Oy Gevalt! The Heat! The Humidity!

I am dripping with sweat. I feel like I am suspended inside the lid of a cooking pot, but I’m just sitting at my computer in my den, where the temperature is 95 degrees, and the humidity is hovering at about 90%. I hate humidity. I hate heat. I especially hate heat when it’s accompanied by humidity, and vice versa. Why am I being punished like this? Maybe I’m in Hell, and just don’t remember dying. One thing for sure is that if I’m not dead yet, I will be soon, if it doesn’t cool off in here. That may be a slight exaggeration. I should have said that I’d soon wish for death if it doesn’t cool off in here. But then, if it turns out that I’m not dead yet, and therefore not in Hell, if I were to die now, and go to Hell, chances are that it would be even hotter there; probably more humid too. That may not be true, though, because if it were any more humid than it is in this room, it would have to be raining, and I don’t think it rains in Hell. If it did, it might put out the fires, and what kind of Hell would that be, with no fire? It would be hellaciously steamy for a while, though. That would be dreadful, but eventually the steam would condense, and there would be puddles, and then lakes and rivers. The River Styx would overflow its banks. Then the mystified, damned souls might drown, but since they’re already dead, that shouldn’t be a problem. Eventually, as the water receded, plants would grow, and in a few short millennia, the whole place would look like a tropical forest. There would be exotic flowers, colorful parrots, and luscious fruit hanging from low branches…

Wait a minute. This is starting to sound more like Heaven than Hell, or maybe the Garden of Eden.

I doubt if an apple tree could grow in that kind of climate, though. However, that would be a good thing. If there were no apple tree to tempt Eve, then the wrath of God would not be visited upon this new territory, and maybe there wouldn’t be a need for Hell.

Now that I’ve thought this whole thing through, I see that the heat and humidity in here might not be so bad, after all. Maybe an orchid will spring from the puddle of sweat forming on my chair. The cold lemonade I am about to drink will taste extra good. And all I really have to do to feel better, is to think of how I felt six months ago, when I was sitting here shivering, with ice-cold hands and feet, cursing winter, and wishing for summer.

I was just now reading DCup's post about vaginas and how we are made to think that they "should" look a certain way. It reminded me of this short story (true and autobiographical) I wrote recently. Here it is...

Hanging Out

Whenever my family visited Grandma Willis’ house, I chose to hang out with Grandma and Mom instead of my younger sisters and assorted cousins. Apparently, my status as the oldest grandchild made this scenario acceptable. I usually sat quietly, with my mouth shut and my ears wide open, as Mom and Grandma talked and laughed. Their stories were much more interesting than anything my peer group had to say.

One day, when I was about eleven years old, the conversation turned to the subject of masturbation, a word that was new to me. I had no idea what they were talking about, but it sounded naughty, so I paid attention. Then Mom started telling G. about something my Dad had told her, which involved me. He told her that he had seen me taking a bath and had noticed that my inner labia protruded. That indicated to him that I masturbated, and he was shocked and horrified. Mom, of course, thought that idea was not only preposterous, but also very funny. Zelda would never do anything like that! So she and Grandma were laughing about how silly and amusing it was that Daddy would think that about me. Of course, I laughed along with them, since I wanted to seem like one of the girls. Then I asked Mom, “What does ‘masturbate’ mean?”

She turned to me, with a slight frown, and said, “It means to play with yourself.”

At that point, I must have turned bright red, and her frown grew fearsome as she said, “You don’t, do you?”

“No, no, never, uh-uh.” I felt like my face was going to melt off of my skull.

Grandma kept quiet as Mom continued to give me the evil eye, but with no more to go on, she changed the subject and pretty soon we were all laughing again, about something else my funny Daddy had said or done.

Racism, What's It Good For?

Part III

My ethnic background is 1/2 Norwegian, 1/4 English, 1/8 Heinz 57 and 1/8 Cherokee. When I was a teenager, I thought it was so cool to be part "Indian" that I told people that I was half Norwegian and half Indian. I don't know if anyone believed me, but I enjoyed my little ruse and it laid the foundation for a few fabrications later in my life.

The year I was 29, I was working part-time at night in the "cash cage" (back office where the money was kept) in a K-Mart in Salt Lake City. My shift was 5 pm to 9 pm, and I was the only person in the office, except for the night manager, who would pop in to visit with me rather more often than he should have. He was a chubby, randy young guy who enjoyed getting me riled up with his pro-war, conservative politics and stupid racist remarks, among other subjects. He had discovered early on that I did not like it when he would use words like ni**er, coon, and other disparaging terms for blacks. The more I objected, the more fun he had using them. One night, I was at my wits end with him, and I suddenly got a brilliant idea! Here's what I said:

"Dick, you know I hate it when you talk like that. Now I'm going to tell you why. But first you have to promise me that you'll never tell anyone. Nobody outside of my family knows this about me."

Dick became appropriately quiet and serious. "No, I won't tell. Honest!"

"Okay, here goes." I took a deep breath. "My mother is half black and half Indian."

Dick's eyes opened wide. After a short pause, he said, in a completly calm voice, "Oh! What kind of Indian?"

"Cherokee."

"That's interesting! Actually, you do look a little Indian. The cheekbones or something."

Long silence....

"I'm sorry about the way I talked. Don't worry. It's our little secret."

-----------------------------------------------------------

And you know what? He never used the "bad words" around me again. And he never told "our little secret" to anyone in the store.

Racism, What is it Good For?

Part II

Wow! Doesn't that sound formal! My opinions are so profound, they must be divided into PARTS! Maybe I should stop now. Nah...

When I was a child in California, back in the 'fifties, racial prejudice was rampant and open. There was no such thing as "political correctness." The shit just flew. I was fortunate to have parents who may have had some prejudices, but they weren't necessarily negative, and they definitely weren't hostile. My dad worked in the steel mill, alongside men of many different ethnic backgrounds, including "colored." He was friends with at least one black man that I remember, mainly because of the following incident. Dad brought Charlie home for dinner one evening. My little sister, Judy, was two years old and very cute and engaging. As Daddy and Charlie were sitting at the table talking, Judy was standing nearby and staring at Charlie. Charlie started talking to her and she was all smiles. He picked her up and sat her on his lap. She reached up to his face and wiped her hand across his cheek, and then looked at her palm. At first, the adults wondered what she was doing. Then she did it again, and looked puzzled when there was nothing on her palm. Then everyone burst out laughing, realizing that she thought the color on his brown cheek was painted on! There was no animosity on the part of anyone involved. It was just funny and innocent.

My mother also had black friends now and then, depending where we lived. Most neighborhoods were segregated, but the lines of demarcation were sometimes fuzzy, so we occasionally had black and Mexican neighbors. I remember one "colored" friend of Mom's that I am grateful to. My sisters and I had contracted a lively case of pinworms. Maybell gave Mom a recipe for a thick, dark syrup containing lots of garlic. We were given a few doses of that syrup and Voila! Pinworms were history.

The only thing that bothers me now is remembering that both parents and their families used the "N-word" freely. They didn't call colored people ni**ers, but they used the term sometimes. The only things I remember right now is their term for Brazil nuts - "ni**er toes" and the child's verse, "Eeny, meeny, miny moe. Catch a ni**er by the toe, etc." Remember that, any of you other geezers out there? I know there were lots of other references, but I can't remember them. When I had my children, Brazil nuts were only called Brazil nuts and I changed the second line of "eeny meeny" to "catch a tiger by the toe." The kids were teenagers before they heard the original verse.

Hell's bells. I guess there's going to have to be a Part III. I'm too sleepy to finish now.

Racism, What's It Good For?

I was inspired to tackle this subject after reading an interesting post on the subject, by dcup on June 13. She confessed to having been raised in a mildly racist atmosphere, and has since rejected that influence and is stridently anti-racist today. I’m not sure if the word “racism” is the correct one to use in my post, since the technical definition of racism is “a doctrine of racial superiority,” according to my Merriam-Webster Scrabble Players Dictionary (the only one I can find, right now). I think that most of us think of racism as a dislike (or hatred) of people of other races. It is also used interchangeably (and inappropriately) with “prejudice.”

(An aside…I was looking for “prejudice” in the dictionary and accidentally saw the word “priapism, a persistent erection of the penis.” Now I’m all distracted.)

Okay, back to business. “Prejudice” is the act of judging beforehand. I think that prejudice is a natural and very common human trait. We tend to have a feeling that people who look different from us probably are different from us. Then, depending on various experiences, and teaching from family and friends, negative or POSITIVE connotations may take hold in our psyches. Everyone knows that “white men can’t jump” and “blacks have rhythm,” along with countless other generalizations.

I also believe that most people of various races tend to associate more with people of their particular color than with others. I always think of the term, “birds of a feather flock together,” when I observe this. The white ducks in our pond tend to hang out with the other white ducks, instead of the grey and green mallard ducks, who hang out with other mallards. I don’t think they are racists. When I was a freshman in a California college, I lived in the dorms. My roommate, Carol, was a black girl, very, very smart, with perfect deportment. We became close friends. When we were together, she spoke perfect English (much better than my mid-west tainted dialect) and was always discreet and genteel. But when she wanted to relax and let it all hang out, she visited with several other black girls. She told me it felt good to be able to "talk broad" (kind of a southern dialect) and not be self-conscious. She took me with her once, and I felt uncomfortable, just because the atmosphere was so different from what I was used to.

Okay, I have a lot more to say, but ah'm tahred! I'll continue tomorrow.

Twenty hours from now I'll be in Pensacola! My best friend, Kerry, has lived there for the past 10 years. I've only visited her once, about four years ago, and she's visited me twice, so it's my turn. I hope the skies will be friendly...

The Blues Made Me Happy!

Hubby and I just got back from an outdoor concert. The weather was perfect and the music was red hot and blue! The star was Big Jack Johnson, still dishing out the soul music at age 67! He was accompanied by the Corn Likkers, a bunch of hard-rocking old white guys who seemed to worship B.J. All of us in the audience were pretty darned captivated by him as well. He just leaned back in his chair and made that gee-tar moan. I loved watching his face. He had this easy, relaxed smile that made me feel that he was as entertained by us, as we were by him. Hubby and I danced our socks off...literally! Shoes and socks were discarded after the first song. We were dancing on the lawn, and it felt good to have my bare toes digging into the grass.

It was also fun to observe some of the other dancers. There were all ages, from babies to some really OLD people (even older than me!). My favorite in the "old" category was a tall, slender woman who must have been at least 75 or 80. She had BRILLIANT RED-ORANGE hair that was positively stunning! And she was dancing like it was 1950! Shaking her booty and having a good ol' time. It made me feel good to see someone who wasn't about to let her age get in the way of enjoying herself. I'm always fussing about how awful it is to be getting old and thinking I should just wear a sack over my head. And here was this lady, old enough to be my mother, who didn't give a good god-damn if everyone in that whole audience saw her wrinkles. Yay! Rock on, grandma!

I also enjoyed observing some of the young people, particularly some of the young MEN, and ESPECIALLY a CERTAIN young man. He had been sitting on the sidelines of the dance area, his whole body convulsing to the rhythm of the music, but seemingly reluctant to stand up and dance. Then along came another young guy, tall and gangly and dancing spastically, with a big, happy grin on his face. Apparently, he was a friend of the first guy, because he made his way over to him and persuaded him to get up and DANCE! I'm telling you...when that kid got up from his crouched position, it was like an explosion of testosterone! He jumped and stomped and jabbed his arms up and down, his eyes were glazed and the muscles in his arms and shoulders were flexing...it was electrifying! It had a positively visceral effect on me. I had to lead hubby over to the side, because I didn't want anyone to know what a DIRTY OL' LADY I am.

Anyway, a good time was had by all, and after two hours of non-stop R & B, including two encores, they packed up their band and we revelers all wandered back to our cars. My brain is still pulsing to the beat.

Random Observations

Okay, I'm being juvenile, but this cracks me up!









-This is me, dancing with Johnny Depp.







This is me, sitting on the shoulders of my cousin Bill, in the summer of 1976, on Grandpa's farm in North Dakota.

This is me, when I got up this morning:



This is me, when I realized that Bush is still president.

Staying the Course, of Course

Bush administration to Iraq:
"We invaded you and we're not leaving until...until....um..."

Bush administration to the American people:

"We're not leaving Iraq until we achieve victory!"

American people to Bush administration:

"How do you define victory and how will you know when we've achieved it?"

Bush administration to the American people:

"Um.....uh.....um...."

Our troops in Iraq, to each other:
"What the fuck are we doing here, anyway?"

We're Not Sinking - The Others are Rising!

I just finished reading an article in the May 12 issue of Newsweek that made me think Fareed Zakaria is the smartest man in the universe. (Okay, I already suspected as much, but this confirmed it.) The article is titled "The Rise of the Rest," and is adapted from Zakaria's book, "The Post-American World." It explores the ways the 21st century world is changing. "...the patterns of the past are being scrambled...and the U.S. does not seem to be leading the charge." China, India and Brazil are the dynamos. Other, smaller countries are growing quickly, as well. Zakaria call it "the rise of the rest - the rest of the world." Americans are frightened and defensive at the thought, but we shouldn't be. Though at times everything we hear and see on the evening news seems so dire, our impressions are shaped by the extreme, non-relenting COVERAGE of the news. But Z. makes a good case that terrorism, while still a terrible threat, is losing popularity and is being combatted effectively in most parts of the world. And, "the underlying reality across the globe is of enormous vitality. ...most countries around the world are practicing sensible economics...poverty is falling...global trade is growing..."

Many Americans fear that the rise of others mean the decline of America. But just because we are not necessarily number 1 by all measures, does not mean we've been hurt. "America has benefited massively from globalization...It remains dominant in many industries of the future..its universities are the finest in the world..." Much of our success is owed to immigrants. "Foreign students and immigrants account for almost 50% of all science researchers in the country...The potential for a new burst of American productivity depends...on our immigration policies...the country thrives on the hunger and energy of poor immigrants...for 60 years the U.S. has pushed countries to open their markets, free up their politics and embrace trade and technology." Let's not resist doing the same. We should embrace the "rise of the rest," not fear it.

Okay, you get the idea. If you'd like to read more, check out the May 12 Newsweek, or better yet, get Zakaria's book. Then tell me about it. I'm too lazy to read the whole book.

Okay, I'm Happy!

It's hard to be unhappy on a beautiful spring day like today. But I gave it my best shot. I dredged up painful memories of my childhood, my miserable first marriage, my parents' suicides, and sundry other tales of woe, but it just didn't work! Everywhere I looked were blue skies,

new green leaves on the trees, azalea bushes bursting with red, pink, coral and lavender blossoms,

tulips of every conceivable color,

pansies with their flirtatious little faces etched in purple,

tiny blue forget-me-nots twinkling in the sun...and that's just in my front yard! I can't stop smiling, no matter how hard I try!

Oh well. In eight more months it'll be winter again, and I can piss and moan to my heart's content.

Watch Out, It's Coming!

I have a feeling that something very bad is going to happen very soon.

I hope I'm wrong. I can't tell if it's going to be global or national, but there are ominous signs; black clouds on the horizon. If nothing else, I'm afraid that an economic crisis is inevitable, at least in the U.S. And if it's true that when America sneezes, the world catches cold, then the reverberations will have catastrophic effects.

In America, the ticking time-bomb is DEBT, both governmental and personal. The federal government has a 9 trillion dollar mortgage on "the land of the free," and it continues to re-finance, giving no thought (apparently) to possible repossession. Better start studying Chinese, friends. And then we have the Mt. St. Helens of personal debt rumbling under our feet. Credit card debt alone is staggering. "Buy now, pay later" has become the national mantra. Never mind that you're going to be paying double-digit interest on that trinket or restaurant meal for years to come. And now, the feds have created the "Economic Stinkulus" plan to "stave off a recession." Whoop-de-doo! They have borrowed more money from the Chinese, in order to send all of us peasants a check, with instructions to go out and spend it! Don't even THINK of using it to make a tiny dent in your credit card debt, or to (heaven forbid!) put it into savings! That would defeat the purpose. Take it directly to WalMart and buy some Chinese imports!

Okay, the next trainwreck-waiting-to-happen is, of course, OIL! We all know it, but nobody knows what to do about it. At present, oil is the lifeblood of civilization. Countries that don't have any of or enough of their own, have to buy it from the countries that have an excess. The price of oil is affected not only by supply and demand, but by politics. And boy-oh-boy, do we love to play politics with oil. This is not a good idea, people! I am horrified by attempts of various interest groups in the U.S. to get the government to "DO something about the price of gas!" Today the truckers are petioning the feds to open up the strategic oil reserves, in order to increase supply and thereby bring down the price. Good grief (please give me credit for my restraint in choosing not to use profanity here)!! The oil reserves are to be used in case of dire emergency - not to manipulate prices! I do feel sympathy for the truckers. Their livelihood is threatened, and they are desperate. But we can't try to stave off the inevitable, by artificially manipulating reality. Someday, we have to face the fact that oil is limited, demand is increasing (what is that giant sucking sound? It's China!) and price is rising. It's going to be a long, hard slog, but we have to find alternative fuels (NOT BIO-FUELS!), new technology and more economical ways of shipping (more railroad use, for instance).

Oh well.

Lesson #7

Sometimes You Just Have To Do What's Right, Even if You're Scared

One morning, I was on my way to work, walking quickly down a normally quiet street with row homes on both sides. Suddenly, the calm was broken by a woman’s voice, shouting, “Help! Help me!” I looked around for the source of the screams and saw, across the street from me, a young, white woman, wearing a skimpy nightgown, struggling to escape from a big, black man who was holding her by her nightgown while hitting her in the face.

My first thought was, I could just keep walking and get the hell out of here. But the woman saw me and looked right at me as she screamed again, “Help me, help me!” between blows.
I ran toward them, adding my screams to hers. “Stop it! Stop it! Leave her alone!” I waved my arms in the air as I approached. I was desperately hoping that someone in the surrounding houses would come out and help me, but no such luck. The man continued to smack the woman as I circled around them, screaming and waving my arms. He stopped just long enough to tell me, “Hey, you don’t know what she did to me!” Then I heard the roar of a motor and saw a city bus coming up the street. I ran into the middle of the street and waved my arms in front of it. The bus driver stopped and opened the door as I ran around to the side and told him to “Call the police! That guy’s beating her up!” The driver pulled out his phone and said something into it, then looked at me and said, “Okay, they’ll be right here.” He closed the door and pulled away. I was left standing in the street, while I saw that the woman had managed to escape and was scurrying up the steps of one of the houses. The man took a couple of steps toward me and said angrily, “You just did that because I’m black and she’s white.”

“No I didn’t! The injustice of his accusation made me mad, and I felt compelled to straighten him out. “If I had heard you screaming for help because you were being beat up by a bunch of white guys, I would have done exactly the same thing.”

“Look, lady, she deserved it!” He started toward me.

I was beginning to regret my bravado. Just then, we heard the sirens of approaching police. He ran one way and I ran the other.

Lesson #7 Will Have to Wait

Last night I joined about 6,000 other people to hear and see Barack Obama, when he visited our town railroad station on a "whistle stop" while traveling from Philadelphia to Harrisburg. He was due into the station at 6 pm and the gates opened at 4:00. I arrived at 3:50 and the grounds were already packed. All attendees had to go through "security checks," very similar to the airport routine, before entering. I was happy to see how thorough it was, as I have no desire to ever be anywhere near any kind of assassination attempt. Once we were cleared and admitted, all 6,000 of us had to stand in the hot sun for two hours, waiting for our hero to arrive. It was tedious and uncomfortable, but I found it interesting to observe the mix of people around me. There were all ages, from infant to aged, and every skin color from white-white to black-black. People seemed happy and excited. There was no feeling of discontent that I could discern, in spite of the long wait.

As 6 o'clock approached, the excitement grew. The train pulled into the station right on time, and the crowd starting humming..."He's here, he's here..." The M.C. of the event first introduced Senator Bob Casey, who spoke briefly, before he announced Senator Obama. When Obama strode onto the podium, the crowd went wild, cheering, whistling, and chanting, "O-bama, O-bama"

Obama smiled and waved, waved and smiled, and started speaking. I won't attempt to repeat anything he said, since any of you who are interested can hear his speeches on YouTube. I will just say that he had us in the palm of his hand, the entire 40 minutes of his speech. Even though it was the third speech he had given in the previous 4 hours, he was dynamic, articulate, and congenial. I liked almost everything he said, except a couple of things that were more to the left than I am. (It's late and I'm tired, so I'm not even going to try to go into any detail. Maybe on a later post.) The crowd cheered and clapped enthusiastically. The biggest applause, from me as well, erupted when he promised to get our troops out of Iraq by 2010. He made that promise at two different points in the speech. Afterwards, he waded into the crowd to shake hands.

I came away from the experience even more convinced than I was before that Obama is the best choice for President, of the three viable candidates. I believe his youth, vigor, intelligence and good nature can help him to be a strong leader and maybe even ease some of the terrible divisiveness that has plagued our great country for the past 8 years.

Lesson #6

Don't Go Anywhere Near Anyplace That Says "Singles" Anything

One day I saw in the newspaper a notice for a meeting of the local “Singles Club.” It sounded like a respectable place to meet people (read: men). Surely it wouldn’t be like a bar, full of unscrupulous creeps just waiting around to take advantage of a susceptible, lonely divorcee. A “club” suggests warm, friendly people, there to socialize with others in a safe environment. What could be safer than the Methodist Church basement on a Wednesday evening? I marked it on my calendar.

Wednesday evening, I hurried home from work to prepare for my big adventure. I looked in my closet for something to wear that would be flattering, but not overtly sexy. I didn’t want to be obvious in my attempt to be attractive. I decided on the black pants, fitted, but not too tight, and a red sweater. My reflection in the mirror stared back at me. “You’re forty years old, dummy. Don’t worry about looking too sexy. Just pray that you won’t be the oldest person in the room.”

I turned away from the mirror in a fit of self-doubt and decided to stay home. Just accept the fact that you’re going to be alone for the rest of your life, I told myself. It’s too late to put yourself out in the meat market.

No, silly! There are bound to some nice, older single men out there somewhere.

Yeah, but they’re all looking for younger women. Every old fart in the world probably thinks he can and should get an attractive younger woman.

But I’d be a “younger woman” to an older man!

Right…but you don’t want an older man, do you? You’d like a man younger than you, too.

Damn straight! And I’m not going to find one while sitting alone in this apartment. That settles it. I’m going to that Singles Club and test the waters. I have nothing to lose but what’s left of my pride.

I found the church, walked quickly to the door that displayed a sign marked “Singles Club Meeting.” Once inside, I saw what seemed to be a sea of women milling about, punctuated here and there by a man. The ratio seemed to be at least four to one. Wherever a man stood, he seemed to be surrounded by several women, hanging on his every word. I knew no one, of course, and busied myself by heading over to the refreshment area and accepting a cup of coffee from a smiling woman behind the table.

“Is this your first time here?” the woman asked.

“Yes, how can you tell?” (Is it the fact that I am sweating profusely? Or because my eyes are darting back and forth like a crazed animal caught in a leg trap?)

“Oh, you just look a little nervous. Relax. We don’t bite.”

I thanked her for the coffee and the advice, and walked back toward the center of the room. A loud voice announced that the meeting was to begin. Everyone moved to the next room, where several rows of folding chairs were arranged, facing a podium. I moved with the others and found a seat toward the back. To my great surprise, an attractive man sat down next to me. He smiled and introduced himself.

“Hi, I’m Mike. Is this your first time here?”

Good grief, I thought - is it written on my forehead? “I’m Z. Yes, it’s my first time. How did you know?”

“It’s written on your forehead.” He laughed at his little joke. “No, I just don’t remember seeing you here before, and I’m sure I would have remembered such a lovely lady, if I had.”

I could feel my cheeks burn. What a line, I thought. “I read about tonight’s speaker in the newspaper and thought it sounded interesting.”

“Financial Planning for Singles? Yeah, I guess it would be interesting to me too, if I had any finances left to plan with. But my ex-wife took care of that.”

The club president stepped up to the podium, welcomed the audience and introduced the speaker. I was vaguely aware that there was someone up there moving his lips and gesturing occasionally with his hands, but all I could think of was the man sitting next to me. He had positioned his chair so that it was against mine. Every few minutes he would move his leg in a way that it would brush, ever so slightly, against me. I glanced at him quickly, and saw him looking directly at me, smiling. I could feel his masculinity, his heat; or was it my heat? Oh my God, I’ve been without a man for too long.

Eventually, the man behind the podium stopped moving his lips and after a polite smattering of applause, people started scooting back their chairs and standing up. Mike touched my hand and said, “Why don’t we just sit here for a while and talk? I’d like to get to know you.”
I hesitated for a moment, and then sat back down. “What would you like to know?” I asked. But I was thinking, I’m divorced, I haven’t been with a man since I left my husband a year ago, I’m horny and you’re looking real good to me right now.

Mike smiled and leaned back in his chair, pushing his hips forward slightly. “Oh, I don’t know…just who you are, what you do when you’re not attending meetings, things like that. But maybe this isn’t the best place to talk. Would you like to go somewhere for a drink? Or a cup of coffee?”

Other people in the room were drifting away. Apparently, the meeting was over. I felt nervous, wondering why he had chosen me to hit on, when there were so many other women there, younger and better-looking than I was. But I soldiered on. “Sure, coffee sounds good. I could meet you over at Denny’s. They’re open late.” My heart was pounding so hard that I wondered if drinking more caffeine would give me a heart attack.

“Why don’t we drive there together?” Mike offered. “I could bring you back here, afterwards, to get your car.”

His green eyes held me captive. I couldn’t look away. “Okay.” He extended his arm and we walked together to the exit.

We didn’t make it to Denny’s. When we got to Mike’s car, he said, “I have coffee at my place. Why don’t we just go there?”Alarm bells rang inside my skull, but I silenced them. “I can’t think of a single reason not to,” I said.

------------------------

The next morning, back in my own apartment, I could think of several reasons why I shouldn’t have.
Number one: I felt cheap. There had been no pretense of coffee drinking when we entered his apartment. We had immediately started kissing and tearing each other’s clothes off.

Number two: It wasn’t worth it. Wham, bam, thank you, Ma’am. Only he didn’t say thank you.

Number three: When it was over, he got out of bed and started getting dressed, explaining, “I don’t like to mess around afterwards. I better get you back to your car.”

Number four: He didn’t even ask me for my phone number.

And, number five: I had to go to work that morning and I felt like hell.

I headed for the shower and stood under the very hot water as long as I could stand it. I scrubbed every inch of myself with soap and a rough washcloth. When I came back into the bedroom, I saw the clothes I had worn the night before. I picked them up gingerly and carried them to the wastebasket, stuffed them all the way down and closed the lid.
I got dressed, drank a cup of tea (no more coffee, uh-uh, never) and went to work.

Lesson #5 Took a While to Sink In

I told my friend Cindy (who was as happy as an Eskimo in Miami, with her new boyfriend) what had happened, and she told me to give "The Jukebox" another try. "Don't be so sensitive!" she advised.

So back I went, into the fray. The lights must have been suitably dim this time, because a reasonably pleasant-seeming fellow asked me to dance, shortly after I sat down at a table. He was a good dancer and we chatted between numbers. He told me that he was newly single, as well. We sat at a table and each ordered a beer. We talked some more and then danced some more. I was actually enjoying myself. Then, as we were dancing a slow dance, he whispered into my ear, "Should we go now? Do you want to come with me to my place or should we go to yours?"

I was stunned. "I just met you! I'm not going to go home with you!"

He looked bewildered. "But I thought people come here to hook up with someone."

"Well, yeah, but not that fast! I came here to meet a man, not to be a pickup."

Mutually embarrassed, we drifted away from one another. I finished my beer and went home, but this time I didn't cry. It was time for a new plan.

Lesson #5 - Don't Go Anywhere Near Anything Calling Itself a "Singles Dance"

Okay, time for a new plan. I saw an ad in the paper for a "Singles Dance" at a place called "The Jukebox," on Friday night. I drove by it first, to check it out. It looked okay. Kind of a bar, restaurant, music place, in a decent neighborhood. Nothing to lose but my pride, I reasoned, so on Friday night I decked myself out in what I hoped was an attractive skirt, blouse and high heels (ugh) and placed myself on the meat market. I sat down at a table in a dimly lighted spot near the dance floor and ordered a Coke. I felt like a 40 year-old, nerdy teenager.

Much to my surprise, a youngish-looking guy came up and asked me to dance, before my Coke even arrived!

It was a slow dance, and he started talking, introducing himself and asking me various questions. "I'm Bob. What's your name?"

"I'm Zelda."

"How old are you?"

I was startled and annoyed by the impertinence of the question, so felt justified in lying. "Thirty-one." He seemed satisfied with that, and pulled me close to him as we continued dancing. Gradually, I became aware that he was leading us into a more brightly lit part of the dance floor. Then, he eased me away from him a bit and looked closely at my face.

"How old are you really?"

No, I didn't say, "Go fuck yourself, asshole!" But I wish I had. Instead, I excused myself, went back to the table to get my jacket, and drove home in a welter of tears.

Lesson #4: Don't Think You're Going to Find the Love of Your Life in a Bar

I was lonely. I was horny. I wanted a man. But, I had no idea how to meet men in a safe, respectable way. I went to a tavern, one Saturday evening, ostensibly to listen to the band. I stood at the bar, drinking a beer and watching the band, hoping some nice man would ask me to dance. I tried to look relaxed and worldly, but I was uncomfortable and unsure of myself, and I'm sure it showed. No one in the entire place paid any attention to me, and I left after a half-hour or so. I went back to my apartment and cried myself to sleep.

-

I decided to try again, at a different place...a fancier place, with a bigger dance floor and a better band. And this time, I decided to go with a friend of mine, so I wouldn't feel so alone and awkward. Cindy was also newly divorced and keenly interested in meeting someone. Unfortunately, Cindy was younger, better-looking and more self-confident than I was, so I was doomed from the start. We sat down at the crowded bar and ordered drinks. The only remaining empty seat was to my right. A nice-looking man, maybe in his late thirties, sat down. He looked past me, at Cindy, and spoke to her. She smiled at him, and answered. They talked back and forth, around me, until I finally stood up and said, "Here Cindy. Take this seat." And I moved over to where she had been. The happy couple then took to the dance floor, and I got up and went home.

To be continued...

Lesson #3: Don't Walk By Yourself In a Dicey Neighborhood After Dark

Not even if you're just going to the office to finish up some bookwork that is due tomorrow.

The office was on West King Street, not exactly a bad neighborhood, but not exactly good, either. It was about 9:00 pm, and I was still in my "don't give in to fear" mode, so of course I had to walk the mile and a half to my destination. You'd have to be a real woose to get in the car and drive that short distance. It turns out that a "not exactly bad neighborhood" looks a lot badder after dark, in spite of streetlights and lighted storefronts. So I was getting nervous, as I passed various shady-looking characters hanging around on street corners and in front of the neighborhood bar.

But! I must not give in to fear!! I am woman! I am strong! I was about two blocks from my destination when a young man, who looked like a good-natured, hippy type of guy, came up to me and said, "Ma'am, you should NOT be walking by yourself in this neighborhood. It's not safe. Where are you going? I'll stay with you until you get there." I was flabbergasted, but convinced.

He hooked his arm in mine and walked me to the door of the office. I thanked him, and then he told me to take a taxi when it was time to go home.

I did. And I remembered what he said, and never repeated that particular imprudent act. After all, even a cat has only nine lives, and I had already used up three of mine.

Lesson #2 - Don't Walk Through Alleys

I had lived in the country for the previous 14 years. It was scary living in the city, all by myself. I, however, was determined not to give in to fear, and ended up doing a lot of stupid things, just to show myself that I wasn't afraid, even if I was.

My apartment was one mile from the office where I worked. I had a car, but it was old and unreliable, and I enjoyed walking, so I always walked to and from work. I did not, however, enjoy walking down busy, noisy city streets, so whenever possible I took alley shortcuts. These alleys were not ugly, trashy, rat-infested alleys that you picture in big cities; they were more like driveways between the small backyards of row houses. So, it was pleasant, especially in the spring and summer, when there were flowers blooming. One day, I was walking home from work, about 4:30 pm, and was in an alley, about halfway between one street and the next. All of a sudden, with no warning, I felt someone grab my ass. I jumped and screamed. A young man, riding a bicycle, zipped by me and then stopped a few yards ahead of me. He was grinning, in what to me seemed a menacing way. I yelled, "Leave me alone! Get out of here!" He biked a few yards farther and stopped again, leering at me. I kept yelling, as loud as I could. He kept going a little farther and stopping again. Finally, we were getting close to the end of the alley, and he gave up and rode away, I thought. But, when I got to the sidewalk, I saw him about a half-block away.

So, there I was, only about five or six blocks from home, but I didn't dare go home, because the bastard might follow me and learn where I live. I kept walking, zig-zagging back and forth until I was sure I had lost him, and finally got home. I ran up the stairs to my apartment and closed and locked the door. I was so upset, I needed to talk to someone. I called my friend, Kerry, and was telling her, through my tears, what had happened. I became aware that my buttcheek, where the guy had grabbed me, was itching wildly and getting worse by the second. Finally, I had to say goodbye to Kerry and examine the offending body part. The whole cheek was inflamed, and covered with big, red welts! Hives! Somehow, my body reacted to the affront, just as it would to some kind of allergen. Crazy, huh? It subsided after a while, and I made the second of many vows to be more careful in the future.