The Baby Sitter, part 1

Part I, The Babysitter

Sometimes when you least expect it, life takes an imaginative turn of its own. Though I’d have to say with my life I don’t really need more turns, but obviously I wasn’t given a choice in it. Went down to a wedding in San Diego this weekend, and through some immense brain aneurism I managed to not read everyone else’s itineraries and was set to arrive hours before anyone else into a town that is reputedly fun but who the only person I was familiar with is married to a neurotic single-female fearing woman... oh and the lesbian documentary film maker, also not high on the list.

To compound matters my girlfriend ended up sucked into the hurricane calamity and remained on the east coast, a day delayed. But being the good friend she is began a campaign to find me a babysitter for the night. I remember a remarkably similar event in high school, where same friend somehow engineered to have me roller skate around school in a silver lame evening dress with inserts and a sign around my neck stating, “I need a date”. Horrid friend.

I still haven’t figured why I needed a babysitter as upon last check I was 34, with all limbs functioning and had probably accrued enough solo frequent flyer miles to round the world twice. Playing along with the game and for my amusement, I got a babysitter. Lets just refer to said being as “the babysitter”. I didn’t know much about babysitter except friend said he was interesting, good looking, but perhaps not tall enough for me. This final bit of information managed to have me imagine the quintessential Napoleon complex, short man with immense attitude who talked too much and feared he was balding too… great.

I’m not sure I did anything to prepare for the night, we were going for dinner, and my escape hatch from Napoleon was I was sooooooooooo tired from flying. Good thing about situations as such, there is no reason to obsess neurotically over perfect outfit, attitude or bum size. You assume the worst and seriously do not want to look your best or may have super freak hanging on you forever. Jeans and an Old Navy tank top was just right, throw in a pair of no name streets of Bangkok shoes and I was styling really low. Top it off had no shampoo as had left house in manic frenzy at 5:30am, so after valiantly fighting with hotel shampoo and conditioner hair was in weird state of disarray… as had forgotten all styling potions as well.

He was coming in a Porsche Cayenne; my Napoleon dread was coming close to breaking me out in hives. Who drives a Porsche Cayenne but short, balding 40+ year old real estate agents who live in West Vancouver dreaming of dating nubile 25 year olds during their midlife crisis? Plus, Car and Driver had likened it to a piece of &^* on a field… I have to sheepishly admit I did test drive one when choosing my last car.

I got in the car and I was stymied, great smile, boyish, devil in the eye, very controlled, and overwhelmingly there (presence), was it just me I wondered, or did he feel this energy too? Did I ooze knock-em-dead energy too? I really had to rethink my togetherness, as the babysitter was not what I was expecting?!! Kind of like hopping into a car with Paul Walker (The Fast and the Furious) when you’re expecting Danny DeVito, and having to put on your best Jessica Alba with bad hair and frumpy clothing. Definitely off guard, definitely, definitely, DAMN, hate that!

Hate to be cheesy but he was pretty neat (is that the best adjective I can think of, YES). Did the mundane chitchat about this and that, and the awkward here and there, each of us jockeying for the right tone and attitude, and doing the once over. Somewhere on the drive to wherever we settle into sarcastic banter (love sarcastic banter), which is always a plus point in my man tally book, so he was gaining some and losing some (still not sure on car). Bits and pieces elude me but unquestionably there was more than hope to a definitely entertaining evening. Ok girlfriend, you get some brownie points, this was much better than having to take your 10th grade boyfriend to the Christmas Formal for you!

So, not sure if he was planning on taking even Attila the Hun to this restaurant, which was pretty swank for just any old chick that may or may not have been fun, but somehow ended up on twinkling outdoor patio, with view of ocean and enough atmosphere to not be weirdly romantic, but accurately fun. At this point we’re falling into Mr. Big territory, but doesn’t quite cap seaplane to island with sunset dinner on rocks with seals on cue (though must note that Big is currently in the doghouse and not being entertained at present (see The Demise story)). Plus, babysitter had no forewarning if he was getting messy Jessica Alba or Roseanne so thinking quick garners a few points too.

Somewhere in here I get a bit fuzzy, but do remember going to bathroom wondering what my ass looked like in my jeans. Would have checked in bathroom but swank restaurants are not immune to puking women and was quite nasty in there (perhaps a California thing?). We had some champers (per norm) and I watched him eat more than I ate but that’s neither here nor there as was not hungry, and no, not due to him (lame), but due to the burger I devoured upon arriving. Not sure why this particular point is necessary in the story…

Sometime as the sun set and the evening darkened, we moved from easy discussions to the more substantial, and then I quit tallying. He asked me if I meditated which I though an odd question, never had that asked before, and wasn’t quite sure where to go with that. I am touchy on my meditation, my rocks and pelicans on the beach, but surprising myself did tell. I wanted to wax lyrical about the thousands of fish surrounding me every evening, the turtles, all the little odd creatures and the bliss of going from the ocean to my sheltered rock that takes me to my meditative state but was sure that would scare him half to death so refrained. Of course later I find, OF COURSE, that his meditation is so far further into the next realm than mine, that I’m almost jealous but since I'm not currently ready to leap through my mental lands at the fate of my mind, I’m quite happy to sit in my itty bitty land of nothingness and peace for a while. Ok, so maybe I’d be cooler if I could meditate daily (want to be cool meditative person) and not rely on fish and rocks, I mean who needs fish to meditate??!!

Now here I can’t help but chuckle, we run through some life stuff, most of it eludes me now, but trust me it was deep. And I swear he said he needed to go bowling after dinner. I’m thinking I'm not channeling Jessica Alba so well if he has to go bowling, I may be better off with The OC back in the hotel room. And is he serious? He’s saying he has to bowl to dump me, I’m just starting to bring the tally book back out when I realize he’s dead serious (thankfully had not said rotten things about bowling and am secret bowling geek). He’s in a bowling league, now how cool is that AND I get invited to come watch, way cool. Ex husband used to think bowling was totally lame but also thought that flowers were reserved for funerals and not Valentine’s Day, so what’s the point?

So got to go to bowling alley, en route may I point out that babysitter had gotten a bit friendlier, arm on back, a little closer, etc etc, do you think they think we don’t notice? I’m thinking he’s thinking he’s going to get lucky, I mean why on earth would I want to go to the bowling alley if I didn’t want him neked (do u think they think that way? That’s just gross…). Serious, was furthest thought on my mind at that point (was geekily interested in bowling), sex that is, am not one for hop in sack on first meeting girl, took me a friggin year to do the deed with ex bald boy and though momentary fling with Paul Walker may have sounded good, not sure wanted to live with that, didn’t even go there with Big and that’s saying a lot. Though could argue am now single, 30 something year old, with no constraints and past the sexual revolution and should try and use and abuse men more for their carnal abilities. A la Carrie Bradshaw I should be toting around my designer condoms and mini lipstick vibrator with remote in chic Balenciaga purse. My Rabbit doesn’t fit in my purses, which are Kate Spade, Marc Jacobs or Fendi, and my condoms are Trojans and live happily in my non-portable bedside drawer with Rabbit friend. Giggle.

Bowling. Fun. Odd. Troubling. Memorable.
The leather clad biker homosexuals canoodling with also homo-effeminate, nerdy, GQ types bowling at the end of the room, coupled with babysitter league of leave it to beaver skinny guy, porn photographer layered in coloured catholic guilt tattoos, bio tech-meditating, Porsche driving Paul Walker and not really a trucker but I’m sure as heck going to look like one brother who may have had a mullet under the ball cap. Oh my. Neighboring league consisted of characters straight out of That 70s Show (and I’m not talking Ashton) complete with insecure NAPOLEAN bowler with gay hand flick bowl (I knew Napoleon was going to show). I could have written a sitcom, it was all too much, down to custom bowling balls, the requisite very asexual, somewhat plump women, pooch bellied daddies, the “cool” bowlers who were so not, stuck in the 80s tight jean, white heel wearing skanks, the occasional Asian to remind us that we are in the modern age and the trite neon lighting and bizarre graphics of bowling balls mutating into angels and triple x porn stars. If I didn’t know any better this could have been a really psychedelic mushroom trip. At one point had to retreat into pool room, which reminded me awfully of scene from The Accused which wigged the heeby jeebies out of me that I gave up watching CSI in subtitles on the bar TV while ducking pool sticks and horny players.

Not much convo during bowling, though got to know cast of characters who were really swell and incredibly nice people. Truly liked porn photographer to the point that would actually want pictures of me in the buff done. Sincerely, all had hearts of gold and it was a lovely night in the bowling alley, and I found out a lot about salvation and redemption, why to wipe your ball as well as how to fix your bowling handicap… I am sure this will all come in handy in the next generation of Trivial Pursuit.

Now, awkward post bowling moment, I was anticipating being dropped home so was a bit surprised when asked what plan was next. Perhaps am so used to Vancouver dates with nice Vancouver boys who go to bed at midnight and don’t dare kiss u for days that I was a bit stupefied. More? We had some existential life talk in car which I was trying to decode from “I’m being a sensitive man” to “I want you in bed”. Did he really feel a connection or was it a line? I had mentioned early in the evening that you could tell if someone was meant to be, and had the misfortune of having it thrown back at me. Acting coy while feverishly thinking if I say “yes, I do feel that for you” then I’m feeling really out there in vulnerable land, and he may be grunting “Score!!” but if I say “no” that sounds a bit insulting and would be so not true. As Jewel sings, “these foolish games.” This must have been traumatic as I have conveniently forgotten my own response to save self-embarrassment, but must have muddled though with some half assed non-committal statement in very unworldly way. What would Carrie have done? We know Samantha would have launched at his belt buckle in a millisecond, Charlotte would have passed out and Miranda would have said go to hell. I think I started in Charlotte, considered Miranda, guiltily thought through a Samantha, and ended up as Carrie.

He did ask if we should head back to his place as he did have wine there. How cliché is that, negative tally in book??? I wanted to see him more, so did, but so did not want to give off the wrong vibe as did really like the boy for who he was, knowing it was short lived more time together was nice, but how does one convey that without sounding like a hussy? I mean what self respecting woman ends up with a man at her hotel room at some ungodly hour of the morning and not expect them to be counting down the seconds till your clothes come off (am secretly fearing gave off hussy vibe). Oh, did I forget to mention stopping at the bar for champagne that wasn’t really champagne w/ 2 flutes, cliché, after cliché, after cliché, I’m killing myself. It was emotion over logic and logic was putting forth a great effort in the ring, “go to bed”, “say goodnight”, “you only have so much willpower, use it now”, “don’t go upstairs”, “stop, stop, stop”. We know logic is generally right, but I’m damned with these female hormones that rampage around my body making me act irresponsible, hate it. Why can we not be as detached and single focused as men… because then we’d be stupid (right I remember now why we don’t want to be men), plus we’d have distracting appendages hanging off of us that get sweaty and cause us to grope ourselves and we’d have to give up our Rabbits.

Sigh, yes it was a knockout for logic and upstairs we went, emotion and I, to Never Never land. Never Never Never land, the dice had been thrown, I was officially in the game. Why, I've asked myself this a million times, why? How many boys (sorry men) do I date, send them home, write amusing stories, answer idle texts and calls, and feel no zing, lots. And when I give them a chance to prove some zing (sorry HSBC man) there’s still no zing and then I need to pretend zing to make their egos feel like they’re zinging. And when they do zing they end up being Big and need to be unzinged. Maybe it was the moment, never see you again, different country, sayonara, you seem perfect and I need to see if that’s a well rounded assumption requiring you to be naked to judge. Gasp, did I just say that??????? Plus, was working the “c’mon girl” you’re a single liberated woman what’s wrong with having fun (conscience… ), you’re so not into the men you’re dating, live it up.

Ok, one thing led to another and fate intervened and I got my period. Horrors of all horrors I kid you not. Mortification was the only word that comes to mind and if could have done an ostrich and buried my head in the pillows, and gotten away with doing it gracefully I would have. It wasn’t quite the walk of shame but perhaps the scarlet letter would have been more appropriate. At this point babysitter retreated rather rapidly which was a tad alarming, a) was definitely looking for score and had failed b) no zing c) found out I had kids d) faints at sight of blood e) all of the above

Faster than a speeding bullet, he leaped into clothes, quick good night something or other, here a kiss for the girl and he was off in his wonder Cayenne. What’s a girl to think? Have messed up royally and truly? Messed up what one may ask (other than the sheets)? A one night stand, not much on the accomplishment roster so ok to disregard. Life’s true mate, getting a little too karmic (though secretly believe said being does exist), reputation, doubtful as you’ll not meet again, so what’s the bother. The bother is (long sigh) girl likes boy, girl hopes boy likes her too, and… to be continued.