Awake

Recently I exchanged emails with a lovely man on a dating site. He was just my type. I know my type because my girlfriend made me make out a list of the important qualities I would need in a man for him to qualify as boyfriend material.

“Be specific,” she said, “and do it now, while I’m sitting here watching you.”
I grabbed a piece of scrap paper and scribbled, ‘smart, funny, kind,’ then added, ‘employed.’ I handed my friend the paper, saying, “here.” She handed it back and said now go put it under your pillow.
“All the way upstairs?”
“Yes,” she said, “I’ll wait.”
I said, “So, you’re saying this won’t work if I put it in the cheese drawer of my refrigerator?”
“Under your pillow, smartass,” she said.
So I did. And she waited.

Apparently it worked. This guy’s profile was smiling, smart, age-appropriate and there was no inappropriate use of quotation marks-- as in, “I really ‘enjoy’ canoeing.” We liked similar movies, similar music and he seemed sweet and funny on the phone. We made a plan to meet for a quick lunch and I told him to call anytime after 8am to firm our plans and that I had until 2pm. He said that he hoped he would be awake in time. I thought, hmm, awake? Well, that’s when most people call, after they wake up. Did he mean awake in time to have lunch? Well, I guess I’ll find out.

At 10:45am he emailed. He apologized for not contacting me sooner, not because he had just woken up but because he hadn’t gone to sleep yet-- from the night before. Apparently the stress of being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed in order to meet potential lady friends had taken its toll and he had been suffering from debilitating insomnia for a while now, or more specifically, ever since he joined the dating site scene. But then he added brightly that he really liked the way I write and wouldn’t it be fun to continue emailing? Then he wrapped up with, “Why don’t you tell me all about yourself? That way I can reply at 3am when I’m awake and you’re asleep.”

I thought about his offer for about four minutes, then I wrote back to him. Very politely and with grace and empathy I wrote that although he was clearly a great guy, I wasn’t looking for a pen pal. I wrote that I want to see his face and hear his laugh. I want to go to the movies, hold hands and maybe split a chocolate nut brownie ala mode—none of which I could do to my level of satisfaction online. I wished him well and said that if he every gets his sleeping issues in order, he would be welcome to call. He wrote me a very friendly, understanding response.

That night as I was arranging my pillows for bed—at 10pm-- I came across that rumpled piece of paper; the list. I took it out and read it again. It never occurred to me that I would have to be so specific. I just assumed that there were some things that were a given; some things that I could actually take for granted. But, apparently not. I would have to be very specific. So I grabbed a pen off my night stand and scrolled down my rumpled list; smart, funny, kind, employed,” then I added, “nice to kids, likes his mother, chews with mouth closed,” and “awake.”

Regrets

Why sleep
when I can write?
Sleeping's for sissies
I always say.

But I don't mean it
I know I should try
and would if I could so
out goes the light.

Then all my regrets
come bumbling in,
turn on the light and
make themselves comfortable.

Uninvited, one leans
on the empty pillow
facing me
with snide eyes

A couple more
begin to sit
at the foot of the bed
without decorum

I have to shift
my knees, feet quickly
An elbow jabs
me in the back

While others hover
with bad breath
and look at me
expectantly

Now who's the sissy?
one seems to chide
Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda
the introductions go

They think they're more
entertaining than they are.
Don't you all have
a bus to catch?

Don't you have
somewhere to be
at three-eighteen
in the morning?

Shove off, bubs.
I have work to do
and you weren't so special
to begin with.

Touch Points

When they slept, that second night
She couldn’t sleep, scooted away
To the outskirts, precipice
The edge, her mad desires at bay

As he slept, that second night
She couldn’t sleep, she listened in
To his breathing, watched his lids
Her room too quiet, skin too thin

In his sleep, he stretched out towards her
Seismic shift, or subtle ebb
Til’ his skin, a speck, mere dot of it
Threatened them, their rift, their web

Instead of sleeping, she slipped down to
Where they touched, two points, pin heads
There, the channel, bridged, connected
Kept them flowing, inward led

There she couldn’t pretend he wasn’t
In her bed, her mind, her hair
But all that mighty light and energy
Couldn’t save her darkened lair

Those two points, those dots kept her awake
Til the window broke the shell
Of their delusion, his exclusion
Their separate-but-equal private hells

Once awake the points no longer touched
Bridge was broken, dots dissolved
He got up, got dressed and left her
Goddess of sunny, morning resolve

Neither point could know it was the last
Time they’d touch in just that way
Neither dot could see it coming
No time to ask its friend to stay

Sometimes things, they end with a mere nod
Foreshadowing readily ignored
Sometimes points that touched, that’s all they get
Now they’ll long, having once adored.

Wee Hours

Johnny wandered into our room at 3:38am carrying with him an arsenal of sleeping paraphernalia including: handsome plush Diego pillow from in-laws; the revered-to-near-piety Blue Blanket; and assorted stuffed animals including Cutiepie, Sweetiepie, and the one that my husband's college girlfriend gave him for Valentine's Day back when her handwriting was loopier. Yes, the tag read "To Jim, Love Louise" before I ripped it off and threw it away. Oops, did I do that? Johnnie, you can keep the bear but the tag's gotta go.

So after about five interminable minutes I carry Jimmy back to his bed and then make a second trip for his gear. (or do I call him Johnny? It's hard to keep track of his Nom de Blog) Then back into bed goes me but it's too late, I'm wide-awake and nothing but nothing is working. I should just get up out of bed and go downstairs and write something, but I lay there proclaiming, "Any minute now I will fall back to sleep." But I don't believe me. So up I go and into my cozy house sweater and slippers. Groping my way downstairs, I glide past the computer where I register a flicker of thought, a passing internal nod to that thing I read that said that sitting in front of a computer will wake you up more not make you sleepy. Something about gamma rays, so on goes the TV.

What to watch, what to watch. I guess the writers' strike will pretty much see to it that the Tivo cupboard is bare. So let's click over to the movie channels when, hey, what's this? Cybill Sheperd and Barbara Eden? Should be bad, let's take a look.

Wow, look at Cybill Sheperd. She's probably about 24 and a total knock out. Possibly one of the worst actors of her generation but what a stunner. Woa, look at those sunglasses. Quite the face acreage they cover. And is Barbara Eden wearing a powder blue denim zip front pantsuit? Nice.

So what's the story, now? Let's see, give me a minute, yes, I think I've got it. Cybill is a housewife circa 1978 and she's feeling ignored by her husband. Her world-weary sidekick, Barbara, eggs her on when Cybill considers an affair with her dentist. Hijinx ensue at the restaurant when Cybill wears a black wide brimmed sunhat and reflective sunglasses atop what looks to be a cat burglar’s outfit. I'm embarrassed for her. And the screenwriter. And the director. They must have left the country after this came out.

So, after their dinner of steak tartar, "Waiter, she'll have what I'm having," they drive off to meet at the motel, her in her wood-paneled station wagon and he in his snazzy convertable. Just as he's loostening his tie, she tells the dentist to take a hike. Too premeditated, too stiff. And besides, she wants to be told she's pretty, she wants to order what she wants for dinner and the lady wants dessert! Then off she goes in a Shakespearian huff. Door slams.

The next day she wanders down the street, braless, with her pal Barbara, whining, "Why can't it just happen naturally?" When lo and behold, there's a poster in the window of a bookstore for a debonair and well-haired author complete with ascot-over-hairy-chest-and-open-collar. And his book signing's today!

In she walks and just stares him down from a cross the room, sort of squinty-like. Her long blonde hair splays all down her naked shoulders and falls just above the nippley area of her diaphanous lilac dress. I mean, we are talking a come-hither look of Olympic concentration. You haven't seen silent hunger until you've seen Cybill acting her little heart out for the big climax of the film, I mean movie. And do not underestimate the soundtrack. It's as if the tenor sax was kidnapped and being held captive by the late shift at Hooters. Without a word the author locks eyes with Cybill and shoving the pen and book back at his adoring book club fan, he bolts in the middle of his book signing for what appears to be a sure thing with a neglected housewife. Suh'weet.

Cut to the 37 foot sailboat and him holding her delicate wrist as she minces aboard. Full shot of sails fluttering postcoitally. Cut to them sailing across the bay, wind in hairs. She's glad she did it, but wants no more from Senor Debonair. He advises her not to tell her husband. He's clearly done this before. She imagines all the possible scenarios playing out. We know she's imagining because she actually touches her finger to her chin.

Then finally she can't take it any longer. "Honey, we need to talk."
And wouldn't you know, he interrupts, (he's an interrupter, too, the jerk) and tells her that he's decided to stop seeing That Woman and that, "She never meant anything to me." No kidding!

Cybill stays mum.

He confesses that she and the kids mean more to him, "Than you'll ever know." And that he's sorry, so sorry, "It'll never happen again."

Cybill more mum.

Then she throws him in the pool, beats her tiny fists at his executive chest and collapses into his arms full of de passion. Cut to the big finish where they check into a motel, smirking. Get it? Husband and wife check into a motel to revive their marriage.

That's so funny I forgot to laugh.


The very next day, one of my dearest and oldest friends tells me he's having an affair with a married woman. To be clear, he doesn't tell me. I guess. I guessed because I know how it started and could see where it was headed as if it were as clear as the penis on his brain. Or in this case, the vagina on her face. He is Angelina to her Brad Pitt and like a freight train on a collision course, nothing was going to, well, you know the rest. And that's the problem. We all know the rest because it's so been done. Done to death. Somebody please bring me some new material to work with, here, will ya? Not that old story again. Feh.

So what am I to make of all this? I tell him all about Cybill and what she went through. I tell him that I won't judge him and I won't tell anyone but that I really think he should stop having dinner with them both in their home, at his dinner table, drinking his wine. (Oh, yes, have I mentioned they're all friends?) It's really de trop. But the biggest thing I think to myself while I'm trying not to read him the riot act, and trying to stay out of it because it's none of my beeswax, and reminding myself that she's the infidel in this woolly scenario and an adult and responsible for her own choices, and where was I? Oh yes. What I'm thinking is that infidelity hasn't really changed all that much since 1978.

It's still just as cliched and full of hack dialogue as a Cybill Sheperd vehicle but without the tidy ending. The Infidel will always be tormented. The Spouse will always find out. Trust will be broken and people will become hardened. And the grandpappy of them all will echo into the late afternoon, bouncing off their empty hearts and minds once the tingles have worn off. Yes, that old standby, "It seemed like a good idea at the time," will still be the hideous Gollum-like culprit cowering in the corner, the tagline to the saga they both point their ugly guilty fingers at.

Of course it seems like a good idea. It always does, you nitwit. It's the biggest, free-est adrenaline rush of a rollercoaster ride you can ride. It's the ultimate danger junkie's opiate. The purist and messiest high. But we all know how it ends. And we know it's rarely worth it, unless of course you're permanently jumping ship for another port. Which by all means, knock your self out and may the best lay win. But weren’t all of Johnny Carson's first three wives named some derivative of Joanne? And don't they say that four out of five serial infidels will tell you that they should have stayed with their first marriage? Stuck it out, made it work? Been a bigger person. Risen above the cliche.

But what do I know? Get back to me in another seven years. Mean time, back to sleep.

And no more cable.