I lived in Boston from 1997 until 2003. On Charles Street, a few blocks from my college dorm that straddled Boston's Back Bay and Beacon Hill communities, was a small market called Deluca's. Deluca's had it all: a basement wine cellar, specialty items (like mango juice), sushi made on-site, and--of course--the deli section. Like most smaller markets, the deli featured premium meats as well as homemade salads, soups and stews.
For four years, I would giggle whenever I passed the deli section and noticed the sign for Deluca's homemade "Black Anus Beef Stew." For four years, the sign never changed. And for four years, I never saw anyone buy that homemade anus beef stew.
Finally, a month before I graduated from college in 2001, I finally pointed out the spelling mistake to a guy behind the deli counter. He happened to be the owner's son.
"Man!" he exclaimed. "My dad has been wondering for years why NO ONE ever bought that stew."
Sunday, March 4, 2012
An update of sorts.
A bit over a year ago, the Former Mr. Vixen experienced his all-out relapse. He had been secretly stealing my prescription medication (it can get you high if you take a lot) since August 2010. In January, he decided that after five years of sobriety (quasi-sobriety because of the medication-stealing) he was going to drink a glass of wine to ring in the New Year. I was uncomfortable about it, and told him that I didn't approve. At the same time I recognized that I cannot control other people's actions. He promised it would be just one glass. He wouldn't even try another for at least three months.
The next day I found a nip of vodka (that I'd already had half of) in his desk drawer while I was looking for Scotch tape. He told me he'd only wanted to taste it. I pointed out that he had hidden it. "But it was such a small amount," he said. That, of course, wasn't the point. The drinking and hiding of the bottle was the point.
I came home from work one VERY snowy night in February 2011 and got stuck in my driveway. When I went into the house to ask him for help, I saw a frying pan of burnt cabbage on my gas range, the gas still on. A cooking utensil was on his floor, along with his glasses. When I finally roused him from bed, he was disoriented to time and place. He flew into a rage. I went outside with my dogs and called 911. He ended up in detox and residential placement for about five days.
During my search of the house during that time, I found he had consumed the following: about 60 tabs of Xanax, half a bottle of Bacardi, half a bottle of wine, 11 beers, and one bottle of cough syrup. I packed his clothing into bags. He begged for another chance, and I gave it to him, waiting for the other shoe to drop. In April, a repeat of the February relapse happened again. I kicked him out for good, gave him half the savings, and eventually filed for divorce.
In the summer, I started dating again. I learned a few things: Most men in their thirties and forties want children if they've not already had them. I don't. In order to date these days, you need to be willing to text people rather than talk to them. I find this ridiculous. Many men expect women to act a certain way, and when you don't act that way (e.g., play passive aggressive mind games), they think you're hiding something. A friend bought me a eHarmony membership as a Divorce Gift. The few people I went on dates with had lied by omission(like the gentleman who was twice divorced over the course of seven years and had two children he neglected to mention).
In August, a close friend of mind posted an online dating profile on Plenty of Fish and urged me to do the same. I lasted about a week on that site. (Tip to single gentleman: It takes more than "You're beautiful" or "I'd love to fuck you" to get a woman interested in you).
In December, another friend bought me a membership to Match. (My friends, for whatever reason, seem to really want me NOT to be single. I am perfectly happy being a single 30-something woman; apparently no one believed me when I explained this.) I accidentally set my birth year incorrectly so that it listed me as 92 instead of 32 years old. I didn't notice. Suffice to say, they men who did contact me were in their seventies and eighties, and I was a bit creeped out. I would have started to develop a complex if I'd even cared. But when I finally figured it out, I changed my age.
And that's when I got a message from a gentleman that started off with, "I'm probably too old for you, but..." Boredom will do strange things to people. It will make people write back out of nothing more than morbid curiosity.
We corresponded and I agreed to meet him at a local pub for a drink. I mean, after all the horrible dates I'd been on, what was another? We've been together since.
Even though I wished to remain single, to be accountable to no one but myself, to be free to eat ice cream and chocolate for dinner at will, I find myself paired with someone, a year after my nearly-three-year marriage ended.
It appears that no matter what your plans, life just... goes on. And we're just along for the ride.