The Baby Sitter, part 3

I’m not sure what to make of the baby sitter situation. I think a “situation” may give it a negative connotation when really it should have more of a surreal quality to it, like baby sitter trilogy (except we haven’t gotten past the prologue). I feel like there should be a manual in the library that explains rationally to me how one can possibly feel zing for someone you technically don’t know, have spent no more than 8 hours with and don’t even live in the same bloody country and have not seen each other in a month. Truly, is this not the fodder for romantic-comedies, where you laugh and cry, wish it would happen to you, but know it’s all a bunch of hooey thrown together by writers congregated over a table drinking beers and leering at Cameron Diaz. So really, though we want our own private Notting Hill with Hugh Grant, we don’t actually expect it, and instead spend money to sit and watch it in surround sound with a good bucket of popcorn and some Kleenex projecting our inner Julia.

So, when the beginning of said encounter does occur do you say to one’s self, ok self, this has to be bullshit. All this pent up regressed romantic trash starting from when I thought Rob Lowe and Demi Moore where the epitome of romantic perfection in About Last Night, is now starting to get to me. I held up my High School crushes to this very relationship standard till I realized it only worked if the relationship did not exceed 96 minutes.

So babysitter and I, we kind of waffled, or maybe I waffled. I went through much iteration, and primarily ending up with didn’t want to be friends and hang around while babysitter sussed out exotic Persian woman, kinda like a lame Barbara Cartland novel from the 70s. There had to be better things to vest one’s time in. So with that firmly in mind, mitigating all expectations, had casual back and forth with babysitter, ok, fine, perhaps not soooo casual but not toooo non-casual, excepting the R-rated sexual story (plus he thought it was rather PG-13- what does that say about impending sex life???). I was fine for him to gallivant off with exotic lady as I was gallivanting off to exotic locale. Plus had enough trouble trying to politely evade physical contact with “nice” HSBCman in Vancouver, then constant bombardment of texts and invites from JC, and finally having to deal very delicately with Sailor in the BVI (which is a whole saga still unwritten).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining, attention is nice, but unfortunately, I likened the Babysitter in previous story to a lingering cold. It’s frustrating enough trying to juggle men in your inbox, texts and vicinity (shit I know many women would love to have this setback-I’m not complaining, I’ll remember these days fondly when I’m 60, Botoxed and filled with Perlane), and thinking it should be fun to go out with them, but I have this damn head cold and it won’t cease and abate making everything look and taste rather unappetizing. So, stalked about muttering imprecations at Babysitter and sheer nonsensical nature of all this, and perhaps cursing him for the setback in my dating life. Unlike men, women actually need to feel some modicum of attraction and interest for a man to warrant a date without drooling into our meals and falling asleep. We don’t have that capacity to shut our minds off and work off other heads…

Getting away from myself? So babysitter kind of niggled away amongst all the other predators. San Juan airport was a feeding frenzy… Latin men have absolutely no inhibitions, and if I was a mean and evil woman could have had a lovely dinner, loaded shopping trip and a night dancing and gambling all on several tabs. But, thanks to lovely upbringing and conscience, exited very neatly from all entanglements and had a fun night at The Palm with Architect and lost $20 gambling at Blackjack. Dealer kept giving me tips on what to do (hold, hit, split) and kept apologizing whenever I lost with a wink and a smile. He seemed to think Architect was far too old to be a date (which he wasn’t) so completely ignored him much to Architect’s chagrin (sorry Architect). Of all the shenanigans, thankfully Bran was not on island (actually did not ask as felt would just complicate life even more) as that would have just topped the charts and capped this trip off with too much drama. Last encounter with Bran was alternating stressful and laughable that I truly should write a story about it but may end up getting sued so best to not.

Ok, so had a lot ongoing that lingering babysitter flu was doubly frustrating and causing me to hive. Then came fist cryptic email “you and I will be seeing each other”, this was in response to flippant email sent by me asking how revelatory trip with exotic girlfriend was going (it was an honest email!!). Well what the heck did that mean, it didn’t work to read it a few times over as it only consisted of 8 words with no punctuation. I’m thinking, “I’m not seeing you if you have a girlfriend…” so ignored email and all connotations and instead cc:ed him on rambling tales of adventure in tropics. Then got second cryptic message saying he was “free (literally)… call anytime”, ok, ok, ok what does that mean? I mean I know it MEANS he’s FREE? Like here’s your Get Out of Jail card, please proceed to Park Avenue? Free, she’s gone back to school (school?)? Free, they broke up? Free, have decided to have open relationship and engage in threesomes, I dunno, free friggin what??!! I was thinking highly unlikely to have parted ways with exotic creature, as she seemed rather delectable with her youth, fiction and my imagined fabulous look she had. So, ignored responding directly to that email as well and just wondered if was going slowly insane. Do men really need to communicate in 10 words or less? I’ve just written a page and a half and I’m not even halfway there.

Ok, much to my surprise upon actual conversation in Admirals Club, after frantically trying to get off phone with first LaVida and then litany of IMs from JC so could talk to Babysitter (jeebus, he was the only one I wanted to talk to), find he has parted ways with exotic Persian from lands afar. For me? I wish! That would be way too much like (quick, think of romantic movie)… Serendipity. Oh my gosh, this is what this whole interaction is, its Serendipity (go rent the movie now)! Ok, so obviously something went awry in spending minutes, hours, days and nights together. Yes, yes, yes curiosity is killing me, I am female, I don’t deny it. Mind has been racing through the write your own endings… lukewarm copulations? Poor repartee? Laughs not forthcoming? Poor oral hygiene? We know its not because she bled on him (har har har, snort, snort).

Setting up to not have expectations, am now stumped, what does this mean, did not have any damn expectations and am now poorly prepared? How terribly foreign in an unexotic way, maybe that should be me, “foreign in unexotic way”. Digressing… I need a script, have not been in this scenario before and am lacking stage directions and emotions in nice parentheses (i.e. Show laughter, then throw up on stage left and exit). It’s too Hollywood and Hollywood doesn’t exist but on celluloid, I mean there have been 4 splits in Hollywood couples married under a year this month… (serious, certifiable source, People magazine) so let’s not hold high hopes off the golden screen. Then even more curious, is that in its foreignness and inexplicable weirdness of it, it seems right. Nothing overwrought, nothing freaky, nothing neurotic or insecure, just feels pretty calm and mellow, like this is the way it’s supposed to be. Two strangers, a night in San Diego, poignant, friends, not, and now, time to end the prologue and start the first chapter. Something in the air says, girl, it feels all right, go check it out… (cue: JT, I Want to Rock Your Body)

First and foremost must divest of HSBCman, if I was Catholic this would be a near death experience, the guilt is eating me up. I just haven’t found the right time and place, and being away receiving all these “sweet” (ack!) emails is so wrong, wrong, wrong. The sweeter it gets the more I want some Splenda substitute, make him stop, nice man, nice, very nice, just “boring” (I spent hundreds in therapy to have someone tell me that…). Last email I received was an attempt to be seductive which just about made me fall of my chair, buried head in hands and hastily shut computer. Of course then came home hours later to another email stating quite simply “obviously I am the only one who feels this way”. Was tempted to respond with “Ummmm…. Yes?”, but felt was not prudent for future friendly relations. So, am still in quagmire, trying to meet in non-threatening, least embarrassing to male ego forum. Where I can tactfully mumble something about not the right time in life, friends, think you’re great, not ready, it’s all my fault, and by the way I’m taking a stranger on a romantic vacation to the tropics in a week… instead of you.