An Apropos Season (Part III of III)

Ever since the Dashing Litigator combed the internet to find my blog (needing scarcely a hair pick, I might add) read it, and left me feeling more naked, vulnerable and idiotic than I've ever felt in my entire life, I've been sitting here paralyzed. I take full responsibility for it's untimely unveiling. I was caught off guard, caught up in the moment, caught in the arms of the Dashing Litigator (arms that would make Fabio look like a prebuscent preteen, I might add) and I hiccupped...tossing my proverbial cookies all over his six-pack stomach. In just a few mouse clicks I had gone from the guise of a girl who has got it together, who still has a few great cards in her hand, to having them all dumped out on the table, completely crapped out. My gut instinct was to quash the thing entirely. Mayday! Mayday! Abort! She's goin' down in a flurry of curls and red feathers, taking a dating nose dive, crashing and burning, doooooomed!

The day that the Dashing Litigator exposed me and my dirty little black blogging-book was a dark one indeed. It was a particularly hellish day at work. We were in the throes of mediation madness and I spent the majority of it refilling coffee, picking up boxed lunches and engaging in forced-friendly chit chat with clients. I had much going on and was unable to tend to my own personal crisis. Throughout the day, the Dashing Litigator flooded my inbox with reassurance. He complimented me in dozens of ways on my writing style, encouraged me to continue - that he would not be able to live with himself if he were the cause of its demise, that he would not look at it ever again, and when I asked him point blank if this discovery had sent him running, he said:

Maybe running to. But not from.

It was enough. On our date Saturday night, he was to pick me up at 4:30pm for an evening that would include dinner and a ticket to my show. It was 4:32pm when he rang my doorbell. For those two minutes in between, I hyperventilated, paced, nearly vomitted, and almost called my mother - convinced that I really had scared him away. That I had revealed too much. I then recalled something my friend Brooke told me the day before: "Carrie, if he's the right guy, he won't be scared away. The right guy won't run."

When I opened the door to his handsome and smiling face, my heart felt hopeful. Relieved. He was there. He wasn't running away. But I still grabbed ahold of his hand, anyway - just in case. I still felt naked, foolish and in desperate need of some reassurance, but sucked it up and smiled, acting as though I wasn't at all phased by what he now knew. Over the course of the evening, a glorious, lovely evening - I received countless tokens of reassurance, bestowed upon me in a variety of caring, genuine and thoughtful ways as only the Dashing Litigator can do.

It was the internet that first introduced us. And now it has been the internet (in a rather embarrassing way) that has somehow brought this Crazy Actress closer to her Dashing Litigator. I'm wondering if this normally very open girl, should begin to keep some things sacred. I have the Dashing Litigator's blessing to continue my writing of our adventures, (he's actually been demanding that I continue) and his word that he will abstain from reading up on them. And I trust that.

But perhaps it is time that I keep 'this' private. Who really wants to read up on my mushy romantic ramblings, anyhow?

Who is even out there reading this? Thoughts? Opinions? Who are you? (I know who some of you are) Who are the rest?

P.S.
As I sat here to compose this blog (after first calling to check in on my dear Dashing Litigator who is in bed sick with the flu), my phone rang. It was The Dentist. (aka The Weed) The last time I heard from him was on the day before my first date with the Dashing Litigator, nearly 5 weeks ago. The Weed wondered who was 'supposed' to call. According to him, it had been a couple weeks and he was wondering. I engaged in mild chit chat before asking him if he'd ever heard the expression Strike while the iron is hot. He had.

"Well, " I said, "I would be the hot iron, and somebody else has struck. Repeatedly."

We wished each other well, and hung up. I promptly deleted him from my contact list in my cell phone - the fact that he was still there was merely an oversight. And besides, in this garden that I am slowly creating...this garden of friendships, life experiences, budding romance - there is definitely no longer any room for weeds.

A Recipe For Humiliation: (Part II of III)

To make this deplorable dish of Humble Pie you will need the following:

1 part Dashing Litigator
1 part Crazy Actress
Add to this duo 2 steins of German Beer.

Let sit in Brauhaus and marinade in a sauce of accordians, keyboards, muzak, saurbraten, and weinerschnitzel. Add a dash of 'Hilda', (our server) and a pinch of 'Mexi' (Germany's answer to John Tesh) for extra flavor.

After 90 minutes, transfer the two to Carole's Karaoke 'blender' to mix it up a bit. Throw in equal parts drama queens, rednecks, misfits and nightcrawlers.
Add to this any karaoke song that has a cat reference...for that seems to drive the pair into a tizzy of PDA.
Add 2 bottles of Bud Light.

Pour this mixture into a beautifully rehabbed pad - er pan and cook at 350 degrees for 2 hours. Be sure to add the red wine, dark chocolate, Frank Sinatra hits, slow dancing, moon watching and lip locking.

Watch closely.

You'll know the Dish of Humiliation is ready when the crazy actress begins to bubble and overflow. When she erupts with the words, "I have a dating blog and there is more than one post about you, dear dashing litigator."

Bon Apetit.


Me? I may just eat crow...or perhaps the egg that is on my face.

My Hero (Part I of III)

To say that yesterday was a bad day would be the understatement of the year. (See previous post). I commemorated the passing of my four legged friend by walking to Lake Michigan on my lunch break, sitting on a bench, watching the sailboats float by, holding a picture of my beloved Cole in my lap, listening to Sarah MacLachlan and sobbing. I returned to my desk, solemn and quiet. Just when I thought I had cried every last drop, my brother called me - weeping - from work, and then I was at it again, closing myself in the conference room, holding him in a long distance embrace from Chicago to Boston. An hour later I called my mom to check in with her - she was the saint who sat with our Colebaby as he fell asleep for the last time. She shared with me the details of Cole's final hours - his meal of scrambled eggies and bacon (his favorite), the two scoops of ice cream (he must've already been in heaven!) The absent minded veterenary assistant who greeted my mom and my dog with a too cheery "And what are we here for today?" The poem she read to him, how he licked her cheek, how she held his head in her hands and felt it grow heavy...then cold. Coming home to an empty doggie bed, a water dish, a now useless fenced-in 'dog run' on the side of the house. This loss is definitely one my family will feel for some time, and we will all deal with it in many different ways.

I cried my way through the rest of the day. My friend and coworker Jim couldn't help but laugh at me every time he passed. "What?" I snapped. "I'm sorry, " he said "It's just that everytime I pass by your desk, you're blowing your nose." I pouted and threw my soggy kleenex at him. All day, well meaning friends had emailed me their condolences, e-cards and text messages. And each one brought a fresh enslaught of the old water works.

At about 4:45pm I'd decided I'd had enough of this pity party. I shot the dashing litigator an email. I hadn't heard from him all day, but knew that he was in the throes of showing his house and making stellar court appearances. I sent him a very sarcastic email, bestowing myself with the "Debbie Downer of the Year" award for my day of depression...my trail of tears. He replied immediately, saying he had just arrived in the office and was I able to chat?

Minutes later I found myself back in the conference room, behind closed doors, but this time I was shaking with laughter...not convulsing with sobs. He allowed me to talk about Cole, to share what I was going through and offered his utmost sympathy. He never had pets growing up (he was allergic) but I so appreciated his sensitivity to me. He then asked if I would be alright for my performance that night.

"I don't have a performance tonight, " I said.

He then asked if anyone was going to cheer me up for the night and what my plans were. I told him I had planned to hit the gym, then hit the hay...as it had been 'a day'.

We hung up reconfirming our date for Thursday (that's right, folks, THURSDAY. The dashing litigator decided that seeing me on Saturday was not soon enough.) I returned to my desk and sent him an email thanking him for cheering me up.

But the dashing litigator wasn't finished bringing me cheer. Nor was he satisfied with waiting until Thursday to see the crazy actress. He asked to see me later that night, after we both had put in our miles on our respective treadmills at our respective gyms. I agreed.

At 8 o'clock I'm standing outside the Brownstone Tavern, holding my breath as my litigator steps out of his truck and literally 'dashes' across the street - wearing his now customary suit and tie - to greet me. He envelops me in the warmest of hugs and to say he is 'a sight for sore eyes' would be another understatment of the year.

What follows is the most perfect ending to a very emotional day. We sit outside...at first across from each other...then side by side (I'm so happy he notices the too far away physical distance between us). We talk and laugh and share and grew even closer.

I confess that I fear he will grow sick of me...with this evening being only 'Part I' of a three part dating week with the crazy actress. He assures me that this will not happen.

I feel close with him and completely myself. Holding his hand feels as natural as breathing. I feel safe, cared for, beautiful, adored. We talk 'past relationships' (a typically heavy topic) and I am relieved to hear that we are coming from very similar places.

The White Sox game is on...it is a tied game, bottom of the ninth...a crucial game. When the patio closes and we are moved inside, I suddenly find that we are surrounded by flat screen tv's and rowdy sports fans. A 'typical' guy would look past me, easily diverted by the moving balls and ticking clocks. But he is not typical. I excuse myself to use the restroom to give him time to watch his beloved team. When I re-enter the room, his eyes are on me and only me.

This feels nice. This feels safe. This feels good.

I'm wondering what Part II will have in store...

For Cole

Times Like This
A friendly face, the kind of face that melts you with a grin
The kind of eyes that welcome you the minute you walk in
A tender glance you simply can't refuse
At times like this, a girl could use
A dog

He listens when you tell him things - there's nothing you can't say
And unlike certain people, you can teach him how to stay
And if the world is giving you the blues,
He cheers you up by chewing up the news.
It's things like that, that make you choose
A dog

Other people need romance, dancing, playing around
Other people need constant fun - well I'm not one
I have my feet on the ground.

Give me
A quiet night, a stack of books - a tuna melt on rye
A simple walk together underneath a starry sky
And suddenly the night is something rare
And all because there's someone special there
Who's gazing at the views
His head upon your shoes.

It's times like this I sure could use...a dog.
__________________________________________________________

I love you, Cole. And I will miss you dearly.
You will always be a part of our family and I thank you for the many times you licked away my tears and cheered me up. You are the greatest dog ever and I'm so grateful that God chose us to be your family. x

Cancellation Blues

My head is throbbing and my heart is laden with heavy sighs. As I walk home from the train on this cold and grey day, it begins to rain...and I care not. Karen Carpenter sings a plaintive "Goodbye to Love" through my iPod as I trudge through the gloom and the damp and the wind, climbing the steps to my apartment.

The dashing litigator has canceled our date.

Early this morning he sent me an email asking how the opening of my show went. (Very well! In fact I just learned that we were "Jeff Recommended") He said he was feeling a tad sick but that we were still on for tonight.

An hour later he wrote: "Carrie, I am dying. Would you mind if we rescheduled for another night? Otherwise I anticipate that you will see the meal I just ate when I see you tonight." Eek.

Truthfully, I was not feeling so hot myself. We had an opening night reception and I had a bit too much of the bubbly and not enough zzzzz's. I probably wouldn't have been at my best. But I was still bummed to not be able to spend time with him.

Especially since it looks as though we won't be seeing each other until next weekend when he suggested he come see my show and then take me out afterward.

I was ok with these plans. I'm a bizzee gal, he's a bizzee guy. We are bizzee people with fabulous lives who are striving to make time for each other. Quite commendable, really. Quite grown up. Quite. Throughout the remainder of the day, however, my calm, cool, collectedness quickly slipped into doubt, depression and downright derangement.

I recalled a conversation I had only yesterday with my friend - the pants guy. He had all but convinced me that I was ridiculous for putting all of my dating eggs in one manbasket. That as long as I was on match.com and the dashing litigator was on match.com, he was dating other people and I should, too. I protested, "I cannot pursue more than one person at once! How can you adequately get to know someone if your focus is split?" He disagreed. "This guy may be into you, but if he's as great as you say he is, I'm sure he's seeing other people. This is Chicago. Why shouldn't he? And why shouldn't you?" I hung up feeling empty and wondering if he was right. We've only had a few dates and so far they've been so few and far between that perhaps we're not really going anywhere. Perhaps he's just not that into me.

My head began to swim, replaying every relationship I've ever had, especially the most recent ones in memory. My summer eharmony romance...I had thought things were going so well. I slapped that 'girlfriend' label on without hesitation and wore it proudly until it was ripped from my chest, taking a layer of skin with it, leaving me red and raw. And my winter wonderman...the impossible dreamer who was my warm, downy comforter wrapping me in a cozy cocoon for three bitter winter weeks in Chicago, before returning to his native Australia...taking his heat and my heart with him.

I lifted my head and stood tall. I was resolute. I will not go through this again, if I can help it.

I decided to go back onto match.com. I have been receiving emails from potential suitors (some of them quite fetching), but had been responding to each with a very courteous "Thank you, but I've just started seeing someone. Good luck to you." email. Now things had changed. With my friend's words and my own bruised ego fresh in my mind, I logged onto match.com. I read a very nice email from a seemingly nice guy and clicked to respond. I found it to be a rather arduous task. Quite simply, my heart wasn't in it. I strung together some mildly engaging sentences and clicked 'send'. I sighed. Idly, I searched for my dashing litigator's profile, wondering when he'd last been online, wanting to see his handsome faraway face.

And a curious thing happened.

I could not find him. I scanned through profile after profile, frantically, before finally entering his username. My jaw dropped at what I saw: This user has hidden his profile.

This means one of several things. He's not pursuing anyone on match.com. He's pursuing someone else. He's pursuing me.

And any of the above scenarios suits me just fine.

I will strive to be patient (a difficult task for an Aries) and to live my very full life here. I will be gentle with myself and with my friends - my friends who have listened to more than their fair share of my neurotic ramblings over the past couple weeks. I love you all and I thank you for wrapping me in hugs (choke holds?) and for providing me with your patience, your precious airtime minutes and sweet chocolate for this very single soul.

When things calm down for the dashing litigator and the crazy actress - when opening nights and house closings, court cases and weddings, family engagements and social obligations - are out of the way, hopefully this 'datingship' will be underway...and we can finally find a tranquil bay to really set sail.

Until then, I will find the joy in this unexpected 'dateless' Thursday night. Eating Chinese cashew chicken and watching Taxi with my roommate. Laughing, resting, reconnecting. Taking a hot bath and getting to bed early, catching up on much needed beauty sleep.

Could be better...but could definitely be worse.

A Meal Ticket (Date #3)

As I sit here to compose this latest blog entry, I am smiling, laughing, and fresh from Date #3 with the Dashing Litigator. After our incredibly romantic second date we exchanged emails trying to coordinate when we'd see each other again. It was decided (mostly due to my crazy and hectic rehearsal/performance schedule) that we would meet for lunch some day this week. That day was today. Today is Wednesday, which makes it not only our third date, but also our third Wednesday date. *cue Twilight Zone music*

What I had pictured in my mind for this lunch date was a typical, casual affair. I'd walk a few blocks from my office, he'd walk a few blocks from his, and we'd meet in the middle somewhere in the loop, at a Potbelly's or Corner Bakery. We'd dine on sandwiches wrapped in waxed paper, or salads with plastic forks, talking over the din of the lunch rush with all the other skirts and suits. Then we'd part with a casual hug and go our separate ways.

But there is nothing typical about the Dashing Litigator.

At 11:30 he picks me up from work looking gorgeous in a black suit with pale blue pressed shirt and bold yellow tie. He whisks me away to Chicago's Little Italy neighborhood. There we drive around for a bit looking for parking, nearly knocking off his passenger side mirror when he zips down a narrow alley. I laugh hysterically, while he is nonplussed, saying it will 'add character' to his trusty Chevy truck. His driver's side door also 'has character' in that every once in a while he must open it part way and then slam it shut again, to secure it. Each time he does this, I momentarily panic, thinking he is trying to escape the date. He laughs.

He takes me to Tufano's, an authentic Italian restaurant that has been around for more than 60 years and only accepts cash. The specials are scrawled on a chalkboard that runs along one wall, and the walls have that Tuscany feel, plastered, painted a dry mustard color and with intermittent patches of exposed brick. We choose a table near the window and the place is virtually empty, save for a couple of small parties.

The time absolutely flies by. We talk about (in no particular order) my show, my career, lesbian gym teachers, taking naps, his upcoming trip to Florida to buy a unit on Marco Island, and weddings - or rather, things we know that we want and don't want for our wedding. Well, not 'our' wedding...but, well, I mean it could be...but no, it's just the third date people, geez! I wouldn't want to assume anything and - ok. Shutting up now.

We order bruschetta. He orders meatballs and sausage (cutting them up to share with me when they arrive) and pasta. I order the eggplant lasagna. We share everything and can't understand people who don't like to share their food. All too soon it is time to go. I glance at my watch and realize I am officially 2 minutes late for work.

We hop back into his truck and make tracks for the south loop. We're making great time when suddenly I'm aware of a police car, lights flashing, about a block behind us. He continues through two green lights before making a left hand turn. "I think that police car is chasing us!" I shriek, clapping my hands. He isn't so sure, but just then we see the blue lights round the corner slowly gaining on us. He pulls to the side of the road and sure enough, so does the police car.

He is completely cool and calm. He turns to me, winks and says, "I told you. Never boring, right?" According to Grumpy Officer Murphy, my date made a turn in a lane that was not designated for turning. And for that, in Chicago, they fine you $75. He handles the whole situation, which could've been quite embarrassing, with ease. I am smiling and laughing and enjoying this adventure with him, even though it has now made me nearly a half hour late to work. He assures me that he will contest the ticket - and being a lawyer, how could he not?

Soon we are back on the road. As we drive down Jackson, one whole side of the street is lined with a red carpet. I tell him to let me out - that I can walk the rest of the way on the red carpet and appease the paparazzi. He puts on his best Golden Globe announcer voice and says, "And now coming down the red carpet, Tim Robbins...oooh, and look at who's just stepped out, folks. You can tell by her gams, it's Carrie Wickert!" I collapse in hysterics and I'm smiling so hard my cheeks hurt and now I really don't want to go back to work.

We pull up to my building and begin the arduous task of figuring out when we can see each other again. With my show opening and his trip to Florida - that next date would have to be Thursday. Of next week. I lean in and give him a quick hug and kiss on the cheek and cross up to my building, turning to wave at him before I disappear thru the revolving door.

Minutes later I'm back at my desk, smiling and sighing and wishing next Thursday were already here. I go to the copier to run some things off and when I return there is an email from him - thanking me for meeting him for lunch and confirming that we are on for next Thursday, (actually he wrote he would "...love to get together Thursday") and that he will most definitely 'torment me' via email in the time between.

I must admit, even with our mutual hatred for cats, I am slowly turning into one smitten kitten.

Me. Ow.

To be continued...

Stick a fork in me...I'm done

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. Chicago has never looked lovelier, brighter, sunshinier. I feel light and warm - I'm smiling, sighing, laughing for no reason, and singing "I Could Have Danced All Night" from My Fair Lady. Even the smarmy homeless men who typically taunt me, seem to tip their hats as I pass. Why is this? What is the reason? Something in the air? The water? My coffee?

No, my friends. I am currently basking in the warm, gooey afterglow of a stellar second date with "The Dashing Litigator".

After our first date it was four full days before I heard from him. By the third day I was thoroughly convinced that he was not interested and I would not hear from him again.

And then on day four he appeared in my inbox asking me when I would be free to get together. I danced around my apartment like a lovestruck teenager who's just been asked to the prom.

After a few emails coordinating schedules, we arranged a date. Last night.

The evening played out like a movie. He rang my doorbell promptly at 7:30pm wearing dark blue jeans and a crisp white shirt, greeting me with a hug and whisking me away to Mon Ami Gabi, a beautiful french restaurant in Lincoln Park. He looked as gorgeous as I remembered him and his ready smile put me immediately at ease. We dined al fresco amid trees sparkling with white lights and waiters wearing bowties. We sipped beaujolais, dined on steak roquefort, and laughed. The chivalrous theme of our previous date pervaded this one as well. At one point - from laughing and mild allergies - my nose was a bit stuffy. I apologized for sniffling and he laughed. He left the table after a bit to use the restroom and when he returned he presented me with several neatly folded tissues. He then politely turned his head while I blew my brains out. I know it was a small gesture, but add that to the countless other 'small ones' (Making a reservation in advance, opening my door, pulling out my chair, offering me every bit of food before he took some for himself) and it equalled one heckuva Prince Charming.

I cannot adequately convey the magic of the conversation, which was dazzling and electric. A veritable 'Cirque de Soleil' of stories, shared observations, verbalized dreams and wonderings. Our eyes scarcely broke contact. We were both leaning in toward each other, unaware of anything around us. I lost track of time and space.

Three hours later we found ourselves at "Katerina's", a jazz club in our neighborhood. We cozied up at a table - he swilled a bourbon on the rocks, I sipped a merlot. We listened to the swing band and I completely forgot that it was a 'school night'. An elderly couple was on the dance floor dressed to the nines, swing dancing gently and gracefully to the music. We watched them and smiled at each other. He squeezed my hand. Every time we spoke we leaned in to each other - at first because it was necessary in order to be heard, and then just because it was nice be close.

I warned him repeatedly that I may turn into a pumpkin at the stroke of twelve. He took off his watch and set it on the table and when it was midnight, we stood to leave. He drove me home and immediately asked, "When do I get to see you again?" Because of my hectic upcoming tech week and show opening, a lunch date would have to do - sometime next week.

I thanked him for a truly lovely evening and leaned in to give him a kiss on the cheek...but apparently his lips were feeling left out.

And we couldn't have that.

I currently feel like I have high fructose corn syrup oozing out of my pores. This morning I greeted my roommate (who was trying to make breakfast) with a too-cheery-for-6:30am "Gooood morning!" I only had about 5 1/2 hours of sleep and yet I feel invigorated and refreshed and if my mood were a Crayola crayon I would be razzle dazzle rose.

Perhaps this latest mushy post is merely a precursor, heralding the 'end time' of this blog. The end of an era of dead-end dates and disappointing duds.

Oh, wouldn't it be lover-ly.