The Invisible Woman

I got an email not long ago from somebody I had met many years ago.  I immediately recognized his name and I remembered him.  We never spoke but when we saw each other once a year, we would nod and smile.

Apparently, he heard that I had divorced Loser and felt compelled to write to me.

Being a journalist, and “note taker” he outlined what he remembered over the years.  This account, he said, was something he would never forget.
His lines were “bulleted” so I fashioned them into a story.

He submitted his regrets but qualified them with “not because you got divorced but because you were married to such an arrogant asshole.”

This was his story.  He called me the “Invisible woman.”

There’s a woman sitting all alone at a table.  I’ve met her before and I see her once a year.  It’s always the same scenario.  She’s sits there alone.

She’s a pretty woman with unusually long blonde hair and a trim, fit body.  She’s always dressed like a Paris runway model and her make-up is meticulously applied.

Why then, is she always alone?

I don’t understand.  I don’t understand why she’s always alone.

Tonight we’re at another awards banquet, which recognizes outstanding achievement in the newspaper industry.  The awards have been handed out and everybody is walking around, drinking, talking and shaking hands.

I am a newspaper man.  Her husband works for a rival paper and although we have formally met, we have never really been communicative.  This year, his paper won several awards and he is strutting around like he is the king.

She sits alone at the table, fumbling with her napkin and looking around the room.

I see a glimmer of hope in her eyes as a man comes walking across the floor.  He bends down and gives her a kiss on the cheek but then walks away.

Another man comes up and sits down.  He asks “are you ****s’ wife?”  She says “yes, I am.”  I watch as she smiles and tries to have a conversation with somebody who is looking over and around her, as if trying to find somebody who is more interesting.  After a minute, he gets up and walks away.

She is watching her husband.  He is working the room…working the other women, who have a drink in one hand and his arm in the other.  He doesn’t notice her looking at him.  He doesn’t notice her at all.

About an hour later, a man comes “dancing” toward her, throws his car keys to her and says “I’m going to need a ride home in a few minutes.”  He’s one of “their friends” and knows that through the years, she has become nothing more than the designated driver.

I start asking about her…this woman who is married to this man who ignores her.  One man says “I don’t know how she can stand to be married to him.  He’s an asshole and he treats her like shit.”
I say “well, he sure doesn’t pay much attention to her.”

I ask other people about her.  “She doesn’t drink,” they say “and **** has a problem with it.”  In my mind, I imagine that she doesn’t drink because it seems he drinks enough for them both.  They say “nobody really knows her.”
I’m thinking “does anybody try to get to know her?”

I keep watching her.  She looks miserable and I want to go talk to her.  I watch her husband and his arrogance is undeniable.  It’s as if he’s holding court in front of his adoring subjects.  He keeps them mesmerized with his bold, brash countenance.  He is a braggart and takes credit for the awards in an overt way, while diminishing the talents of others.  He toasts himself over and over, without so much as a glance toward her.

She eventually gets up and walks over to him.  He finishes his conversation with another woman before he acknowledges that she is standing there.  She says “I want to go home.”  He impatiently says “in a minute” waves her off and then turns his attention back to the other woman.

She walks away and sits back down at the table.  A young reporter her husband has just hired comes and sits down.  He is most likely trying to earn “brownie points” as he pretends to be interested in what the big mans’ wife has to say.
He asks her where she went to school.  She says “I didn’t go to school.”  He apologetically says “oh.  Well, what do you do?”  She begins by telling him that she is raising their four children but he quickly loses interest, excuses himself and leaves.

I decide to go sit down at the table with her.  She looks at me and says “I don’t drink.  I’m not educated.  I have no profession.  I have no value.”  Her hands are shaking as she reaches for her keys and purse.

She gets up from the table and heads toward the door.  As she reaches the door, she casts one last backward glance toward her husband.  She wants to see if he notices that she is leaving but he doesn’t.

Later that night, her husband is a little beyond being able to stand on his own and starts looking for her.  He stumbles over to the table where he left her….where he always left her….but she isn’t there.
He doesn’t panic.  He just starts asking the few people who are still around, if they have seen her.

He says “Goddamnit!  I’m ready to go home.”

One of the men say they know a policeman and will call him.  “Nah.  She’ll turn up” he says.  He sends a woman into the bathroom but she isn’t there.  He says “I wonder where the fuck she is.”

It never occurs to him to go out to the parking lot to see if the car was gone.  I stand there, watching, listening and thinking “I agree.  How in the world can she stand to be married to this asshole.”

The man calls his police officer friend and in a few minutes, the officer arrives.  He walks over to **** and starts talking to him.  I move closer so that I can hear.

Your wife is missing? “I don’t know.”
How long has she been missing?  “I don’t know if she is missing.  I just don’t know where she is.”
Have you been drinking, sir?  “Yeah, I’ve been drinking.  What’s that got to do with it?”
She has to be missing for twenty-four hours before you can file a report. “I don’t want to file a fucking report.  I didn’t call you.”
Okay.  Why don’t you give me some information in case we need it.
How tall is she?  “I don’t know….about five and a half feet tall, maybe.”
What color hair does she have?  “Blonde.”
What color eyes?  “Uh….green?”
What was she wearing?  “Uh…..uh……hell, man.  I don’t remember.  Some kind of dress, I think.”
What kind of car do you have?  “Uh….we brought her car.”
Okay, what kind of car?  “Uh….a Mercedes.”
What color?  “Uh….some kind of light color.” 
Do you know the license number?  “Hell no.”
Did you check the parking lot?  “No.”
Did you have an argument?  “No.”
Do you know of any reason she might have just left?  “No.”

I’m listening to him stumbling and fumbling with his words as the officer tries to get information.
I finally decide to step in.

I said “she was wearing a strapless, full length, royal blue evening dress.  She was wearing royal blue shoes and had on diamond earrings, a diamond necklace and a diamond bracelet.”
Her husband turns around and looks at me like he’s thinking “who the fuck are you?”  He finally said “she probably got pissed and went home.”

I almost said “what do you expect?  You were so busy paying attention to everybody else, you never even noticed her.  You have never noticed her.  You use her like a chauffeur.  Why don’t you buy her a uniform, some white gloves and a hat?  You’re ready to go home and suddenly you miss her?”

The officer went to the parking lot to look for the car.  It was gone.  When he came back into the room, he said “do you think maybe you should try to call her?”
Her husband said with a contemptible sneer “yeah, thanks.  I would have never thought of that.”
The officer didn’t appreciate his sarcasm and said “call us back if you need to.”

Her husband managed to get a ride home but not before screaming “I can’t believe she fucking did this to me.  This is un-fucking-believable!”

He couldn’t believe what SHE had done to HIM.

 

 

You Are Never Going To Crack Me

You can try to put me at ease with your smooth talk.
You can try to delve into my mind with your learned skills.
You can tell me antics about your own life.

But you are never going to crack me.

You can tell me that you know I’m damaged.
You can tell me that you know I’m broken.
You can tell me that you’re able to fix me.

But you are never going to crack me.

You can say that you have empathy.
You can say that you understand.
You can promise healing.

But you are never going to crack me.

You think you can penetrate my walls.
You think you can open doors.
You say you can offer clarity.

But you are never going to crack me.

You can tell me how it’s supposed to be.
You can tell me I’m going to see how it’s supposed to be.
You can tell me to be patient.

But you are never going to crack me.

You can tell me that every inch of my body is perfect.
You can tell me that I reek of class.
You can tell me that you believe in me.

But you are never going to crack me.

You can shower me with hollow flattery.
You can regale me with shallow praise.
You can recite beautiful empty promises.

But you’re never going to crack me.

You may have a wedge in your toolbox.
You may think you can pry me open.
You may think you can see inside.

But you are never going to crack me.

You can continue to smile with self-assurance.
You can continue to think that you have the upper hand.
And I’ll continue to pay you the proper lip service.

But you are never going to crack me.

 

I Couldn’t Resist

The dating game continues.

First, the good ole boys.

56 years old.  5’6″ tall.  His message is “you have very strict rules.”
“Yes I do.  If you don’t like them….move on.”

53 years old.  6′ tall.  He lives in New Jersey.  He’s an animal lover and wants a relationship.  His message is “Hi.”
“Could that possibly be your condition?  High?”

59 years old.  6’4″ tall.  He’s a truck driver.  He loves mud trucks and NASCAR.  His message is “I hope you have an nice Easter to.”
“To what?  I think you should get into your mud truck and head for the race track.   (By the way…I won’t be riding shotgun.”)

67 years old.  6’2″ tall.  He’s into beach bumming.  His message is “I’d like to take you out to dinner if I knew where you were.”
“There’s a reason you don’t know where I am.”

76 years old.  5’10” tall.  He likes fishing and camping.  His message is “but you’re so pretty.”
“Did you forget the first part of the message?”

54 years old.  5’8″ tall.  He has lots of pictures of himself.  In one, he is spread-eagle in a chair with just enough of his panties showing to tease.  His message is “I hope you like what you see.”
“I sure do!  Come on over!  Don’t forget to wear those shorts and those tidy whities….I’ll provide the chair.”

NOW for “Mr. Beautiful.”

I just kept thinking “this is so bizarre.”  My mind has traveled to all sorts of scenarios, including “somebody” faking a profile, which I think is the most logical explanation and I think I know who.
Sam and I were chatting (samlobos) and I decided to look up “older male models.”  Zsa Zsa Gabor (you know, that sex and the city thing)…there he was!  He is a pretty man!

Now…let’s play.

I messaged him this:

“I’m so disappointed that I didn’t get a message from you today, especially after the nice Easter wish I got.  I realize you live in Pennsylvania but I have my own airplane and I could fly up there anytime.  Or, if you’d like, I could arrange for my chauffeur to come pick you up and bring you down here.  We could dine in or out, depending on what you’d like.  Later, we could enjoy a Margarita while relaxing in my hot tub.
I hate to sound forward but I am so anxious to meet you.  Looking forward to your next message.

What do you think the odds are that I’ll hear from him again?  LOL

 

 

A Lump Of Coal

I am a lump of coal.

I am lifeless and dull.

I have sharp edges

that were caused by

pieces of me being chipped away.

I was tossed into pile of dirt

where I lie hidden.

I have been here for a while

and it’s a dark place.

I don’t recognize where I am.

I hope to be found

before it is too late

and I turn into dust.

I was a diamond

but my shine was never seen.

Nobody took the time to polish me.

It was easier to overlook me

and settle for cheap paste

that looked good at first glance.

Cheap requires no effort.

No need to shape and hone.

It’s available to anybody

who will pay for company

and is looking for easy.

Anybody who can’t see the difference

between precious

and common

and is willing to accept trash

instead of class.

When the paste turns cloudy

I will be shining

from a distance

and you will be blinded

by the light

that you could never see.

 

This Is Bizarre!

Today I decided to delete my profile on the dating site.  When I logged in, there was an alert showing a new message.  For fun, I decided to look at it.  I figured it was from another motorcycle riding, beer drinking, animal shooting pool player.
OMG!  It was a(nother) message from a man I have apparently been corresponding with since March 10th.

He’s 6’6″ tall, is an architect and looks like a fucking model.  He has silver hair and a face like Adonis.

His first message was “you’re beautiful.”
I would have wanted to respond with “oh, my Lucy!  So are you!”
But apparently I had already responded with a demure “thank you.”

His last message was “have a beautiful day and happy Easter.”
I would like to have responded with “thanks.  Let’s go hide some eggs..somewhere.”
But again, I had already responded with the same demure “thank you.  You as well.”

Where did this man suddenly come from?  Since I don’t use alcohol, I know I wasn’t getting drunk, sending messages and then forgetting about them…especially somebody who looked like him!  (And why did he show up today?)

I’m thinking somebody has put another mans’ picture on the site and is pretending to be him…BUT….how is it that I have been messaging back and forth with him and didn’t know?

(Kind of wish he was real.  He is strikingly handsome!)  LOL

Any ideas?

 

Happy Easter

I had no idea that it was Easter this weekend until just a few days ago.  I just lose track of time now, I guess.  Holidays really don’t mean anything to me anymore so I’m not surprised.

Every Easter, I would tell Loser that I had never gotten to go on an Easter egg hunt and one thing that I had always wanted was one of those hollow chocolate bunnies with those googly eyes.
I don’t know why I was hoping that one year he might surprise me with one of those bunnies and my very own egg hunt.  It never happened, of course.

I remember all the Easters of yesterday, when I painted and colored eggs for my children.  I made sure they had elaborate baskets (not the ones you get pre-made) and that those baskets were full of goodies and a bunny rabbit made just for them.  I always included something special, depending on what they were into that particular year.  I stuffed them with their favorite candies and sometimes, they got their own movie in their basket.  I loved to watch them looking for the eggs I had hidden all over the yard and hearing them squeal with delight every time they found one.
There was always one special egg that, when found, garnered a special prize.  The prize?  A hollow chocolate bunny with googly eyes.

They don’t remember any of that, though.

I told my son to “pay attention.”  I said “if your girlfriend just casually mentions that she’d like to eat a slice of pizza while sitting on a park bench, remember it.”
I said “if you remember something like that, she will never forget something like that.”

If Loser had just cared enough about me to pay attention now and then, it would have been so easy for him to fulfill one of my lifelong, never realized childhood dreams.  It would have been more special to me than a diamond ring or a pendant or a bracelet and it would have been a memory that I would have treasured for the rest of my life.
But he didn’t.

 

Happy Easter Everybody!

 

Okay. Last Post About The Dating Site.

Oh, my Lucy.  I hate to give up the hilarity of my experiences but it’s becoming ridiculous.

Bachelor #1

56 years old.  6’9″ tall.  His message is “I’m over six feet tall and I can shoot pool.”
“Give me a break and I’m not talking about on the pool table.  You may be tall but obviously you can’t read.”

Bachelor #2

71 years old.  5’9″ tall.  His message is “you are very pretty and know what you want.  I applaud that.”  He goes on to say that his interests are going to the beach, playing pool and he is looking for a long-term relationship.
“Thank you for the applause.  I will now curtsy and take my leave.”

Bachelor #3

62 years old. 5’11” tall.  His message is “great straightforward profile.  I don’t sleep with my animals.  I don’t even have any.  You are an interesting lady.  I haven’t found many honest people here.  Are you real?”  He then says “if you’ll give me an inch, I’d like to get to know you.”
“You like straightforward?  Okay.  You said you don’t have any animals, yet your profile says you have (and love) your dog.  How do you know I’m interesting?  You don’t know me.  You haven’t found many honest people here?  Maybe YOU should be honest and see if that helps.  Am I real?  No.  I am a cardboard cut-out and you’re not going to be allowed to play with my paper-dolls.  If I give you an inch, what are you going to ask for next?”

Bachelor #4

69 years old.  5’9″ tall.  His messages are “like to meet you baby.  Like to talk to you sometimes, baby.  Let’s talk sometimes, baby.”
“I’m not your baby.  I don’t care what your interests are.  ‘Nough said.”

Bachelor #5

56 years old.  5’10” tall.  His interests are the beach, the casino and football.  He loves to watch games in bars, while playing pool.  His message was “I’d love to chat and get to know you.”  When I messaged him that there was too much of an age difference, his message was “what?  Too old for you?  You like them younger?
“Yes.  I prefer jail bait.  It makes the experience so much more exciting, especially with the possibility of getting caught.  Did I mention that Mary Kay Letourneau is my best friend?”

Bachelor #6

41 years old.  5’7″ tall.  He loves all kinds of sports and has a favorite sports bar.  He loves boating and camping.  He had pictures of all his animal heads mounted on his wall.  His message was “hello, beautiful.  You sure don’t look your age.  Are you sure you’re not lying?”
“No, I’m not lying and you are too young.” 
He responds “I bet you’re a good kisser.”
“Yep.  That’s what I said.  I’m one hell of a kisser. I bet you are too, so bend over, put your head between your knees and kiss your own butt.”

Bachelor #7

66 years old.  6′ 2″ tall.  This one is my high school friend.  He remembered the apartment I had when I was working and trying to save money for college.  It seems like I remember him taking me home once.  (Apparently, we used to hang out.  Yikes.  I don’t remember.)  He remembers the Supremes’ song that he says I “played over and over and over.”  I remember which one he was talking about.
I told him that I had a blog and was posting humorous stories about my escapades on this dating site.
He asked me to write one about him.  (?)
He’s going somewhere (I can’t remember) and will be back on Thursday.  He said it would be great to get together and gave me his phone number.  Now…here’s where I stumbled.  He asked me if I rode motorcycles.
“Your age is perfect.  Your height is perfect.  I used to know you and you were a nice guy.  Trust me.  You don’t want me to write about you and you’re not suitable fodder anyway.  Being a proper Southern gal, I don’t call men.  You must call me.  And, the mention of motorcycles leaves me asking…am I going to have to beat you severely about the face and shoulders?”

I’ll let you know.