Bite Me, Dating Scene!

I must confess that I am not in the current dating scene nor have I been in it since I was twenty years old, which was a gazillion years ago. I've had friends who divorced and then tried getting back into the dating scene, including one thing which amazed me--High Speed Dating. It's sort of like musical chairs with potential dates; you sit at a table with one guy (assuming you're into guys, that is), talk rapidly about anything you can think of (I would probably blather about my dog) , and when the buzzer sounds, you leap to the next table for another intimate encounter. Wow. Talk about spending time trying to get to know someone! Whatever happened to that?
As a child of the 50's (with a grandmother who was an actual, certified Victorian of great innocence, charm, and education), I was led to expect that one should put a little time into this business of getting to know someone. Especially someone with whom you might lie down in bed--or the grass--and investigate the perils and the marvels of human love. I actually wound up marrying the man I dated when I was sixteen-seventeen (gasp!), and by some magical alchemy and luck, we're still together. We took some time. Emphasis on some.
Each Sunday I read with fascination and trepidation the Globe Magazine spread on dating called, "Dinner With Cupid" (or, "Dinner With Stupid," my husband jokes) where they match up a guy and a girl, they meet for supper and wine at some cool place, and try and figure out if they have anything in common at all--other than belly buttons and screwed up feet. So they go out: they assess each other immediately; they judge each other's sense of humor, looks, friends, interests, sex appeal, and work. How can you possibly get to know someone in the space of 2-3 hours over a dinner? Did it work that way for you? I think this is basically insane, and we need to go back to the concept of actually getting to know someone. As in that fine old tune, "Getting to know yoouuu..." I'm not for going back to the repressed sexuality of the 50's, but I'd like to see people taking their time--savoring their dates--and being willing not to make a judgment in five minutes.
A dear friend of mine, after his divorce, met his current love-to-be, and they dated for four months before becoming intimate. Astounding. Not sure when the first kiss occured, but here's what's novel about these souls--they took their time.
Here's to savoring getting to know you--here's to holding back on judgment--here's to enjoying the unfolding of another human being, petal by petal, like some slow-blooming delectable rose. Bite me, speed dating!

In Praise of Small Dogs

Ok, I know this isn't a rant. "Praise" somehow doesn't go with "rant." But I'm not in a ranting mood, particularly when I view the object of my current affections--a small (12 pound), longhaired Jack Russell terrier named "Nita."
I used to be very scornful of anyone who owned a small dog. (Hell, I used to be more scornful in general before life and events scraped a little mercy into my soul.) How could they cradle that disgusting, furry creature in their arms, bringing them up to KISS them (ugh!), murmuring sweet nothings in doggese--"Wittle sweetums! Wittle yum-yums!"
But a few years ago my generous sister-in-law presented us with a white dog with a brown eye patch who unerringly tasted the moods in our house: if someone was sad, Nita would plant her front paws on our chests and lick our eyes. (This should be an "ugh!" but, trust me, it isn't.) If we were a tad manic, she'd out-manic us by performing what came to be known as "bullet-ass," running around the house, bounding over the sofas, and careening under the kitchen table, with her ass tucked under. It didn't matter how bad a mood you were in, bullet-ass would kick you out of it.
Then there's the wordless murmurings and furry kisses. I admit to inventing some new sound which I can only approximate as, "Wmmm-mmm, umm-meee," repeated at cozy intervals as the dog cocked her head and seemed to appreciate it. I hate to admit that I probably kiss this dratted dog more than any other significant other in my life. (Sorry, Rick!) There's something so loveable about a creature who does not ask for love, who puts up with great dignity a deluge of kisses and odd murmurings.
So, bite me! I am besotted of a tiny creature who has no language and cannot read Proust. Or directions. Or open child-proof bottles. But she sure is an expert on love.

Bite Me, Pseudo-Girdles!

All right, I've reached that age. It used to be that my mother-in-law would assess my hip width with a strict gaze, making little motions with one hand, pursing her lips, and then saying--"You know, Ann, you've got good hips for child-bearing!" Happy to know that, mom-in-law! And these hips did happily accomodate two babies. But somehow, we have gone from the fruitful-of-loins category to the needing-to-be-reined-in category. I rammed up against this a few weeks back when I was shopping at my favorite high-end store which I can no longer afford to shop in. I think I had managed to find some garment under $100 (perhaps it was one sock, not even a pair), when the saleslady gave me an assessing look, and with a little purse of her lips mentioned that, "I wear this tightening pair right under my dressy pants, say, if I'm going to a wedding or something." What in hell was she talking about? "Tightening pair?" "You mean GIRDLE?" I replied in a bitter voice. She shook her head. " Not really that, just--tightening," she made the same motion with her hand as my mother-in-law had done years ago. But this time it was clear: the width of my body was no longer to be celebrated and acclaimed--it was to be reined in and reduced.
Hell, I know I shouldn't be going downstairs to make chocolate chip cupcakes. Or oatmeal scones. Or Earl Grey tea with cream and one sugar. (I have my limits, after all!) But this "tightening" thing triggers all sorts of warning signals. Such as; scenes of ladies in the late 50's standing stock still on an exercising stand with some sort of elastic tubing whipping back and forth against the butt, hopefully to reduce it. And all without any effort on our parts! Second warning signal: Memories of real girdles which were made with some sort of fossilized mamoth skin, devoid of elasticity and rigid on the body. Meaning--don't eat or drink when wearing this baby! I'm sorry, those days are gone, simply....gone. We know that a smaller stomach would probably be a good thing, for all sorts of reasons. But I've developed a fondness for my second stomach, my marsupial pouch. Sure, I've almost forgotten what it was like to sit down and not have my front half fold into separate layers, with a whisper of sound. But the good news is this: come to my house any afternoon and I am sure to have something freshly baked to go with tea. You get taken care of as do I. We share tea, talk about our lives--the parts that work and the parts that don't--and lave ourselves with fresh goodies and companionship. Forget the tightening thing--it's for people who care. And people who are trying to look like something they aren't any longer.