Bill & Melinda & "None that Mattered More"

 In

The Times of London

Bill Gates said

the biggest regret

was divorcing 

Melinda

who knew him best

before his major success

the mother of

his kids.

Did he have

other 

regrets? 

the reporter asked.

"None that mattered more."

None that mattered more.

I cry

for the man who

has everything

and

nothing.

He felt

the loss,

said it aloud

to the world.

Nothing matters more 

than

love

a rich man

tells us.

I find him brave

as so few men

women 

people

could admit

the same.

My heart breaks, too,

for Melinda.

I hope she finds

peace

happiness

and 

love.

Innies, Outies and the Hot Guy from Brazil

I am watching Severance, an Apple TV series staring Adam Scott. It is sci-fi thriller about a guy who chooses to have his work life and his personal life severed. The Lumon corporation performs surgery on the brains of their employees so they have no recollection of their home life at work, or their work life at home. They even have names for these two sides of themselves: the "Innies" are who they are at work, and the "Outies" (not to be confused with Audi's) are who they are at home.

The reason I know about this show is because the New Yorker and the New York Times have been pumping it. I've read just enough about the show to be curious but I am trying not to read too much to avoid spoilers. Which there have been a few so far, which sucks. But anyway.

Severance is creepy as fuck. I both love it and hate it. I've only watched two episodes of Season 1 and I don't want to watch it alone because it is scary. I read the end of the NYT review and it said the scariest part of the show are the two parts of our personality hiding within ourselves.

Which brings me to the hot guy from Brazil.

A week ago, I went out dancing with some friends at the Crocodile. It was an ABBA danced themed party, which was attended by 

• people who own the entire ABBA discography on vinyl and were disappointed that Mamma Mia! didn't include "Fernando," and
• younger people who wanted to party and dress up like a caricatures from the 1970's.

Last night on the floor, I saw a guy--the above mentioned hot Brazilian--I met once via a dating app. This was the first time I've seen someone I met via an app out in the wild. It was surreal. A majority of the people I've met online I've gone out with once, maybe twice. 

This hot Brazilian is younger than me by enough that I would get a big punch in my cougar card, but he is old enough to have a successful career. In his profile, he said he liked to dance and go to clubs, which I thought was fun. He was also an aerospace engineer, so I figured he was, ya know, kinda smart. Hot, sexy, smart, likes to dance, and has an accent? Bingo!

So I met him for a beer in a restaurant in SLU. I don't even remember when, maybe last spring? And the date was dull. He was a nice enough guy, but the conversation didn't flow. The aerospace engineer showed up on the date, not the dance party guy. I met this guy's Innie, his LinkedIn profile, not his Instagram Outie.*

Nevertheless, it was interesting to see this guy's Outie dancing. He is about 6'2'', so he stands out in the crowd. He and his all male posse were wearing sunglasses, which I guess is a thing to do in a club? It took me a good ten or fifteen minutes to determine if this was the same guy I met last spring. There was no way I was going to go up and say hello. "Remember me from one date last spring?" No. 

Halfway into the might, some twenty-something chick came up to him and they were making out on the dance floor. While he was wearing his sunglasses. Then one of his minions came up to me and asked me to dance. I was like "Nope."

The thing that puzzles me is how this night club player was same guy pinged me on a dating app. Seriously. I don't understand why he bothered to match with me and ask me out. Maybe he thought his Innie and my Innie would hit it off. Oh well. It is a mystery.

* I stole this comparison from the NYT.

Note: I am writing about a guy I met online, but I am 99.99% sure there is no way he or any of his friends would ever read this. Ever. And if they did, I am not sure they would connect the dots.

The Last Supper, the Pink Door, and Metabolizing Grief

Pedro and his girlfriend are in town for a quick visit. Last night as we were walking to dinner, we passed the Pink Door, an Italian restaurant in the Market.

"That was the last place we had dinner as a family," Pedro said. "It was the five of us: you, me, dad, Claire-Adele, and my girlfriend."

Whoa.

I didn't remember. I remember lots of last things, but not the last dinner we had a family. I found it mildly of tragic that Pedro had marked it in his mind and I didn't. When I think back, I can't remember which meal that was. 

• I remember Jack had once ordered some crazy kind of fish (branzino?) that was full of bones at the Pink Door. Was that at the last dinner, or was it another time we ate there?
• I remember that the Pink Door was the last restaurant Jack and I went to before the pandemic shut down. We made a point of going to a movie and dinner, knowing the lock-down was coming. 
• I remember ordering risotto and lasagna to-go from the Pink Door during lock-down because I was too lazy too cook.

I don't remember the last time we ate dinner as a family. 

I can close my eyes and try to make it up, but I can't tell one dinner at the Pink Door from the next.

I was all out of sorts today and I didn't know why. Then when I told my therapist the last supper story, I cried.

"You are metabolizing your grief," Brandon said. "This is normal."

He is right, and yet it still sucks. I'd rather not have the grief, but as I know from losing a child, grief waits. You can bury it and smother it and hide it in the corner, but it will wait. 

But when I look grief in the eye and accept it, it hurts, and then it subsides. 

I was glad Pedro told me about the last time we had dinner as a family, that he shared his memories about the "before times" with me. He feels safe enough with me to talk about it, to bring it up, that I wouldn't freak out or cry or scream. I am not as crazy about that kind of stuff as I used to be.

This was a shared memory, even if I didn't remember it. Perhaps some grief isn't meant to be metabolized alone. Some grief is meant to be metabolized together.

Ickiness v. Love

This story is not a pleasant one.

Today, as I was waiting for an appointment, I was reading about Famous Writer (male) who recently has been accused of sexual assault and misconduct. If I hadn't been in a holding pattern, I might have just read the headline and skipped the meat. Instead, I dove in. The article--like most #metoo articles--was gross, but I read it in a different light.

I had a friend who years and years ago had an affair with Famous Writer. By time I knew her, the affair was over, but the emotional aftermath was still there. She was hurt, wounded, broken-hearted. Scarred.

Famous Writer had a cult following, and it wasn't uncommon for women fans to toss him their metaphorical and literal panties. My friend was an artist, and she connected with Famous Writer on a creative level.

Or so she thought.

He sent her poetry, and she devoured it. She loved it. She loved him, and she thought he loved her.

When I was reading this article about Famous Writer, I was looking for my friend. Where was her story, wrapped in the sheets? Where does she belong in the narrative and the mess that is and was this guy's life? What about the women who love Famous Writers and Actors and Sports Stars and whatnot, these guys who end up being at best creeps and at worst rapists and assaulters?

I don't blame friend for not seeing him as a creep or rapist. I can't. He probably didn't assault her. He didn't need to. She was willing and gave him consent. She was a fan with an open heart. She only saw one slice, one angle of his life. She didn't see the other women and how he treated them. And what Famous Writer did to my friend  wasn’t a crime, but it was certainly part of a pattern.

My heart breaks for my friend again. My heart broke for her years ago, when she wished Famous Writer was in her life. And it breaks again today, as I see her as one of the many, many women he used and abused, even if she was willing.

Paragons of Virtue

Many people who go through divorce suffer a change in their financial circumstances and need to amend previous spending patterns. Even if people go from "affluent" to "less affluent," it still can kind of suck to have to make budgeting choices where before it wasn't needed.

My divorced friends and I are going through this shift, and they wanted someone to write an article celebrating our new sense of thrift. Here are our accomplishments of the week.

• Kathryn went "book-bathing" at Barnes & Noble. She walked through the store and didn't buy any books.
• Jessica went to Nordstrom Rack and only spent $40 on things she intended to buy in the first place.
• I ate dinner in on Friday and Saturday night instead of going to Le Pichet.

In the category of "Not Cheating the System," we

• Paid for $2 all day parking at North Seattle College this weekend when we played pickle ball, and
• Paid our car tabs instead of letting it slide.

As my kids would say, “Yay us!”

NPC & Acceptance

I am a heartless, cranky old bat.

One of my twenty-something former co-workers got married this Sunday and I didn't want to go to the wedding.

I left Andy's team about five months ago for a new role in the same company. I moved from the second floor to the sixth. A week after I started my new role, Andy appeared at my new desk, wedding invitation in hand. Beaming. The invitation had fancy envelope, a wax seal and everything. I was surprised he figured out where I saw and brought me an invitation. Silently I thought "I don't want to go." We rarely worked together on the same projects, but we had the same manager and our desks were near each other. I figured I was getting the elementary school birthday party invitation logic: if Andy was inviting anyone from team, he had to invite everyone from his team. I really couldn't say "Sorry I can't make it to your wedding six months from now. I have a haircut appointment."

I don't know why I didn't want to go other than I am a cranky old bat. I didn't want to spend six hours of a Sunday on someone a barely knew. My good friend and co-worker Tracy was also going, so I figured I'd go along.

Sunday morning before the wedding, I played pickleball, went to brunch with teammates (which was a riot), and then left at the last possible moment for me to go home, shower and change my clothes. Turnaround time from post-pickleball mess to wedding ready was thirty-four minutes.

When I got to the wedding, my co-workers Tracy, Amy and I were all plopped at a table in the back, as expected. I saw all of Andy's friends, his family, his bride's family and friends. Andy and Sasha had met at church, so half of her side and half of his side knew each other. I felt like an NPC--a non-playable character--in a video game. My role wasn't to participate or tell cute stories or even help, but simply to watch. Observe. Witness. Why did they need me there?

I knew Andy was religious, but I didn't understand the depth of his faith until I was at his wedding. Reading of his vows, Andy said he thought he would never get married, never be a father. He willingly accepted god's plan that he might always be single.

Wow.

I have to admit after sitting next to Andy for two years--not gonna lie--I thought the same thing. How is this guy ever going to get married? I couldn't imagine him on a date, but there was no way I would ever ask him about his love life. Andy is a sweet guy and couldn't be mean if he tried, but I didn't see him having any savvy with women.

The interesting thing that Andy said, given his religion and faith, was not that he prayed and prayed to get married. Instead, he said he willing accepted god's plan for him to be single. 

A week later, he met Sasha.

What I find so remarkable and heartening about Andy's story is his acceptance. A guy like him could have ended up some crazy incel, blaming women up and down for not wanting to date him. Instead, he did the opposite. He accepted his lot. He wasn't resigned or bitter or resentful. He openheartedly accepted his singleness with grace.

In the end, it was the most inspiring wedding I have ever been to. I've never been happier for someone getting married than I was for Andy.

Who knew that a heartless, cranky old NPC bat could be so moved? That faith and acceptance could be contagious?

Four Mondays

Welcome back

to work

during the holidays.

Today

is the fourth "Monday"

I've had in 

two weeks.

Oy.

Carry On

The other night I watched the new movie Carry On on Netflix about a TSA agent who foils an evil villain's plot to kill 250 people on a plane with a new Russian nerve gas. Taron Egerton is adorable as the TSA agent. I loved him in The Kingsman series where he help his own with Colin "Mr. Darcy" Firth. I loved Taron as Eddie the Eagle and in Rocketman where he played Elton John. This actor isn't afraid to eccentric goofballs, which is so endearing in the age of actors protecting their brand. How about having the brand of being talented? That works, too.

All of that about Taron is great, but I gotta say I was rooting for Jason Bateman, who was playing the villain. I was hoping Jason's character would knock off the U.S. Representative and her baby along with the other 248 people on the plane. Not that I actually wanted to see all of those people die, but rather the hero has to win, right?

Spoiler alert: Jason Bateman's character dies in the end from his poisonous nerve gas. He gets locked in an airtight storage locker made of glass so we can see his demise. I have to admit I was hoping for a Fatal Attraction ending, where he came back from presumed death. Oh well. Didn't happen.

My blog recently has not lived up to its name. Rough Draft was supposed to be a place where I could write stuff and just say "Fuck it. It might not be perfect or popular, but it is what I am thinking and feeling in a moment." Sort of a written Improv. Recently, I have been writing things, and then hemming and hawing about whether to publish them. That is not the point of this blog. In this post, I was afraid you would think I was a monster for rooting for the villain. Instead, it made me wonder about movies (and life) and who is cast as a good guy and who is cast as a bad guy. Jason Bateman is about my age (he's older than me, for the record) and he's played a tired, old white guy who seems like he is just doing his job, but somewhere along the way his job morphed into something terrible and his brain forgot to tell his conscience. He became really good at this horrible, shitty, evil job that ruins his life and the lives of others, but he keeps doing it. My god, this applies to half of the people I know, but who would admit it? Welcome to middle age.

What do we do? Carry on.