The Last Week of Lobsterfest

The best way I’ve found to pin my son down alone for an hour or so is to make sure he and I meet for dinner somewhere once a month. I had been unsuccessful convincing him to go anywhere with me for Spring break, because, come to find out, most of his friends were staying in town. His social schedule was especially packed, but I managed to at least guilt him into our monthly dinner Wednesday.

(And next year, if I have to drug him, we’re going somewhere for his Senior Spring break. I am pretty well known for picking places and times that include some sort of festival. For example, this year I had tried to sell a visit to Washington, DC, which would have coincided with their Cherry Blossom Festival. This would have been fine two years ago, but not now. In a thoughtless moment, I mentioned the Festival and all bets were off. “You want me to do what?” I’m convinced that just the word is the deal breaker, not the week with the mother, so I’ll have to consider that in our plans. Or just use a different word.)

Anyway, Spawn likes Red Lobster, so that’s where we went. And, as luck would have it, when we sat down, the waitress handed us our menus and singsonged, “It’s the last week of Lobsterfest! Order it while you can!”

A festival, after all. I win again. He was unaware and didn’t laugh when I explained what I was smiling about.

Then I thought of the time, years ago, when a cashier at Burger King told my ex-husband that they were out of Whoppers. The proclaimed Home of the Whopper was out of Whoppers? And now, Red LOBSTER won’t have LOBSTER? I swear - the longer I live, the more confused I get. What will replace it? Talapiafest? I’m betting it’s Shrimpfest, but I like the sound of a Talapiafest.

The marketing worked, because the frenzy was upon us. The last week! Now, I do know that Red Lobster doesn’t catch its fish from the same part of the ocean as the finer seafood restaurants, but I had no choice – we would order lobster. The $62 bill to come, after dinner, drinks, tips and taxes, was a small price to pay for such an occasion anyway. It was a festival, after all.

We try to eat before 5 pm, because of my disdain for crowded restaurants and people with unruly toddlers who should eat at home. This early dinnertime typically puts us in the respectful company of seniors and lone or coupled diners, with whom I love to be.

And this time, I noticed three women around us, each sitting alone. No books to read, no restless eye movements from not knowing where to look, no hurries. They were content and comfortable, just sipping their drinks and savoring their meals.

I mentioned that I wanted to be just like them. Spawn assured me, “Oh, you will be. Don’t worry.” I took that as the complement it wasn’t meant to be.

So, $62 and an average seafood meal later, I had been comforted by my son’s company, these women, and the fact that we hadn’t missed the “fest” after all.

I got to go home and think of my future trip alone to the Smithsonian and the Cherry Blossom Festival. And, I plan to enjoy dining alone, thinking of the ladies at Red Lobster.

Austin got to leave and go hang out with his friends. Nothing new there.

Signs

Looking back, Diary, I know there were signs. Ones that I would’ve paid more attention to, if there were time to give great amounts of thought to the future.

Not long after we had moved 500 miles away, Spawn and I sat on the couch after dinner to watch a little television. He was good company for watching sitcoms. We have the same sense of humor and always laugh at the same scenes. But this particular night, after the first show, he stretched his 12-year-old arms a little, like it was no big deal, and said, “I think I’ll go in my room.” Innocent enough, at the time, but it turned into a nightly thing. Eventually (kindness on his part, if I choose to look at it like that, which I do), he dropped the pretense of sitting on the couch with me in the first place. No more downtime together. Sure, we’d talk in the car, at dinner, about schedules and school things, but the best times of doing nothing together were officially over.

Not long after that, Spawn had a holiday from school. When we were scheduling that week's activities, I casually mentioned that I could take that day off from work and we could make it a long weekend. As he stomped out of the room, he spewed, "Fine, just RUIN my day off!" And meant it.

The biggest sign was more of a blow, really. We were discussing whether I would move the summer before he would start college. We had just gotten home from voting – his first time. We were renting the house we were living in and it was big for the two of us, not to mention expensive. I could save money if I moved to a smaller place in another part of town. But, that would put me farther away from his summer job and friends for when he was home. Finally, he put a stop to the whole dilemma by saying, “You have got to stop basing all your decisions on me. I’m going to be in Bloomington.” I would never have let him see me cry nor let him know that I had no idea how to make decisions based on me.

There were more signs, of course, but these were the ones I remember most, Diary. Probably because they still make me the soggiest.

Flirting With Disaster

I haven’t dated a man in a lot of years. And it’s been even longer since I’ve come across a man that struck a..uh..nerve with me. You know, the fluttering thing. And I certainly wouldn’t know if a man liked me, even if he hit me over the head with a caveman club (that’s what they’re still doing these days, right?). To illustrate this point, just the other day, I could’ve sworn the Sears repairman dug me, because he asked a crazy amount of questions about my chess playing when he saw a set in my living room. But I was just the means to his end. As I signed the receipt, he had his hands all over my rooks. Turns out, he just wanted in my chess pants.

So, imagine my befuddlement when I moved into the condo (where I save money living now while paying for Spawn’s college) and ran across a cute boy that caused a slight double-take. There was waving at first, then polite greetings, then a little conversation, then joint walking of the dogs. I’m embarrassed to tell you what got me thinking in the dating direction. You experienced women will think it’s silly, but one morning, the dog and I came upon him and his dog. The dogs like each other, so I stopped to let them do their thing. Cute boy was on the phone, so I tried to be quick and quiet, so not to bother him. But do you know what he did? He got off the phone. A little politeness goes a long way for me, obviously.

Now, what does any respectable, middle-aged, born-again virgin do when she gets a crush? First, she awkwardly attempts to flirt. With the grace and dignity of a newborn colt trying to stand. And second, she googles.

Lots of information about this acceptably decent-looking, 48-year-old, dog-owning, polite man popped up. His hometown, his family, his education, a blurb about him in a 3-year-old church newsletter and oodles of news articles about the 1996 culmination of his three-year crime spree. Yes, crime spree.

Turns out he was in state prison for eight years. That’s like accidental murder years, isn’t it? Seems my man had been a fairly well-to-do prosecutor in another area of Indiana who just couldn’t keep his hands off of other people’s money. He’d settle cases with organizations like insurance companies and forget to tell the victims that their money had come through. The final tally was a little over a million dollars. That’s bad enough, right? Well, it seems that when the police were closing in on him, he parked his car in a field, doused it with gasoline and set himself on fire. He was rushed to the hospital but was released to police custody with no major damage. Too bad, I know, because here he is now, 15 years later, living five doors down from me and making me break my record of not foolishly diggin’ a man. THAT, my friends, is the true crime here.

Update: We still see each other outside (which I now affectionately refer to as "the yard") and have pleasant conversation. He still gets off the phone to talk to me. Our dogs still like each other. But, now, I’ve noticed, sometimes, he’s taken to running from me. The other day, for example, I was behind him for a few miles driving home. We pulled into our parking spaces, 5 spots away from each other, and, not only did he not wave, but he got out of his car and damn near power-walked into his house before I even had my door open. It was only a matter of time, I guess.

I try to find the lesson in things, but I haven’t pinpointed this one yet, Diary. Maybe it’s just proof that there IS a dormant woman deep down inside. And that, for now, it’s best that she get a little more rest.

The Spawning....of a new Website

Nobody understands. People tell me how happy I must be. Spawn’s off to college, and I’m not a single mom anymore. I’m “FREEEE” and must be frolicking in fields of pansies and making exotic reservations with my many, many friends.

I know they mean well, but I am NOT Stella getting her groove back. I never really had a Winston Shakespeare-type groove in the first place, but for the last two decades, the only one I’ve known was the boy I fed, cleaned, clothed, housed, entertained, and loved like the dickens.

It doesn't occur to folks that I could be sad. Or lost. Or stuck. So, I smile politely and muster up the energy to say, "Yes, thank you, it is a new day." Only you and I need to know that I haven't yet figured out how to leave the house.

It does help to write in you, though, Diary. And I have come up with a name. I’m calling it Post-Single Motherhood, PSM for short. It’s clever, don’t you think, because it is a little like PMS, minus the breaks. And fun hormonal tirades.