The Hunger

It was 1 a.m.

I was tossing and turning in bed (alone) unable to sleep. After having lost Heidi I wasn't sure what to expect. Yeah - I'm getting pretty good at being dumped.

There was an emptiness in the pit of my stomach. A yearning I hadn't felt in what seems like years.

I was hungry. Not just able to eat. Not just a biological reaction to low blood sugar. It was a sensuous desire for food. I hadn't felt this since the ugliness.

I wandered over the the refrigerator. There was some left over grilled NY steak. I had some good crusty italian bread. Steak sandwich it is.

One thing that a good sandwich needs is a good mayonaise. I cracked an egg and whipped up the yolk up with canola oil and fresh lemon juice. I put in some fresh grated horseradish and capers. Yes, I really made a horseradish caper mayo from scratch for a midnight snack. I'm that much of a foodie.

Then I heated up my cast iron skillet and toasted two slices of bread, after brushing them with olive oil. Then I sliced the steak as thin as I could. I bunched it up - almost into a burger like form - and gave it a good sear on the outside. There was still lots of juicy medium rare steak in the middle. During the searing process I melted some sharp white vermont cheddar on it.

I topped the meat with some baby arugula, a few slices of tomato, a small splash of balsamic vinegar (from these guys - really good) and some very thinly sliced red onion.

I opened a bottle of Bordeaux and started into my snack. Damn that's good. I haven't enjoyed food this much in such a long time.
_______________________________________

I did drag my sleepy butt out of bed at stupid-o-clock in the morning to go paddling with paddle girl. I missed her party on Friday night, but we still had our standing 5:30 a.m. paddle in Santa Cruz on Sunday morning. I really feel better about this now that I know that she is over 18.

I arrived at the dock and, as usual, there she was stretching.

"Hey"

"Ready for some pain?"

"Yeah - I could use a good workout."

"How's big boobs?"

"Uh, her name's Heidi."

"OK, how's Heidi?"

"She dumped me."

"Man, I'm sorry to hear that. That sucks. What happened?"

"It's complicated." I busied myself with getting the boat set up. "So, why'd you lie?" The irony of that question was not lost on me.

"Huh?"

"Why'd you lie?"

"About what?"

"Being 17."

"Oh. Uh, that. Busted, huh?"

"It doesn't really matter, but I'm just curious. I mean you don't even look 17. I don't care how old you are. So why?"

"I've been paddling since I was 12. Competing since 14. This is a very male dominated sport - lots of testosterone. Paddlers are always hitting on me. Older guys - well the creepy ones - tend to leave me alone if I tell 'em I'm 17. Learned it when I was young - it worked so I kept on doing it. You're right, I'm probably getting too old for that trick."

Uh, yeah, that means I look like one of the creepy ones. "You could try just saying 'not interested'"

"Guys can be really persistent."

I laughed, "This is true."

"How'd you figure it out?" She asked.

"Google - I googled your paddling club to see about the party, saw your records. You paddled at the world championships 2 years ago?"

"Yeah, that was awesome." She regaled me with stories of her competitions - pretty cool. Turns out she just missed making the olympic team in 2008. But the U.S. does not field a very competitive paddling team. The Germans really dominate the sport. The Americans rarely make it to finals.

We paddled for 6 miles and I got a really good workout.

As we were packing up to leave, she asked "Next week?"

"Yeah." And then I remembered. "No, I can't - I'm in Tokyo next weekend." She seemed surprised that I might have a job that would take me to Tokyo. (surprised, mind you - not impressed) "Maybe the weekend after. I'll call you."

The End of Summer

Today I harvested a bunch of tomatoes. (yeah crappy picture) Despite lots of neglect this year, there's a ton of fruit on my 4 roma bushes.

Made tomato sauce.

Delicious. Served over homemade angel hair.

The nights are starting to get cold and that ruins the texture of the tomatoes. I'll probably pull them out in a couple weeks.

Goodbye, Gourmet

Today I received my last issue of Gourmet magazine. And I just reupped my subscription. They are shutting down and the November issue will be the last.

San Jose Merc reports that foodies (like me) are stunned.

I'm going to miss that magazine. Seems that the advertisers of luxury goods have scaled back too much. Ad revenue was too far down.

I remember one issue that had a centerfold. I can't recall what it was showing, but it was interesting. I was holding the magazine up sideways and staring lustfully at the unfurled centerfold pages. Sarah came into the room and accused me of looking at food porn. Yup, I was. She got a good laugh out of it.

Now I'm going to need to find my food porn on the internet.

Angel Hair

“I’ll make dinner for you.” I said to Heidi.

“You can cook?”

“Well, I can make a few things.”

“Like what? Spaghetti? American men can’t cook. They all cook spaghetti from a jar.”

Those are fighting words. “Let me show you.”

“OK. What will you make me?”

“Spaghetti.”

She laughed. “OK. You’re so cute. I’ll eat your spaghetti.”

So Heidi came over to my humble home on Saturday afternoon. I asked her to help me do some of the cooking – mostly just keep my wine glass full as I cooked.

I was cooking to impress. The tomatoes and basil in the back yard are doing really well, despite a great deal of neglect this year. I would be making the pasta up fresh. To make really good pasta, you need to start with good ingredients. I start with North Dakota hard durum wheat flour with a fine grind. Mix this with free range eggs (yes, it really makes a difference you can taste) and some good Italian olive oil and you have the dough for some of the best pasta you’ll ever eat.

“Can you get me the flour from the pantry?” I asked her.

She went over to the pantry and searched for the flour. “You are such a bachelor.” She called out.

“Why?”

“Did you know you have 4 containers of rice open?”

“Actually, I have 6.”

“Six!?”

“Yeah, unless my roommates are raiding the pantry again I should have 6 containers of rice open. They are all different kinds. You can’t eat curry with an Arborio rice. You can’t make risotto with a long grain rice.” I must have at least 8 olive oils open, too.

“Oh. I didn’t even know there were 6 kinds of rice.”

She handed me the flour and I made the pasta, and later ran it through the pasta machine to make angel hair – capellini.

I sautéed some fresh roma tomatoes from the yard in good olive oil with garlic, and added some fresh home grown basil and a touch of oregano at the end. It takes only a few minutes to cook, but it is the true taste of summer.

I tried to make a Caesar salad, but the dressing didn’t come out quite right – although Heidi oohed over it anyway.

We drank a bottle of Antinori Tignanello, 1995. I was saving it for just such an occasion.

“That was the most delicious spaghetti that I ever had.” She told me, and kissed me. “And I’ve been to Italy. I take it back. There is at least one American man that can cook.”

“Thank you.” I said.

We sat on the back deck until it got dark. We had finished the wine. I walked her to her car and kissed her goodnight. “When can you cook for me again?”

“You can come over any time.”

That Amazing Accent

“So where did you get that amazing accent?” I asked

“Oh, it’s not that unusual.” Heidi responded.

“It’s beautiful, but I just can’t place it.” I was dining with Heidi at Reposado, a good mexican restaurant in Palo Alto. This was our 3^rd date, and I am growing to like her more each time I see her.

“Well,” she said. “I was born in Sweden, Stockholm – where my father is from. I lived there until I was 4. Then we moved to Zurich in Switzerland. My family stayed there until I was 8, and we moved to Chicago. We lived there until I was 18 and we moved here to California.”

“So you speak Swedish?”

She ratted off something that sounded foreign. She smiled, “Ya. I also speak German, French, and English. I learned all those before I was 8. Later I learned Italian and Spanish.”

I am in awe. I tried in high school to learn a foreign language and it was way too hard for me. She speaks 6 fluently.

“But I can do a good Chicago accent.” She said.

“No way.”

“Yes.” She smiled, sat up straight, concentrated very hard, cleared her throat and said “There is a jackknifed semi blocking 3 lanes of traffic on I-90 East bound just past O’hare, with huge backup behind it. It’s going to be a hot one here in Chicagoland, highs near the 90s with a light breeze off the lake.” She did it with an amazingly neutral American mid-western accent - just like a newscaster.

I laughed.

“My mother is from Chicago, she forced me learn English without an accent. But it is too hard. It is more natural to have an accent. I guess it’s a mix of Swedish and German.” I later learned that German is the official language of Switzerland. “So where did you grow up? I detect a bit of an accent from you as well” she asked.

“I don’t have an accent.”

“Yes, you do. Very slight, but it is cute.”

“I was raised in Hawaii.”

“No. Were you born there?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you go to school there?”

“University of Hawaii at Manoa.”

“This can’t be. No one can grow up in Hawaii. That’s like being raised in Disneyland.”

“It’s just another state. We have traffic jams, homework, dentists.”

“But it’s paradise. Why did you leave?”

“Well, the cost of living is really high, and the job opportunities are really limited. Higher rent, lower pay. You have to really want to live there to make it work..”

“Is your family still there?”

“Yeah, my parents and sisters live there. So I have a nice place to stay when I visit.”

We talked about travel, and music and a number of other topics. After a wonderful dinner I drove her back to her house. We had a glass of wine sitting outside of her cottage and dangling our feet in her parent’s pool.

At the end of the night I gave her a gentlemanly kiss goodnight, and drove home.

Sleepover

I woke up with a pounding headache. I rolled onto my back and opened my eyes – the room was bright. Too bright. Oh, man I’m getting too old to be drinking like this. I closed my eyes again. But what room was it? It didn’t look familiar at all. For the first time since college I woke up with no idea where I was. I tried to concentrate. I rubbed my forehead. Where the hell was I and what did I do to get here? Then it came to me – I was at Kristen’s house.

It all started the night before.

Against the collective wisdom of the blogosphere, my buddy Maurizio, and a little voice in the back of my head I made dinner for my friend Kristen. Kristen had recently been dumped by lover of about 5 years. I thought I would try to cheer her up. Having recently been through a nasty break up myself, I had a lot of empathy for her. Slightly complicating things is the fact that Kristen is the VP of marketing at the internet company that I recently joined – and, OK, she has flirted with me a couple of times. Making things more interesting is the fact that she is only a couple of years older than me, really attractive, and quite rich. She has quite a strong personality, though. Her former lover was a kept man, which I find intriguing.

If you read through some of the comments on earlier posts, the collective wisdom was that I should not do this. I decided to do it anyway, for two reasons. First Kristen has become my friend over the past couple of months since I joined the new company. I know how bad a breakup can be and I’m pretty sure that she really was in love with Paul – even though she hasn’t shown any sadness over the breakup, only anger. I’m not sure how much of that is a brave front and how much is real. So, reason number one, I really did want to help my friend who has asked for my help.

The second reason is that I thought that it was pretty unlikely that anything would happen. OK, my judgment isn’t all that great – I’ve demonstrated that. But there is no real reason that Kristen would try to jump my bones. With very few exceptions, in my life I’ve had to work hard at courting and charming and wooing women before anything interesting happens. Rarely have I fallen into bed with a woman where I did not put a lot of effort in. And Kristen was not overtly trying to court me.

I went back to read over what I had written about Kristen. I though that I might have portrayed her as a wanton sex goddess or a dangerous man eater of sorts. But I think I have done a fair job of portraying her.

I’ll add a few comments to make sure that I’m being fair and balanced. She is very smart. She has a PhD in computer science from one of the top engineering schools in the U.S. And she has the ability to take that book knowledge and apply it to real world problems where solutions can be created – something that escapes you average PhD nerd. In meetings it is clear that she has a tremendous grasp of both technology and business. She is attractive, but she wears her clothes and her hair with a style that I can best describe as hard edged. Angular and masculine, but it suits her. She is very self confident, but I suspect that most people that achieve the success that she has probably are. She is generally quite fair and reasonable – aside from the week before last. That apparent anomaly was due to the fact that she was unceremoniously dumped by her lover, so I’m going to cut her some slack on that one. All of us who have been hurt by cruel partners have probably been a bit cranky immediately after the act. She always tries to stand out in the crowd. Her car is as bright red as Mercedes makes, her clothes are always attention getting. She shuns conventionality – to gain further attention, perhaps. She would be more likely to have an iguana for a pet than a cat (OK, she told me that one). She would introduce her live-in boyfriend as “her lover”. He was, indeed, a kept man. The only thing that I find odd about the arrangement is that she did not seem to respect him, or at least did not when I saw them together – which was toward the end of their relationship.

How do I feel about her? Hmmm, well I do have a bit of a crush on her. But this should be taken with a grain of salt. Any regular reader of the blog should know by now that I am easily smitten. A glance across a crowded room is all it may take. But I don’t often take it seriously, and usually get over it quickly, if there is not a long term relationship involved. I respect her – both professionally and personally – mostly for her intelligence. I consider her to be a good friend even though we have only known each other for a short period of time. We have flirted with each other a couple of times, but in a harmless sort of way.

Anyway, I’m rambling (I’ll probably edit this out). The second reason that I went to make her dinner is that I really didn’t think that anything would happen. I have had dinner and drinks with lots of folks and have not ended up in bed with them. If that was all it took for me to get the girl I’d be doing a lot more dining and drinking. In the movies, guys can do that (e.g. “handsome Rob” in the movie “The Italian Job”, or James Bond in anything) – meet a girl and end up in bed with her. But, sorry folks, this is real life. And in real life – despite what guys brag about in bars – very few of us have that raw sex appeal that lets us get the girl that easily. In all my life I have only known one guy who could do that – and that is Maurizio. Girls will actually walk up to him and give him their phone number. It even happened last week when we were drinking beer at the Tied House. In a cruel twist of fate, this incredible specimen of a man - is gay.

Anyway, on to the events of the evening. I went and got the fixings for dinner and a good chardonnay the night before. These I took with me to work and stored them in the fridge. Kristen stopped by my cube around 7:30 and suggested that we head out.

In my defense I did ask Pete and Teri to join us. I first asked Kristen of this would be OK. She kinda laughed at me and told me to go ahead and try. It turns out (I learned this later) that Pete and Teri had dated some years ago. It ended badly – although they seem friendly enough now. In fact, they seem to almost have a thing for each other. So I thought the pair of them joining us for dinner would be a good thing. Turns out that Pete had a convertible corvette, an older model that he had restored and souped up with a 500 horsepower engine or something ridiculous like that. When he was dating Teri, he let her drive it. She was at a stop sign – the first stop sign she came to. She let out the clutch a little too fast, she was used to underpowered Toyotas and wasn’t very adept at handling a clutch. This slip caused both back tires to spin violently out of control. The car to slid sideways as it went through the intersection, accelerating quickly. Ultimately, the car wrapped itself around a telephone pole across the street. The fiberglass body was shattered and the frame was bent beyond repair.

No one was hurt.

It took many years for Pete to forgive Teri.

Kristen feels that it was just plain wrong for Pete to breakup with Teri over the accidental destruction of a hunk of fiberglass and steel. This was before Pete was really wealthy, and an automobile was an irrelevant expense to him. But I’m with Kristen on this one.

So no one would be joining us. We would be alone, with alcohol and without adult supervision. We took Kristen’s car. She climbed in the passenger side and asked me to drive. Once again fumbling for keys, I realized that the card was in her purse and we could just drive away.

Once we got to her house Kristen took a bottle from the fridge and handed it to me. “You asked for champagne.” I uncorked it and poured it into two flutes. She raised her glass and said “here’s to legendary abs.”

I know I was blushing (I have a bad habit of doing this at inopportune times) “Excuse me?” I asked (for those confused, see my “That hurts” post). How could she know? Maybe she did see me with my shirt off when I was cleaning up the kayaks in her yard. But the abs weren’t that well defined then, I didn’t think.

“Legendary abs. I finally have the motivation that I need to get legendary abs. I’ve been meaning to spend the time at the gym to work on my abs – but with balancing work and a social life I never had the time. I’m just angry enough to throw myself into it. You want to be my gym partner? We could get them together.”

OK, at this point, if I was drunk I probably would have pulled up my shirt and showed her. But discretion prevailed. “Uh, you know, I’ve got my own sport. It works pretty well for me.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re already skinny enough.”

We moved out to the living room, where I made a fire in the fireplace and she put on some music. “What do you like?” she asked referring to music.

“Some jazz would be great”

“Oh, shit” she said. Well, OK, if you want something else, I thought to myself. “More crap from unmitigated beast. These are his CDs.” She grabbed them and ran out of the room. I followed her to the garage. The cars were parked outside. She threw the CDs into the middle of a large pile in the middle of the garage. “This” she pointed at the pile, “This is all of his shit. Can you believe this?” There were clothes, books, furniture, papers, it was a big pile. “How could he do this? How could he do this?” She sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Oh, shit, Rich.” She turned to me and started to cry. She hugged me and cried on my shoulder. I patted her back.

After a couple of minutes she backed away. “I’m sorry, Rich. I didn’t mean to do that. I’m really sorry.” She wiped her eyes with her hands. “Oh god, I’m a mess.”

“Don’t be sorry. That’s the first time I saw you sad about this.”

“Oh, Rich.” She sniffed. “It just never came out before.” She started to cry again. “I’ve been keeping it inside. I just couldn’t…” and on came the water works. I actually started to feel better as we walked back to the living room. This was definitely not sexy, and the fact that she was human and sad about losing him made me feel better. Her anger was sort of scary.

After a good cry she went to wash her face. She came back composed. “I need a scotch. Do you want one?”

“Sure. Shall we start on dinner?”

“Yes.” We moved into the kitchen. I proceeded to assemble some flour and salt and pepper on a plate. I heated up a skillet with olive oil and butter. Unmitigated beast did have some good cookware. I did bring my own meat pounder, not sure if she had one. I put a chicken breast on the counter between two sheets of wax paper.

“OK, you need to pound this down to about 3/8 of an inch thick – thinner if you want.” She took the mallet and gave it a little girlie smack. “No” I told her “You need to hit it hard.” She pounded a bit harder. “Come on, put your back into it.”

She started to dent it. “It’s something you hate.” She pounded hard. And again. And even harder. She started to laugh. Tears were working at the corners of her eyes. She pounded a hole in the middle of the chicken breast.

She laughed at it. “I ruined it.”

“No, it’s fine – just even it out a bit.” She pounded out the rest of the chicken to a ¼ inch with real ferocity.

She laughed “That felt good.”

“I’ve got 3 more.”

She pounded them all. “You’re right.” She said when she was done, “That is better than a month of therapy.”

I cooked the chicken and was about to deglaze the pan. “Here’s where we need the champagne.” I took the bottle and poured about ¾ of a cup into the pan. It was Moet and Chandon – from France. A bit more extravagant than I am used to for a cooking wine. It boiled and steamed spectacularly. It made a great sauce.

When we sat down to eat it. She commented “This almost seems cannibalistic.” She had beaten the crap out of her unmitigated beast.

“Think of it as devouring your problems.”

“I’m sure that on some parts of New Guinea they really do that.”

The chicken was wonderful and more tender than I think I have ever had.

After we cleaned up the kitchen, we sat in the living room with the bottle of wine that I had brought. “Would you take him back?” I asked.

“Not in a million years. Would you take her back??”

“In a New York minute.” I don’t even know what that means, but it seemed like a good thing to say. It seemed the opposite of ‘not in a million years’.

“You hate him, don’t you?”

“Yup. It’s not the opposite of love, you know. I’ll be over him when I am indifferent. You love her, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Why? I don’t get it. She hurt you so badly. I would want to kill someone who did that to me.”

“I want to kill Tim. How can I turn off my love for her?”

“How can you love someone like that? Feel passionate yes. That doesn’t go away. Damn that you can’t make that go away. But love? That’s reserved for people who are good to us.”

“I just love her. I remember all the wonderful things we did together. I remember her friendship. There was so much that was good.”

“And she pissed all over it, all of that. What happened to you? I mean, you’re a smart guy. But this reaction of yours is unnatural.”

“What do you mean ‘unnatural’?”

“Rich, when you are hurt that’s nature’s way of showing you something’s wrong. Pain is how we learn what not to do. You put your hand on a hot stove – it hurts. So you don’t do it again. I mean if you have a learning disability, you do it again. But even the thickest person learns. You want to put your hand right back on that stove? If you don’t learn you’re going to put your hand on that stove over and over again. And you’re going to get burned over and over again. Until you don’t have a hand left.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is. You’re passionate about her. Great, be passionate. But let your feelings go. I bottle up my sadness – but you stomach your anger.”

“My anger is at Tim. And it’s out there.”

“No, you know it was her that hurt you. You’re in denial. You’ll never get past it until you acknowledge it. No matter how many chickens you pulverize. Rich, she’s the one who gave you all this pain. Get pissed.” She shook her head.

“Why do you hide your sadness?”

“It’s a man’s world.” She signed. “I can’t compete and show my weakness. I pretend to be strong. After a while, it’s not a pretense anymore. I don’t really like it – but I have to.”

“You’ve achieved more than most people ever will. Why keep competing? Why not just enjoy what you’ve earned?”

“I am enjoying it. And, frankly, it’s the competition that’s the fun part. Winning is the enjoyable part. The money is nice – but it really doesn’t make that much of a difference.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so competitive.” I didn’t mean that as an insult, it was just an observation. I think I may have offended her.

“I don’t think I’ve met anyone so non-competitive.”

“Um, unmitigated beast wasn’t really a driven man.”

“Yes he was, he was passionate. Not about technology, or business. But he loved his art. He wasn’t very good at it. He couldn’t pay the bills. But he needed to win. His failures ate him up. Let’s not talk about that beast. You, you’re laid back. Agreeable almost to the point of being annoying. Pleasant to the point of being vacuous. The only thing you have shown any passion for is a girl who put you through hell. God, Rich. I just want to shake you and wake you up.” She signed. I think I was being insulted and ridiculed.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Rich, I’m not trying to insult you. You have so much potential. You’re smart, you’re witty, you can be charming, and you can get a room full of egos to agree and work together. I’ve seen it. You’re amazing. Middle child? Am I right?”

“Yup. You’re good.”

She laughed. “Rich, what do you want out of life? You can get it, you know. You just need to work for it.” She emptied her glass. “Oh, shit – you’re not here for a motivational speech. We’re here to bitch about our lovers. Wine or Cognac?”

“Oh, how about a nice cognac, please?”

“There you go again, being pleasant.” She said in a singsong voice as she went to the kitchen to get a bottle of cognac.

We sat and drank more. I was amazed at how different our responses were, to essentially the same situation. We both had lovers that ran off with someone else in a rather rude fashion. She blamed her lover, while I blamed the person my lover ran off with. Hmmm, is it a guy/girl thing? Am I wrong to blame Tim, is she right to blame Paul? I don’t know. If you have been wronged – did you blame your lover, the interloper, or both? Why?

After that things start to get fuzzy. I definitely had too much to drink. We killed two bottles of wine, some scotch and some cognac.

Which brings me to the morning. I sat up and looked around. My head swam. I was in Kristen’s guest bedroom. I was wearing the same boxers I had on last night. I started to remember the events of the late evening. Nothing happened. Nothing was offered, nothing was asked. The guest room was already made up for me before I arrived. Her plan all along was to keep me at a distance.

I made my way to the bathroom. I had already retrieved my spare clothes and bathroom things from her car. I had moved them from my truck before we left the office. I showered and brushed my teeth and changed into fresh clothes. I took 3 aspirin to calm my pounding head.

I wandered out to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. I read the morning paper for a while while I waited for Kristen to wake up. I perused through the fridge to see what there was for breakfast. It was about 11 when Kristen came out wearing her bathrobe. “oooh” she moaned.

“Coffee? Aspirin?”

“Yes, both, please.”

I brought them to her at the kitchen table. She smiled at me. “Thanks, Rich. I mean it. I really needed a shoulder to cry on. Despite the hangover I feel a lot better.”

“That’s what friends are for.”

“I still think you’re pretty confused about Lynn.”

“Yeah, I probably am.”

I made her a frittata from some eggs and leftovers she had in the fridge. Her kitchen was deteriorating to that of a bachelor. I noticed the garden in the backyard starting to become overgrown with weeds.

After breakfast we drove to the office. Most folks were already there. I put in a full day – consuming most of a pot of coffee and trying to re-hydrate from the prior evening’s drinking. I think I’ll lay off the booze for a while.

Dinner?

I always wondered what it would be like to drive a $100,000 car to work.

It wasn’t as fun as I had imagined it might be.

Last night I was out with Kristen and she had a bit too much to drink. I drove her home in her car and then took it to my house. It is a pretty new Mercedes 550SL convertible. I knew that if I totaled it my insurance wouldn’t cover me. Kristen’s insurance probably would, but that’s not the point. I wasn’t too worried about totaling it. I was more worried about getting a scratch in it.

The car is amazing. You put a card in your pocket and when you walk away from it, it locks and sets the alarm. When you walk up to it, it unlocks and you can drive it away. Driving it to work it sure got me a lot of attention. I had the top down and got lots of glances and waves from the other commuters. Once again I drove slowly and carefully. It sure would be a lot more fun to drive if I wasn’t so worried about messing it up.

Later this evening I was eating dinner with Kristen in the kitchen at the office. I was having a microwaveable deep dish pizza. She had built a sandwich.

“How do you handle the weekends?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Being at home, alone. I mean, that’s the worst – for me at least.”

“Alcohol abuse helps. Exercise to the point of exhaustion. I have 2 housemates, that helps, too. I was really getting better – until I was out at the Mt. View wine festival and saw them together. Man, that one really screwed me up again.”

“You ran into them? Together? All happy and in love?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, Rich, that had to hurt. Hey, can you come over Friday night? I’d really appreciate it.”

“I’d be happy to. Do you want to do dinner somewhere? Or should I cook for you?”

“Oh, Rich, cook, please. Make me some Jambalaya. I’ll provide some really good wine and great conversation.”

“That sounds like a fair trade. But not Jambalaya, besides that goes better with beer than wine. I have a better dish in mind. Are you willing to help cook?”

“Sure.”

“This dish is better than a month of therapy.”

“I’m not sure how food works as therapy, but I’m game. Should I get anything?”

“Have a bottle of champagne on hand. I’ll bring everything else.”

“Something to celebrate?” She sounded confused.

“No, I know it’s incongruous, but it’s an essential ingredient. You’ll see.”

Another Date

“You know, she doesn’t seem that happy. Not like when you two were together.” I was sharing a plate of carpaccio with Linda. Linda was one of the secretaries at my previous employer. She’s really nice. She is a single mother of a 10 year old son and lives with her mother in south San Jose. She was pretty close to Lynn when they worked together. She was referring to Lynn.

Just to keep from being alone, I have been asking out just about every woman that I know. On evenings that I’m not working I’ll take someone of the female persuasion out to dinner. I’m a bit embarrassed to say it’s like an ego thing. Seeing how many women I can take out. But it’s just dinner, and I usually dine at pretty good establishments – so you can’t really call it a great accomplishment. I’m not leading them on, it’s just a dinner. I only take a gentlemanly and polite peck of a goodnight kiss at the end of the evening. Soon, what’s left over of my severance package will be gone and I’ll need to start watching my money a bit better. Anyway, I’ve taken out the lady from payroll, and purchasing, 3 from accounting, and 1 from support, and a secretary. Just for the record, all these women are single, available, and not from my current workplace.

Linda was telling me about the party at Liz’s. Tim was there with Lynn. “Lynn was a lot more reserved than usual, and she wasn’t smiling a lot. You two were a great couple. You both had these silly grins on your faces all the time when you were together – well, after you had sex.”

“She told you when we…”

“Oh, Rich, It was so obvious.”

“I miss her.”

“I was talking with her. You know, it’s weird. Didn’t you get upset when she started sleeping with Tim?”

I almost dropped my fork. “I’ve never been more upset in my life.”

“She seemed to think that you didn’t care that much.”

“Cause I didn’t hurt her, or break anything, or throw a tantrum?”

“I don’t know. I guess she expected more of a reaction.”

“Well, Jim certainly would have given that to her. You know, she asked me if I wanted to hit her after I had found out. Isn’t that weird?”

“Maybe she was abused at some time back. Did you react? I mean in a way that she could tell?”

“Yeah, I did.” I nodded slowly “She knows I was devastated.”

“Jim really treated her badly. I don’t know why she was with him for so long. Once we were out at a concert and he reached down her dress and grabbed her breast – right there in public. It was disgusting. She should have slapped him.”

“Well, he treated her badly in public. You never know what went on in private. I certainly can’t understand it. She told me that she didn’t cheat on him – well until we got together. But by that time she had already decided to leave him.” I took a long sip of wine. “She couldn’t bring herself to cheat on him. But she could so easily cheat on me. I don’t get it. Anyway, a bunch of guys gave her plenty of opportunities to stray while she was with Jim, and she turned them all down.” (including me, although I didn’t say that out loud). I sat silent for a while. “Did you know that he hit her?”

“Who, Jim?”

“Yeah. That’s when he decided to leave him.”

“At least she had the sense to get out once it got physical.” She though about this, I don’t think she hadn’t learned that Jim had hit Lynn. “But there’s a lot more to abuse than a fist, you know.” She added.

We moved on the nicer topics. It was easy to have a good conversation with Linda. This actually turned out to be one of the better dates I had been on in a while.

Driving back to Linda’s house the conversation had turned back to Lynn. “She wanted me to share her. You know, I get her half the time and Tim gets her the other half. I was almost ready to do it. But in the end I just couldn’t.”

“Wow, I’d like to have two men.”

“Yeah I know,” I said dismissively. “But what if you loved one of them?”

She thought about this. “Nah, probably not. But if it was just sex, now that’s another story.” She grinned widely. I explained how I tried to get back at Tim, and how Lynn wouldn’t let me.

We were parked in front of her house. “Rich, you’re a really sweet guy. You know, it’s her loss – not yours.” That comment is really starting to piss me off. I’ve lost and I hurt. As best I can tell, she doesn’t. It’s like I should just stop hurting because she’s done something dumb. She has done something dumb – I am better than Tim (at least I think so). But it still hurts - a lot.

“Thanks.” I said swallowing my anger and smiling at her.

“So, Rich, did you ask me out tonight so that you could have sex with me?”

This was a question that I really didn’t want to answer. What’s the right answer? I know that a sincere and non threatening advance is always flattering. But having her think that I was after her could change our relationship. On the other hand, “no” is only good if she doesn’t want it. “Hell hath no fury,” after all. I searched her eyes for the answer and came up blank. I couldn’t read her. How bad would “maybe” sound? Pretty bad, huh?

“Linda, you are wonderful. I don’t want to say anything that might possibly offend you. Can I take the 5^th on that?”

The truth is that I did not want to have sex with her (I hope to god she never reads this.) Not that I don’t find her attractive – I do. It’s just not what I want now. I really want Lynn. While it would be fun and distracting to have a roll in the hay with Linda, it seems like the resulting complications would be more trouble than it’s worth. It would end with one of us hurt – and I can’t handle that now.

Anyway, Linda beamed at my reply. Whatever she wanted to hear, it seems like this was the right answer. “Thanks, Rich” and she kissed me on the cheek.

I walked her to her door and gave her a kiss goodnight. For the first time since high school I worried about her mother peeking through the front curtains.

Driving home I was feeling even more alone than usual.

Blueberry Season

Yes, here in California it's blueberry season. Well, it must be in the midwest, or Argentina, or somewhere, 'cause there's blueberries in town. Anyway, I love blueberry pancakes for breakfast. Yesterday I bought a tray of blueberries from the fruit stand that the farmers set up off El Camino (a big street running through the center of Mountain View).

I woke up early, and decided to skip the paddling and have a lazy breakfast before going into work. After starting to get ingredients together Amanda came out of Jason’s room. She seems to rise fairly early as well. She has been staying here almost every night lately – lucky Jason.

I chatted with her while I put together the pancake batter and made some orange juice.

“You don’t really grind coffee beans every morning, do you?” she asked.

“Yeah, I do.” I put the grounds into the French press, and poured boiling water (yes, bottled spring water - and she gave me grief about that, too) over them. I handed her a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice.

“Are you doing this just to impress me?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, guys do that a lot around me.”

“Umm, I can see why.” She is a cute girl with a good personality. I can imagine that guys try to show off in front of her all the time. “But, no. I really like good food, and I think it’s worth the effort to make it well. You can ask Jason. Actually, the breakfast that I use to impress women is eggs benedict. Even in good restaurants it’s unusual to get real hollandaise sauce. And when it’s made well, it’s really really good.”

“So blueberry pancakes from scratch are just an ordinary workday breakfast?”

“Well. Not an everyday breakfast, but not that unusual.” The pancakes came out wonderful, if I don’t say so myself. I gave a stack to Amanda. It’s just as easy to cook for two as it is for one.

“So do you have a lot of chances to make your eggs benedict for your women friends?” she asked after finishing the pancakes.

“No, not really.”

“You know, you can make it for me any time.”

I wasn’t sure if she was propositioning me or not. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and assume she was expressing hunger – the food kind.

I started to do the dishes. “No way, let me do those.” Amanda protested.

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yeah. You cooked, I’ll clean.“

What a sweet girl. I’m not really comfortable letting someone else muck around in my kitchen – neither of my housemates ever ventures in there - but it seemed polite to let her do some of the cleanup.

Paddling

On Sunday Paul and I went paddling in Capitola – a small town south of Santa Cruz. Paul took some training classes a couple of weeks ago in Seattle and has a new boat. His form is still pretty bad – he paddles with his arm muscles. Good paddling form uses the torso muscles for propulsion, and the arms to place the paddles in the water. It’s a pretty common mistake for a beginner to make. I decided to try to cure him of it using the same method that worked for me. I raced him 1 kilometer up the shoreline. He kept up with me pretty well. Then we raced back. His arms were dead so he had to use his torso. He went a lot slower, but he’s getting the hang of it.

Paul has to go kayaking with me. His car can’t carry his boat. He has one of those Nissan Z cars. I think you can get a roof rack for those, but I wouldn’t put more than a pair of skis on it. His boat is 17 feet long, I think his car is about 13. I'm sure Kristen will buy him a suitable ride soon, but for now I'm hauling his boat around on my truck

It was overcast, and cool on the water. We paddled about 13 K (8 miles) which is a pretty healthy workout. When working that hard for that long it’s nice to have the cool weather, especially since we are wearing dry tops – which are really good at trapping the heat in. After 2 hours on the water, we packed up and headed back to my place. We cleaned up the equipment and I showered and changed. I grabbed a jar of basil pesto that I made and bottle of Chianti and drove Paul back to Kristen’s house.

I’d throw in a few conversations that Paul and I had, but we seem to only talk about inconsequential things, the weather, paddling, travel. He doesn’t even talk about Kristen much, which is somewhat incongruent with his behavior around her. I would have expected him to gab incessantly about her. I’ve talked to him about Lynn a bit (just because she is always in my thoughts) but I never get more than a “hmm” or a “huh” in response. But most guys don’t talk to guys about relationships much – we are much more apt to discuss sex. But it would be weird to talk about sex with the boyfriend of a VP that I work with.

Once we got back to Kristen’s Paul put his gear in the garage and went to take a shower. I opened the Chianti and chatted with Kristen in the living room. Once Paul was cleaned up he got to work in the kitchen – he made a Caesar, a big pot of linguine, and reheated a good loaf of French bread.

He called out from the kitchen, “man, this pesto is awesome.” He came (almost running) into the living room “Rich, how did you make this?”

“Oh, the usual way.” I said coyly.

He squinted at me. “No, come on. There’s something else in here. This is really good.”

“Quick, serve it while it’s hot. I’ll give you the secret.”

Kristen oh-ed and ah-ed over it as well. Paul became adamant about getting the recipe for it. I eventually gave in and told him how to make it.

After dinner, we sat in the living room. Paul was lying down on the couch and quickly fell asleep. He put in a lot of effort today. Kristen and I finished a bottle of wine. I rehashed the story of Lynn and she told me stories about some of her former lovers, and a few tidbits about Paul.

I went easy on the wine, and switched to club soda long before the end of the evening – it just didn’t feel right to spend the night there.

Alameda de Las Pulgas

I went over to Lynn’s apartment after work around at about 6:30. I felt a little guilty, like I was sneaking out early – but Lynn is more important than work, and we did have this date set before I learned about the “normal” working hours. I knocked on the door and then let myself in. Lynn was dressed up. She came and kissed me. “You look great” I told her. I brought in a bag of fresh clothes and bathroom things.

“Thanks. I’ll put those in the bedroom” she said grabbing my bag, “I saw you called yesterday.” She called from the bedroom.

“Just to say hello. I was wrapping up work, at 9:00. Those guys work long hours. The good news is that they start between 10 and 11, some closer to 12. Although I haven’t stayed late enough to see anyone leave.”

“That’s a bad sign.”

“Well, Wayne, my new boss, says that he doesn’t care how much time I spend on the work, just get the job done. Did you do anything fun last night?”

“Tim took me to dinner at a place called ‘Steamers’ over on University avenue. Good seafood. Nice place, we should go there sometime.”

We went to dinner at one of her favorite restaurants, the Flea Street Café. It is an old house on one of the main streets in Menlo Park converted into a restaurant. I found it from a review in Gourmet magazine. Dinner was absolutely wonderful.

We got back to her apartment and went inside. She poured me a glass of wine, a good cabernet that I had bought her to fill up her wine rack. We stood in her living room with the lights low. We kissed.

This Tim thing was bugging me. I haven’t blogged all of it, I didn’t think it was relevant – maybe I was in denial – but there’s something about Tim that gets my radar up. I don’t know, something about the way that she talks about him. Anyway, during dinner I learned that she went to dinner with him last night, and that he came back over to her place. And there were a couple other comments that Lynn made that just made me worry. Before we went any further, I needed to know what her intentions with Tim were. The questions led to:

“So,“ I asked, bracing myself, “Did you sleep with Tim?”

“Do you really want to know?” She said, still holding me.

“Yes.” I said, thinking I only want to know if the answer is no.

“You sure?” Oh, Fuck. That’s enough for me to know. My stomach tied up in a knot.

“Yes.” I said deliberately

“Yes, I did.” And she kissed me again.

“Do you want to sleep with me?” I asked.

“Yes” she said.

“Uhm, are you going to keep sleeping with him?”

“Yes. But that doesn’t have to change anything between us.” She squeezed me tight. “Enjoy me. Enjoy my body. Rich, don’t get hung up on this.”

“Were you going to tell me? Or just hide it.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to know. Are you mad?” She looked at me expectantly, I guess waiting for me to scream. “Do you want to hit me?” she asked

“No”, I almost laughed. “No, of course not, I’d never hit you. Am I mad? I’m not happy. I don’t know how I feel about this. Give me some time to absorb this.”

She led me by the hand into the bedroom. She sat me on the bed and undressed me. As she pulled off my underwear she looked at me and stated the obvious “You don’t lust me any more, do you?”

“No.” I replied.

She undressed herself, down to a pair of black lace panties and went to work trying to get me to lust her again – which she succeeded at after an embarrassingly short time. We had sex. It wasn’t good sex. I never though there was such a thing as bad sex.

Bad sex is still pretty good.

We were lying in bed and I was trying to figure this out. I really didn’t know how I felt about this. I am in love with her, but she had told me that this might happen, and that this is what she needs. Why would I deny my love what she needs? Can I share her? Should I share her? I want her to be happy. I want to be her friend. I need her. Why does she need this? Why am I not enough for her?

Where did I read the signals wrong? I really thought she loved me, too.

So I did what I do whenever pain intrudes – yes, there was definitely pain – I got up to go the fridge to get some wine. There was a cheaper chardonnay. “Where are you going?” She asked.

“To get some wine, do you want some?”

“Rich, you don’t need to get drunk over this.”

“Yeah, I think I do.” I replied. “Do you want some?”

“No, thanks.”

I returned with a glass filled to the brim. I would need at least another bottle. “How is this going to work?” I asked.

“Can’t you share me?”

“Is Tim willing to share you?”

“He says he is. We’ll see.”

“I guess I can too. So he gets you on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and I get you Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday?”

“And my vagina gets a break on Sunday.” She joked. I found no humor in it.

“So when you have a house warming party? Who do you invite, him or me?”

“I don’t think I’ll have one.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Maybe neither.”

“I though what we had was wonderful. Why did you do this?”

“We do have something wonderful, Rich. What Tim and I had was just sex.”

“Let me ask you something. Do you believe it when guys tell you that?”

“Rich, it’s not like that. What Tim and I have is not like what you and I have.”

Ok, so that was a no. I didn’t think so – I though to myself.

“I’m going through a tough time and I’m going to be selfish. Why can’t I have 2 men? Haven’t you ever wanted to have 2 women? I bet you have.”

OK, you score that point. Yes I have wanted 2 women, but that’s more of a fantasy thing, I justified to myself. “No – not like this” I lied.

“Yeah, right. Rich, I’m a mess. I need this now. I told you this can’t just be you and me now.”

“Tim knows that we have been sleeping together?”

“Yes.”

But Tim is the cheater. And that is so much easier than being the cheatee. He never had the expectation that he had you – I thought to myself.

“You didn’t have a problem with me going back to Jim, did you?” She asked.

“No.”

“You weren’t threatened by him. Rich, Tim isn’t a threat to you either. I love you. I don’t love him. But I really really lust him.”

And what am I fuckin’ chopped liver? “I’m not worth that sacrifice?”

“Rich, I can’t, I’m too messed up. I though about it. I almost did. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

I went out to refill my glass. I didn’t feel too guilty about drinking all her wine – I bought all of it anyway. I wasn’t going to let Tim and her enjoy it together. I think I can deal with this, I told myself. I need to outlast Tim – I can do it.

I stood in the dark in the kitchen and it suddenly dawned on me that this was some sort of karmic retribution. I was sleeping with Lynn while she was with Jim, now Tim was doing the same thing to me. Is she dumping me and this is the easiest way for her to do it? Does she really need two men? Is she really messed up?

Where did I read the signals wrong?

I went back to the bedroom and finished the wine. I struggled to come to grips with this. As soon as life was perfect, it all falls apart. Did she just need the drama in her life?

I blew out the candle that Lynn had lit and climbed into bed with her. I held her tight. I think I cried myself to sleep.

The next morning she got up and dressed. I can get through this – I told myself. She was so beautiful. I am so in love. She kissed me and left me in her bed – naked and alone – while she went to work with Tim.

Fuck! Where did I read the signals wrong?