Suebob's Red Stapler

So I went on a date.

I know that just two posts ago, I was saying how I WASN’T going to be dating, but I decided to switch it up. I have to keep you readers on your toes.

I met this guy and he asked me out. I didn’t know anything about him, but I thought “What the heck?” So I said yes. I guess that’s how these things work.

The good news is that he was better than Jerry. I mean, he managed not to call me a whore in the first 2 minutes, so that’s good, right? Actually, he didn’t call me a whore at all, so he deserves a gold star or something.

Spoiler alert: We won’t be going out again.

Clue number one was that he didn’t shave. I know it wasn’t a real formal date. No white tie or tails were involved. There were no waltz numbers. But still, aren’t there minimum basic standards? Shaving, for me, is one. Also, please brush your teeth (I have no idea whether he brushed his teeth or not. So I guess that tells you how the date ended. WITHOUT KISSING. Of course, he ate ahi, so you probably wouldn’t have known if he had brushed his teeth earlier. Am I overthinking this too much?)

Clue number two was the classic rock. I will only really rail against one type of music, and that is classic rock. It’s fine. It really is. I just think it shows a profound lack of creativity or love of learning or curiosity or SOMETHING to keep listening just to the same 100 songs for 40 years.

Me: So, what kind of music do you like?
Him: Classic rock.
Me: What else?
Him: Oh, mostly just classic rock. And pop, I guess.

SHUT THE DOOR. You can listen to some classic rock. But for God’s sake, throw something else in the mix if you want me to stick around. Deadmau5. Mumford & Sons. The Mountain Goats. Rihanna. Anything. Just some other damned thing to show your ears didn’t fall off in 1985.

There were other little things. Not bad things, just things. But then…after a few beers…he told me his dream. He confided his dream to me, and because I am the kind of shithead who does these kind of things – in other words, a writer – I am going to share his confidential dream with you.

Bear in mind that he is my age. And that he has ever been in a band. Never had formal musical training. Never sung anywhere, outside of karaoke.

His dream, the thing he wants to work on this year, is getting on the X Factor, The Voice, and American Idol.

I’ll let that settle for a minute.

“But I could blow them all away,” he said. Then he sang a few lines of classic rock, walking along down by the harbor.

Oh my, people.

I don’t even know what to do with that. It would be like me trying to get published in the New Yorker this year. Ah, probably even less likely, since people have actually paid me to write a thing or two. But in either case, not gonna happen.

I’m all for dreams. I’m all for going for it. But completely unrealistic dreams that you have never ever taken a step toward, but for which you have some completely folly-filled confidence you’ll magically attain.

I had to wonder if it is a consequence of our culture of positivity, that tells us anyone can do anything if they dream. I don’t believe it. I believe anyone can do anything if they work hard enough and have enough natural talent and enough luck and are in the right place at the right time.

No, my friend. You will not be on American Idol. For one, the maximum age on Idol is 28, something you passed more than 20 years ago. (“They might have a problem with my age,” he admitted.)

Step away from the nitrous oxide. And don’t ask me out again. (He did. But I declined. I told him “You Can Go Your Own Way.” But “Don’t Stop Believin'” and “Dream On.” Ok, I’m out…)

I could have been a ballerina. If I were shorter, lighter and not incredibly clumsy.

I have been afraid to write it because it seems so gloomy and pointless.

This winter was dark in every way. Putting Goldie down at the end of September was perhaps the worst time to do it, as the seasons swung down into darkness. There were a few bright days right after that, or at least briefly diverting, with a Toyota trip that included “camping” and kayaking, and then Creative Alliance 12, which would soothe anyone, no matter how much their heart hurt.

But after that the darkness pulled down, down, down. My best friend’s mom died. Then Sandy Hook. Then my cousin killed himself the next day, on December 15. His funeral, a giant, sprawling, horribly sad affair (though a beautiful tribute) was December 22.

I’m never much on Christmas, because of the Seasonal Affective Disorder, but this year it just didn’t exist, though I stood on stage at my church’s Christmas Eve pageant with all of the other performers.

In the midst of it was me, a tiny person stuck in the little crack of time between when I awoke and when I could go to sleep again.

It’s weird what keeps us going. Thank God for the things that act like lilypads of hope for us to jump to, one after the other, small, fragile, but just enough.

For me it was Zumba. One hour at a time of jumping around and looking like a lunatic and sweating with other ladies, laughing. One hour maybe three or four times a week, five if I was lucky. My heart was broken, but my thighs got strong.

That was about it. I would go over to my mom’s house and have nothing to say. I’d sit in the corner of the couch and listen to her rattle on about what she had for lunch, wondering how soon I could politely leave.

I would see my friends for an hour or two and then fade back home, on the couch, hiding from the darkness with red wine and some popcorn, waiting until it was time to go to sleep.

It has started to change in the past few weeks. I got this dog, which is another post, because that wasn’t easy, either. I love her, but damn, it’s still hard.

But now I have a new boss, more fun work, and…sun. The sun is coming back. Next year I have to get the meds, because I can’t spend five months a year like this. No one should have to. And there’s some stuff I have to figure out. Onward.

I have been afraid to write it because it seems so gloomy and pointless.

This winter was dark in every way. Putting Goldie down at the end of September was perhaps the worst time to do it, as the seasons swung down into darkness. There were a few bright days right after that, or at least briefly diverting, with a Toyota trip that included “camping” and kayaking, and then Creative Alliance 12, which would soothe anyone, no matter how much their heart hurt.

But after that the darkness pulled down, down, down. My best friend’s mom died. Then Sandy Hook. Then my cousin killed himself the next day, on December 15. His funeral, a giant, sprawling, horribly sad affair (though a beautiful tribute) was December 22.

I’m never much on Christmas, because of the Seasonal Affective Disorder, but this year it just didn’t exist, though I stood on stage at my church’s Christmas Eve pageant with all of the other performers.

In the midst of it was me, a tiny person stuck in the little crack of time between when I awoke and when I could go to sleep again.

It’s weird what keeps us going. Thank God for the things that act like lilypads of hope for us to jump to, one after the other, small, fragile, but just enough.

For me it was Zumba. One hour at a time of jumping around and looking like a lunatic and sweating with other ladies, laughing. One hour maybe three or four times a week, five if I was lucky. My heart was broken, but my thighs got strong.

That was about it. I would go over to my mom’s house and have nothing to say. I’d sit in the corner of the couch and listen to her rattle on about what she had for lunch, wondering how soon I could politely leave.

I would see my friends for an hour or two and then fade back home, on the couch, hiding from the darkness with red wine and some popcorn, waiting until it was time to go to sleep.

It has started to change in the past few weeks. I got this dog, which is another post, because that wasn’t easy, either. I love her, but damn, it’s still hard.

But now I have a new boss, more fun work, and…sun. The sun is coming back. Next year I have to get the meds, because I can’t spend five months a year like this. No one should have to. And there’s some stuff I have to figure out. Onward.

There’s a reason I never leave the house. Or why I should never leave the house. And yet, sometimes I do.

My friend Missy invited me to a party she was having on Valentines night. Missy is a great organizer of people and things, and she had gathered a huge throng of people for a night out – drinks, food, dancing – and I, for some stupid reason, and forgetting I hate people, thought it might be fun.

Ok, yeah, it was advertised as a singles thing. But I thought that I could just go meet some nice people, not try to hook up. The last thing I want is a date. That’s a lie. The last thing I want is a colonoscopy. But I’m really not looking to date, either.

Which explains why, shortly after I arrived and got a gin and tonic in my sweaty little paw, I was chatting up a nice lady named Ann, not checking the room for age-appropriate guys.

It turns out Ann and I studied at the same college. The same subject. At the same time. Cue the music from “It’s A Small, Small World,” right?

Ann and I were triangulating our trajectories through our department, madly trying to remember instructors and classes when we were approached by an older man named, from what his stick-on name-tag said, Jerry.

“Hey there,” Jerry said, interrupting.

Being polite people of the lady-type persuasion, we all introduced ourselves. Ann said, by way of making conversation, “We just found out we both went to the same college at the same time, Cal Poly San Luis Obispo.”

Let me mention here that Cal Poly is only a couple hours away and is a well-regarded state school.

“What did you study?” Jerry asked.

“Horticulture,” I said.

“So, heh heh, are you WHORES?” said Jerry. “That’s what HORticulture is about, right?”

I jerked my chin away and regarded a spot on the ground to my right, gritting my teeth.

“Ya know you really gotta get a sense of humor, Sue,” said Jerry. Ann had wisely bumped into a friend and was disappearing into the distance.

“Is that right?” I snapped.

“Yah, lighten up, have some fun,” he went on. “Or start drinking more.”

“I’m afraid of that,” I said.

“Afraid? Why afraid? A little booze won’t hurtcha.”

“I’m afraid there isn’t enough alcohol here to give me that kind of a sense of humor.”

And with that, I had to go see where the ladies room was. Goodnight, Ventura.