Big Al Egret and Ivan Ibis

It has taken me a long time to admit this, even to myself, but I fell in love with a lifestyle. Not a house- even though I participated in the design and construction of one of the most charming Lowcountry homes on Bogue Banks. Not a car- even though my little Mazda Miata- Montego Blue with tan leather top and interior- remains the snazziest car I’ve ever owned. Not the vacations- even though the Fairmont at Banff Springs and the two trips to Cannes were nothing short of splendid. And not even my ex-husband, Nob, ever-charming and handsome, the man to whom I remained devoted for eighteen productive, albeit difficult years, could replace what I ultimately felt I had lost once the emblems of my former life eventually melted away to moving, memory, and divorce.

I missed my birds, Big Al Egret and Ivan Ibis.

Big Al arrived first, when Nob and I lived in a condominium community surrounded by lagoons on Bogue Sound. The lagoons, stocked with carp to control algae, teemed with minnows that schooled in a boiling mass whenever I fed them leftover breadcrumbs. Soon enough my activities attracted the attention of a curious White Egret. Eventually the bird became conditioned to the feast he would inevitably scarf down whenever he saw me appear on the scene. He thus allowed himself to be “tamed.” Nob and I named him Big Al, as his size and voracious appetite gave him the appearance of a homely diner who frequented fast food joints. Big Al soon became such a fixture around our house that whenever he spotted one of us outside near the water, he would fly over and land within six feet, long neck craning to the side, beady eyes fixed on the lagoon’s surface, and scissor-like bill clacking in anticipation of the meal to come.

Within a year or two of befriending Big Al, word apparently spread among the egrets of Bogue Banks. The lagoon facing our house became a nesting site, often housing as many as a hundred (yes, really- I counted!) of the pterodactyl-like creatures. I still remember many Magritte-like evenings- tall pine trees backlit by a fiery sunset while dozens of egrets circled overhead, lit tentatively in the thin branches, then jostled for position- often emitting a prehistoric honk as they jousted each other with pointy beaks.

After a while Big Al took up with a fishing partner- an ungainly White Ibis I named Ivan. The two were a strange, albeit comical, duo. Al would work the shallow water on the lagoon’s edge, often stopping to strike peculiar angular postures- before jabbing at the water and swiftly knocking back a wriggling minnow. Ivan had a more methodical method of fishing. Walking slightly behind and upshore from Big Al, Ivan plumbed the margin where water met grass. Rapidly and incessantly bobbling his downcurved bill like a sewing machine, Ivan procured the worms and tiny jetsam along the water’s edge. The odd pair, egret and ibis, ultimately became inseparable, as I would never see one without the other being nearby.

After the house was finished, we moved less than two miles down the road to a secluded peninsula of maritime forest. Although Al and Ivan were now outside the boundaries of our daily routines, a host of similar birds and wildlife took their place. There was a Great Blue Egret I called the Old Man who roosted nightly at the top of a Live Oak tree on our pond. There were ospreys, pelicans, hummingbirds, and an occasional Clapper Rail.  There were hungry Canada Geese and Mallard ducks to feed cracked corn. There were also nesting pairs of Painted Buntings- their tiny, brilliant crimson, yellow, and blue wings skimming within two feet overhead.  On cool nights I recall hearing the plaintive call-and-response courtship of Great Horned Owls. Once, I spotted one from the second story front porch and watched it silently glide along the salt marsh that paralleled our driveway.

There were some awesome sights to be seen along the edge of the maritime forest, where our back porches overlooked the dense tops of Live Oaks, Wax Myrtles and Swamp Magnolias that formed a green arch between the pond and the wide, blue sound. In three brief years we observed two enormous mating Timber Rattlesnakes(!), gray foxes, opossums, numerous raccoons, and an occasional lumbering snapping turtle. I remember being startled the first time I was awakened by the light of an enormous, silver disc of full moon framed by the French doors in our bedroom, setting directly over the luminous Bogue Sound.

It is ironic that in the face of material comforts, these sights and memories of nature cost nothing- yet they cost everything, too. The time I spent devoted to the dream of a continuous commune with nature was spent in a marriage that produced no children, no great accomplishments, little joy, and ultimately- no lasting commitment. I remained doggedly devoted to the beautiful sights, sounds, and experiences my lifestyle afforded while blithely ignoring the cost of foregoing whatever other dreams I had.

I miss Big Al and Ivan, sure, but I have grown since then. Now that I am writing a new, later chapter in my life story, I hope I will have the wisdom to abide by this quote by Lao Tzu:

Be Content with what you have; rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.

fredazoo: my best friend

fredazoo: Sophie is kissed by a cat

Sophie is kissed by Murphy, the cool black cat.

Elton John – Where to Now St.Peter

Thirteen-year-old Freda was utterly amazed when her new love played and sang flawlessly this obscure, haunting Elton John ballad from the album “Tumbleweed Connection.” Only it happened 36 years later- when she was 49.

more about “Elton John – Where to Now St.Peter (l…“, posted with vodpod

Bon voyage, mes amis

You- you alone will have the stars as no one else has them . . . . In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the night sky… You- only you- will have stars that can laugh!

And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me. And you will sometimes open your window, so, for that pleasure . . . And your friends will be properly astonished to see you laughing as you look up at the sky! Then you will say to them, ‘Yes, the stars always make me laugh!’ And they will think you are crazy.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

My French friends, Marie-Charlotte, and her husband, Georges, are returning home to Cherbourg, and I am sad to see them go.

At the same time, I feel such an overwhelming sense of gratitude and affection, it is hard to be too unhappy for them, even though they would have hoped to stay in the States a while longer- or for myself. After all, Georges’ project in the U.S. had come to its logical conclusion. And even Marie-Charlotte, ever the optimist, admitted that finding culture in Augusta, Georgia, was a challenge.

Of course, if ever anyone could find culture, it would be my French friends, who somehow in two brief years had managed to become active in an independent film society, tutor college students, and befriend the owner of a well-known (and quite good) French restaurant in town. Meanwhile, they had managed to entertain themselves (and me) canoeing down the beautiful Savannah River, attending concerts- like Bob Dylan’s Modern Times tour, or strolling down Broad Street enjoying a brass band jam at one of the First Friday concerts.

No doubt there will be a large hole in my life once they are no longer an hour or two away. But aside from the shared laughter, food, wine, and good times, there is something they have given me too important to forget or try to replace. They have given me the gift of friendship.

It is the secret the character, the fox, attempts to explain to St. Exupéry’s Little Prince. Essentially, the gift of friendship is one of absorption. Those things that are a part of our friends’ lives become a part of ours, too: the likes, the dislikes, the food, the humor, even the speech…

Every time I hear a French accent I will be reminded of the times we’ve laughed to the point of bursting over the France-meets-the-South misunderstandings of pronunciation: from “Am-buh-guh.” meaning “hamburger,” to “hah-sole” for “asshole.” Any time I hear a lilting French voice, I will be reminded of Marie-Charlotte and her playful way of turning the discovery of a foreign culture (ours) into a hilarious adventure. I will never hear the expression, “ooh, la la” in the same way.

I will also be eternally grateful for the time she allowed me to prattle on “explaining” the vagaries of American culture to her- especially when she was motivated to become part of the recent Presidential campaign. The mental image of my friend, a tiny, birdlike French woman amongst the hefty Augustans made me chuckle- still does. I reveled exposing her and Georges to “Southern Culture,” and the Thanksgiving meal and “oysters broil” (oyster roast) they shared with me at Mama’s house will be a point of fondness forever.

To see wonderful things about ourselves mirrored through the eyes of our friends is a gift, indeed.

To that end, I can only echo the sentiment expressed by The Little Prince, “it is only with the heart that one can see rightly.”

Thus I bid mes amis “bon voyage,” but not “adieu,” as they cannot ever possibly be too far from my heart.

What time are you?

Years ago when I was an assistant principal, my best friend at work was Cassie (not her real name), the school guidance counselor. Cassie had a wonderfully sunny, unflappable disposition, a husband who was chronically ill- or at least in a perpetual bad mood, and three wild children. Yet she always had a hug for a distressed kid, a sympathetic ear for a parent, and a hearty laugh at the end of the day when we swapped stories. She confessed she sometimes got “cauliflower ear” from listening to people’s problems, but when I learned more about her and the challenges she’d overcome as the child of an alcoholic father who’d ultimately committed suicide, I concluded Cassie’s unique perspective gave her the wisdom to discern the differences between mundane and extraordinary. In short, Cassie was one of those gifted individuals who don’t sweat the small stuff, as they say.

One afternoon I noticed Cassie in her office long after the other teachers had gone. This was unusual for Cassie, as the demands of her three children often sent her scurrying to transport them to ball practice, dance classes, piano lessons, and the like.

“What are you doing here so late?” I inquired. She chuckled. “I’m waiting for my 3:30 appointment,” she said. It was nearly five o’clock. “Aren’t they a bit late?” I asked. “Oh, they’re sundial people,” she replied, “they could show up at any time, so I thought I’d wait a little longer.”

Sure enough, as I walked downstairs to my office I saw two rather disheveled-looking parents running up the stairs in an obvious hurry. These were her “sundial” people.

Next day when I asked her how her conference went, we got into an interesting discussion about the sundial people. Although I already had an idea, I asked her what she meant by the phrase. “You know,” Freda, “some people live their lives by their own rhythm. They’re not bound up by a clock.” These particular parents, both artists, lived on a sailboat moored in the Beaufort harbor; I certainly could see her point.

From there Cassie and I launched into one of our esoteric bull sessions, during which we declared there were actually three types of “clocks” by which people could be categorized:

(1) Digital people- for whom time is mapped discreetly moment-by-moment, whose past seems remote, whose present is fleeting, and whose future always seems to be encroaching quickly. We concluded there were many Type A folks we’d encountered whose lives were completely digital.

(2) Sundial people- for whom measured time is largely immaterial, a passing shadow. Although the arts attract a large share of these types, we determined many poor people in the world must also live in a present surrendered to the vicissitudes of survival. We surmised both serfs and sages must share this type of  internal clock: one out of necessity; the other by choice.

(3) Analog people- for whom time is cyclical- always chasing itself like the hands on a clock face, seemingly speeding and slowing at random intervals. We imagined that most people measure their lives in this way. I decided this was also my clock type, as time to me seems both fluid and fleeting, depending on my mood, schedule, and circumstance.

We concluded since each of our clocks must be individually synchronized, it’s a wonder how people work together at all.

Time and circumstance eventually separated Cassie from me, but someday I hope her sundial and my analog clock will arrive coincidentally at the same place. I have no doubt we would have a good time.

Cyber-love and cyber-politics don’t mix

If you know me or have read a few of my blog posts (e.g., Thank You Ella! Thank You Mom!), this news will not come as a surprise. I am a liberal. Some would accuse me of being a “bleeding heart,” whatever that means, but my world views have been formed and shaped by a belief that government should protect the most vulnerable members of society from predation. As I’ve aged and mellowed, I’ve come to appreciate the delicate balance between a free marketplace that allows individuals and groups to create and pursue wealth, and a government that doesn’t interfere or burden its citizens with unneccessary penalties and restrictions nor allow its citizens to be used to serve the interests of the powerful. So in my opinion, I’ve actually leaned a bit toward the middle, at least in economic matters. All the while, though, my main interest as a citizen has been to empower the disenfranchised, help young people, and protect those underdogs who, in my opinion, have historically been economically exploited by powerful people and entitites. One could say I take the motto: E pluribus unum to heart.

That said, it looks like my political leanings have caused a few unintended consequences in cyber-dating land. I guess I’m learning a new maxim: cyber-love and cyber-politics don’t necessarily mix. A couple of my recent encounters illustrate this point.

What’s happening in that tent?

I was happy to see Mystery Man was still single after my three-year hiatus. I thought his profile was a standout amongst the many bland descriptions I had read. For one thing, it appeared he had some opinions I liked. His writing style was coherent, and it was obvious he’d thought about what to say. And he could spell- a big plus in my schoolteacher handbook. He wrote about his interest in the local music scene, and he even named the venues. Hey, these were the places I liked to go, too!  He alluded to the local newspaper and to N.P.R….. “Sweet!” I thought. Then he mentioned some of his political interests: social justice, conservation, preservation of free speech. He was speaking my liberal language! Could this be a match between two bleeding hearts? I wondered.

To my delight, I received an email a few days after going live with my e-search. “So we meet online again,” he started, “what have you been doing these three years?” I wasn’t about to tell him the whole truth- that I had taken a e-dating hiatus primarily because after he cooled off our initial correspondence three years ago, I never saw anyone else out there whose profile “clicked” with me. Soon we were exchanging emails, light-hearted banter, at first. “What do you like to do?” Camping, travel, web-surfing, music, blah, blah, blah, back-and-forth. “And sex” he wrote.

Okie dokie, I thought. Here’s the bait. Do I ignore that remark or respond? I decided not to be a forty-nine-year-old prude. After all, what’s not to like about sex? So I (rather blithely, I thought) mentioned that I, too, liked camping and sex, although it had been a long time since I had done either. The proverbial gauntlet, as it turns out, was thrown. The rest of our email exchanges took on- shall I say it? A rather extended metaphor about sex and camping. A few more days of this type of dialog was becoming like a junior high version of summer co-ed camp- the young couple sitting by a campfire roasting marshmallows and weenies, while the boy, begging for “s’more” keeps trying to plant a sloppy kiss, and the girl keeps moving sideways, trying to remain both attractive and aloof.

I decided it was time to either see this guy in-person or give up the e-foreplay, so I wrote and suggested we meet. He seemed amenable, so we agreed on a local park where I could bring Sophie. Mama Shirley was coming into town for dinner that evening, too, so I had a reason to make our first meeting brief. With all the cyber-banter leading up to our encounter, I had concluded this guy’s libido switch must have been at least set to “ready.”

So I was surprised to meet this awkward eye-averting, painfully shy person, whose particular shade of whiteness can only be achieved by a fifty-plus sunblock or a complete lack of exposure to natural sunlight. Far from the jocular trash-talking conversationalist, Mystery Man- still a mystery- seemed more of an articulate Boo Radley than a glib Tom Jones. After an hour or so of halting conversation- he seemed about as easygoing as a breadstick- I bid him farewell, leaving him with a friendly hug and a quick peck on the cheek. Politics notwithstanding, there was no chemistry.

Several days after the Mystery Man incident, I decided to get a bit more playful and less smarty-pants (see prior post) with my online profile, thinking I might continue my mold-breaking trend. I posted the following:

Grab your pencil

Quick! Take this short quiz to see if we match.

Disclaimer: I am a former school teacher and school principal, so you will be graded. Of course, passing this test is optional. If you fail, do not be discouraged, just hit the “back” button, and move on to the next profile.

OK, Let’s begin.

This is a word association quiz. Just choose the one word you like best for each question. Answers are below, so no cheating.

1. N. P. R. -OR- N. R. A.
2. Glenn Beck -OR- Jon Stewart
3. Sex is fun with the one you love -OR- Sex is why you’re on this site
4. My way or your way-OR- My way or the highway
5. John Wayne -OR- John Lennon
6. Natural Light -OR- Natural Beauty
7. Read the book -OR- See the movie
8. NASCAR -OR- NCAA
9. Lady -OR- Woman
10. Spread democracy -OR- Spread love

Bonus:
1. The Mighty Boosh-OR- The Mighty Bush
2. mispelling -OR- misspelling

The correct answers: 1. NPR, 2. Jon Stewart, 3. Sex is fun with the one you love, 4. My way or your way, 5. John Lennon, 6. Natural Beauty, 7. Read the book, 8. NCAA, 9. Woman, 10. Spread love BONUS: The Mighty Boosh, misspelling

Your score:
11- 12 You’re my hero!! Contact me any time!
9 – 10 Let’s talk…..Read my blog, fredazeh on WordPress.  7 – 8 Think about it. How willing are you to meet someone wonderful you may disagree with?
less than 7 Good luck in your quest!

I thought my post was amusing, if not downright clever. I was chagrined the following day to receive this message in my e-dating in-box:

What a shame

I clicked on your profile to have fun with your quiz, only to be slapped across the head with your political agenda. What is it about liberal women?

Okay. Disclaimer: I am a former school teacher with a principal’s certificate who left the school system because I couldn’t stand the indoctrination of students and teachers with liberal drivel. And since I taught English, my grading covers grammer, as well. (Couldn’t resist.)

Same rules:

1. 50 million deaths — WWII -or- America since Roe v Wade
2. Television Network without more than one conservative commentator and/or talking head (Multiple Choice) — a. ABC — b. CBS — c. NBC — d. NPR — e. All of the above
3. Senator who once promoted pornography — Franken -or- McConnell
4. Senator who once was member of KKK — Helms -or- Byrd
5. President who relies exclusively on a teleprompter when speaking — Booosh -or- Obama
6. Affirmative Action -or- Racial Preferences
7. Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness -or- Massive government intervention in health care, financial markets, misc. industries
8. Self-employed -or- Employed by Government
9. Tax Breaks -or- Tax the “Rich”
10. Gilligan -or- The Professor

BONUS:

Essay — 1) Who are we fighting in Afghanistan? And why?

True/False 2) Can a white policeman be “racially profiled” by a black president?

Answers:

1) Trick question…both. 2) e. All of the above 3) Franken of SNL 4) Byrd, democrat of West Virginia, the last senator of record to use the “N” word in an interview…over and over. 5) Obama…whose staff has made repeated efforts in their quest to wean him. 6) Racial preferences, once you are passed over for a job because of the color of the other applicant. 7. Life, Liberty…etc. Age old argument…Jefferson vs Hamilton. 8. Self-employed. Everyone should try it, just to experience the impact of our out-of-control local, state and federal goverment(sic). 9. Tax Breaks…just note the response to the “clunker” give away. 10. Who cares? I was only checking if you finished the test.

Bonus Question:

1) I’m not sure I know either. My point is…the very people who had “cows” over Iraq now are suspiciously silent.
2) False. Because racism in America can only be inflicted by whites. Ask the African American leadership.

You might be surprised to learn…I believe the future of American and the world is in the hands of women. And I believe when faced with the hard decisions, those decisions which mean the ultimate survival of their homes and their families…they will make the right choices.

Proof? The courageous Iraqi women, who in the first election following the overthrow of Saddam, dressed in funeral garb and voted…knowing full well they might die at the hands of suicide bombers…their husbands…or their brothers…to make their voices heard.

Those are the type of women we should all celebrate.

Good Lord! What on earth was this diatribe all about? In the process of trying to be frivolous, I had hit the raw nerve of a wingnut. Instead of discovering an e-date, I had discovered e-hate.

I concluded this guy might have friends or relatives associated with the FOX network, so rather than responding to his “points,” I simply replied to his salvo by defending my right to post whatever I wanted about myself and my “date.” This is what I wrote:

My reply

I concur with your views of the role of Iraqi (and now Iranian) women and believe their courage will have a direct impact on the future of the Middle East. I also concur it’s a shame that political differences divide us. That said, I feel just as passionately as you do, but on the other side, as you correctly surmised. As you no doubt read in my profile, I identified myself as “liberal.”

I certainly did not attempt to rope someone (ie, you) into a political debate, only to strike a positive chord in a kindred thinker, which we obviously are not. I was trying to keep it light without judging the opposite side, only reflecting my own views for the sake of comparison. Like NASCAR and NCAA. Neither is “right” or “wrong.” They’re different, and thus attract different types of people. So your response seems touchy, to say the least.

Incidentally, “The Mighty Boosh” is a British comedy team that rival Monty Python with their off-the-wall humor, thus the reference to the Boosh. Apparently you took that as a slight on the former President. It wasn’t. So that wasn’t part of my “agenda,” either.

I, too, was an educator, who retired in 2002 in the aftermath of the ridiculous unfunded mandate, NCLB, which enjoyed broad bi-partisan support. So strike that off my liberal “agenda,” too.

In fact, I believed my quiz was a playful way to start a conversation, not to forward a political “agenda,” but to establish commonalities with a potential match.

But it did provide good information for us both, didn’t it, as you’ve already judged my “agenda” and concluded “it’s a shame,” thus no commonality? So my question is, why even write?

Good luck in your search, and perhaps you’ll find a like-minded woman (maybe in Texas and/or Alaska?) who’ll appreciate your views on the state of the world, its history, or when life begins.

Conclusion: Whatever anyone, at any time, has said about love and politics being incompatible is true.

Putting myself out there

Not my profile pic

Jeez, it is frightening. But if I am ever going to fall in love again- or find a mate- it’s not going to happen at home sitting in front of a computer screen. . . or is it?

Seems these days many folks meet their matches, catch fish, or find chemistry online. I admit it. I went the online dating route, too, soon after moving to Charlotte in early 2006, but after getting winked at by dozens of Harley-riding, heavily bearded, or worse- shirtless- bubba-types, whose messages often started, “hey darlin,” I freaked and went into hiding.

Not that I haven’t gotten out in the real world, mind you. I’ve become a volunteer in my community and at the Mint Museum of Craft + Design, where, incidentally, I met one of my very best friends ever- my adopted French sister. Because of my French connection, I’ve been lucky to stumble upon Charlotte’s ex-pat community, filled with interesting folks from all over the world. I’m usually running to meet-ups, having dinner with girl and couple- friends, and enjoying life with the adorable Sophie. But something is still missing.

Of course, Sophie, my warm little Frenchie-Bulldog potato, is the best snuggler I’ve ever shared a bed with. But as I said to a colleague today, “almost four years of celibacy is a long time…” She stared at me, wide-eyed, and whispered, “You poor thing!’ Of course, she’s twenty-six, so four years equates differently to her, no doubt. Still…

Oh, I failed to mention the “Christian over-40 singles” group I attended for several months a couple of years ago. It was truly scary. Not only were most of the men there- I want to be charitable here- straight-laced as only repressed, overworked, buttoned-down types can be, they seemed singularly uninteresting. Except for the one gay man in the group, there was not one sparkling persona amidst the sea of dullness.

I cannot erase the image of one man in the group- an attorney I was told, although I could discern no pulse, nor did I ever hear him speak to the group in tones over a choked whisper. I studied his face one day during the “discussion” period, which consisted of the two or three most talkative men pontificating about the meaning of this-or-that Scripture while the other men and women nodded in mousy agreement. His face was frozen in what I can best describe as a contorted mask of horror- sort of like Munch’s “The Scream,” without the hands on the cheeks. I could not fathom what he must have been feeling or thinking, much less why he was in such obvious pain, but the effect was permanent. I was in the midst of miserable people, and I felt my flickering positive energy being sucked out like a vacuum. On the whole, these folks seemed unhappy and old before their time.  Before I could be put on the education committee- as was suggested- I went AWOL and never returned.

Somewhere between luck and kismet, I have hoped, there would appear someone interesting on the scene. Unfortunately, this has not happened. My thirty-six year old friend, on the other hand, has found scads of potential suitors and a fair amount hot romance dating online. Of course, her age, height, and natural beauty have a lot to do with this. But her dates are most always my age- Baby Boomers. Which brings me to another piece of reality: youth sells. Not that I would have much in common with a man my age who only wants to date women nearly young enough to be his daughter, but the fact there seem to be so many Don Juan Quixotes in cyberdating-land narrows the possibilities.

Still there are choices. Which online dating site to use? The one with the scientifically-calibrated scoring system, or the other one with the database of a million singles? After sleuthing around, I can report they all seem pretty much the same once you’ve scratched the surface.

There is also the online profile, which one is supposed to create in order to find your “soul mate.” This is pure marketing at best, and in reality I have discovered that profiles are barely glanced at, and less often read. Only the pictures “sell,” and my picture is of a middle-aged, less-than-sveldte, makeup-free, woman who looks just like- me. Just for kicks and giggles, I decided to go against convention and post some pure snark on one of the websites, which I will copy below. Doubtless few have read it, but those who have have rightly been scared away.

Dear readers, I need courage to enter this world of cyber-selection and rejection! Should you be inclined to find my profile on one of the popular dating websites (couples- please allow your partner the courtesy of performing a “cyberdate critique”), I invite you to submit your suggestions as to how I might market myself in such a way to find a suitable date.  My moniker- stupid as it is, but some sites do not allow you to use your real name- is “fre2bz.” Have at it, but please be kind. And spread the word that I’m putting myself out there.

Finally, for those of you who are already happily coupled. Pray you never have to do this.

Here is my snarky post on one of the websites. Don’t worry, I’m taking it down soon. Maybe.

Just for fun, I’d like to add a few comments based on my short stints dating online. My well-planned, who-I-am-and-what-I-believe essay is below. It is still true. If you venture far enough down the page, congratulations on your tenacity. If not, c’est la vie!

Unless you are scoping out the profiles of your competitors, I have a few observations to make about some trends I’ve noticed among men in my age group (Boomers) you might not have seen.

First, hope springs eternal, doesn’t it? Some profile pix appear to be eternal, too. I was amazed this weekend upon my return after a couple of years, the same 100 or so guys had the same profile picture they’d posted in 2006. Wassamatta U?

I also wonder why so many guys hide behind dark sunglasses, hats, and copious facial hair. Don’t be afraid; what you look like is well… what you look like. Unless you’re planning cosmetic surgery, a major weight change, or a date with a blind chick, post a new pic every once in a while. Let’s see a closeup of that face, shall we? We’ve reached the age to come to terms with our God-given looks. Not all of us are hunks or beauty queens. Hiding behind props only makes matters worse. Remove the shades & the hat, and SMILE, how ’bout it? And unless you’re built like Vin Diesel, why on earth would you post a half- nekkid pic you took of yourself stepping out of a pool, shower, etc.? Eeew!

Let’s face it, fellow Boomers. We’re on a site where a business suit and tie (or professional head shot) for your main pic looks dorky. This site is for date-shopping, not resume-sharing. Post a pic of yourself in a casual setting, since that’s where we’ll be spending the majority of our time together. Please have someone else take it, too. Leave that snapped-solo-at-arms’-length-in-front-of-a-mirror shot to the teenagers. When you take your own pic and post it, it gives the impression you have no friends. If you really have no friends, go ahead and post that type of pic. It’s good information for us gals who don’t want to date a loner.

Maybe I’m just geeky, but when I see too many pix of bikes, boats, cars, jet skis, and other toys, I get a distinct Freudian vibe. Are you trying to impress us with your proverbial…. size?? To some gals, maybe the size (or price tag) of your toys is a turn-on. To others it just looks- well- lame.

Finally, please, whether you’re a good ol’ boy or a pedigreed PhD, use a spell-checker.

To manny times Ive scene english on vaction.

Bubblegum Summer: 1972

First, there was the music: “School’s Out (for Summer) by Alice Cooper, “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl),” by Looking Glass, “Layla,” by Derek and the Dominoes, “Alone Again, Naturally,” by Gilbert O’Sullivan, “Saturday in the Park,” by Chicago, “Go All the Way,” by the Raspberries, “Long Cool Woman (In a Black Dress),” by the Hollies, “Hold Your Head Up,” by Argent, and  ”Lean on Me,” by Bill Withers.

Set against this soundtrack: weekdays spent at the YMCA summer kids’ camp singing inane songs “it’s summertime, summertime, sum- sum- summertime…,” bouncing on the trampoline, swimming in the pool where the P.A. system would suddenly blast: “Pool check! Pool check! 1…2…3…” watching re-runs of The Munsters and Herbie the Love Bug, nervously awaiting the Y end-of-summer junior high dance- the first one rising seventh-graders could attend. There were swim bands. I earned a black band that summer, but missed the black-and-white band because (1) there wasn’t enough time left by August to complete the mile swim, and ( 2) that butterfly stroke- the one Mark Spitz had made look so easy in the Olympics- was ridiculously complicated, no matter how I contorted myself.

There were stolen kisses. My first “real” boyfriend, Bill, whose braces bumped into mine when our lips touched, had the bluest eyes- even if he did spell the word, dumb, “d-u-m.” We’d met that spring at the Disney movie, “Bedknobs and Broomsticks.” Then there was another Bill- a shirtless nineteen-year-old who’d wandered up a sand dune where Kelly and I were sitting one evening with our long hair blowing in the ocean breeze- a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill in his hand. He’d managed to kiss us both before we’d scurried, giggling all the way back to my parents’ trailer; and of course, what twelve-year-old girl could resist the advances of an older man- especially one offering wine?

Those summer days were some of the sweetest in my memory- the summer of 1972. Unhindered by self-consciousness, it is the last time I remember feeling completely free in my body. The mind-ravaging insecurity and petty obsessive vanity of adolescence had yet to take hold.

At the end-of-summer dance the D.J. spun The Cornelius Brothers and Sister Rose’s hit, “Too Late to Turn Back Now.”

Beware of good advice; it might not ring true.

I was browsing through Google Reader the other day when I came across this post on zenhabits by Jonathan Mead: How Giving Changes Everything. [link here] I liked the essay so much I added it to the Shared Items on my Blogroll. Sometimes a reminder like Mead’s hits the spot:

When you can give without expecting anything in return, you have mastered the art of living.

Mead follows with a list of suggestions that resonated with me, including dropping self-imposed expectations of friends and loved ones; giving time and energy to others, expressing gratitude, and generally offering a hand rather than expecting one.  All this advice was much needed, since my own attitude at the time was probably in need of some re-alignment.

What Mead said, I thought, mostly hit the mark, especially his take on how the act of giving often results in unintentional benefits to the giver:

It’s crazy how this works:

• The best way to be interesting is to be interested in others.
• You gain more physical energy by burning energy when you exercise.
• The way to be loved is to be lovable.
• When you seek to understand, others are more likely to want to understand you back.
• By helping others, they are more inclined to help you in return.

Other than possibly changing the word “lovable” to “loving,” I wholeheartedly agreed with every one of those statements. Yet something bothered me. Like Papa John says when something doesn’t quite ring true, it goes, “ding- thud.” I kept mulling over the thud over this past weekend, and this morning when I re-read the following sentence:

Is it any wonder that the most successful people in the world are masters of giving? The most successful people are the ones that provide the most value to others.

it finally it occurred to me. There it was: the word, “success.” In the context of an essay on giving, why did a concept like “success” have to rear its ugly bullish /bearish-shaped head?

We who are fortunate enough to live in free-market societies hear these types of bromides a bazillion times before we are old enough to vote: “Do this or that, and you’ll be successful.” Why, I wonder, must conditions be placed between success and choice? Maybe it’s because I’m pushing fifty, as they say, but I’ve known lots of folks who’ve made wonderful contributions to society who could no more be described as “successful” than the checkout person at the local Target.

And what is success anyway, but an outcome of something else- like hard work, dumb luck, sheer intelligence, or the good fortune to be born at a certain time in a certain place to certain people? Perhaps Mr. Mead has already defined elsewhere what success means to him, but I see no need for him to tie the act of unselfish giving to the benefit of personal gain- whether he calls it success, happiness, or anything else.

I also take issue with Mead’s assertion that “the most successful people in the world are masters of giving.” I’ll bet if you grabbed a pencil, a pad, and two weeks’ worth of newspapers you could come up with a list of at least five “successful” folks whose “giving” involved lying, cheating, stealing or some other form of bad behavior. Making the case that giving leads to success, in my estimation, just doesn’t fly. But that doesn’t mean that giving isn’t important; it is. Why? Because it is right.

Think about it. The most giving people in the world are often the least successful, at least in economic terms. When is the last time you saw a new BMW pull over to pick up a hitchhiker? Who usually serves meals at the local soup kitchen? How many great teachers lead comfortable lives? Which people are most likely to sign up for military service? How many unknown artists, poets, and musicians have lived in desperate poverty? Or how about this quote from the Christian Science Monitor’s blog post, America the charitable, a few surprises:

One thing that’s long been known: The US leads the world in levels of charitable activity. The pattern runs from the rich, steeped in long tradition of philanthropy, to the poor. Those making $20,000 or less a year give away more, as a share of their income, than do higher income groups.

To the contrary, our greatest models of selfless giving have often led lives fraught with hardship, persecution, ostracism, and even death. If you’ve still got that pencil and pad handy, make a list of five of the most giving people the world has ever known. Doubtless the names you’ll see on your list will include people who have made personal sacrifices very few of us would be willing or able to give- easily, that is.

That is the real reason to give selflessly. Because it is not easy; in fact, it is often impossible, and because it is essential- an ideal- to every person on the planet. Without givers in this world, there is nothing to give; there is no success; there is nothing. To aspire to be a selfless giver is a far higher calling than to be a success. Imagine a world of selfless givers, and you have peace on earth. As one of the favorite songs of my childhood goes, “and let it begin with me.” Now that rings true.