“Good morning, little Dixie.” I crouch down in front of the crate and open the door. She stretches—what I call the “long wiener stretch,” with a huge yawn for dramatic effect. “Come on Sweetie. Let’s go outside and make a pee pee.” I pick her up and carry her downstairs.
I put her harness on while dodging puppy kisses (not a big fan of dog’s tongues), and head outside in my bathrobe. Every day I take her out in my powder blue terry cloth robe. I started doing this because I had no time when she was a puppy to change into anything else. I didn’t want her peeing in her crate, so I ran to get her onto the grass as quickly as possible. Now I’m just lazy, and the neighbors are used to seeing me in my bathrobe and ugly old sneakers on the front lawn. Of course the bathrobe is of proper length and thickness. I have some dignity.
I open the back door and I’m greeted by our favorite thing—drizzle. At least it isn’t a downpour. Dixie will have none of that. I would hate rain even more if my belly and chest dragged along the grass every time I had to go to the bathroom.
I carefully place Dixie on the grass and she promptly takes off. I have to hold the leash extra tight when I first put her down, as she often has spotted a squirrel or an offensive trash can she needs to bark at, and takes off, jerking the leash. She is the self-appointed guardian of the cul-de-sac and nothing escapes notice on her watch.
As soon as she makes a break for it, I notice the new guy across the street. Jeez, people are up early, but I guess if you move into a new house there’s a lot to be done. I dread the work of moving, even though I would love to live somewhere more fun and exciting, but it will be a few years before I can even consider it. I bought Ron out of this house because I was afraid of change at the time, and it was easier to stay put. With the real estate market crash depleting my equity to almost nothing, I’m stuck here for the time being.
As usual, Dixie is dragging me toward the front yard. I do not want to talk to the new neighbor in my bathrobe with crazy hair and no makeup, so I pull her toward the back yard. For some reason her preferred place to do her business is as close to the road as possible. I try to keep an eye out across the street while keeping myself mostly hidden from view. This guy looks quite young. They probably have tiny kids and I’ll have to watch out for them on their tyke bikes when I peel out of the driveway. Clearly a Honda Civic is not a “peel out” kind of car, but I am purposeful when I’m on the move.
I should be paying attention to Dixie (I need proof that she has peed before I go in or she is likely to go behind the couch), but I’m still checking out this young guy with the sandy hair and fit body, working on boxes and taking trash out to the curb. Even though men like this are now out of my league, it can’t hurt to look. Actually he is not very big and manly—maybe he’s a teenaged son, but their lazy asses wouldn’t be outside this early in the rain doing work.
Once again, I am losing track of time daydreaming. The cool drizzle hitting my face, and Dixie’s insistent pulls towards the house, transport me back to reality. Dixie is exasperated that I am ignoring her, and rewards me with loud, shrill barking. The guy looks up and stares in our direction. Thanks to my little watch dog, he sees us right away, and his hand goes up in a wave. Dixie spots him, and decides greeting a new friend is more important than being dry and now starts to pull me towards the front of the house in pursuit of a belly rub.
In a last ditch effort to hold her back as she moves closer to her destination, I yank on her leash and raise my other hand up in a half wave so he won’t think I’m rude as I attempt to fly towards the back porch, and get my bed-headed puffy-eyed self out of view.
Unfortunately, my bathrobe doesn’t wrap very far around my body, and the sash isn’t all that tight or easy to secure. Normally I am outside and back inside in a flash—before I am actually flashing anyone. Damn it! As we almost reach the front of the house and I gain control of Dixie, my robe’s sash suddenly betrays me and my robe flies open to reveal—well—everything. Yes, I sleep in the nude.
I am now caught in an impossible dilemma—if I let go of the leash to adjust my robe Dixie will break free and run to the guy, and I will be forced to retrieve her and face the first man who has seen me naked in a long time. That is not happening—he’s already seen enough of this pathetic show from afar.
The whole ordeal is over in a matter of seconds but seems like an eternity, as I pull Dixie back toward me and I maneuver my body around and continue my crazy wave—as if somehow my flailing hand will distract him from the rest of my body, which is now twisted in a bizarre position as I try to wrangle control of my robe. He has put his hand down by now, and even though my vision isn’t great, I’m almost certain I see a big grin on his face. At least a smirk. He is cute—too bad I can’t even enjoy an attractive neighbor now that talking to him will be sheer humiliation.
I finally make it to the back door, and once inside, Dixie and I work on drying off. She does the crazy dog shaky thing and I begin to compose myself and recover from my latest embarrassment.
I would love to keep my shenanigans a secret, but there is no way I can resist telling Jane about this escapade. It’s my duty to entertain my friends as a reward for listening to all of my dating problems and other assorted crap. I give Dixie her treat and she retreats to her spot on the floor in the living room, where she sunbathes every morning like a movie star on vacation in South Beach.
I bet he will go inside now and tell his pretty young wife that he has encountered the neighborhood floozy. I know that’s what my neighbors think of me. Every time I go out on a weekend, especially in warm weather when it stays light out later, I walk to my car in stilettos, wearing a sequined something or other, while the cul-de-sac families are weeding their lawns, teaching children to ride without training wheels, and looking generally sloppy and frumpy in sweat pants or shapeless dirty shorts.
Even though my bling is much more attractive than their clothing choices (which signify they have given up), the mothers are grabbing their children (and husbands) and diverting their attention, as if a porn star has just emerged all ready for a shoot.
No, on second thought he won’t tell his wife—if he’s smart he’ll avoid being questioned or nagged when he still has 5000 boxes of toys, games and tyke bikes to unpack, and probably a swing set to assemble.
As I get in the shower I can’t help smiling a little. That was actually kind of funny, and in a weird way it made me feel a bit sexy. Since he isn’t someone I could ever date—I would never date a younger man, and he is my neighbor, undoubtedly married and with children, he is safe. Not that I am now going to go around purposely flashing the neighbor men, but I am a little less self-conscious than I normally would be, which is odd.
Unfortunately, I’ll see this guy frequently and his first impression of me is less than impressive. I didn’t flash a random cute guy—I flashed the new neighbor who now owns the house across the street. The neighborhood floozy sinks to a new low.
CHAPTER THREE
“Mom, I know I shouldn’t be driving and talking on the phone, but I’m careful. Stop worrying. You should be more worried about my spinsterhood.” I’m on my way to work, trying not to speed.
“Claire Marie, you are not a spinster if you were already married and divorced. It isn’t the 1800s, and your sister has never been married and we never have these conversations.” She loves to bring up my sister’s independent nature.
“I’m just returning your call and I figured I would tell you about my latest dating nightmare. And I have a question.” I can’t resist sharing these details with my mother.
“Let’s hear it.”
“This one I refer to as the old man with the hat.”
“What? Why?”
“He had this bulbous nose that I had to look at for an hour. And his hair fell off and attacked my feet.” I shudder at the memory.
“What? His hair fell off? No? You said he was wearing a hat.”
Heavy sigh. She can never follow anything. “No, he wasn’t wearin
g the hat the whole time, but it was one of those hats with the soft bill in the front, like a baseball cap, but they’re tweed or wool and usually plaid. Do you know what I mean?” I am not explaining it well—I should have just Googled it.
“Old men do wear those. They wore those in the 50s. How old was this guy? John—Claire Marie’s date wore an old man hat—like your father’s hat. And his hair fell out!”
They do this all the time. If I’m on the phone with one, the other one gets to hear everything immediately. I continue, “His hair fell off last night. It obviously fell out some time ago. He’s fifty, at least according to him, but I swear even Daddy is hotter.”
“John, she said you’re hotter than the old man with the hat,” she bellows, laughing hysterically. Maybe I should work on a stand-up routine.
I bet my father is thrilled to hear this and to be referred to as hot by his daughter. I am guessing his retirement doesn’t always seem like a good idea now, and he longs for time at the office.
“He said we’re both nitwits. Whatever—I don’t listen to him.” She does.
“So what are those hats called—I can’t remember?” It isn’t an easy task keeping my mother focused.
“I think a Bowler…or a Pea Cap? A Panama? John what are those hats called? John? He went outside—he’s no help. What did he do for a living?”
My head hurts, and now I’m stuck behind a school bus, and there are flashing lights up ahead. So much for smooth drives to work.
“Mom, his hair fell off in front of me—all of it in one piece! And you ask what he does for a living? He’s been unemployed for almost three years but I don’t care if he was Donald Trump. I was sitting there staring at his nose while he was talking—it was so hideous and bulbous and red and veiny—”
“Heavy drinker.”
“What?”
“Your Uncle Randy’s nose looks like that and he’s a big drinker.”
“I knew it! That’s exactly who I was thinking of.” It’s sad that I’m excited to be right about something like this.
“Honey, you need to screen these men more carefully.”
“I would like to see you try.” Another clueless married woman.
“Maybe I will join to see what I could pick up. You hear that, John? I’m joining Match.com to check out the men! You’ll have to do your own laundry from now on. He is so deaf. Claire, I know it’s frustrating, but that’s what happens when you get divorced.”
“Believe me, I know. Maybe I should try younger men.”
“They would look better, but honey we talked about this. The last thing you need is to get involved with a man who might want children. That would break your heart.”
Another sigh. “Yeah, I know.”
“An older man will be established in his career and he’ll take care of you. You’ll see. You just need to suffer through some loonies first, but it’s funny after the fact, right? And the poor man can’t help it if he’s bald, Claire. He was just trying to look better for his dates. Right, Honey?” she asks hopefully.
“I guess, and if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.”
“Are you coming for Easter?”
“Dixie and I will be there.” Dixie loves Grandma!
“How is little Dixie? I can get her some of the good treats from the organic store.”
“She’s good. She needs some shots at the vet.”
“It’s a good thing she isn’t a child because with this crap healthcare we’re going to have, none of us will be able to go to the doctor. Did you see Fox News last night?”
“No, Mom. Remember, I was out with the old man? I’m almost at my office now so I need to go. Thanks for listening. Love you.”
“Love you, too. See you soon!”
I am not near the office but I can’t listen to political ranting right now. I sit in traffic, which is finally moving, and ponder my mother’s comments. I do need to be more selective and not let this process get me down. I finally pull into the parking lot of my two-story suburban office building and find a spot way in the back. I’m late—it’s already nine-fifteen.
Our building has a huge set of steps in the front. It was obviously a man’s design because I have yet to wear a pair of shoes that can handle this climb. I feel like a mountain goat every day. It makes me want to stay in for lunch to avoid additional trips, but most days I succumb to the pain and go out to enjoy the better restaurants and shopping in this part of town.
As I walk through the office, I’m grateful I don’t have to climb more stairs to the 2nd floor (there is an elevator but I’m always late or too impatient to use it when I need to go up there). I spot Rebecca at the coffee machine and motion to her to meet me in my office. I’m sure she’s waiting to hear the latest scoop on my pitiful love life, and we need to get behind closed doors before someone grabs one of us ahead of the staff meeting.
She motions back, pointing to the coffee and then to me. I shake my head—no, I do not want coffee. I have worked with her for five years and she still asks me if I want coffee. I loathe coffee.
Rebecca is forty-five and single. She has never been married and doesn’t seem particularly concerned about it. She’s attractive and fit, but getting a bit heavier lately. I have noticed her weight go up a little every year that I’ve known her—she used to be a stick figure. I guess after forty your body does change, but she’s probably only a size six or eight now. I envy her curves, and her wavy dark auburn hair, which she colors to hide the grey. Her eyes are slate blue, not those bright sapphire eyes where you need a dimmer switch to turn them down.
She is the human resources person, handling employee relations, benefits and payroll. The boring stuff. I am responsible for training and development, and recruiting. They split HR into these two functions about five years ago when I was hired. Rebecca used to do both, but she sucked at recruiting. She would much rather handle employee complaints about the toilet paper in the ladies’ room, or how it’s unfair that the smokers get more breaks. I, on the other hand, am much more adept at dealing with clueless hiring managers and teaching people the same policies and procedures multiple times. Together we make quite a team.
Rebecca is right behind me with her coffee in hand. She gently closes the door (she thinks no one notices her slipping in here if she does this), and plops herself down in my rigid purple guest chair (we don’t want people getting too comfortable in here). We both have our own offices, even though most of the non-management employees sit in open area cubicles. The decision to allow us to have offices with doors was due to the “sensitive nature” of our work. What this means is that lots of people cry or freak out when they talk to HR, and no one wants to witness that. This is a huge benefit for us. We can talk about our personal lives and use “business consultation” as the reason for a closed door, since we form the HR dynamic duo.
“Your hair looks good. Did you do something different?” she begins.
“No, it’s the fucking rain. It’s all frizzy.” I run my hands through my damp hair and shake it like Dixie would.
“Have you taken up smoking crack? Your hair has never been frizzy. It’s straight, it’s blonde. You look like you walked out of a shampoo commercial. And I hate you.” She smiles and blows on her hot beverage.
“Whatever. What’s up this morning? Besides the staff meeting at ten. Which I am, of course, looking forward to.” I force a fake smile.
“We barely have enough time to talk about your date last night, rip the poor guy to shreds and get to the conference room,” she says with a mischievous grin.
“It was awful. He was old and creepy and wore a stupid old man hat. He had a bulbous nose like my Uncle Randy. It’s too pitiful to even discuss.” I shake my head in disgust.
“That’s no fun. Maybe you should screen these guys better.”
“Yeah, I think so. His hair fell off, too.” I add that tidbit and she bursts into a fit of hysteria.
As she is recovering and wiping her eyes, she says, “You need help.”
> “I’ve heard that one a few times lately—from my mother, Jane—”
“You never ask for help, with anything. Remember the time I caught you trying to reach under the ladies’ room stall to get toilet paper from the other stall when all you had to do was ask the person on the other side of you?”
“I stretched my legs so far apart I almost ripped my underwear in half. How could you possibly have known that was me?”
“Duh, you were wearing my favorite shoes—the cute ones with the red bow on the front and the kitten heels?”
“You spend a lot of time looking down, don’t you?”
“Sue me, I love shoes. So yes, I need to help you. Your mother and Jane are sweet but they’re married. And old.”
“Jane is younger than you.”
“Really? Being married automatically makes her older.”
“Your logic is insane but you do have good instincts, so yes, I want you to look at this guy that e-mailed me last night. This one is promising.” Rebecca tried online dating a few times, but was even more frustrated than I am. Somehow she doesn’t need it and meets men all the time. I guess this is because of her veteran single girl status—she’s a pro.
I pull up my profile and scroll down to find the e-mail from the new guy, BuddhaGolf73.
She looks at the message below his and says, “Eww, what is wrong with that guy’s face?”
“I don’t know. That’s another new one. And eww, you’re right. Damn, I hope that’s just the camera angle. Ignore him—read what this guy wrote.”
Dear Bluebird77,
Hey what’s up? Loved your profile—that little dog is so cute and you’re not so bad yourself—wink, wink… hahahaha… I saw you mentioned you like to meditate and play mini golf (I play real golf but that’s so cute—LOL). Would love to chat about our spiritual focuses and witness your mini golf pro skills firsthand. Drop me a line if you’re interested.
Peace,
Daniel
“You don’t meditate.”
“I don’t all the time—but I did a few times after I took that class at the community college. Remember?”
There Are No Men Page 3
