For Al-John and All the Others Like Her

For a while I did a lot of online dating. Many days as an online dater were an adventure in cat and mouse except the cats were usually VERY stupid. And most of the cats who weren't stupid were VERY creepy.

Graphic design: Teece Aronin

One day a man "liked" my profile (meaning he clicked something to indicate his interest), and when I took a closer look, he'd posted no photo of himself, listed nothing by way of personal information, and his username was AlmostNormalNow.

Then there was Seekingonereal. It took me half an hour to figure out that he was seeking one real. I couldn't imagine why he'd want to date a woman with an STD unless maybe he worked for the Health Department.

The parade continued when I spent almost a week messaging with a man before he wrote that he really wasn't ready to date someone after all. 

'Well, it was great while it never lasted,' I sighed. Two days later he texted: "Hi, Terri! How are you, gorgeous?"

"How am I?" I wrote back, "I'm not Terri, for one thing." 

There are a lot of scammers on these sites too, and most of them aren't the sharpest tools in the shed, but they are tools. Case in point: the man who messaged me whose profile said he was a "guy seeking girls." At one point, he listed his name as John, and at another time he was Al. And on top of all that, his profile said, "I'd love to meet a really great guy and settle down; some man who knows how to treat a real and honest woman like me."

Our exchange went like this:

Me: "Why does your profile say your name is Al?"

Al-John: "Because that happens to be my name, sweetheart."

Me: "Then why does it also list your name as John?"

Al-John: "Oh, because my name is Al but I sometimes go by John."

Me: "And why did your profile say you're a woman?"

Al-John: "I think I typed that without my glasses. Maybe I should wear them more often."

Me: "Maybe you should, girlfriend."

To be fair, there were times I'd stretch out on the bed in ratty sweats, my hair in rollers with three or four candy bars and a party size bag of chips. I'd be tucked into bed all cozy, messaging something like this:

"Well thank you. You seem interesting, too. And yes, of course I think you're cute. Thank you for thinking I'm cute, too. Yup, I do try to take care of myself. I feel so much healthier when I eat right."

One of the online dating hopefuls messaged me one day, and when I looked at his photos, there was one of him posing in front of the Washington Monument so that it appeared to be rising out of his trouser-fronts. 

Things finally got so bad that when a ruggedly handsome guy who had two college degrees and was working on a Masters in Divinity asked me out, my friend, Tina shouted, "Praise God!" It turned out that, in addition to worshiping God, he wanted to worship me too, just not in church. 

Sometimes I'd get a little discouraged. So many men out there did not seem to be looking for what I was. I mean, I thought I knew what I was looking for. Well, let's put it this way: I knew what I wasn't looking for; I wasn't looking for a man like Al-John.

And I definitely wasn't seekingonereal. 

Cupid, Who's Your Daddy?

I just read online (where everything you read is true) that Cupid, that little fat-bottomed god of love, was the son of Venus and either Mercury or Mars. So, let me get this straight: Cupid's paternity is in doubt?  

I'm sure Venus had a good explanation - if being the goddess of love, sex, desire, and fertility weren't enough. And I'm certain she had not done the toga tussle with Mercury and Mars in such close succession that there was that much confusion over which one fathered Cupid - had she? 

Maybe the article meant the father was Mercury or Mars but exactly which is a detail lost to time. Or maybe it's a Greek versus Roman mythology mix-up?  But looking at it that way isn't nearly as fun, and frankly, I'm too lazy to google it. 

But it did start me thinking: What would conversations between Cupid and Venus have been like once Cupid started asking questions. So, imagine with me if you will . . .

. . . a lovely day in sunny Rome. Venus has descended from on high to winter with Cupid in the timeshare she owns with Mars. She summers with Cupid in the timeshare she owns with Mercury. Today mother and son are riding a float in a festival where adoring crowds toss them flowers.

Cupid, now 40 in mortal years, is an adult version of the plump cherub he once was, meaning pudgy, baby-faced, spoiled, and prone to tantrums. Atop his fattish head rests an unruly mop of graying curls. He leans toward his mother and speaks, teeth clenched in an artificial smile for the benefit of the crowds. 

"Mummy, I ask you again: Is my father Mercury or Mars?"

"Oh, darling, and I tell you again, it doesn't matter." Venus waves the cup-handed wave of a Disney Princess. "You spend plenty of time with each of them, both help support you financially, and neither one complains . . . much. Really, I don't know what the problem is.

"The problem, Mummy, is that I don't like it."

"Cupid, I am trying to be patient, really I am. But honestly, two strong, handsome, generous benefactors who, with me, provide you a fabulous lifestyle with two luxury timeshares; what's not to like?"

"Well for starters," Cupid replies, "I don't like having to call them Uncle Daddy."

Venus sighs. "Cupid, as you know, that was my idea, and I think it's the perfect compromise."

More waves, more smiles, more clenched teeth. 

"The only compromise, Mummy, is my peace of mind. And besides, neither of them likes me."

"Cupid, how could you possibly even think that?"

"Because they've each tried to kill me, that's why. Last week they took me hunting, the two of them, which believe you me, I found suspicious from the get-go. Then Uncle Daddy Mercury tricked me into walking into a clearing alone where Uncle Daddy Mars shot me with an arrow - and not one of my love arrows, if you get my drift!" 

"Oh, that's just silly, darling. "Mars said he mistook you for a deer, and I believe him."

"What he said, Mummy, was that he took me for a buffalo, which, by the way, wasn't very nice. He's always poking me about my weight."

"Cupid, sweetheart, you really must stop taking every innocent little comment as a remark about your size. You look grand, darling; you really do."

"Grand, Mummy? Really?"

Venus finally snaps. "I meant grand as in wonderful, not grand as in large, Cupid!"

The crowds are still pitching flowers, and whenever one lands in Venus' lap, she lifts it to her nose and inhales dramatically. Suddenly someone pitches the contents of a bucketful of flowers straight at Venus. They smack her in the face and tangle in her hair. Seconds later, more flowers come flying at Cupid, also hitting home. Venus and Cupid look to see that the first load was pitched by Mercury and the second by Mars, both of whom are glowering at them from the crowd.

Sputtering and picking petals off her tongue, Venus confides to her son, "Cupid, darling, Mummy might need to unload those timeshares."

  

Time Damagement

Someone once said, "When you're early, nobody notices. When you're late, everybody notices." For years, everybody noticed me. 

Time Damagement
Copyright, Teece Aronin

I had a terribly hard time getting where I needed to be especially if that "where" was work and the time was anything prior to noon. Now I have a unique system of time management that works like this:

The first thing I do every morning after shutting off the alarm is pour myself a cup of coffee. Then I sip the coffee as I'm going about my morning routine. Brush my teeth, take a sip of coffee. Put on make-up, take a sip of coffee. Chew out a kid, take a sip of coffee.

As long as any coffee remains in the cup, I'm still on time. The concept is similar to that of an hour-glass; the lower the coffee level, the sooner I have to leave for work.

This system has the side benefit of reassuring me every time I think I might need to step it up a little. I just peek into my cup and if there's coffee, all is well. If I need a little more time, I just sip more slowly and a little less often.

Another way to finesse this system is to use a jumbo mug instead of a cup. Say the alarm didn't go off; by filling an over-sized mug with coffee, I've automatically added time, just as if I'd poured more sand into the hour glass; perfect in its simplicity.

Upon my arrival at work, the system automatically adjusts to work in reverse. The more coffee I consume and the faster I consume it, the faster the day flies until before I know it, I'm home in the bosom of my family with enough residual buzz to throw dinner on the table in under 10 minutes. With a little too much residual buzz, I sometimes throw the dinner and miss the table, but messy mishaps are what children and dogs are for.

I had such faith in this system that I decided to toss it out to my friends to see what they thought. So one day on Face Book I posed the question: "In the morning, if there's still coffee in my cup, does it not follow that I'm not yet late?"

After some very tight competition for the title of Most Obnoxious Commenter, the award went to my friend, Prickly Pete who wrote: "Yes, it does not follow."

I'd like to see Prickly manage his morning routine using nothing but coffee.

Life sure is a lot easier with my caffeinated time management system. The only downfall as far as I can tell is that the earlier I run in the mornings, the shakier my hands get. That having been said, my self-esteem is much higher now; so much so that I'm considering becoming a consultant and marketing my system to physicians. 

And maybe I can barter out a deal with one of them: my consulting services for free treatment of my hand tremor. 

Besmirch Research

According to an article I found online (where everything you read is true) up to 68% of kids may be more likely to exercise when their friends do.

Image source: stockadobe.com

This conclusion was based on research conducted by experts who may be more likely to conduct studies of things that may be more likely to be common sense. Or it might have been the fault of the article's writer. But why anyone would deem it necessary to couch these findings with "may" and "likely," as though they represent radical thinking and careful wording is essential for avoiding a lawsuit, is beyond me. 

How could such a statement not be true? Imagine with me if you will:

It's a beautiful June afternoon. Little Billy Bumponalog is sitting under a tree finishing off an all-day sucker and two toaster pastries. His best friend, Joey trots over. Joey says, "Hey, Billy! Let's play tag!"

Billy Bumponalog slowly stirs from a stupor induced by a plunge in his glucose levels. He gazes up at Joey through slitted eyes. 

"Is that you, Joey?" Billy asks weakly.

Joey is annoyed. This has happened before, just yesterday, as a matter of fact. "Sure it's me. Who'd you think it was?"

"For a minute there, you looked a little like my Aunt Babs," says Billy. "She always brings me candy when she visits. Man, I'm kinda bummed you're not her."

"You know, I think you may be over-indulging your sweet tooth," Joey advises. "That might make health-endangering conditions such as obesity and diabetes at least somewhat more likely."

Joey has a bright future writing about medical research. "Now, c'mon," he says. "Let's play tag!" Then he bops Billy lightly on the head. "You're it!"

Because of Billy's blood sugar levels, that playful little tap knocks him cold. He slumps onto his side for a long summer's nap. Joey shrugs and runs off, playing tag with himself, thumping himself on alternating cheeks, right and left, right and left until he too falls to the ground, unconscious.

Gosh, maybe it is plausible.

Kay-Baby

I have an older sister named Kay. We don't speak, we never exchange gifts, and we've never borrowed each other's clothes. There are no fading, curling black and white photos of her, age eight, awkwardly cradling a newborn me just home from the hospital.

Image by Teece Aronin

There never was any of that, but for one day there was Kay, a tiny train that barely left the station. And for more than fifty years there has been me, the train that left years later to travel miles beyond her.

Kay was born at full-term but breathed too soon, and with that over-eager breath, ingested amniotic fluid. She was cleaned up by the nurses and placed in a bassinette where whatever could be done for her back then was done. On the other side of the nursery window my father stood, murmuring over and over, "The more I see her, the more I want her."

From that day on, when my father spoke of Kay, he called her "Kay-Baby."

When Kay died, my father got back to his job, and my mother returned to the full-time care of their toddler son. That's how the Greatest Generation grieved, by blowing their noses, wiping their tears, and getting back to the tasks at hand. Not long after that, my parents had another child, a boy who thrived. They considered their family complete and once again, got on with things.

Almost seven years later, I was born, an oops baby if ever there had been. My mother was 32 when her doctor broke the news, my father, 47.

My mother wasn't thrilled to learn of her pregnancy. In those days, even at her age, she was considered a bit old to be pregnant, and her boys had long since stopped draining her with the demands of babies. Then, my aunt said something that turned my mother around: "Maybe this one will be a girl."

My father was delighted from the get-go.

Like my brothers and unlike my sister, I was born without complications, and I knew from early on that a baby girl had come before me but died. I stood on a kitchen chair one day, helping my mother bake cookies. I asked her if I was Kay. To me it made perfect sense that if a little girl was born and died, the sister born after would be the kind of do-over that God would permit Himself under special circumstances. 

My mother's reaction to my question, along with her response, are lost to me now. 

I pictured Kay's soul as a beautiful piece of cloth blowing in the breeze and hovering over the world. With my birth, it floated back down, became my soul and helped me become me, Kay-Baby restored.

The idea that I might be Kay, that the universe can recycle a soul taken out of circulation too soon, still appeals to me somehow.

Today Kay-Baby's remains lie in a cemetery next to my parents'. But maybe, just maybe, the bigger part of her is sitting here writing these words. 

A Man, or a Building, Like That

Recently I lost someone I had come to love. Oh, it’s alright in the sense that he didn’t actually die, but he’s gone just the same.

Building Down 

Image byTeece Aronin

If I imagine my life as a skyline, the building that was this man is gone from it. There is an ugly gap such as one sees after a building is demolished, brought down in that clever way demolition experts use.

You’ve seen film footage of these detonations, I’m sure. There is a countdown, a roar, and the building collapses onto itself like an accordion dangled by one strap and then dropped. This method of demolition minimizes the risk that someone will get hurt. 

It was this same building, just weeks ago, that pounded the mattress with his fist as he laughed himself sick at my jokes, who found it endearing and not annoying when, because of my bad driving, I smashed the pristine snow in his yard. Now I grieve the gentle, funny, fallen building, and I dread the morning light where the gap in the skyline is so jarringly evident.

Nights are somehow better. Darkness blacks out the skyline, and I almost forget for a while, curled up inside the evening chatter of my children.

Writer C.S. Lewis lost his wife, Joy Davidman to bone cancer. His book, A Grief Observed, was based on notes he made as he mourned her. Said Lewis: “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

If grief feels like fear, it is because so much of grief is fear. This grief of mine fears that now, when it rains, instead of dashing into my warm, sound building, I'll stand outdoors instead, lost and abandoned, a weeping clod. My pain will stick to my body like a see-through second skin, and parts I'd shown only to him, will gleam in the wet, public light.

It is the fear that now I'll have to find someone else with a van and as much patience as my lost one had to help me haul home that sofa from the thrift store to replace the one the dog chewed up. And this replacement person must be someone I can sleep next to, blissful, as he drives, even though I know I look drunk or anesthetized or in some other slack-faced way, compromised when I sleep.

Where do I go to find a man or a building like that, and to whom will I offer up my love, with the exception of my children, because my love for them will be hardwired and unconditional forever? Was, is, and is forevermore. 

If there are angels, protectors who watch over us, wanting what is best for us, do times like these test them, too? Do they blame themselves, as if symbolic deaths and imploding buildings were a ball they should have caught, but dropped?

I will find my way through this grief, and since he is grieving too, I hope he also finds his way. Then I will offer my friendship. When we have stopped grieving, I will offer him that, and maybe we can try each other on for a different kind of fit.

I hold tight to the ability to grieve. I wear it like a badge earned many times over, and I see it as hope that hurting deeply means living deeply. 

The alternative of not living, someone told me, is deadly. And the alternative of not living deeply, I tell myself, is worse than death.

But again, if you know this answer, please tell me: Where do you go to find a man, or a building, like that?

Wet Bread - If the Great Flood Really Happened, It So Should've Happened Like This

According to something I just read online (although shockingly, it might be one of the few online pieces not to be completely accurate), one of the most ambitious plans ever masterminded by God, was nearly botched. If the snafu hadn't been caught in time, someone God intended to survive the Great Flood would have been killed, which, if we take the story literally, would have altered the future of mankind. I'm not sure if this is part of the Hebrew Scriptures or not. If it is, then this is old news. Still, I didn't know about it so maybe you didn't either.

Noah's Ark
Copyright, Teece Aronin

Now, I have no intention of getting all religious on you, but I will acknowledge that, of course, many people believe God is perfect and by extension so are His plans. So I'm not even going there. I'm simply sharing what I read which was that, for some reason - God only knows why - God told Noah to destroy the first person to announce the flood's onset. But when Noah's daughter-in-law, Aphra was baking bread, water suddenly poured from the oven. 

Understandably, Aphra exclaimed that the flood was commencing, and since she happened to be the first to do so, God had to quickly shift gears so Noah wouldn't kill her. In God's plan, Aphra had to survive to help repopulate the earth post-flood.

So, I got to thinking: How might all this have gone down, and what gears might God have shifted to save Aphra from a terrible fate? Consider this possible scenario:

It's a hot, humid day and the forecast is calling for rain. Aphra stands in the kitchen about to take a loaf of bread from the oven. She is cranky, not only because it's hot, but because she's pregnant, has a headache, and the oven hasn't worked right for days. 

But mostly, Aphra is cranky because her husband, Ham, and a bunch of kooks, specifically Ham's father and two brothers, are next door in the backyard - again - hammering away - still - and the father, the biggest kook in the bunch, is claiming he will save them all, plus a whole boatload of animals, from a flood. Now really, how asinine is that? 

Young Aphra and Ham live next door to Ham's parents, Noah and Emzara, and this has been a sticking point for much of their marriage because Aphra detests the region's swampy summers. Noah and Emzara moved to this area, popular with seniors, when they retired, and Aphra resents Ham for dragging her here too. Ham exhibits an almost sappy adoration for his parents, but Aphra finds them intrusive and preachy. Today, every noisy smack from a hammer is making her resentment stronger and her headache thumpier. Some linguists believe that this is where the term "pounding headache" comes from.

Anyway, since construction began on that thing next door, Ham's two brothers and their wives have been staying with him and Aphra. And lately, animals have been brazenly strolling in from outside, putting their feet up on the furniture and smelling up the house.

Now Aphra stands in the kitchen, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. A cloth is tied around her hair to keep it out of her way but a loose, raven-colored lock has escaped the cloth to stick against the back of her sweaty neck.

She remembers what the locals say, that it isn't the heat, it's the humidity, and that's certainly the case today. The air is suffocating, and Aphra muses that one could practically drown just from breathing. She dismisses the thought as crazy. No one would be drowning around here anytime soon. And there wasn't going to be any stupid flood either. God, Noah was such a nut-ball.

With impulsive fury, Aphra goes to the kitchen window and yells in the direction of her in-laws' backyard. Immediately, all hammering halts, and every man freezes dead in his tracks, straining to hear. Ever since the ark, they've all been living in similar doghouses so this could have been the shriek of any one of their wives. As each man prays it isn't his, there comes another shout:

"Ham! I said, get your @$$ in here!" 

With the exception of Ham, all the men sigh with relief, and construction resumes. Ham straightens and looks in the direction of his prize donkey grazing in their backyard. Why would Aphra want him to bring it in the house? Then the realization dawns: Ham is the @$$ his wife is yelling for.

A momentary sadness darkens Ham's gentle features. He is embarrassed by his wife's public use of coarse language. Would she kiss her mother with that mouth? And his own mother would never say such things. Still, Aphra is a sweet, good natured girl overall so he will overlook this one small flaw.

"Coming, honey!" he calls. "Be right back," Ham tells the others. Striving to be cheerful, Ham heads for home. But once in the house, he sees his wife's expression and all hope is dashed.

"What?" he asks.

"When are you going to realize that I matter more than that crackpot out there?" Aphra wants to know.

"Baby," Ham answers imploringly, "that's my dad. Please don't talk like that. He's been nothing but good to me all my life."

"Really? Then why did he name you Ham?" his wife shoots back. "You are named after the meat of an unclean beast. What kind of father names his son after something filthy and disgusting?"

Ham winces. He has wondered this himself. His parents are strict Jews. Why would his father have named him Ham? And even if the idea was his mother's, why would his father have allowed it?  

"Well, I'm sure there was a good reason," says Ham. The defense is as weak as his manhood.

"Yeah, right!" his wife barks. "And here's another thing: I want you to stop messing around with that dumb boat!"

"Uh, actually honey, it's an ark," Ham corrects with instant regret.

"Alright - ARK!" Aphra roars like a pregnant, hormone-riddled fire-breathing dragon. "Do you have any idea how many things need fixing around here? Take that oven for instance! You've been promising to fix it for days, but no! The ARK comes first! You fix that oven and you fix it now!"

With that, Aphra yanks on the oven door and a huge rushing gush of water erupts from the opening, smacks into the couple's faces and soaks them before spilling to the floor.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Aphra yells, then wonders dimly who those people might be and why she would be yelling their names. "It's the . . ."

Knowing his father will kill the first person to announce the flood, Ham clamps a hand over his wife's mouth then tells Aphra for once in her life to just shut the  #*?% up. And since he's on a roll, he tells her to lighten up on the G#??*&n swearing. 

Ham lifts Aphra into his arms and hustles her over to his parents' backyard where everyone jumps aboard the freshly completed ark. Aphra looks embarrassed, and some linguists believe that this is where the term sheepish comes from.

"I'm sorry, Ham," she says. "You were right. There really is going to be a fl . . ." 

Hams's hand shoots out like lightening to silence her again, accidentally bumping her head against a signpost pointing the way to Alligator Alley.   

For some reason not clear to Aphra, seeing her bump her head makes her husband smile.

And some linguists believe that this is where the term happy accident comes from.