When Back-Up Plans Become The Plan

I’ve been dilly-dallying about writing this post for months. In some ways, writing this out will make it more real for me, and in some ways it terrifies me to write it. Because what if writing it makes it not so? What if writing it curses the whole thing? This will all seem very confusing in light of recent developments in my previously existing love life, I’m sure. What if everyone says I’m crazy. But hey, it’s Independence Day, so let’s give it a whirl.

Things have been in the works, in discussion, for years in a way. But now? The back-up plan may just come to fruition. And while I am entirely glowingly delighted, I am nervous something will go wrong.

BC, my dearest homo friend, and I have been friends for nine years, ever since a summer as camp counselors in New Jersey. We’ve been through deaths in the family, break ups, horrible birthdays, living together (twice), long distance friendship, and thousands of hours talking, laughing, crying, and watching the Golden Girls on t.v.

And we’re both good little citizens. He has a great job in public service working with kids. I have a good stable job in the bureaucracy. He’s buying a home. I’m looking. We have good benefits, close families, and local friends. And all along the way, we’ve discussed the back-up plan.

The back-up plan has been around for at least three years now as a fully functioning concept. Essentially, we’d become Will & Grace. But it would actually work out in the end and not have some bizarre flashback-filled series end episode. We want to have a baby. Our baby. And to raise it- together.

 You see, through ten years and even my engagement, we both like each other better than anyone else. Well, except for the “intimate” bits. We have the same ideas about what we want as parents- education, religion, family, neighborhoods, rules, etc.  BC has been my go-to person in matters of the heart, when I needed nursed back from my surgery (even when I was living with the ex who couldn’t bother), when I needed moved in a flood, when I needed a bourbon or a shoulder to cry on.

And after a few swoon-worthy moments lately, I still want the back-up plan.

It probably doesn’t make sense to a lot of people who would argue that we should both partner off with our own kind and wait, even if we had to adopt to make it happen with our significant others. But the thing of it is- I don’t want to. And we both glow like fireflies when we get talking about it- about the logistics, about the late nights in the early years (when BC would move in with me to help with the load), about baby names.

And we both agree, neither of us would want more than a baby just like the other. Which is something I’ve always wanted to feel about whoever I had children with.  So in January while we were both in New Orleans, I floated the plan again. And he said he’s just waiting for me to say the word. On my own time.

So, am I insane? Would it really be so odd- to have a baby with someone I love dearly and who loves me back, even if we aren’t the traditional couple everyone thinks of as parents? Would it be so bad to raise a child with two people who never divorced or had drama to love it, even if they eventually paired off with other people?

I’ve been over and over it all in my head a thousand times and asked all the questions about what the future would hold if… if BC met someone. If I did. If work kept calling me out of town all the time. If, if, if. And it keeps coming down to the basics. In ten years, a thousand ifs have come up. And we have always, with grace, laughter, and a sense of humor, managed to come together stronger than ever in our love for each other.

So what if we just go through with it? I’ve already been to my doctor and gotten the long list of to-do’s for the next year to get ready- vitamins, exercise, quitting smoking, and switching out the bourbon for water more often. I’ve got an eye on the income and the finances. I’ve started to set aside a little money and scoped out the health insurance, which would cover the whole procedure.

It’s a game of hurry up and wait. But for once, I’m actually excited about a back-up plan more than the original. And I have a year to make the final arrangements. The clock (my biological one) is ticking on down at 32.

And I think, just once, I have made the right decision about a man.

One Last Night in San Francisco

The Canadian gave me a call on the final day and asked what I had to do after work. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. So, we decided it was the perfect evening to rendezvous late and go for a streetcar ride. I had ridden the car from Union Square halfway up for a quick bite to eat, but hadn’t gotten around to the end of the line yet. We met up by my hotel and strolled over to get in line.

The whole time, I wanted to become a complete tourist and whip out the digital camera. OK, partially because I wanted a picture of the Canadian to take home and partly to take in the scenery. The Canadian pointed out various landmarks and places already visited along the way. It was chilly and we’d decided on the outside bench seating on the car, so we snuggled up a little bit closer.

At the end of line, we wandered into Little Italy to a beer spot and I got treated to a java mocha porter while we sat and chatted. The Canadian was a little restless though. I’d start a conversation only to get interrupted or have a menu thrust at me by a waiter. In the end, we decided to split some nachos which got wolfed down in short order and since I had an early morning at work we started winding our way back to the streetcar.

I couldn’t believe it. After all the drama of the last year, I finally meet an interesting, smart, funny urban planner in San Francisco who I can spend three wonderful evenings with and of course it would be someone from another country. Clearly, I never choose the easy way. The whole chilly ride back I smiled and nodded, but kept thinking how bummed I was that I had to go back to Pittsburgh alone the next day.

When we got back to Union Square, there was another offer to walk me back to my hotel. We held hands swinging along down the sidewalk. The Canadian had another two weeks before the long trip back to Vancouver. I had a week to go before I winged off for two weeks in New Orleans. We both had a craving for pizza which we quickly satisfied. And as the evening went later and later, well, I started to wonder how late it could go…. or if we had other, ahem, cravings in common, if you know what I mean….

Finally I insisted on heading back to the hotel so I could get a few hours of sleep before the long trip back to Pittsburgh the next day. Ever polite, the Canadian escorted me back. We talked about how rare it was to meet someone who really clicked, especially in a random bar, in a random town, from another country, with as much in common as we had. We swooned and made a few moony eyes at each other. We exchanged e-mail addresses and promised to drop each other a line. We both agreed it had been a wonderful three days. And…….

Well, ever the lady, I will leave it at this. We went out for a lovely coffee- the next morning.

San Francisco, Part Two

Not to keep you waiting, I promised more to come, and here’s part two of the Canadian incident. I went to work for the day the next day, called and arranged to change my table for one to a table for two, texted the details to the Canadian, threw on a semi-acceptable dress (I don’t generally pack for dinner dates on work trips), and flew out the door.

When I got to the restaurant a few minutes early, I had one of those awkward moments- should I go in and sit down until the Canadian arrived, call and see when to expect to meet, stand like a big geek outside looking confused? Luckily, I was rescued by a text: “I’m in the bar next door- come join me when you arrive.”  The Canadian was right inside the door slowly nursing a Red Stripe and watching hockey news. We made small talk about Pittsburgh’s Stanley Cup chances and headed over to the restaurant.

I’d made sure to ask for seating in the outdoor courtyard where they were showing Chinatown, but was a little nervous about the chilly, breezy night. No need. The courtyard was glowing with candles and white string lights, and heaters spaced all over which made it Florida warm. We checked out the menu, were relieved to find neither of us had weird food issues, and the waitress asked about wine. I know nothing about wine. The Canadian asked if I minded a suggestion and ordered a bottle of red and an appetizer to share.

I’m a little out of practice on the dating front. It’s been four years since I had anything resembling a first date, and even then, I had met my eventual ex through friends, so I knew I could make small talk. What if we had absolutely nothing to talk about? My hockey knowledge was not going to be enough to get us through a two hour dinner. I was rescued again by the lovely couple seated next to us. They were doing shots of Jameson’s with a tasting menu, so were feeling very friendly and asked us where we were from, made suggestions from the menu, had hilarious tales of road trips, and took frequent smoke breaks which gave the Canadian and I a chance to bond over how amusingly drunk the two of them were. By the time they had finished their meal and left, we were clipping along nicely on our own.

A month on the road in San Francisco and five years teaching English in Korea left the Canadian with a wealth of stories to tell, and I fell back on travel disasters and work stories. We toasted our general good fortune, to being young and  travelling and in a fine restaurant in a beautiful city. And by the time the check came around, the waitress was asking us how long we had been together, which made both of us blush. And did I mention that the Canadian is a fellow redhead? When two redheads blush, you can see the glow from space.

We slipped out into the chilly night and somehow, on the walk to the BART, one hand slipped into another and we strolled along, thumbs rubbing, and at least in my stomach, butterflies fluttering about while we grinned like Cheshire cats. And when the Canadian decided to get off at my stop and walk me back to my hotel, and we lingered to share a kiss with the sounds of the streetcar bell in the background at Union Square, well….

Let’s just say… it was quite a date. And that I had one more night in San Francisco to go.

Not the Post You’re Waiting For

Sometimes being a blogger has its perks. It’s a great way to kill a lunch break or a rainy Saturday.  It can be done in pajamas (or nothing at all, I suppose). You get the chance to meet really great people who root for you when things are going well and send thoughtful messages when they aren’t. And occasionally, if you are very, very lucky, you get free stuff.

You may have noticed that it’s not very commercialized around here. The blog is free, which fits my budget just right, and sometimes the ads on other pages give me a headache or make it too hard to find the actual content. Besides, WordPress won’t let me unless I give them money. Free is one of my favorite words.

So, when I got an email out of the blue asking if I’d like to meet up about hosting a Gap promo party for free  I had my doubts, but hello, the price was right. And when I went to said meeting and was allowed to pick out a Gap outfit for free I realized this could be love.

Call me a sell-out. Fine. I do not intend to blog excessively about my love of all things Gap, with product placement and clever denim taglines. But if you see me around, I may be wearing these very cute (and did I mention free) items .  And fingers crossed, if they liked me back, there may be more schwag in my future. And I promise to share it with you, if that happens.

Because you all rule. And I hope you’ll still love me, even if I am now a proud recipient of the man’s free goodies. Like these?

My pretty, pretty tank top

The pants which actually came in ankle length

Not quite the cardigan, I got but the color is right. Mine has a flirty ruffle at the bottom

And yes, I will fill you in on the Canadian. Possibly tonight? Possibly tomorrow morning? Who knows…. I am an international woman of mystery.

Mood Swings and Complications

Last night, to regain a little perspective on the ex’s new love life, I dug down deep in the stack of pink-covered books hidden in the corner behind the bookshelf where the respectable books can’t see them for my copy of It’s Called a Breakup Because It’s Broken. OK. Generally, this kind of book makes my eyes bleed. But a friend insisted after the called-off wedding when I stayed in bed for four days that I give this book a shot. It’s a little bit cheesy, but the repetition of all the reasons it’s over and why it’s a good thing and it should stay that way is soothing. And I vigorously outlined all the parts that reminded me what an ass he had been. Over three cups of the strong coffee I smuggled back from N’awlins. Not my ideal way to spend an evening, but it helped with perspective.

Because I am trying to force myself to be fully emotionally bipolar at all times for your reading pleasure, here’s a rundown on my own, non-ex-related, so-called love life of late.

On my trip to San Francisco last month, in addition to devouring frites and going on the loveliest shopping spree with Green (where I bought rosewater, candy delicacies, and an Italian leather journal no less), I kind of…. um…. met someone.

It happened precisely the way these things never happen to me.  I was bumming around the Mission District in search of a giant burrito the size of my forearm (which I definitely found), and while finishing it up, I decided to scan the Crackberry for other things to do in the neighborhood. An off-the-map locals bar popped up that looked ideal for happy hour, and just so happened to be a block and a half from the taqueria. Away I went, probably with cilantro still in my teeth.

When I walked in, I promptly remembered that I am no good at talking to strangers in bars, and bellied up to make some small talk with the bartender and grab a bourbon.  Then, being the adventuress that I am, I hopped back on the Crackberry and tried to look busy instead of socially awkward. A few minutes go by, and the bar stool next to mine fills up. I glance over- polo shirt, cargo shorts, leather wrist cuff… and ring on left hand. But of the funky sterling silver twisty variety and not very formal looking … hmmm.

Both of us continued the texting and web surfing bit for fifteen or twenty minutes until we were bumped, literally. The pool table was about two feet behind us and apparently we got in the way of the shot. Which meant we had pull our stools closer together. I made some silly comment about the dual dueling phones and we made polite introductions. From Canada, in town for a month visiting friends, who were supposed to come to the bar but bailed. The Canadian was peeved in a very cute way. I mentioned being in town on business and we started chatting.

One thing led to another, and two hours later we were still at the bar, talking about cities, and the bartender, and politics, taking turns saving seats to go outside and smoke, and swapping whose turn it was to buy the next round. I asked if the Canadian wanted another and the reply? “No, I’d rather get out of here before I’m drunk. Which way are you headed?” We strolled out and took the long way back to the BART in the dusk still rambling on and finding oddly that we had a lot in common, including fairly ugly break-ups in the last year (this girl’s thought? score!- I had hoped I was right about the ring).

The Canadian mentioned that the local friends, a lesbian couple, were homebodies and so travelling solo had become the norm. I mentioned a reservation for one at Foreign Cinema for great food the next night. And that it could probably easily become a reservation for two. Numbers were exchanged, and I promised to call or text if I could get a table for two with the address and time.

And dear readers….. I did. More to come on the continuing saga…

She Lives!!!

OK gang. I’m back- from San Francisco, Las Vegas, and two long bourbon-soaked weeks in New Orleans and have lots to tell. Shall I start with dinner with Green Yogurt on the West Coast? Or with the lovely Canadian I met in San Francisco and shared a romantic dinner and streetcar ride with? Or my big winnings on the penny slots in Vegas? Or the night I mixed six different kinds of cocktails on Bourbon Street and spilled my guts to a co-worker? With the story of BC’s newest venture? A summary of the rooftop party I went to last night? Or with the “big one” I promised over a month ago?

So many options, and so little time this morning, so I’ll leave those teasers and just add that the last few days have been a little rough. The ex is seeing someone. Seriously. Like, about to move in together seriously. And while I am trying to take Green’s advice and just be glad he’s making someone else miserable and not me, I’m taking it a little harder than I thought I would. Yes, he is jerk. Who cheated on me multiple times, drank too much, and made me cry until my face swelled shut. But, I confess, I’d prefer him to die old and alone and regretting breaking my heart. Not moving on and in with some girl he just met three weeks ago for pete’s sake.

Argh. Just when I think I have breathed my last pained breath over him, he invents a new and novel way of twisting the knife. I am trying to ignore it. I am trying to chant “Better her than me,” as my new mantra. And I am trying to get to a place where I can actually be happy for him (but really, that’s asking a bit much).

So, Saturday night, I holed up in bed with my Crackberry headphones, a pack of smokes, and a pile of blankets and listened to Tom Waits and stared at the ceiling until I was worn out from the effort. Avoiding that it hurts doesn’t make it any better. So, I may be wallowing in it this week. The sooner I get in and get dirty about grieving, the sooner this too shall pass. Right?

A big one in the works

I’ve been working on kind of a major post for a week or so now and can’t seem to get the tone just right. And that seems to be the way that life is going these days. I get a freelance writing assignment and everything I have to say sounds corny. I email my boss about some comp time coming up and it sounds like I’m kissing up. I text BC back teasingly and he apologizes profusely, thinking he’s offended me.

My communicator bits must be broken. Which is why I’m holding off on posting the major post until I can say what I mean and mean what I say again. In the meantime, no, I’m not mad at you.

Twenty Questions

Some days the cold medicine is just too strong to tax the brain with coming up with topics. And those days are perfect for quizzes!

from www.deadcharming.com

1. If your lover betrayed you, what would your reaction be?

Um, well, ahem. In my case, I called off the wedding. And stopped eating. And cried until my face was almost swollen shut and I had to throw up. I made the humiliating cancelled wedding phone calls. Then I made a big list of things to do and got off my butt to try and do something new.

2. If you have a dream you’d like to come true, what is it?

Leaving the rat race to live in a bohemia of my own making- writing all day while my beautiful children frolick about and having cocktails at tea time with BC to discuss the day in a giant shabby chic Victorian where we all live. Of course, money is no object.

3. Whose butt would you like to kick?

I’m not much for violence. There are lots of bad guys I think should get what’s coming to them- I’m just not the one to dole out the justice.

4. What would you do with a billion dollars?

You have no idea how detailed my plans for a major windfall are. The last page of all of my journals used to have lists of who got what when I came into the money. First steps- buy a great old house, a functional car, and pay off all the student loan and credit card debt in full.  Then do the same for my immediate family and nearest and dearest friends. Put my playwright friend on a living allowance for ten years to give her the freedom to really write instead of working temp jobs (and to thank her for all the times she helped me out in a jam).  For a mere $8 mil out of my billion, I could fund four years’ college for an entire high school graduating class. Fund a non-profit to help kids with the college apps process- I’ve gotten pretty good at this on my own, but there’s obviously a need.

Immediately start trying to have a baby. Buy those motorcycle boots I want. Treat myself to a Cartier tank watch (too pretty, but more money than I’d ever spend on myself if I had to earn it). Travel to Greece, take six months and do a grand tour of Europe. Get an iPod. Treat my Grandma to that mink coat she’s wanted for 80 years (even if I don’t like real fur).

5. Will your best friend always be your best friend?

At nine years and counting, I’m pretty confident that BC and I will stick together. As far as I can tell, there is no one else on earth who gets me and has the exact same pop culture references, along with his superhero-like ability to call right when I’m having a crisis and rescue me.

6. Have you ever been in love with two people at once?

Sometimes I question whether I’ve ever been in love with ONE person. Then again, I am pretty loving. I think the cynicism comes from the actions of the last few people I loved. I’ve never felt that torn-between-two-people feeling over anything more than “the hots” though.

7. How long would you wait for someone you really loved?

Wait for what? For them to get back from a trip? Years, if we could write letters. For sexy time? I could wait until marriage I think if I met someone it was important to, as long as we could still make out. For them to leave their wife? Not gonna happen. Move on.

8. If you won the lottery, would you quit your job?

Yes. But I would actually give them lots of notice and time to back-fill me so I could train my replacement. I really like my new boss and wouldn’t want to screw her over. 

9. Who is on your celebrity top 5…you know, the ones…that if you ever had an opportunity…

Hmmm. Oddly, the first few that come to mind are all women. In my experience, ridiculously attractive men are notoriously bad in the bedroom since they think they can slide by on looks alone.

• Rachel Maddow- I’m totally hot for funny policy geeks.
• John Stewart- see “Rachel Maddow”.
• Lindsey Lohan- I hear crazy chicks have got it going on…
• Ethan Hawke- but only in the Reality Bites version, not the cheats-on-his-wife version.
• Pacey from Dawson’s Creek.

10. What sucks the life out of you?

Dreary, cold, wet weather. People screaming on the bus. The idea of cleaning my whole house every weekend.

11. How do you see yourself in ten years time?

Settling in to my own home with two adorable and frustrating munchkins, easing back on the crazy driven career and enjoying working on my second novel.

12. What’s your greatest fear/phobia?

Drowning.

13. What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?

Granola northwesterner from what I can tell.

14. Would you rather be single and rich or married but poor?

Single and rich. Marriage is hard enough without adding money woes to the strain. Also, there’s no guarantee that I’d be happily married. Only married. I know what its like to be single. (Not rich, but I’m willing to try it). 

15. What’s the first thing you do when you wake up?

Check my Blackberry. Then I smoke a cigarette. Then move.

16. Would you give all in a relationship?

Give all? What does this mean? An organ? My life? This sounds scary and I refuse to commit to this.

17. Is your career vitally important to you?

In the sense that it provides the means for me to eat, dress, and obtain shelter, yes, my career is vitally important. In the sense that I would lose all meaning if I didn’t have it… enh, not so much.

18. Would you forgive and forget no matter how horrible a thing the someone has done?

Nope. I hold grudges. I’m not proud of it, but I do.

19. Do you prefer being single or having a relationship?

Single. In generally I am much too lazy for all of the work that relationships bring about. Maybe if I found someone easy to be with…

20. List 6 people to tag

Not gonna do it. No tagging for you. If you want to answer, do. If you don’t, don’t. I don’t mind either way. 

Where’s the Beach?

It had been almost three years since my last week-long vacation, and I forgot how hard returning to the real world can be after a week with nothing to do but lounge on a towel in the sun, eat, and occasionally splash in the waves. It doesn’t help that Pittsburgh refuses to actually have spring this year. I went from a week of highs in the 80’s and constant sunshine to highs in the low 60’s and constant clouds.

The vacation life always leads to me to fantasize about a permanent vacation- winning the lottery, retiring early, selling a book for millions of dollars. And by permanent vacation, I don’t mean to suggest I’d never be productive again. I get bored easily, even when it comes to sitting on my own couch, and love to have projects. The dream would be to set the project agenda myself: work on a book, take brilliant photographs, write real letters to everyone I know, learn to cook Indian food, sleep and wake when my body wants to instead of when the alarm goes off.

I actually discovered that when well-rested my body likes to wake up around 9 am. And all these years I said I was a night owl. But instead, on vacation, I woke up at 9, fixed breakfast, watched the waves from the patio, and eventually dragged myself and a pile of books out to the beach to roast (in SPF30- red hair and all). Lunch was generally fruit dragged out in my beach bag. Then for dinner, I either feasted on Mexican (which you cannot get in Pittsburgh), grilled out, or one lazy night, called for pizza. By ten or so, I was sun-sated and ready to hit the hay.

Things I did not miss: typing all day in front of a screen, my Blackberry, my expensive cable tv, dashing for buses, or bundling up in anything heavier than a sweatshirt. I skipped out on the computer access almost all week (with the exception of double-checking flight plans, the aforementioned pizza order, and congratulating my cousin on her early-arriving newborn). 

When I’m home, it’s amazing how much time I manage to kill (and I mean that literally) online.  I was reading whole books in a day or two, seeing sunrises and sunsets, visiting the manatee sanctuary where I waded in ten feet away from a whole family of them, writing poems, and cooking my own meals (instead of relying on takeout).  Don’t get me wrong- I know the computer is a necessary evil (and I find great reading material in many of your blogs). But the pointless clicking about for another article on “New Hair Ideas for Spring” or playing Word Challenge on Facebook or checking the top headlines on CNN for the 9 millionth time this hour is a major time suck.

If there’s one thing I got from vacation, besides 978 trillion new freckles, it’s the realization that I need to pick at least one day a week to unplug a little bit more. Or give myself a mom-style limit on browsing time. Because I’d much rather get caught up in an adventure than trapped deeper in the interwebs.

Out of the Office

I am leaving for vacation my dears and am trying to unplug for a while on the beach. I shall return by May 5th with beach-y tales to tell and a seashell for every last one of you.