Tipping the Scales

Out of Love and Better than Ever!
Originally uploaded by beautykat.

From Bridget Jones’s Diary:

COSMO: You really ought to hurry up and get sprugged up, you know, old girl? Time's a-running out. Tick-tock.
BRIDGET: Yes, yes. Uh, tell me, is it one in four marriages that ends in divorce now or one in three?
MARK: One in three
COSMO: Seriously, though. Offices full of single girls in their thirties… fine physical specimens... but they just can't seem to hold down a chap.
WONEY: Yes. Why is it there are so many unmarried women in their thirties these days, Bridget?
BRIDGET: [Laughs] Oh, I don't know. Suppose it doesn't help that underneath our clothes our entire bodies are covered in scales.
[Faint laughter]

When Helen Fielding wrote this, she was probably chronicling a true life situation, her fingers flying across the keys as they tapped out the asinine comments she endured, comments like this one, that can really make your blood boil. At one point, before she started popping out babies with her writer boyfriend, Helen was a singleton. As a single girl myself, I can assuredly say we’re used to it, but every once in a while, something throws you off your unicycle, totally fucking up your day. Mine was a group email concerning the next family get together, namely the 2007 Summer Family Reunion.

Reading over the information concerning sleeping arrangements, I learned that “single people can have the pull out sofas”, as if to say, “Too bad! We get the beds, but you losers get the couch!” Such is the fate of the unmarried. You’re relegated to the pull out, sharing a bed with your mother, or the twin bed in the moldy basement. And add to the equation the enormous pressure a steady track record of not bringing a man to meet the family causes and you’ve got the beginnings of one hell of a pity party.


I suppose I could hire someone to accompany me to the Reunion, a la “The Wedding Date” ensuring a suite for two. And perhaps he’d be a gigolo with a heart of gold and PhD to match and we’d end up married in the forest of the Grand Tetons, but that isn’t very realistic. But you can see why movies like “The Wedding Date” are written. We are our own genre. The Single Woman. Nobody questioned my Aunt Judy when she showed up solo at family gatherings, in fact she was treated rather like a Queen, but then again, she was divorced. Some may see this as failure, but most will reason: “Well, at least she was married”.

As I slowly approach 40, the thought dawns on me, they think I’m becoming a spinster. True, I’ve had several failed engagements due to my appealing quality as the rebound girl. I’ve certainly dodged more than few bullets, but isn’t that God’s protection at work? And while I’ve been trying to realign the steering on my relationship vehicle, just because I haven’t been married doesn’t mean that I’m a freak. And it doesn’t mean I’m gay either. I include this because indeed, I’ve had more than a few of my own assine Bridget Jones-like experiences. One I’ve been mulling over since my dad’s funeral when an Uncle, apparently having left his tact at home, opined, “You know, if you wanted to bring your girlfriend, that would be OK”. Thoughts of flying kung fu stars spun through my head. It wasn’t enough that I had just watched my father die, drove through a rainstorm that in hindsight rivaled Katrina, sat through an appalling ceremony in a town not my home, but I had to listen to this shit?

What would possess him to say something so dim witted during the most emotional event in my life? Oh…that’s right. Here I am again, without a mate. I guess that leaves me open for public assault, thoughtless commentary and lumpy pullout sofas. I rely on the sizzle of snark, replying “Listen,
Angelina’s on location, okay? Do you have to rub it in?” and walk away leaving him with a perplexed expression. And believe me, if I were into the ladies, I’d be out and proud of it, but the fact is, I really am holding out for Angelina.


I have faith that one of these days, I'll meet Mr. Right. That's what keeps me out there, volunteering, going to the dog park, accepting all invitations, including countless weddings, (against the advice of David LeBarron who knows how depressed I get afterwards), racking up ridiculous registry debt.

Which begs me to clarify something. The big misnomer movies have led bleeding girlish hearts to believe is that your beauty and charm has struck Prince Charming dumb since you caught the bouquet and he simply cannot wait another second to whisk you out on the dance floor during the theme to “Titanic”, however, the truth is when you get to be over 35, bachelors at weddings are about as rare as a dodo bird. And when they do exist, most likely, one of the single females will sniff out any availabilities early on, regardless of age or temperament, and proceed to hunt down and eliminate the competition. Being single can make women crazy, but stupid observations, like “Why aren’t you married? You must have a problem. You should really think about that”, can really drive you over the edge.

This is what my dear Uncle advises me over the summer when I crashed at his place, on the sofa, I might add, while driving across the country to my 47th wedding, the 13th I’ve been a member of party, and my 2nd time as Maid of Honor. I’m not close to this Uncle. We rarely talk. He’s definitely not a father figure to me. However uncouth, he personifies what other people are thinking. My defense had been fortified, but someone so obtuse would not think success and happiness was a truthful answer, so once again relying on my wit, I take a cue from Elizabeth I, responding drily: “I am married. To England”. Friends, you have to find the absurdity in these situations.

Society seems to have a problem with Single Women. Bridget/Helen may be right. There must be scales on our skin, some inexplicable defect. When I’m at my craziest, I can convince myself that plastic surgery is the answer, my fatal flaw being my less than ample rack. Imagining the next time I hear “You’re still single?” I can reply, “You know what? I blame my mother. She always told me I’d be huge like my Nana, but wait and watch as I did, hoping for Playboy breasts, they've never gotten bigger than they are today. What I really need are some saline C’s to add to this package.” I imagine the look on my Uncle’s face when I get the chance to use this little revelation on him.

Would I trade my situation for an unhappy marriage? Absolutely not. I have a great life, one that I created, one that I love. But allow me to let you in on a little secret. We don’t yearn to be a solo act. It’s not a lifetime goal, at the end of which we are awarded with a crown and a wreath of gold. Even the uber single and fabulous Carrie Bradshaw wraps up her six year on screen stardom sashaying down the avenue with Mr. Big. So we press on, hopefully with some grace, dignity and a sense of humor. Auntie Mame makes the best of it with her boozy buddy Vera Charles until she meets Beauregard. Of course, he eventually falls off a cliff, leaving her a widower, (and a millionairess), but you get the picture.

As for the reunion, I’ve conjured up my fabulous Aunt Judy, and reserved my own lake front cabin. Maybe I’ll be joined by the spirits of Mame & Vera and we’ll toast martinis in the moonlight. And I’ll hope my Uncle gets the pull out sofa.

House Sold/Where To?

Working Sisyphus-like on the weeds one weekend, I heard Suzy Orman’s voice on NPR advising, “If it’s not your dream house, sell it!” Despite the amount of TLC I had put into Oak Grove over the past four years, it took me two seconds to answer that question. I added my resolution to downsize to the equation and determined that listing my house would certainly jumpstart this lifestyle change.

However, despite the attempt to overhaul my feng shui, I was unreasonably shaky after Robin drove off with the sofa bed and mosaic patio furniture from Further. Books have been carefully catalogued and packed in boxes. Closets have been emptied. The move has started. And even though it isn’t the ocean side cottage I’ve dreamt about, Oak Grove has been a safe harbor for me.

Of course, what this musing means is that I’ve finally sold my house, listed for almost nine months - a gestation worthy of celebration. It’s been a bumpy road in what we’re being sold as a buyers “market”, but a road that ultimately led the perfect owners to this haven.

Wanting to find the right people became a mission, forcing me to acknowledge the fierce protectiveness towards the sanctuary I created; Jeanette & Hal Whitstone’s address for fifty years and personally designed in 1941 by Lillian Anderson before them. I spent hours philosophizing with my realtor, and after two failed attempts at purchase, the universe answered.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That I recognize Oak Grove as home is odd to me, because I when I bought it, I was in the throws of grief and blind love simultaneous attacking my system.

The thing about grief is that it is personal and it can attach itself to you in many forms. Mine was retail therapy, including the purchase of this house, bought at the behest of my boyfriend who insisted that when he moved to Los Angeles, we would need a bigger place and a garage in which to park his aging sports car.

But when I found myself alone while he was off trying his hand at motorcycle racing, I discovered just how much disrepair the property was in, one night coming home to rain running down the walls of the dining room. After calling my angel, Antonio, who hurriedly and rather blindly arranged tarps on the roof, I sat down on the floor and cried.

Eventually, we broke up, but I was buoyed to fully restore and make Oak Grove my own by the prevalent creative energy of my predecessors. And in the next months spent roofing, flooring, painting, and planting, part of me became ingrained in the foundation.

In the past four years, I’ve developed a morning routine; a daily check up on the state of things, coffee in tow, chatting through the fence with Carlos, a source of infinite wisdom, peer in on the gold fish I’ve fed to Koi size, measure the progress of the Madagascar, Arabian, Pink Star, Angel Wing and Night Blooming jasmine I’ve planted, planning for their sweet aroma to fill the yard all twelve months of the year. I note how the lilac vine Hope, Debbie & Nancy presented on my 37th birthday has taken over the lower deck and am awed by the beauty of the sparkling red passiflora Dick & James, my other next door neighbors, presented for a house warming gift.

I gauge the progress of cuttings I’ve brought from Poppy Peak and before that, Silver Lake, of the aloe and other native succulents inherited from another neighbor, and the clivia lillies Hal planted for Jeannette that I’ve separated for James, and the irises he & Dick have separated for me. My Alpine Ginger has finally decided to explode with dozens of white, pink and yellow clusters of bell shaped flowers. I’ve been surprised by the full scented freesia blooming in early spring and cursed the birds for keeping me awake at night with their singing and chatter.

My kitchen sits high above the street at the corner of Wiota & Oak Grove and I often call out from my windows to neighbors, yell at drivers ignoring the Stop sign or quietly sit while an spectacular sunset commands my attention.

Many things happen between the walls of a house. Hearts break, vows are made, new recipes tested, ginger snaps explode in the oven. And there are triumphs, excitement of new love, the thrill of discovering a white owl softly hooting in the night atop one of the large and very old California oak trees.

I think about these things as I take pictures down off the wall and fill in the holes. The house has begun to feel empty and I’m constantly finding objects I don’t use. A veritable plethora of vases, a coral shirt recklessly purchased, things I don’t want to take with me to wherever it is I’m going. And that is a big question mark. As Jeff says, I’m in the great unknown.

I’ve been in Los Angeles for over fourteen years; the longest I’ve lived anywhere since leaving Sudbury on the edge of 17. Our little Cape was the last place I called home, and when my parents sold it, the moving out was painful. I cried everyday until the moving van pulled out of the driveway. It was in this place that I felt wholly myself, where my family was, where both kids and adults shot hoops on the basketball court into the evening, where the hostas my mother planted besides the birch trees on the side yard bloomed and where the stump, a sad empty reminder of the weeping willow cleaved out after it threatened the water pipes, lay among the crocuses in the front yard.

As I contemplate my predicament in the final weeks of escrow, the two new creative spirits that will add their own experiences to the mixture hearten me. During the inspection, while we sat on the upper deck among the treetops, I pointing out the different varieties of plants and narrating a brief history of the property, my heart knew that Tom & Sharon were sent to take over the story.

I’m both scared and exhilarated to think that I’ll be homeless soon, the closing date two days before departing for India as a Team Leader for Habitat. I consciously look forward to getting out of the country, recalling David LeBarron once describing me as a seed in the wind. Perhaps that’s true. I always seem to be moving, on the go, infected with the traveling bug.

I not only desire, but dream of a clean, well lighted place to hang my hat. And when I return without an address or a utility bill, I’m confident the universe will point me in the right direction.