The Pursuit of Butterflies

-----------------
I've decided to donate my brain to psychiatry.
I would donate my hormones, id and libido but no one wants them.


Upon examination of my brain, someone very clever might finally understand what drives me to idiocy and self deprecation in my incessant pursuit of the wrong man. 

I hear that there are more women like me and that the literature on the subject is abundant, but I haven't read any of it because I would be forced to recognize myself and stop it. 

My attraction to the unattainable is teetering between the ridiculous and the absurd.

I've been told that even available - emotionally or otherwise - guys can be exciting, could keep my attention and would make the butterflies flutter. They did decades ago, but we were all available then. We married them, divorced them and the rest is history. 

There should be a speed dating event for us good ones -  women and men alike - those of us who like the bad boys and the bitches, respectively. We would speed interact with each other with kindness and attention and bore each other to death. When they finally scrape our corpses off the floor and donate our brains to psychiatry they will discover that we are basically fine human beings with a few scratches here and there, and a few wounds that never healed. 

At the very least, they will discover that we tried as hard as we could to do the ineffable right thing. Most of the time we managed. 

But once in a while we really missed those beautiful butterflies.

The Doctor Will See You Now

I wonder if I had been a Doctor if I would still be so intent on finding one. 

It's not my fault that the mystique surrounding Doctors lingers this many years and laughs in the face of every ounce of wisdom I have accumulated. Readers of my generation don't require any explanations or apologies. Certainly not the Jewish ones. And no, PhDs don't count. 

But I am not a doctor (I'll stop capitalizing the word now) and the mystique has led me off the path of common sense and verging on hussiness. 

A couple of years ago I came across a doctor on a dating site. He had the good sense to post a photo of himself in a white coat and a stethescope because he didn't have much else going for him personality wise. When he called me, I was smitten, and I stayed a smitten kitten much longer than he deserved. A Pediatrician in a major Pediatric hospital has a cache about it that other professions don't. 

So shoot me. 

Last year, I found myself in any number of outpatient procedures which required the whole shabang of ass flattering hospital gowns and recovery rooms. I shamelessly flirted with the Anasthesiologists who promptly rendered me unconscious. 

While I totally got off on the absolute black out and have found no other way to replicate it without the use of illicit drugs, I have to say to myself, "Good grief." Anasthesiologists knock their patients out. It hardly exudes doctors-without-borders emotion. It reminds me of an Inheritance Lawyer I dated who said he chose the specialty so that his clients wouldn't call him.

One month ago I had surgery. None of this child's play go home in a few hours "procedures." The hard-core stuff. 

A month of multiple hospital stays prior to surgery would have been a haven for me in my search, had I not been deathly ill and looking like crap. But leave it to my mom to ask what I was wearing and if I at least put on some makeup... 

I mercilessly berated her for her gross insensitivity to my condition, and assured her that a catheter and a bag of urine hanging over my  bed would not bring me dates even WITH mascara. 

Don't tell her, but I did purchase expensive pyjamas prior to my surgery a month later. 

Ah yes. Surgery. Surgeons. The cream of the crop. 

They meet you in their clinics in their fine clothes and leather chair and with a heart melting smile reassure you that everything will be fine.  

And when they meet you in their crocs and scrubs at 7am on the appointed day and again reassure you that everything will be fine, your naked vulnerability never crosses your mind because they are holding your hand as you count backward from 10.

At your groggiest you are vaguely aware that they are graciously instructing the recovery room staff to give you more morphine. Later in your room,  you can't wait for tomorrow when you might have enough strength to change into your new pyjamas before your Surgeon makes his rounds.

And for days and weeks thereafter, you rise above your condition and try to look your best. 

But all the Doctors were taken a long time ago. Probably by nurses with pony tails and perky boobs. Yet you tell yourself that this plethora of Doctors are stuck in marriages with bitchy fellow doctors and they just don't have the strength to do anything about it. 

The Surgeon has set the bar very high. I don't know how I will recover from this last incident of knowing that nothing less will do.

Then I recall that a comedy writer was as good as it could get, followed by an artist, and yes, even a Doctor here and there crossed my path. 

They were all as good as it gets. 

For now I want a Doctor. 
Or do I just want someone to take care of me?

You do the math.

Pass the Pretzels

....................................................
I moved from suburbia to the city so that I would have things to do when I was alone. 


So, when I was feeling restless one hot summer night and I decided that an adorable Miniature French Poodle is as good a conversation starter as any, I put on my casual best, cleaned my dog's butt, and decided to take her for a walk in what passes for the center of activity around here. 


After driving in concentric circles for 20 minutes looking for a parking spot, I was beginning to regret the effort I made to go out, when I could have been splayed braless on a sofa watching reruns of Friends. 


If I hadn't found a parking spot I would have cancelled my date with myself. An all time humiliating low. I would have relegated the "all dressed up" part of my evening to a practice run for getting dressed for work in the morning. 


But reminded that I was armed with a Poodle, I persevered into the streets teeming with couples. 


As it turns out, a Poodle is a great guy magnet for gay men, and octogenarian Russian immigrants. 


Convinced that this was not going to be a Prince Charming evening, I, Poodle in leash, determined that this was the perfect time to try out my fantasy of going to a pub by myself. 


My dissociative plan involved posing as a business woman from America just getting some fresh evening air.


As my dog stopped to sniff urine on a street lamp, I realized that I didn't know any normal business women who travelled abroad with their dogs. 


Plan A aborted, initiate Plan B: I went to a pub with an outside patio and tried not to think of Looking For Mr. Goodbar. 


The whole experience was pretty painless. No one really cared that I was alone, and I was grateful for a cold beer and pretzels instead of yet another cup of coffee. In any case, the elderly woman with the pill box hat, taffeta fucshia cocktail dress and cleavage out to there was getting all of the glances.


Anyone know where I can get a more macho dog?


...........................................................

Behind Every Great Woman

.........


It's official. I can't have it all. I'm not sure what the proverbial "all" includes, but I'm pretty darn sure I don't have it. 


I used to think that I could do it all, but as it turns out, that's not true either.


For the better part of my adult life I juggled house, career, kids, husbands, ex husbands, pets, orthodontists, psychologists, teachers, doctors, neighbors, beaurocrats, lawyers, idiots, rocket fire, gas masks, police, friends, enemies, family, ex family, clergy, mechanics, banks, and more; and not necessarily in that order; and oh yes, all in the middle east and all in another language. 


During the years, there were episodes when trouble seeped in slowly, yet sometimes it came in tidal waves. Either way, I clawed out of the debris ridden muck on my own. 


I have been making my way through life on my own for the last ten years. It doesn't mean I'm always alone or always lonely. It just means that no matter what happens, there is no one to blame but myself, no one to take credit but myself, no one to depend on but myself (trusting my siblings and mother will allow me a little poetic license this once).  


The good news is that there is suddenly a little strength left over for myself.



And in that residual strength, survival mode gave way to creativity. Reaction gave way to action. And amazing things began to happen. 


Among them, and not in this order:

• I ran a book club.
• I started a women's networking group.
• I turned 50 something.
• I bought an apartment.
• I started writing a blog.
• I started an online shop selling Israeli gifts outside of Israel. 

It is ten months and a week since heartbreak and my first blog entry. The experience of this thus far has been cathartic at least, and a joyous discovery of creativity at most.


So here we are today. No man to run home to. But I am too flooded with ideas to notice. 


I may have noticed that there is nothing to eat in the fridge, but I ordered pizza while optimizing my blog and shop for search engines.


I may have a load of laundry to do, but I'll do it as soon as I write this letter to a potential supplier.


I maybe should go to the gym, but I'll stop over at friends and show them how to add paypal to their shop. 


I maybe should go to bed because I have an early meeting, but I'll just add this one more item to my shop, it's too pretty to wait until tomorrow. 


Is it coincidental that when no men were around a few kind words of encouragement became the wind beneath my wings? Is it coincidental that the multi faceted generosity of a few good friends slash mentors unlocked an entrepeneurship that I thought beloged only to brave others? 


I am finally ready to combine my creative worlds on the front page of this blog. 


In my world of my shop, Carmel Gifts, I don't go on dates, but I make business calls. I don't write love letters, but I send emails to potential suppliers and customers.


Like absolutely everything else in my life, no, like life itself, the shop is a work in progress. 


So at the risk of self indulgence, I invite you to come in and shop around. Everything is made in Israel and everything is an expression of someone's creativity. 


You'll find amulets, Judaica, jewelry, weaving, soaps, silk, and more and more and soon to come more.


So you know that old expression "behind every great man there is a woman"? 


I'd suggest that behind every great woman there is no man.  


............................... 

Pass the Petri Dish

...............................................................
Nothing is going on. The highlight of my week is that I mistook a urinary tract infection for a heightened state of arousal. 


I have decided to attribute the infection to the one time I used the jacuzzi at the sports club. I have no idea if that is even remotely possible as a cause, but it gives me a perfect excuse not to use it again.  


While most people would rather lounge in a jacuzzi than swim laps, I prefer the latter. 
In the pool I become a champion for half an hour. I am a graceful swimmer and I know that when swimming, my body fogets its recent foray into middle age. In a jacuzzi, I have to pretend that I am not grosssed out by the overly hairly sharing their space with me. 


So I stake out my lane and swim almost non-stop for half an hour, taking a moment every so often to knowingly renew the slather of saliva in my goggles,  betraying only the fact that I was too cheap to buy the antifog ones. 


I lean against the wall at the end of my laps and look around, keenly aware that from the vantage point of being half submerged, I am as as svelte as the rest of them. 


And then I get out.


As I climb up the heinously skinny ladder I am shocked into reality that I am neither svelte nor a real athlete,  and if I had any doubts, I try to wrap a towel around me, but suffice with covering my butt. 


Once, I found a window of opportunity when there were no men in the jacuzzi who would watch me waddle my way from the pool's edge to the jacuzzi's edge. There was no one  in the warm bubbly water, no one crouched at the perfect eye level to watch my thighs jiggle ahead of me down the jacuzzi steps. So I lowered myself with the grace of a rhino into this reservoir of bacteria and positioned myself strategically against a jet of water. 


And a week later I have a urinary tract infection. 


You do the math. 
...................................................

No Job Too Small

.......................
I am obsessed that I have no one around who can move heavy objects. 


We've already established that I know how to do plenty on my own but is it so bad that I miss having a man around for certain tasks? (Haven't men been keeping women around for certain tasks forever?)


This is when I'm at a loss on my own: 

• When I have to move the washing machine.
• When a roach won't die.
• When trash is gross.
• When the pizza arrives and I'm in my underwear.

Where is he? the coyboy? the sailor? the investment banker? the musician? the ambulance driver? the teacher? the actor? the basketball player? The man of my dreams? 


Until he fixes his GPS, others swoosh in and swoosh out, leaving debris in their wake.


They are the ones who know how to move things but don't know how to put them back. 


They waltz in, all strong and handsome, and move heavy objects to my hearts delight. They shake things up, they rock my world, and then they go. 

• They moved the washing machine but it's in the dining room.
• They killed the roach but his relatives are here for the memorial service.
• The trash is still gross but at least it has pizza in it. 

I don't know what's holding up my dream guy. 


Maybe I'm losing it. I am afraid that what was once "come hither" has turned into "come hither and hoist me out of this chair".


But it will be OK. 


It always is. 
...............................

My Life as a Thumbnail

........................


I have been perusing internet dating sites for so long that my field of vision is limited to 1.5 inches square. Don't ask me what someone looks like if I haven't seen them in a thumbnail picture. I just won't know. 


I expect everything in life to be accompanied by an "add to favorites button". (And you thought "Like" was an original idea...)


I have learned that a 50 year old guy who posts a picture from his 30s probably looks 60.


I have learned that a 52 year old guy who explicitly states that he is looking for women aged 30 to 34 is not going to make an exception in my case. As utterly ridiculous as I may find his preference, I have learned that telling him so is not going to endear me to him.


I have learned that the more a guy writes about himself, the more recent his separation. Not only is he not yet fed up with this whole medium and thinks that anyone has patience to read all the text, but he is grateful to find a platform to expound his new-found philosophies about women and relationships. 


I have learned that my first impressions are damn reliable, and that a guy who posts a picture of himself showering is not looking for a long term relationship, no matter what he tells you.


I have learned that I am going to be wildly attractive to some and totally forgettable to others, and it is not a reflection of me as a person (although I REALLY don't get it...)


It takes it toll on me sometimes. I think I have become a less nice person, at the very least less patient:


If I read one more time about a man who "loves life" and is "ready for chapter 2" I will puke. And I will no longer take the responsibility for carrying a conversation with a monosyllabic man.


At its best, internet dating has potential; there are just as many nice guys out there as there are shmucks. At its worst, it is a mine field of married men,  libido driven maniacs and egotistical scum buckets. 


The long and the short of it is that I am addicted to internet dating sites. 


Say what you will, it keeps me off the streets. 


.........................

Open Wide

............................


So you know how people say "I'd rather have root canal" like that's a bad thing? Next week I'm having root canal. I'm looking forward to it. It will finally put an end to my pain while eating cold things (i.e. ice cream).  


I'm also looking forward to it because I have absolutely nothing else to look forward to that is out of the ordinary. 


I have no dates. So I have plenty of time to schedule root canal.


I also have time to have a suspicious mole removed and treat a yeast infection.


All of these fun activities include kind men in white coats taking care of me.  For a few minutes I succumb to the fantasy that they really care that I wont itch or twinge. I pretend that for no other reason than medical ethics, they haven't asked me to travel the world with them, enveloped in their warmth, protected from the dangers of the sun, cold and vaginal flora. 


It's not just the disappointment that doctors don't ask me out. I encounter so many men in my life. They are part of the fabric of my day. They are the people I meet when I have errands to run and things to do - doctors, lawyers, clerks, teachers, colleagues, ticket takers, waiters, drivers, toll collectors. They are the men who stand in front of me at the supermarket or behind me at the bank. They are the the men who stop at the same red light, and the men who stop to pet my dog.


They stop for a moment in my life, share their sunshine and leave again. 


Some of the men who pass through my life stay longer than others, some should have left long before they did. 


For now, I am not accepting passers-by into my life, for better or worse. 


It means I have fewer dates and spend more time in front of the TV, but there are a lot of good shows on. 


For now I will fill up my calendar with the mundane and find comfort in myself. 


Sometimes the situation is OK and sometimes it really sucks. 


Today it really sucks.


.....................................