedroom, eating junk food, then fucking, then watching a movie, then eating more junk food, then fucking again, then watching another movie. Rinse, repeat.
This is a bigger deal than it sounds, me sleeping over and waking up in someone else’s bed. I rarely, if ever, slept at my previous boyfriend’s apartment in the three years we were on and off together. I like my bed. But mostly I like sleeping with my daughter beside me. I like waking up with my daughter in my bed. Also, I’m not great with change. I could eat the same three meals for the rest of my life without ever getting bored. I know what makes me comfortable and satisfied. I very, very rarely mess with the formula I’ve figured out to ensure my happiness.
But Boyfriend is fucking that all up … in a good way, mind you. I’m getting to the point of embracing change. I want to meet his children. I want my daughter to get to know him and him to get to know her, beyond the spider-monkey episode on our first date. I’m eager for our children to meet. I want to meet his parents. I want him to meet mine. It doesn’t even occur to me how crazy it is, the list of combinations and permutations of who has to meet whom, who has to like each other, and who has to get along for this whole mash-up of families to work. It’s not even on my radar.
I must really like him.
· TWO ·
It’s move-in day! Boyfriend and I have decided to blend homes. Today, my house becomes our house. Rowan, my daughter, who has been the only child in this home ever, will now have two other girls to share her space with. There will be a new adult male figure in the home. I’m giddy, like a six-year-old experiencing her first pony ride, as I wait for the moving truck to arrive. We are blending! My bed will now be our bed. My kitchen, everyone’s. There will be other people’s food in my fridge, other people cooking at my stove, using my laundry, walking my halls, using my bathrooms, watching my television, sitting on my couch …
Ten minutes later, I’m desperately looking for my stash of Ativan, prescribed to me by my doctor for use on an “as-needed basis.”
Boyfriend has rented a U-Haul, and I see him backing it into the driveway, from the living room window where I’m standing, for the last time, in my house. I’m there, surrounded only by my things, in pure, clutter-free, blissful quiet.
It’s kind of a turn-on to see him manoeuvre the truck, which, I’ll soon see, is stuffed to the brim. It’s all happening, I think. It’s happening!
And then I think, What have I done? What are we doing? Where’s that damn bottle of Ativan? Seriously, where the fuck is it? It’s “as needed” right now.
I wish I could remember the moment or conversation in which Boyfriend and I decided that it was time to live together and blend households, but there really was no ah-ha moment. We didn’t sit down and have a long meeting to hash out issues that could arise if and when we were to move in together. There was no sitting down and talking abo
ut the logistics, no discussion of how it would affect the kids, no dialogue over who would pay for what, no talk of disciplining each other’s children or if the ugly leather chair he is so attached to would be better left on the side of the road. You’d think we’d lay out ground rules and expectations and financial responsibilities and discuss the pros and cons and all of the fun logistics. Or that we’d discuss, possibly with the help of professionals, how to help our children adjust.
Of course, none of that has happened. Because we are so in love, none of that seems to matter. It will all just, you know, naturally work out. There is one enormous reason he is moving in. But, mostly, moving in together just feels right. We are both still in a happy daze at the speed at which our relationship has moved, now both literally and figuratively. We are in love! I’ve hung out with his two children numerous times. He’s hung with my daughter. We have all hung out together. My daughter and I have spent weekends sleeping over at his home, located outside the city in the suburbs, where every house kind of looks the same and there’s a Taco Bell on every corner. I’ve seen Boyfriend in father mode. He’s seen me mothering.
One of the reasons I think Boyfriend and I also both came to the conclusion that we wanted to live together was because driving to see each other was time consuming. The planning of getting together was becoming more challenging as we tried to carve out even more time to spend together, fitting that in with all of our children’s schedules and activities. Might as well make it more convenient! It was becoming ludicrous figuring out how to see each other as much as possible.
I know you’re probably sleeping, but I thought I would send you a quick email to go over our days this week. Anal, I know, but it seems to work well. Lol. Wednesday? Free after work, so maybe yoga class — would love it and need it. Thursday night I have the kids and they have soccer. Friday? I know you like to sleep early so I can either come to your house Friday night with the girls and we can lay low and go to bed at a decent time or the girls and I can just stay at my place. Saturday? Wide open. Would be nice to obviously spend the day, after Rowan’s ballet, and evening together, with all the girls and the dog. Sunday? All we have is my daughter’s soccer practice at 2 p.m. so we can do yoga near my place if you guys sleep over on Saturday. Oh and one more thing, I am so totally and utterly in love with you and I am so looking forward to tomorrow night. I can’t wait!
Blissfully Blended Bullshit Page 2
