LITTLE MISS MUPPET

I’m not six years old anymore, but I still do six-year-old things. Recently, I walked along a seaside road on vacation and came upon a tree swing. I reminded myself that no one in the area knew me and then went for a swing, grateful for an unexpected Whee! in the day. I still throw the occasional “When I grow up…” into conversation, though mainly just to test whether a friend is listening. (Usually, it seems, he isn’t.) This morning, I had a problem getting dressed. My t-shirt was wrong. It’s not that it was inside out or that my head was sticking out of an armhole; rather, I put on the wrong one. I’d reached for one of my plain blue tees and it was only after poking my head and arms through the proper spots that I realized I’d pulled on my Super Grover shirt. 

 

I do like my Super Grover shirt. Generally, however, I refrain from going out in public while wearing it.[1] One time I wore it to a café and someone said, “Your Elmo looks sick.”  Yeah, yeah, blue in the face. Got it. But not amused. Elmo is no Grover. Elmo gets the giggles; Super Grover is on a lifelong mission to save children. Most of the time though, people just look at me weirdly, as if a Muppet-loving man should viewed with more concern than someone donning a MAGA hat.

 

Today, I decided not to correct my wardrobe mistake. I’ve already stepped out twice while sporting SG and any looks of consternation are masked by, well, masks. (Sometimes there’s a cup half full side to COVID.) More to the point, Super Grover is pushing me to write a Muppet post for the blog, one that, despite this lengthy foreword, has nothing to do with the furry blue monster.

 

I’m forever clipping articles, filing them away as future writing ideas or letting them add to my desk clutter, such as is the case for a yellowing New York Times article I’d cut out from December 20, 2020. The title is “Sesame Street Creates Two Rohingya Muppets” which, at first glance, puzzled me when I noticed it again last weekend. I saved this article because…? I confess I couldn’t even recall what Rohingya Muppets represented.[2] The reason I’d saved the article, however, was highlighted in yellow by me at the bottom of the second column: “The Sesame Workshop has long sought to champion diversity and social justice.” The next sentence mentioned, inter alia, that there was a Muppet with H.I.V. Clearly, I was intrigued, but it’s taken me this long to give it a Google. 

 

First appearing in 2002 at a time when one of out nine people in South Africa was HIV+, the yellow muppet with golden hair is Kami, a five-year-old who became HIV+ after a blood transfusion when she was an infant. Her name comes from the word kamogelo which means acceptance or “a welcoming” in the Bantu language Setswana, spoken by eight million people in Southern Africa. We are told that her mother died of AIDS as well. Kami appears on Takalani Sesame which is the South African version of Sesame Street. Here’s a video about Kami which doesn’t mention HIV but focuses on her interests as a child and here’s one with her talking to Archbishop Desmond Tutu about heroes and HIV. That’s probably plenty to familiarize yourself with Kami but, as a bonus, you can watch this clip if you wish to see her getting ready to attend an HIV street party.  

 

While certain American politicians get in a tizzy over Muppets teaching understanding and compassion for a diverse population, Kami is doing her own super-heroic deeds by just being a regular Muppet to South African viewers. 

 

Had I known, I’d have gotten a Kami t-shirt for Superhero Day. I’d like to think Super Grover would have approved. 

 

 

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[1] The background on my SG tee: I used to be an elementary school principal. The student council liked to have “spirit days” throughout the year (e.g., sports jersey day, future career day) and they announced an upcoming Superhero Day. Ugh. As a clearly “cool” principal, known for his colorful Converse shoe collection and his annual Yellow Crayola costume worn every Halloween, I knew I had to partake in Superhero Day. Still, I have never understood, much less been invested in any super-hyped superhero. Ironman, Aquaman, Jolly Green Giant…all yawners. Robin’s recent outing is too little, too late for me. I fretted about who to be for a week before Super Grover saved the day. I went to a t-shirt company and had them custom design my shirt, copyright be damned. When I wore it on the big day, half the kids asked, “Why do you have Elmo on your shirt?” while the others were too busy bouncing off the walls, thinking they really were Spiderman. (About three kids got it: “Yes! Super Grover!” Forty bucks on a t-shirt well spent.) Now I have this silly shirt that’s basically banished to my closet.

[2] The two Muppets, twins named Noor and Aziz, are portrayed as living in a refugee camp in Bangladesh, having escaped from the ethnic cleansing of Rohingya Muslims in Myanmar. In 2017, 750,000 Rohingya fled the country. The characters speak Rohingya and are used to support Sesame Workshop’s early education curriculum in the camps. Okay, cool. 

"MAID" FOR ME (Netflix TV series review)

Why wasn’t I strong enough?

 

It’s a question I avoid. It can eat away at me. The shame returns. The fault-finding turns inward. I become the one who was flawed. It’s easy to beat myself up. I suppose he knew that.

 

Last year, I finally wrote about the domestic abuse I went through during a seven-year relationship from 1997 to 2004. (The posts are here and here.) I don’t expect to ever fully discuss or write about what I experienced. Most of it’s locked in a vault within me and I’ve chucked the key to prevent entry. When I’ve mentioned the abuse to psychiatrists, they’ve always asked if it was physical and, when I explain it was all emotional, they probe no further and move on. That’s always left me feeling like what I went through doesn’t count. Was I just a drama queen?  

 

Last night I finished the ten-episode series, “Maid,” on Netflix. It premiered in October and I avoided it after reading the premise. A young woman struggles to restart a life for herself and her young daughter after breaking free from domestic abuse. I was even in denial about why I didn’t want to watch. I told myself the title was lame. (It is. I suppose it’s slightly better than the name of another Netflix series from last fall, “Chair”. I’m anticipating some new show to premiere this spring called “Blank” or, to be artsy, “Untitled”. Netflix is basically saying, “You’ll watch. What else are you going to do?”)

 

Even when I began watching, I told myself it was because I was curious to see the locations. While set in Washington state, the series was mostly filmed in British Columbia, particularly on southern Vancouver Island. It was especially easy to spot B.C. Ferries terminals and vessels subbing in for Washington Ferries. 

 

But the abuse and Alex’s attempt to escape from it plays out in that first episode. We see one intense scene. I was uneasy throughout that first viewing, but telling myself, “Mine was not like that” gave me just enough emotional distance to continue with the series. It helped that I don’t binge-watch anything. Most nights, I don’t watch any TV and, when I would sit down and grab the remote, I often told myself, “Not tonight.” I’d choose twenty minutes of a movie instead. A movie can take me weeks to finish (if, in fact, I do finish) and “Maid” took about two months, with me powering through the final five (out of ten) episodes this past week. 

 

Beyond the subject matter and the familiar locations, the series is extremely well done, with realistic, compelling writing and excellent acting. I have never been an Andie MacDowell fan. I felt she was wooden in her 1980s film roles and it surprises me her career has had legs. As Alex’s bipolar mother, MacDowell has found a breakthrough role. Anika Noni Rose, in a recurring role as a wealthy career woman whose house Alex cleans, is eminently watchable and Raymond Ablack as Nate, an acquaintance who goes above and beyond to help Alex—not entirely for altruistic reasons—is eminently watchable because he’s, well, easy on the eyes. But it’s Margaret Qualley in the lead role who carries the entire series, appearing in every scene, her acting coming off as natural and captivating. (I only learned this morning, while Googling a few things for this post, that Margaret Qualley is Andie MacDowell’s actual daughter. Huh. So the resemblance wasn’t fortuitous casting.)

 

The beauty of “Maid” is that Alex is so strong. She is exemplary as a devoted mother to her young daughter, Maddy. Her own mother is exasperatingly unpredictable, but Alex remains loyal and protective in attempting to parent her too. Alex also has to maintain contact with her abusive ex since he is Maddy’s father. Throughout the ten episodes, she is challenged in understanding abuse, in negotiating relationships and in navigating the hoops and hurdles as a single mother living in poverty, trying to find safe shelter, longer term housing, work and basics like food and childcare. (The show is based on a book I haven’t read, a memoir by Stephanie Land called Maid: Hard Work, Low Pay, and a Mother’s Will to Survive.) Every glimmer of hope is dashed by soul-crushing setbacks and yet Alex continues to push forward with a simmering fierceness, brought on, in part, because she’s got Maddy depending on her.

 

“Maid” is also remarkable for its portrayal of Shawn, the abusive ex. We’ve seen movies in which the abuser is a horrid, despicable loser. When this is what a viewer sees, it’s easy for someone who hasn’t experienced domestic abuse firsthand to judge the character who is abused and assert their own superiority. 

 

I would have left after the first incident. 

I would never…

She’s so stupid. 

She should have…

 

I’ve heard these comments countless times as I’ve sat quietly in the lunchroom at work or during a coffee with friends. It always triggers that familiar refrain in my head: Why wasn’t I strong enough?

 

Yet Shawn is not a one-note villain. He’s even a sympathetic character. Over the course of the series, we can see why Alex would have fallen in love with him. There was something good between them before things went bad. It’s clear he still loves Alex and he’s a good dad to Maddy. He’s got his own demons and a difficult past, but he’s earnestly trying to be a better man. He’s even incredibly supportive of Alex as she tries to deal with her mother. For Alex, walking away and never looking back is an oversimplification of her options. As Maddy’s father, Shawn continues to have legal rights. Neither Alex nor Shawn grew up in stable homes with healthy adult relationships. They both want things to be different for their daughter.

 

I was mesmerized by the scenes involving Alex and Shawn. A few are inherently dramatic due to the plot but, more often, the exchanges are understated, strained by the normal emotions that come from a recent breakup. There’s more, of course. Alex must protect herself. Alex is cordial and even empathetic as she acknowledges his growth. But there’s a coolness and a firmness as well as she strives to maintain distance and boundaries. Shawn believes she’ll come around. They’ll make things work. Alex doesn’t play games. She’s direct and determined they will never be a couple again. 

 

Despite trying to be detached in watching the show, I came to let down my guard and allow myself to connect with Alex. Sometimes watching “Maid” triggered too much. Sometimes it made for a difficult evening, a restless sleep, and foggy morning after. Alex is a character I can identify with much more than depictions of cowering abused women with black eyes and pervasive meekness. (It’s always a woman, which brings up more issues of shame and worthlessness for me.) Yes, those portrayals are grounded in reality, too. If I felt trapped in a relationship in which my partner was a ticking time bomb, beating me with little lead-up, I’d look cowering and meek as well. If I couldn’t get away from that violent episode, I’d crouch and try to protect my body. 

 

Alex deals with emotional abuse as did I. Without smacks and slaps, it’s harder to tell when things have crossed the line. When does an intense argument become something graver? She doesn’t identify it as abuse in the beginning. Neither did I. (My psychiatrists’ unconcerned reactions only added after-the-fact confusion.) While Alex and Shawn share a child, I kept ties with my ex to allow him contact with our two dogs. People may judge me for that, but we were a childless gay couple and we both adored the dogs; they adored him, too. No one has ever been more important to me in my life than those schnauzers. Part of why I stayed so long was fear that he’d insist on having one of the dogs. I would never allow that, but I needed certainty they’d remain with me. 

 

Once I was free, I too had Alex’s strength. A friend who observed a couple of dog drop-offs between my ex and me remarked, “Man, you’re cold to him.” This friend didn’t know of the abuse. Yes, I was cold. Distance was essential. Like Shawn, my ex kept wanting us to get back together. I couldn’t allow a trace of warmth. I needed it to be clear: That will never happen.

 

“Maid” will help many persons who are or were in emotionally abusive relationships. It’s helped me see that the shame is his, not mine. The weakness was his, not mine. I know I will still teeter. I will slip back and blame myself. That nagging question, Why wasn’t I strong enough?, will creep back in at times. Now, at least, I have Alex and “Maid” as a reminder of how the best of people can fall into the worst of circumstances…and find a way out.

SIGNING UP FOR A NEW DATING SITE (OH, WHAT FUN!)

For a long, loooong time, I’ve been on two “respectable” dating sites. By respectable, it’s a low bar. I mean they don’t allow you to post selfies that shows dicks and butts. (That’s my assumption. I haven’t tried. I haven’t seen them on anyone’s profile. Maybe I have an uncanny sense of only being curious about “respectable” guys.) I can’t bash these websites. They have features that annoy me, but it’s not their fault that I’m still single. I’m sure I can come up with a list of other things to blame.

 

COVID has made it convenient, even justifiable, for me to say I can’t just go out there and meet guys IRL, aka, in the real world.[1] More than ever, online searching is a reasonable, responsible option. 

 

I gave up on match.com long ago after it seemed there were only five or six gay men from Vancouver on that site…and the one I met in person promptly fled to Edmonton. (I’ll have to make another list of things to blame for that.) Plenty of Fish has been overfished and the stock was never replenished. OkCupid seems to have gone the way of match.com. 

 

Did everyone but me find someone?! 

 

It’s not really a resolution, but I’ve decided to try some other dating sites. Maybe three. I question my motives. Am I really trying or am I just looking for blog fodder? Nonetheless, on Saturday night while taking breaks from having a rowdy time doing laundry—putting shoes in the dryer makes it exciting; I almost wanted my neighbor to call the police for a noise disturbance—I went online to sign up on my first new dating site. I’d heard about the site before, yet I’d resisted recognizing that it might be a suitable site. It’s called Silver Singles. It’s for people over fifty. And, yes, my driver’s license, birth certificate and passport all confirm that I qualify, even if I made a mess trying to white out the incriminating evidence.

 

What follows are my stream of consciousness thoughts while I navigated the website: 

 

Site found: Silver Singles

 

Click to sign up.

 

First screen. Decision time.

I am a Woman / Man

Seeking a Woman / Man

 

Hmm. None of that nonbinary stuff. We’re over fifty. Presumably, we don’t get that.

 

Email and password selection. God, another damn password. I’ve used up the name of every actress who ever played a Desperate Housewife and, no, as easy as it would be to remember, I’m not including 69 as the requisite number. I’m gay. If anyone wants to crack my account, that’s gotta be the first try.

 

I’m welcomed! I think the site is trying to teach me handy social skills because the welcome comes in the form of, “Nice to meet you,” followed by, “We are excited to get to know you and brainwash into buying a Premium membership for twelve months at the REDUCED RATE of only $37.95 per month.” It doesn’t actually say that last part. That’ll come after I spend all that time filling things out. The monthly rate is based on a year’s membership. This is going to cost $455.40! Apparently when your over fifty and single, they take you for desperate. Premium sounds hopeful. Premium will get it done. And Premium will cost you. Natch.

 

But then they’re already having doubts about me:

            Please confirm your gender:

            Female / Male

It’s like a trick. They switched from Woman and Man. 

Still nothing for Nonbinary. Not even a 1 to 5 scale on how manly I am. 

 

            Please confirm the gender of your 

            desired partner:

            Female / Male

I suppose we older folder folks are prone to clicking the wrong item sometimes, especially when we pretend we don’t need our reading glasses, which we damn well know we do. If only we could remember where we put them. I did find my keys in the freezer. At last! I’ve been stuck at home for three days.

 

But I do appreciate that I have to confirm I’m a Man seeking a Man. Maybe this whole confirmation business only comes when a newbie indicates a same-sex interest. 

Are you sure? You grew up knowing how much easier it is to pass for straight.

            This might get mucky.

 

But mucky, my dear Silver Singles administrator, is when I have to look at profiles of eighty-something women seeking a male provider whom they can bake for. Good god, no. If I want a lemon loaf, I’ll buy a nicely wrapped one with pesky, tooth-dwelling poppy seeds at Safeway. 

 

Man.

Seeking Man.

 

Male.

Seeking Male.

 

Yes, I meant to do that.

 

I click on and discover this is a highly reputable dating site as I skim the options for answering, “What is your marital status?” Open relationship is not there. (Are they still trying to weed out the gays?) With a twinge of shame, I select, “I have never been married” but regain a sense of superiority as I notice none of the options, though written as sentences, end in a period. Ha! I take my shame and cast it back upon you. BOOM! (Or, if you will, BOOMERANG.)

 

Next up: level of education. I am shocked that the first option is “No Education”. Um, what? None? I’m suddenly doubting this $37.95 a month investment. There may be some truth to that saying, “All I really needed to know I learned in kindergarten,” but there may be some Silver Singles that never got that far. No finger painting. No dress-up center. No blocks. (Okay, I never got any of my own block experiences because Mrs. Brown couldn’t pull me away from the dress-up center but still…)

 

Fingerpainting. How do you get to plus-fifty without ever using your index finger and thumb to smear a sheet of butcher paper tacked to an miniature plastic easel with swirls of red, blue and yellow which, when you’re done, you tell Mrs. Brown is a picture of a shark eating a princess so the prince can hang with the knight? 

 

My fingerpainting days were short-lived. Mrs. Brown moved me to the macaroni art table. But technically I do have fingerpainting experience, unlike Mr. No Education.

 

The next education option is Middle School. 

 

What the hell I’m I getting myself into?

 

What follows are questions about height and some picture selections about what resonates most with me. Picture of a messy desk, some in-betweens and then a desk with a keyboard but no laptop and not much else. Is this a pretend computer device? I’m so tempted to pick that one since stone tablet is not pictured.

 

Ethnicity. Mine and then:

“Which ethnic groups should your partner 

suggestions belong to?” 

Options: I don’t mind, Caucasian, 

First Nation / Inuit / Métis, 

Asian, Indian, African Descent, 

Latin American, Other. 

I could quibble about the terminology to be all politically correct, but I’m too fascinated about “Other.” Does that include Zombie? Extraterrestrial? Muppet? 

 

Of course, I pick “I don’t mind.” Why limit things? I start to think about how my coffee date will go with zombie Super Grover.

 

Next up is another shame Q: 

“How satisfied 

are you with 

your appearance?” 

Again, I divert my shame, instead fake gagging as I think of the guy who opts for “Very much so.” To be clear, I don’t want to date a social media influencer who posts daily gym selfies. How do I filter him out?

 

I’m being serious.

 

Religion comes next. Good god. I’m the type of person who types the previous sentence and only capitalizes the first letter of the sentence. Figure it out. I feel like I’ve just stepped into an open manhole. (I did that once. Honest. While jogging in the pitch black on a road under construction while in college in Fort Worth, Texas. I didn’t want anyone to see me exercising. There you go. You can guess how I answered the feelings-about-my-appearance question, too.)

 

Moving on…

 

“Which role would you like a partner to fulfill the most?” 

Gasp! “Dreamy lover” is one of the choices. What over-fifty person says that? 

 

Okay, this dating site might work for me.

 

Blah, blah, pick, pick. Another picture question to give me and the “No Education” folks a much-needed reading break. 

 

“If your partner suggests a shared calendar to align both your activities, 

how would you feel?” 

“Ew” is not one of the options. There is no “Other.” There isn’t even, “I don’t believe in calendars. They only underscore the fact I’ve got nothing going on. Ever. That’s why I’m answering these dating site questions at 8:37 on a Saturday night.”

 

More blah. Really, at this point, I just want to click through so I can meet zombie Super Grover.

 

And then, at last: 

“Well done! You finished the personality test.”

 

Is that what that was? Is it shared with the government? Have I been red-flagged? Was a personality even detected?

 

Breathe. The following sentence states, “We will match you with compatible members every day.” Every day? What the hell is their standard for compatibility. How many guys with no education who feel very much satisfied with their appearance are going to pop up? My dreamy lover might not be suggested until November. That’s a lot of $37.95 monthly payments. 

 

Dammit. They’ve got me.

 

 

 

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[1] IMHO, we may one day have ways of shortening every somewhat commonly used phrase. TBH, I hope to be dead before then. 

OUR TOWN

There’s a song from the early ’80s by J.D. Souther and James Taylor called “Her Town Too.[1]” It’s a sad, post-breakup ballad, looking at the mess that comes in the aftermath. The two people go on, of course, but it’s awkward when both continue living in that same town, seeing the same people who knew them as a couple. 

 

Well, people got used to seeing them both together

But now he’s gone and life goes on

Nothing lasts forever, oh no

She gets the house and the garden

He gets the boys in the band…

 

It used to be your town

It used to be my town, too.

 

As a teen, listening to the song was brutal. I ached for James Taylor who has always struck me as a gentle, introverted, conflicted soul. (What I was and am…although I managed to avoid the drug problem.) He’d looked so handsome on the 1977 “JT” album cover and had sounded so content singing “Your Smiling Face,” a song that sounds like pure sunshine…if its rays had a vocal. Carly and James were one of the first celebrity couples I was aware of and, being a pop music fan(atic), I felt joy listening to them duet on “Mockingbird” and “Devoted to You,” thinking they represented the modern fairy tale. Carly came off as a happy free spirit whom I’d decided was a perfect companion for James whom I’d heard experienced depression and had an extended psychiatric admission when he was younger. (Yes, this is the kind of thinking I had as a kid, hoping for happiness for people I felt needed it most. Isn’t it interesting how much we identify with kindred spirits even before we have the labels that confirm how alike we may be?) 

 

“Her Town Too” was released around the time James and Carly separated. They would divorce two years later. James has said the song is about another couple that went through divorce, but I can’t help but think there was a little music therapy in it for him too. Maybe shock therapy, the harsh reality that follows.

 

I’ve never had a relationship with someone with whom I had to share a town after the love flamed out. When I dated guys in L.A., getting from one neighborhood to another might take an hour in traffic so, if we split up, that basically meant I’d never see him again…and I’d save a helluva lot on gas. (Was that any kind of silver lining?) Earlier this year, I wrote about my Vancouver ex. The city’s big enough for us to exist separately, but I didn’t want to risk running into him for safety and sanity reasons so I blinked and moved to a rural community with some water and a ferry between us to make the distance seem greater.

 

You would think that the easiest post-breakup adjustment would be with the guy who lived in Portland, Oregon while I was in Vancouver. It was not a “His Town Too” situation. It wasn’t even a case of “His Country Too.” And yet in some ways it’s been the trickiest relationship from which to re-cast the settings after the fact because it stands up as the most important.

 

I’d spent so much time in both Seattle and Portland as a solo traveler, checking out neighborhoods, local coffee spots, public art and parks. These cities are among my happy places. Beginning in late 2016, my time in these cities became shared experiences when a friendship with a guy from Portland became more. 

 

The change was a risk. We had something special as friends. There was a profound sense of understanding and connection. Both of us needed a friend. And both of us had a track record of romantic relationships that didn’t pan out. We’d invested a year and a half building this friendship, mostly through online messages but deepened by some in-person visits that were remarkably comfortable while also leaving me with a strong sense of wow. A disastrous stint at dating could destroy everything, all ties lost. Over a breakfast in Seattle, I stumbled and bumbled to get the words out, proposing we move beyond friendship. To my great relief, he wanted the same thing.

 

Bear & I became fast friends
as I waited for another
departure from YVR airport.

For about a year, our risk paid off. Via planes, trains and automobiles, we met regularly in Portland, Vancouver and often halfway, in Seattle. We made the long-distance relationship (mostly) work. I can’t delete that parenthetical. I still get stuck on feeling I failed. I was too emotional, too defective…just too. I still feel the pain from conflicts that arose. It hurts knowing I couldn’t—we couldn’t—figure out a better way to navigate those times.

 

It’s that pain that left me wondering after the relationship’s demise if I’d lost not just him but the cities we shared. I thought they might be forever tainted—a forfeiture after Game Over. Portland, where he lived, seemed to logically revert to him. Seattle? We could share custody, but would it ever be one of my happy places again?   

 

Six months after our breakup, I blogged about a return visit to Portland and the Oregon Coast. His town, his state, but I didn’t want them to relinquish them. Ideally, I wanted to still see him whenever I was in town. I wanted my friend back. We weren’t at that point and I couldn’t count on us ever getting there. For other reasons, I was emotionally vulnerable and I told myself I needed the comfort of familiar escapes from my crumbling life in Vancouver. I’d had Portland memories before the relationship and I was determined to have new memories thereafter, ones that wouldn’t be forever clouded by feelings of failure and thoughts of him. 

 

My ex knew about my blog and had always been complimentary and supportive of my writing. I figured he’d stopped checking it out after things fell apart, but he’d read the post and assured me—Bitterly? Sarcastically? Generously?—I could have the city back without him being in the way. 

 

I got them back. Portland; Seattle as well. His towns. But my towns, too. I came to love these places again, without the man I’d loved. We did meet occasionally when I was back in Portland, times that I still valued although there was a guardedness present and, for me, lingering guilt and emotional confusion. We were friendly but were we friends? It was a work in progress.

 

Then came COVID. 

 

Dragon lurking deep in a local forest

No travel, no escapes. For a while, I did a masterful job in deceiving myself. I played tourist in my town. That worked for a year. I’d cycled every bike route in Vancouver and all the suburbs and I’d walked and jogged every block within a long-armed radius from my home. I’d day-hiked every trail in the region. I’d Googled every local “secret,” to track down alley murals, twig-crafted forest creatures and boulders with poems inscribed on them. I even rushed to visit a (deserted) rooftop dog park despite not having a dog. Yes, I’d literally reached the dog days of the pandemic. 

 

When the U.S. border finally reopened for Canadians to drive across last month, I rushed to pack, book hotels and get away. There were still hurdles and limits so short road trips were the only option I could manage. Hello again, Seattle! And then, hey there, Portland!  

 

My old haunts were fully mine again. My ex had moved two thousand miles away. Iowa. (Really?)

 

And yet there were so many moments when he was with me, in my mind at least. I didn’t try to push him away; rather, I welcomed him and every small reminder of us.

 

I wish I could more vividly remember our conversations and our experiences. Someone might diss me, say I’m not romantic. That seems patently unfair. As a long-time educator, I know we learn and process differently. Details don’t stick with me. I’m not panicked about early-onset Alzheimer’s, even if I frequently wonder why I got off the sofa to walk into the bathroom. You’d think the setting would make things clear but no. Did I need to pee? Was it a dental floss emergency? Is there a hangnail I need to deal with? Too often, I find myself shrugging and washing my hands because, well, haven’t we all amassed two lifetimes’ worth of soap and sanitizer? 

 

I’ve stopped seeing fogginess as a fault.

 

In Portland and Seattle, what remains strong are the feelings and that sense of connection. They are what mattered. They are what still matter. My drive to Portland took nine hours instead of five due to a long border wait and two doses of rush hour traffic, first in Seattle, then in Tacoma. It allowed enough time to recall one particularly awful drive from Vancouver to Portland, traffic bottlenecked for a seventy-mile stretch from north of Seattle to Olympia. I’d had to pull off at an exit, frazzled, hands shaking, fighting back tears. I can’t make it. I refueled on caffeine, did a walking tour of nearby parking lots (sorry, no photos) and got back into the highway queue. When I arrived at his place, none to the traffic snarl mattered. I was like a puppy as he opened the door. “You! Yes, you.” I can allow this recollection; I can savor it. 

 

I know how nostalgia tends to let the rosiest moments stay in bloom, but I I still have perspective. I’m not warp our relationship into something mythical. I remember darker times, but I have enough distance now to wholly cherish the good times as well.

 

And there were many. 

 

Places that weren’t even filed in my memory come back when I pass them: a pizza place we ate at where the crust was charcoal black, weirdly just the way I like it (much to my mother’s annoyance, burnt toast was my childhood specialty); the area we walked off the main strip to photograph tucked away street murals; the street—or is it just a ramp—that I’d drive to go from downtown back to his place, always worried, always bracing for the possibility I’d get stuck in the wrong lane and miss it. (The worry was warranted. I regularly missed it, my directional challenges always amped up in Portland. Getting lost is embedded in my route from any A to any B in the city. Oh, yeah! This is familiar. I’ve been lost here before.)

 

There are other spots that enter my mind even though I don’t pass them: a craft brewery where I had the best berry cider ever and have tried to find something close to it ever since, a beloved Mexican restaurant, a comfy neighborhood bookstore, a bakery whose popularity perplexed me, a pool where’d I’d swim laps. I don’t pass them because they’re part of my ex’s neighborhood. I don’t have any reason to go there now that he’s gone. 

 

With time, I realize how much I needed my time with him, even if it didn’t last. He helped me see the good in a man again. Yes, he was good. Sometimes we were good, too. Many times.

 

I see these places as not only my towns, but his towns. I embrace them as our towns, too.

 

I was here. We were here.

 

I am grateful.

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[1] The two share writing credits for the song along with Waddy Wachtel.