Three cheers for cancer sticks!

Ossia, "That crush went up in a poof of smoke."

I'm not sure how to put this honestly while leaving the laughable bravado out of it, so I'll plow ahead: Since mid-adolescence, I've maintained a policy of approaching women to whom I was attracted. That is, I maintained that policy except when in a serious--albeit generally ephemeral--relationship, and until I got married.

There have only been a few times when these efforts (whether understated compliments or overt advances) weren't rewarded with a response falling generally into the "favorable" category, whether a blushed cheek, a demure thank-you, or even an acceptance of some sort. (One notable rejection being the Tuscan bartender who dismissed me with, "Nei tuoi sogni," which was warm ambrosia flowing from her lips. In my dreams indeed, lovely Lavigna.)

Exceptions to this policy were very rare in bachelorhood, and understandably more frequent since then. However, the drive has remained so strong--perhaps the continued impulse to 'hunt' now bolstered by The Thrill Of The Forbidden--that I finally reached a compromise with myself: A year or two ago, I began approaching beautiful strangers in restaurants, airports and convention halls, saying, "Please don't read anything into this, but you have beautiful eyes/a lovely smile/remarkable legs, and I hope that someone in your life really appreciates that about you," and then walking away. (Before you lose your lunch, I've only used the creepy "legs" one once, but WOW -- Her name was Anne, and they were remarkable.) As psycopathic as it sounds, I've found that this allows me to get the rush from her response--that quick gasp for air, the smile toward her girlfriend, the "that is so sweet, thank you"--and then move on with life, without wondering for the next several days what would have happened.

A handful of the exceptions grew to a magnitude that I'd call them Unexpressed and Unrequited Crushes -- a couple even took on characteristics that I'd openly associate with obsession. I'll address each of them at some point.

The most recent one was a girl at work. A woman, really, but she's at least ten years my junior, so "girl" seems to fit. Tall, brunette, slender yet proportionately curvaceous. Not particularly sophisticated--sort of bubble-gummy, in fact--but confident, in a head cheerleader kind of way. Big eyes, full lips.

For a long time, I wasn't sure whether she was married (I've learned subsequent to all of this that she is) but knew from a photo at her desk that she has a child, and I overheard her once on the phone saying, "Did you find the clothes that momma laid out on your bed this morning for Purple Day at school?"

I'd speak a little louder and a little wittier, if I thought she was within earshot. I interact with her very little, but she's good friends with the secretary of one of my colleagues, and I found myself playing the old "get the roommate sold on you first" angle with this secretary.

Our office has long corridors as well as inner walls primarily of glass, which makes for long sight lines, and if happened to spot her heading one way or other, I'd often interrupt whatever else I was doing--ostensibly to go to the copier or restroom--in order to pass her in the hallway. I tended to dress a little better in the morning if it occurred to me that I might see her that day.

Expectedly, I'd fantasized about her (more on that general topic in a future post), invariably playing out a sequence that took us in her white Corolla to lunch at Bambara and then the rest of the afternoon stress-testing springs at the Hotel Monaco. This recurring fantasy covered rational considerations ranging from my job security (which probably wasn't at risk, as my company has seen high-level cases of known-yet-unpunished infidelity among employees) to whether we'd use a condom to how I'd someday explain my divorce to my daughter.

Yes, we had quite the little covert op developing in my mind.

Then one day I saw her smoking, and I went cold turkey.

In lasting tribute, I need to create a bumper sticker that reads:

"Hotties who smoke make my spouse seem sexier."

(It's copyrighted here, so don't get any ideas.)

Borderline

Last night I dreamt that I was in a hilly urban area. Big city, not a particularly posh part of town. It had a bit of a Latino feel to it, but may have been California. I was in a car--a big '50s or early '60s sedan, light pool green, lap belts, no headrests--with my daughter and another female (I don't know who she was, I don't recall whether she was young or old, but I had the sense that she was important), and the hired driver who was taking us to meet my wife somewhere.

But we weren't going straight there. Somehow, it had been arranged that en route to meeting my wife, the car was going to stop by Madonna's gated residence, where I was to quickly substitute for a gigolo who was scheduled to meet with and, er, service Ms. Ciccone-(probably hasn't changed her license back yet)Ritchie.

So we pulled up to the residence, the driver agreed--according to plan--to take a few laps around the block then return shortly, and I crossed the sidewalk to the entrance, leaving my daughter and the other female behind. Arriving at the gate, I found the security keypad, and in the dimming light of dusk, noticed that the buttons 2, 8 and 0 were more worn than were the others. I tried them in a few different combinations until I heard a ring through the speaker. The line connected, and at the other end, Madonna said, "Hello?" "Hi, I'm...here for you." "Oh good. Come on in and let's go for it." [buzz, click]

Immediately, almost with a whiplash, my mind raced and heart pounded. Not at the moral crisis of principles...covenants vs. the possibility of being with the woman who defined and continually redefined female sexuality for at least one generation, but at the logistical dilemma of how to buy time and hide the deed from my daughter, the other female in the car, and my wife.

After just a few moments, I left the gate ajar and ran back to the street. There was no car when I arrived, but after just a few seconds it appeared over the crest of a hill to my left (which had a sunsetting sky behind it, but I had the sense that I was looking to the east, while it was darkening to the west, and yet it was definitely late evening), speeding down the road toward me and, registering more silhouetted heads in it than jived with the three who had been in it when I saw it last, I knew something was wrong. The car skidded to a stop in front of me. When the interior lights flashed on, I saw several men, maybe half a dozen of them, all dressed in black, looking through the windows at me and holding pistols to the heads of my daughter and the other female.

The end.

"New Words"

This evening, I heard a song that left me aching to be a better dad. (I can already imagine the Ensign admonition, “The best way to be a better father to your kids is to be a better husband to their mother.”) It's called "New Words," by Maury Yeston:

Look up there, high above us
In a sky of blackest silk
See how round like a cookie
See how white, as white as milk
Call it the moon, my child
Say "moon."
Sounds like your spoon, my child
Can you say it?
New word today -- say "moon"

Near the moon brightly turning
See the shining sparks of light
Each one new, each one burning
Through the darkness of the night
We call them stars, my child
Say "stars."
That one is Mars, my child
Can you say it?
New word today -- say "stars"

As they blink all around us
Playing starry-eyed games,
Who would think it astounds us
Simply naming their names?

Turn your eyes from the skies now
Turn around and look at me
There's a light in my eyes now
And a word for what you see
We call it love, my child
Say "love."
So hard to say, my child -- It gets harder.

New words today, we'll work to say
Learn "moon," learn "stars," learn "love."

La la la la la la…

Learn moon, learn stars, learn happy

Learn peace, learn love, learn puppy

Learn friend, learn toy, learn sharing

Learn hope, learn joy, learn caring

Learn life is there for living

Learn love is there for giving

Learn merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

Live and laugh and dream.

A Top Five Cause, so no surprise

Well, that was nice while it lasted. This morning's Tithing Settlement--full tithe, FYI--and a discussion about Christmas gifts for the extended family--she has six siblings--formed a perfect storm for a blow-up about household finances. (I would say "household budget," but to call our cash inflows and outflows a "budget" would be an insult to the word.)

Jungle fever

I returned recently from a trip to Central America, where I was struck by the beauty of the Guatemalan women. That's not a typo. And I don't mean those that are of primarily Spanish ancestry; I mean those who are heavily indigenous. There's a certain nobility in their facial structure and a clarity of countenance that holds a curious allure. In the town of Flores, I was smitten by one little Lolita (which makes it sound like it was her fault...right?) in particular. Then I imagined her at age 73 and was quickly able to return to my touristic responsibilities, undistracted.

Other than a good deal of gawking, it was a well-behaved trip. Although in a bar/club in the pseudo-resort town of Panajachel, on lake Atitlan, I did dance with a twentysomething and her professor, both of whom were with a large group of law students from the university in Guatemala City. Both were attractive, though not stunning, and more of Spanish ancestry than indigenous. No lambada-like moves that would have been out of place at your garden-variety stake dance, but I was definitely "aware" that this was probably the first non-instructional time (we've had some tango and salsa lessons) since I've been married that I've held the hand and felt the (clothed) lower back of a woman to whom I was not related.

The trip (on which my wife didn't accompany me, as she doesn't "do" Latin blight very well) afforded me a great deal of time to reflect on my marriage and my family. I was joined by an intelligent and insightful friend, who knows both of us fairly well and served as a helpful sounding board, and I returned home with a general feeling that, all other considerations aside, my marriage was worth more effort than I was giving it. This feeling came with a sobered, hopeful contentedness that I haven't felt in a very long time. I mentioned to my wife a day or two after I returned that she was more beautiful than I had remembered her. She said I was feeding her a line. I reminded her that I'd never fed her "a line," for better or for worse. I think it meant something to her, maybe just a little something. There's a little more sweetness in her eyes, a little more patience and interest in our tone with each other. We've spoken openly and earnestly about a variety of hot-button topics, even the idea of my leaving my semi-high-paying job and its 2-hrs-per-day commute, to be able to spend more time with the kids. No fireworks. Just something akin to being wrapped up in a fleece blanket that just came out of the dryer. Not sure exactly why. We'll see. But at the very least, it seems to feel better--at least for this moment--than the various alternatives.

Stiffnecked rubbernecking

Don't waste your clicks pointing out that my subtitle reads "...on the verge of infidelity..." while it's evident--and will become more so, with virtually each post--that, based on Matthew 5:28, I've long-since committed adultery in my heart. Already sorted that one out. But thanks.

Mr. Cliché visits Costco

Yesterday eve, I’m nearing the end of the shopping list, and am shuffling through the pharmacy in search of mosquito repellent. (Yes, in November. Long story.) I’m not having much luck—again, it’s November—and enlist an employee’s help. To enable a quick wrap-up once I’m done in the pharmacy, as we stroll, I recite to him my few remaining items, and he points me in their general directions. Then I turn down an aisle and nearly stumble over a big display for Elizabeth Arden skincare products, with Catherine Zeta-Jones perched atop the famous Red Door, smiling, legs crossed demurely in front of her, toward the camera…toward Me, rather. Not sure how long I stood there like every other Madison Avenued Yahoo before “Sir…sir…sir?” broke the trance.

(Couldn’t find the exact photo, but here’s a substantially similar zoom from a shot of Mrs. Douglas at an Arden store opening. Boy, it’s sure easy to marvel at Two-Kids-And-Approaching-Forty, while ignoring the Hidden Legion of Personal Trainers, Dieticians and Nannies reality.)

August 2009 update: It appears that, to the the delight of all, Arden is continuing the campaign. I passed the display yesterday while picking up a prescription at Costco. Lucky Michael.