Posted by Kimberly on October 16th, 2007 — Posted in Just Like Riding A Bicycle, Facebook Guy
I still haven’t mastered this whole dating thing. If what I’m doing is, in fact, dating. Which I question, since I’m still not sure that what Facebook Guy and I have been doing actually counts as going out on dates.
What are the rules for dating when you’re a grownup, anyway? It was pretty simple when we were all teenagers. Back then, dating was a lot like pornography; we may not have been able to define it, but we sure knew it when we saw it. Now that we’re grownups, though, the rules just seem so much more complicated, while remaining unspoken.
First there’s the coffee situation. As Willow so astutely pointed out in Reptile Boy, “It’s the non-relationship drink of choice. It’s not a date, it’s a caffeinated beverage.” A very high pressure caffeinated beverage. Everybody knows that coffee isn’t a date, it’s an audition. A predate, if you will. If the coffee goes well, you move on to the actual dating; however, if you find yourself draining that mug the way a trapped fox will gnaw off its hind leg, you’ve got the perfect out. No harm, no foul. After all, it was just coffee.
And then there’s the movie, a classic date scenario. Unless, of course, you’re going dutch. Which can under some circumstances still be considered a date, but it should never be assumed. But what if you share popcorn? Or if the tickets were free? Is it still considered going dutch? Even if it’s not, is it a date?
What if there’s a movie and coffee? Do they cancel each other out? Or is there some sort of magical dating equivalent of the two negatives make a positive rule that states that two non-events create a date?
The clincher, of course, is the kissing. If there’s kissing at the end, the evening is definitely ending as a date regardless of how it began. But what if there’s no kissing? Does that automatically mean it’s merely an outing? Does there have to be kissing for it to be a date?
It’s all so complicated. Was it always this way? Is this why I didn’t date much in high school? Preferring to just get on with it over all this pussyfooting around? I’m not sure. What I do know is that managing the dating scene as a teenage babysitter was cake compared to navigating it with a teenage babysitter.
All of this is a pretty roundabout way to tell you that I went out for coffee and a movie with Facebook Guy last night, and I’m still not sure if it was a date or an outing. I do know that I had such a good time that I was shocked to look at the clock discover that we’d exceeded the Tim Horton’s time limit, not to mention my mommy curfew, by a good 2 hours.
Pelting home at midnight, hellbent for leather and racing the clock, I didn’t feel like a naughty teenager, though. I felt like Cinderella. And she was definitely on a date, right?
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Posted by Kimberly on October 14th, 2007 — Posted in Just Like Riding A Bicycle, The Man I Didn't Marry
I’m not a scrapbooker; cutting up pictures and artistically gluing them to acid free paper has never been the way I manage my memories. That’s not to say that I don’t indulge in keepsakes; it’s just that my mementos tend not to fit neatly between two pages. Kind of like life itself.
My reminders might look like an untidy jumble of meaningless bits of paper and random objects, but to me, they are touchstones of immense power; each one of them has the ability to send me back to a specific moment in time. Like most women, since I’ve become a mother these tokens tend to centre around my children–report cards, baptismal candles, special rocks, outgrown toys, and tiny outfits fill the battered shoe box that holds my memories now. But once upon a time I had a different memory box, one covered in rose velvet with a tapestry lid. The box itself was a memento, and inside it contained the story of a relationship told in movie ticket stubs and stray bits of this and that picked up along the way.
I kept that box long after the relationship it chronicled had joined the ranks of memory, moving it with me from apartment to apartment. It was always unopened and tucked behind the Christmas decorations on the top shelf, but there nonetheless. A touchstone of sorts, although of what, I’m not quite certain.
Evidence of another time? Another life? Another girl who had been loved once? Who had done all those things that lovers do, saving the evidence of once upon a time to remind herself that fairy tales do exist, and that the princess doesn’t always have to rescue herself?
Eventually I gave up the box, first delivering it into Kirsten’s safekeeping during a move, and then, on the eve of Regan’s birth, leaving it behind on the curb. It was time to let it go, and I was ready. And yet, even though I haven’t seen it in over four years tonight I find myself thinking about that box.
Not surprising, really. What is surprising is that even though it’s been years since I opened it, I have no trouble recalling many of the treasures inside. A ticket stub from our first date–Jurassic Park. I misunderstood when he asked me out, and he lifted me down off of a wall into a terribly romantic first kiss. A broken knife from a silly lunch with friends. A pebble from the day on the rocks at Presqu’ile and a programme from the Montreal Jazz Festival we never attended on our camping trip that was equal parts heaven and hell. My Miss Saigon ticket–the first musical I ever went to, and still my favourite, even though I was a sobbing mess by the end and he laughed at me. A bit of ribbon from the first piece of lingerie I ever received as a gift. The ring pop he proposed with that left me laughing so hard I could barely say yes. The green apple box the real ring came in (the ring went back to him, but I kept the box). A wedding invitation that was never sent. A wedding gift that was never given.
I can see it all as plainly as though the contents were spread out in front of me and a thousand memories I didn’t even know I had come flooding back. That’s what happens when you open Pandora’s Box, I guess. Everything you’ve been keeping stuffed deep down inside flies out, clamouring for your attention, demanding acknowledgment.
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Posted by Kimberly on October 13th, 2007 — Posted in Just Like Riding A Bicycle, The Man I Didn't Marry
It’s killing me, having him there, just out of reach. Wondering what his life has been like these past ten years. Is he still bitter? Did he heal? Is he happy? Is his life good? Everything he always wanted? I want all that for him. I always have.
So, I peeked. I messaged the friend we have in common, one of my best friends from highschool and another Facebook reconnect, and asked, “Is he happy? Is he good?” I knew that I really had no right to ask her, have no real right to know, but I had to ask.
He’s divorced, with two kids.
Damn. That’s not the life I was hoping for for him. I wanted him to have the white picket fence and the wife who keeps a spotless house and has dinner ready when he gets home from work. I wanted him to have happily ever after, not just “after.”
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Posted by Kimberly on October 12th, 2007 — Posted in Just Like Riding A Bicycle, The Man I Didn't Marry
The Man I Didn’t Marry is on Facebook. I wasn’t looking for him, I swear. He just showed up on my news feed as the friend of a friend. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by this; I knew that we had old friends in common. I just didn’t expect that we’d, you know, have friends in common.
I couldn’t resist clicking on his profile, which turned out to be public. There’s a picture–he looks the same–and a bit of information but not much. He owns his own antique store now and I’m glad. That was always a dream for him. The personal info, though, the stuff you really look up people on Facebook for, is sadly lacking.
I heard he got married and had a daughter, but there’s no mention of that here. Not that that means anything, of course. But I want to know. I wanted to click on his page and see the evidence of his happy life. That it’s not there makes me wonder.
In the normal course of Facebook events, I’d add him as a friend, or maybe send a message. But this situation falls a bit outside of the boundaries of normal. This isn’t my third grade crush or my high school boyfriend; this is the man I all but left at the altar. Somehow, a random “poke” out of the blue seems, I don’t know, a bit tacky.
Other than some nostalgia around my “unniversary,” I haven’t thought much about this man for the past ten years, but tonight as I sit here in a livingroom filled with furniture he didn’t help pick out, surrounded by children who are not his, I find myself wondering about him. Is it a good life? Is he happy? Is he wondering the same things about me?
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Posted by Kimberly on March 21st, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, Just Like Riding A Bicycle, iVillage
Did you know today is Single Parents’ Day? How cool is that, that in addition to Mother’s Day and Father’s Day, we get another day all to ourselves?
In honour of Single Parents’ Day, I present my long overdue review of Rachel Sarah’s memoir, Single Mom Seeking.
Every mother has a story. A narrative of how she came to be in the place she is in, the person she is. Yet even though many of these stories bear striking similarities, they also have their differences. Rachel Sarah and I are, superficially, very similar mothers. We’re the same age. Our daughters are very nearly the same age. And we are both solo mothers.
That’s where the differences begin. Differences in circumstance. In attitude. In approach.
Rachel Sarah never intended to be a solo mom. She and her boyfriend, Eric, were going to raise their daughter together, forming a perfectly balanced family triangle. And then she came home from Thanksgiving Dinner, their seven month old daughter in her arms, to find that triangle shattered, left listing to one side in the face of his sudden and total absence from their lives.
I never intended to be a solo mom, either, but I knew even before the stick turned blue that I would be. That my family would consist of myself and my daughter, balancing each other, perhaps imperfectly, but balancing nonetheless.
When Rachel began her life as a single mom, she was so overcome by the shock, and the stigma, that at first she couldn’t even utter the words. She shied away from the definition, unwilling to announce to the world a fact that she was barely willing to acknowledge to herself. Now, nearly seven years into this existence she never chose for herself, Rachel has come to terms with her single mom status, going so far as to title her memoir, “Single Mom Seeking.”
I like Rachel. I like her in person (or whatever the internet equivalent of that is), and I liked her on paper. Which is what made parts of the book hard for me to take; at times, I just wanted to reach into the pages, shake her, and ask “what are you thinking?” Given that it is a memoir, we are treated to some of her thoughts on her various relationship misadventures, but not enough for my taste. To be honest, I would’ve liked to hear more about the single mom aspect of her life, and less about the seeking.
But maybe that’s because I get it when Rachel writes about being a single mom. I recognize the heaps of laundry. I’ve lived the exercise in military planning that a trip to the drugstore to buy tampons can become. And I certainly understand the desire to just fedex a guy from boyfriendstore.com, not to mention the need to entertain him in the living room. I just don’t get the seeking part.
I’m sure part of that is because I never was very good at dating anyway, so the idea of having binders full of blind dates is, to me, the equivalent of the third circle of hell. But it’s more than just distaste for dating; I do have 2 children after all. It’s also a difference in philosophy and approach. Where Rachel saw her two person family as broken, I have always seen mine as intact. That fundamental difference in perspective has shaped us both, as parents and as people.
While I may occasionally share my bed with a man, my life—and more importantly, my daughters’—is another story. In my story, happily ever after happens without the Prince Charming, and there are no “uncles” or stepfathers, wicked or otherwise, in the cast of characters. Rachel and I agree that the life of a single mom need not resemble that of a nun, but that’s where we part ways. In my life, I’ve made a conscious decision to keep my social life separate from my children; in Rachel’s, they are often tangled together, including a memorable occasion where her daughter, Mae, is brought along on a date from hell that shows Rachel once and for all that there are worse things in life than being a single mom.
Even though ostensibly what she’s seeking is a man to complete her life—to take the “single” out of her single mom–the true story that shines through each tale of dating disaster is Rachel’s quest to find herself, and who she is as both a woman and a mother.
When she first decides to jump back into the dating pool, she claims that she’s only in it for the sex, telling friends it’s “no problem!” when they warn her not to get attached, that their fix up is only one night stand potential. Of course, it is a problem as Rachel begins spinning happily ever after fantasies before the second date—which ends with him sneaking out at 3 am, effectively ending happily ever after before it’s even begun.
Her next attempt turns out a little better— Three weeks after meeting Victor, eighteen month old Mae is playing right along with Rachel’s fantasies of balanced triangles and instant families to replace the one she’s lost, calling him Daddy. The situation becomes complicated when the real daddy makes one of his intermittent appearances, however, and three weeks later, Victor and Eric have both disappeared, leaving Rachel and Mae alone to balance each other once again.
The decision to move back to California changes the dynamic as, with the addition of her father and a cadre of single moms who tell it like it is, Rachel’s broken triangle is reshaped into a circle of family and friends who help her find her feet and keep her balance, even when she’s wearing her first date skirt and heels. There are still losers aplenty, especially when she takes the plunge into the world of online dating, but now there are also voices of reason, such as her friend Siobhan, who teaches Rachel the mantra “never go back for more where there is only less.”
Rachel does eventually learn to make better choices, and to see her family more clearly for what it is and not for what it isn’t. She learns to stop seeing her family as less, even while she continues to search for more, and eventually manages to let go of her fantasies, raise her standards, and stop confusing Mr. Right Now with Mr. Right.
What is hardest about reading a memoir like this that it’s not fiction. In fiction, we can be comfortable that the choices made by a character weren’t real and didn’t actually mess anyone up, but this is a memoir, which means we are talking about the real lives of real people. And in the real world, all choices have consequences, so I just can’t feel completely comfortable with Rachel learning how to protect herself from the emotional turmoil of adult dating when so much of the book consisted of leaving her daughter so very vulnerable to repeated abandonment by one man after another.
I will compliment Rachel for her brave portrayal of a woman who was traumatized by her sudden change of circumstances, floundered for a time, and then found her strength and integrity again. I won’t say the portrayal was unflinching. There were times when I was left unsatisfied by the details left out and the thoughts not followed to their conclusion. It’s not that she’s not entitled to her privacy, but rather that the point of a memoir is to make the reader understand a life, and even though our lives are similar in so many ways, there were many times that I simply didn’t understand.
I’m trying to, though. Single Mom Seeking has made me reflect about my own values, and some of my prejudices, about dating and motherhood. I realized that I’m not entirely certain which is which. Kids benefit from having a lot of influences in their lives, and from mothers who are vibrant, fulfilled women. But they are also vulnerable to the damage of abandonment that is the almost inevitable result of a failed relationship. How each mother balances those issues is an intensely personal decision, and I’m not sure there is one right answer to the questions the subject brings up. I am glad that Rachel decided to tell her story, and to get us all thinking about them.
Now it’s your turn. What did you think about Single Mom Seeking? What do you think about dating with kids? Write your own post and link to it, or put your thoughts in the comments below. Rachel and I are eager to hear what you have to say.
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Posted by Kimberly on February 27th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, Just Like Riding A Bicycle, iVillage
Maybe it’s that darn book, but I have to confess, I spent less time than usual this year thinking about the relative merits of the Oscar fashions, and way more energy than usual assessing the relative spongeworthiness of the various attendees.
It all started on the red carpet. Sure, I noticed the weirdly origamesque jacket Jennifer Hudson was wearing, and yes, I cringed every time she shoved her hands in the pockets of her formal gown because, much though I understand the allure of the concept, formal gowns should not have pockets. The very nature of the gown precludes the presence of pockets! But, mostly I was obsessed with Leo, and how creepy he looked with his hair all slicked down like that. He looked Creepy Neighbour Guy creepy. Which is sad, because he’s the guy from Titanic, and nobody should be thinking of him as Creepy Neighbour Guy and I realize supermodels clamour to be the object of his attentions, but seriously? There is not enough vodka in the world for me to take that home with me.
Things weren’t really looking up once the show got started, either. If not for the customary shades and the seat right up front, I would have never known that the sinister looking cancer patient was Jack Nicholson. I don’t know if the bloated bald look is for a role, or if good old Jack is suffering some health problems, but I have to say, I could completely understand why his date appeared to have been born in his decade, instead of the usual, young enough to be his daughter starlet. Again, not enough vodka in the world. And possibly not enough money, either.
Then they cut to Mark Wahlberg, and can I just say, that boy cleans up nice! And I bet he still looks hot in his Calvins. That thought nearly distracted me from the Addams Familyesque pairing of Eva Green and whoever that guy was with her; was I the only one put in mind of Wednesday and Pugsley at the prom while they were on stage?
The real zing of the night came when they cut to Clint Eastwood, though. Clint Eastwood is aging well. Very, very well. In fact, Clint is downright hot. There, I said it. Clint Eastwood is old enough to be my grandfather, and I find him lustworthy.
And I know most women choose Sean Connery for their…ahem…senior moment, but I’m convinced that that is just because they haven’t taken a look a Clint. But back off, ladies, because I saw him first.
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Posted by Kimberly on February 12th, 2007 — Posted in Kipple, Just Like Riding A Bicycle, iVillage
Roses are red,
Violets are blue
Even if I had a date,
I wouldn’t know what to do.
I can’t remember the last time I had a date. I certainly remember the last time I was asked, but I don’t remember the last time I actually went out on a real date. The kind where you agonize over your outfit, take the time to do your makeup instead of just swiping on some lipgloss (if you remember), and have butterflies in your stomach over the romantic possibilities of the evening.
It’s not really that great a loss; I was a terrible date–shy, awkward, and more than a little flustered by the whole experience–even before I had kids. Now, with Diva Girl and the Shaolin Toddler in the mix, I’m really not sure how I’d negotiate those waters. How I’d even go about finding a man, let alone juggling the dual demands of dating and diapers.
Rachel Sarah, on the other hand, has this whole area down to a science. From binders filled with potential suitors to a tried and tested first date skirt, she’s boldly taken the bull by the horns and plunged into the deep end of dating while lactating. She writes about it all, the silly, the strange, the heartwarming and heartwrenching moments of juggling the dual roles of single woman and solo mom in her memoir, Single Mom Seeking.
For all of us who aren’t sure about mixing playdates with blind dates, Rachel offers us an honest, funny, occasionally hot account of one mom’s search for Mr. Right. So, for all of us whose big plans for Valentine’s Day consist of ice cream for dinner, I propose a book club meeting instead. I propose that you go out, read this book, and then meet back here next week to talk about it (it’s a quick read, I promise). As an extra incentive, Rachel Sarah herself has agreed to chat, to answer some questions for us about her experiences dating as a solo mom; I know that I for one, am looking forward to finding out how she does it.
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Posted by Kimberly on December 29th, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, Just Like Riding A Bicycle, iVillage
Is it wrong to answer, “thanks! My boyfriend* gave it to me.” when the Creepy Neighbour Guy compliments me on the beautiful necklace I got for Christmas?
If it is, I’m in such big trouble. At least Diva Girl wasn’t there to bust me on the lie this time. We had a pretty good chat about fibs and white lies after last time; while other parents are having the sex talk with the technical details, I’ve breezed right past the mundane and onto advanced relationship tactics such as the graceful refusal and letting yourself off the hook with a little white lie.
I’m not sure what would happen if she heard me spin many more fantasies about this mystery man, though. And I’m not sure which would be worse, the awkward outing in front of CNG, or the even more awkward belief that I’m hiding some guy under the bedskirts.
*My brother and sister-in-law gave it to me; I don’t have a boyfriend. I also have no interest in providing CNG with any encouragement.
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Posted by Kimberly on December 13th, 2006 — Posted in Kipple, Just Like Riding A Bicycle, iVillage
Creepy Neighbour Guy asked me out again.
I knew it was coming–we’ve been “accidentally” running into each other a lot lately, in the laundryroom, the elevator, the mailroom. The kind of encounters where a bit of casual conversation is required, where it would be rude to simply ignore him and go about my business, which is what I’d like to do. In fact, I try to, pulling my tried and true trick of making sure to involve the Ladies in conversation to avoid the encounter, but Creepy Neighbour Guy ignores my signals as studiously as I attempt to ignore his. I’m generally pretty clueless about these things, but not even I can mistake his interest; maybe it’s the scent of desperation mingling with his cologne. I desperately want to avoid this situation. Avoid his interest. Avoid the moment when he finally works up his courage and makes his move. Again.
At least The Ladies weren’t with me last time. Unlike this time. This time, they are milling about in the entry way, eager to see who has knocked on our door at 6 pm on a Wednesday (and no doubt hopeful that it will turn out to be the Pizza Man). It’s Creepy Neighbour Guy, returning the mitten I lost in the elevator earlier today, and taking the opportunity to make his move.
Last time, I let him down gently, a polite yet kind refusal (I am, afterall, Canadian.) This time, I grasp wildly at a reason to explain my refusal. A reason that will put an end to this. A reason that does not contain the phrase “Creepy Neighbour Guy.”
“I’m sorry,” I hear myself saying. “I’m already seeing someone.” I see the skeptical look on his face and realize he doesn’t believe me. After all, the only man who visits this apartment on a regular basis always arrives carrying a pizza. And so, I find myself elaborating, “He lives out of town, so he’s not around often. And when he is, he arrives pretty late and has to leave fairly early. You know, the commute. I’m not surprised you’ve never seen him.”
“Well, you can’t blame me for trying, ” he says, accepting the lie.
“You have a boyfriend???”
Busted. I’d completely forgotten about Diva Girl, lured to the hallway by the possibility of the Pizza Man, and rooted there by the drama playing out on her doorstep. But at least, at nearly 8, she had the tact and the patience to wait until I’d closed the door to question me. Last year, she would have said it right in front of the guy.
(To be fair, I’m sure that Creepy Neighbour Guy is a perfectly nice man–in a potentially “he was such a quiet guy; no one ever would have thought” kind of way. But he’s a weird sort of agressively milquetoast that just skeeves me right out. I imagine he’s the kind of man who rather pompously orders for you in the restaurant, but has a limp handshake. And if I’m going to go to the trouble of getting a sitter and shaving my legs, the last thing I’m looking for is to spend the evening with a limp handshake kind of guy.)
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Posted by Kimberly on December 8th, 2006 — Posted in The Ladies, Just Like Riding A Bicycle, iVillage
One of my girlfriends got forced out to see Apocalypto tonight. She really didn’t feel like going out to the movies at all–after a Snow Day, I’m thinking her preferred options were either bed or out for a couple of stiff drinks–and if she was going to see a movie, this one would not have been her first choice. Or her fifth choice, for that matter. But her husband really, really wanted to see this movie. So, she went. Because sometimes, being in a relationship means going to see a movie that you really, really don’t want to see.
Which is one of the reasons I love my solo life. I never have watch movies I don’t want to watch.
Well, not grownup ones anyway. Apparently being a solo mom does not exempt one from repeated viewings of that Mary Kate and Ashley holiday classic, To Grandmother’s House We Go.
See? The things we do for love.
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