Well Hello, Zetta

It has been almost 2 years since I have written here, and that long since I have visited this place, which used to be so alive with my writing and thinking and looking. I had a broken heart. And the floundering economy did some heavy damage to my livelihood, and frankly I had little to say to the world that was any good, that was funny, insightful, or entertaining in the least. I disappeared from here, and from myself in some ways, while I struggled to make sense out of what I saw as one failure after another, like a row of dominoes or a perpetual motion machine.

Not long ago, someone that I hadn’t yet met told me that he had found and read this blog, all of it. He said he hoped I would not tell him to fuck off. In all honesty, I didn’t care that he had read it. After all, it is in the public domain, and it isn’t hard to find if one is mildly google-savvy. But having not been in here, I had sort of forgotten what it says. So last night, I read it all the way through, backwards, as he had. Now I wonder what on earth he must think about me, and I know now what he knows about me: that I can be very irritable over little things, and in the same way delighted. He knows all about the ins and outs of my last relationship, some familial discontent, my sorrows, my glaring flaws, my insecurities about how I look, all those little things I perhaps foolishly broadcasted for all to see. The funny thing about it is I am somewhat of a private, guarded person, and when I read through this last night, I felt small and vulnerable that he had read it. I wouldn’t have cared a whit about it—after all, I also checked the sitemeter, and though I have not been writing here, it still garners daily visits, maybe from people who have always read it, but also from strangers all over the world. Ah, the online. But then this person read it, and then, I met him.

Online dating: everyone does it, at least for awhile. Like most people of, um, a certain age, I don’t get out much. At least not to places where I might meet anyone with whom I might totally hit it off and start dating them. At the behest of some friends and Uncle Alan, who is now my roommate, bless his heart, I signed on. Uncle Alan—a man in his 60’s who has never been married, goes out on lots of dates he finds on the online. He shows me their profiles, and I have to say that the pool for him is much better than the one I get to choose from. While he finds svelte, beautiful, quality women his age who share common interests, I get morons, fatasses and perverts. I have met a few folks using this tool, almost all of whom are merely “alright” and certainly fewer of those whom I might want to meet more than one time. Part of this may be due to my inherent guardedness, but I just don’t get butterflies straight away anymore when I meet somebody. I won’t let myself. And when I do meet them, I don’t give them anything, really, to go on. One other thing: I don’t think I am much of a catch right now. Financially I am only beginning to recover from the Great Recession, I don’t want kids, and I share a house with my exboyfriend’s uncle, for crying out loud. But I digress.

Last year, I did something pretty well in line with who I am—I went back to school. I am almost always involved in some sort of active learning process, and anyone who knows me at all is never the least bit surprised when I sign on for something else. Last year, with the shitty money situation, I went back to school full time to become an EMT, which is something I have always been interested in doing but never had the time. It was good, it was fun sometimes. I made a friend from ambulance driver school who is, if I get nothing else from that experience, totally worth the time, money, and energy I put into that learning. I am a freshly minted EMT-B, and I am putting it to use volunteering for the fire department up on yonder hill, where I will be doing medical and rescue duties, wearing turnouts and a blue helmet. Power tools? Check. Lights and sirens? Check. Bon.

This blogreading dude, he lives in BC. He emailed me on the online dating site a few months ago. His tone was pithy, chiding. I was feeling pissy that day so I not only wrote him back, but I wrote him pack in a pissy way. He responded to that crappy email I had fired off to him, a little confused. This and that got wrote, and then he sent me a most excellent email to replace the first one, and I loved it, so I told him so. This exchange grew into a little writing back and forth here and there. Dream house? What would you do if? It was fun, and I found myself looking forward to his replies, if only because he was the only one who wrote anything worth reading, even if he was living so far away. I didn’t make much of it, because I never expected him to become “real” in any sense. Through the miracle of IM, there was more writing, sometimes for hours into the night. This was also fun, and he asked me all sorts of questions, and I answered them freely, because he wasn’t real, and I would never have to look him in the eye or touch him or feel him touching me. And then he wrote that he had read this thing, this whole thing. We kept writing. We sent photos. In a fit of spontaneity, I invited him down for a weekend. I did not expect him to show up. I mean, who does that? Who drives down here through the annoying border and braves the Seattle traffic to meet some neurotic girl from the internets? First, he sent me flowers. But then he did show up. And when he arrived, he had in one hand an overnight bag, and in the other hand, a rawhide bone for Cooper. I sized him up. He looked better than his photos. He had all his teeth. And he. Was in my livingroom. I made him sleep on the couch.

We spent a lazy few days doing mostly nothing besides telling stories, walking the dog, eating, and feeling sleepy. I failed to take him to Timberline, to the Coast, to Oneonta Gorge, to Ramona Falls. I didn’t introduce him to anyone, but Uncle Alan was here, and he graciously got gone most of the weekend. After the first evening, I did something I do not do, which is this: I chose to be not guarded. I chose to feel whatever I felt without prejudice, and it was easy for some reason. There was, at least for me, some subtle magic that is difficult to describe. He sleeps peacefully, unmoving, on his back. He is clean shaven. Wicked smart. Perfectly dorky. And he thinks. And thinks. And thinks. He has one crooked bottom tooth I want to touch. When he talks to Cooper, his voice gets sweet, and he says, “Good boy, Cooper, good boy.” I have hidden the dating profiles. I have set boundaries with someone where they were ill-defined. Why? Because I want to be not confused. Of course this is all silliness. This google-savvy blogreader, he lives in another country. My birthday was yesterday. There were flowers. And there was an email with a travel itinerary: two weeks from today, I will pick him up at the Portland airport, if he is nice. Otherwise he has to walk.

It has been Africa hot here the past many days. I don’t do well in it. Last night over the skype, he asked me how my big red heart was. I was tired, and wilted, and not sure what to say. Here is how I would answer him this morning, with the fever broken and overcast skies: my big red heart is good. It is a little scared, but not scared. It is excited about the many things to come: the blue helmet, the burgeoning recovery of my micro-business, this strange and hopeful knowing someone new and worthwhile and willing. My parents are coming next week. I have some things to tend to. I will get to them, carefully and patiently. Meanwhile, some time with friends, an evening in by myself, lime bubbly water, daisies. Remind me to tell yall about doing CPR for the first time on a person, and the profound satisfaction that comes with the sanctioned swinging of an axe into a car window. I’ve missed you, Zetta.