I sat watching a Cary Grant film the other day. And, as is true with most Cary Grant films, he portrayed the epitome of an eligible bachelor. He wore dark, well-tailored suits—always with a jaunty tie, drank martinis—always after work, had the most modern furniture (although a blonde coffee table and console TV might not seem modern today, by Cary Grant’s standards they were right on the money). Cary also employed an elderly, slightly curmudgeoned maid with just enough wit to keep him in line, wore two piece pajamas to bed at night, and smoked a pipe with such sex appeal that I actually got moist. Man, he had it going on, y’know? So, what I want to know is where these bachelors are now?
I’ve been dating pretty much since 2007. And although this is in no way intended to sluttify myself, I’ve dated all shapes and sizes of bachelors. I say this only to qualify myself in the matters of bachelors and their lifestyles. I’ve dated fat men, skinny men, tall men, and short men, men with college degrees and men with GED’s. I’ve dated men who played soccer nationally and men who—well—just played. I’ve dated men I’ve liked, lusted, and—currently—love. But I ain’t ever dated a bachelor who didn’t live like they were not only members but Presidents of Phi Delta Disgusting.
Unlike Cary, these bachelors dress haphazardly—preferring to choose dirty clothes from the hamper rather than a suit and tie from a hanger. They have a strange habit of sporting the newest athletic shoes—Adidas, Nike, Converse—always name brands-- and paring them with the free t-shirt they scored last week at the radio-thon that reads “WFRT—we blow the others away.” Today’s bachelor dresses based on a simple olfactory examination—if it doesn’t burn their nose hair when they sniff it, they think they can wear it. And can anyone tell me why shoe-tying is suddenly optional?
The bachelor’s I’ve dated have never drunk or even ordered a martini. They like Red Bull, coffee, or old coca-cola they’ve found under the front seat of the car. They serve ketchup in tiny packets, drink from jelly glasses, and possess a plethora of steak knives they’ve stolen from various steak houses. They don’t cook at home—as a rule—unless it’s like canned—and they own more take-out menus than underwear. Mis-matched plates, cups, 2 forks and 1 frying pan have always been considered the standard.
Today’s bachelor has furniture—if you call one lazy boy recliner and a blue tote for an end table a living room set. They sleep in apartments that look like frat houses, bedrooms that look like Oscar Madison threw up, and beds that look eerily like they’ve seen more action than Arnold, Sly, and Bruce Willis combined. They never possess salt and pepper shakers, vacuum cleaners, or, it seems, the common sense to desire these items. There is no hired maid—and I’m pretty sure they simply rely on the girl current relationship to serve in that capacity—killing two birds with one stone and all. They control the TV if you please, and even if you don’t, and always while they play Double Down on the computer. They believe we love to see them naked—anywhere and anytime—their penises flopping lazily from side-to-side while they explain the virtues of Chip Coffey and Paranormal Activities to you, and aren’t opposed to facing the world skivvy-less and in flip flops. They burp a lot; gag a lot—seemingly having a never-ending supply of hair balls caught in their throat—and fart.
Ah yes, the bachelor fart. Tell me why? Why? Why does a man need to be married or in a relationship and harassed into withholding intentional farts? I simply do not get it. And what’s with the smile that seems to accompany all of them? It’s not funny….it’s not funny at all. They lift their legs to fart, point their asses at you to fart, bend slightly at the waist and push to fart, and regale you with stories of farts. So very unCary Grant like, don’t you think?
I want to go back…if only for a day. I want the Cary Grant sort of bachelor to swoon over me and dance with me and have no intentions of sleeping with me at the end of the night. Which inevitably leads me to believe, perhaps those bachelors were gay??
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
I Bet Cary Grant Didn't Have Skid Marks
I sat watching a Cary Grant film the other day. And, as is true with most Cary Grant films, he portrayed the epitome of an eligible bachelor. He wore dark, well-tailored suits—always with a jaunty tie, drank martinis—always after work, had the most modern furniture (although a blonde coffee table and console TV might not seem modern today, by Cary Grant’s standards they were right on the money). Cary also employed an elderly, slightly curmudgeoned maid with just enough wit to keep him in line, wore two piece pajamas to bed at night, and smoked a pipe with such sex appeal that I actually got moist. Man, he had it going on, y’know? So, what I want to know is where these bachelors are now?
I’ve been dating pretty much since 2007. And although this is in no way intended to sluttify myself, I’ve dated all shapes and sizes of bachelors. I say this only to qualify myself in the matters of bachelors and their lifestyles. I’ve dated fat men, skinny men, tall men, and short men, men with college degrees and men with GED’s. I’ve dated men who played soccer nationally and men who—well—just played. I’ve dated men I’ve liked, lusted, and—currently—love. But I ain’t ever dated a bachelor who didn’t live like they were not only members but Presidents of Phi Delta Disgusting.
Unlike Cary, these bachelors dress haphazardly—preferring to choose dirty clothes from the hamper rather than a suit and tie from a hanger. They have a strange habit of sporting the newest athletic shoes—Adidas, Nike, Converse—always name brands-- and paring them with the free t-shirt they scored last week at the radio-thon that reads “WFRT—we blow the others away.” Today’s bachelor dresses based on a simple olfactory examination—if it doesn’t burn their nose hair when they sniff it, they think they can wear it. And can anyone tell me why shoe-tying is suddenly optional?
The bachelor’s I’ve dated have never drunk or even ordered a martini. They like Red Bull, coffee, or old coca-cola they’ve found under the front seat of the car. They serve ketchup in tiny packets, drink from jelly glasses, and possess a plethora of steak knives they’ve stolen from various steak houses. They don’t cook at home—as a rule—unless it’s like canned—and they own more take-out menus than underwear. Mis-matched plates, cups, 2 forks and 1 frying pan have always been considered the standard.
Today’s bachelor has furniture—if you call one lazy boy recliner and a blue tote for an end table a living room set. They sleep in apartments that look like frat houses, bedrooms that look like Oscar Madison threw up, and beds that look eerily like they’ve seen more action than Arnold, Sly, and Bruce Willis combined. They never possess salt and pepper shakers, vacuum cleaners, or, it seems, the common sense to desire these items. There is no hired maid—and I’m pretty sure they simply rely on the girl current relationship to serve in that capacity—killing two birds with one stone and all. They control the TV if you please, and even if you don’t, and always while they play Double Down on the computer. They believe we love to see them naked—anywhere and anytime—their penises flopping lazily from side-to-side while they explain the virtues of Chip Coffey and Paranormal Activities to you, and aren’t opposed to facing the world skivvy-less and in flip flops. They burp a lot; gag a lot—seemingly having a never-ending supply of hair balls caught in their throat—and fart.
Ah yes, the bachelor fart. Tell me why? Why? Why does a man need to be married or in a relationship and harassed into withholding intentional farts? I simply do not get it. And what’s with the smile that seems to accompany all of them? It’s not funny….it’s not funny at all. They lift their legs to fart, point their asses at you to fart, bend slightly at the waist and push to fart, and regale you with stories of farts. So very unCary Grant like, don’t you think?
I want to go back…if only for a day. I want the Cary Grant sort of bachelor to swoon over me and dance with me and have no intentions of sleeping with me at the end of the night. Which inevitably leads me to believe, perhaps those bachelors were gay??
I’ve been dating pretty much since 2007. And although this is in no way intended to sluttify myself, I’ve dated all shapes and sizes of bachelors. I say this only to qualify myself in the matters of bachelors and their lifestyles. I’ve dated fat men, skinny men, tall men, and short men, men with college degrees and men with GED’s. I’ve dated men who played soccer nationally and men who—well—just played. I’ve dated men I’ve liked, lusted, and—currently—love. But I ain’t ever dated a bachelor who didn’t live like they were not only members but Presidents of Phi Delta Disgusting.
Unlike Cary, these bachelors dress haphazardly—preferring to choose dirty clothes from the hamper rather than a suit and tie from a hanger. They have a strange habit of sporting the newest athletic shoes—Adidas, Nike, Converse—always name brands-- and paring them with the free t-shirt they scored last week at the radio-thon that reads “WFRT—we blow the others away.” Today’s bachelor dresses based on a simple olfactory examination—if it doesn’t burn their nose hair when they sniff it, they think they can wear it. And can anyone tell me why shoe-tying is suddenly optional?
The bachelor’s I’ve dated have never drunk or even ordered a martini. They like Red Bull, coffee, or old coca-cola they’ve found under the front seat of the car. They serve ketchup in tiny packets, drink from jelly glasses, and possess a plethora of steak knives they’ve stolen from various steak houses. They don’t cook at home—as a rule—unless it’s like canned—and they own more take-out menus than underwear. Mis-matched plates, cups, 2 forks and 1 frying pan have always been considered the standard.
Today’s bachelor has furniture—if you call one lazy boy recliner and a blue tote for an end table a living room set. They sleep in apartments that look like frat houses, bedrooms that look like Oscar Madison threw up, and beds that look eerily like they’ve seen more action than Arnold, Sly, and Bruce Willis combined. They never possess salt and pepper shakers, vacuum cleaners, or, it seems, the common sense to desire these items. There is no hired maid—and I’m pretty sure they simply rely on the girl current relationship to serve in that capacity—killing two birds with one stone and all. They control the TV if you please, and even if you don’t, and always while they play Double Down on the computer. They believe we love to see them naked—anywhere and anytime—their penises flopping lazily from side-to-side while they explain the virtues of Chip Coffey and Paranormal Activities to you, and aren’t opposed to facing the world skivvy-less and in flip flops. They burp a lot; gag a lot—seemingly having a never-ending supply of hair balls caught in their throat—and fart.
Ah yes, the bachelor fart. Tell me why? Why? Why does a man need to be married or in a relationship and harassed into withholding intentional farts? I simply do not get it. And what’s with the smile that seems to accompany all of them? It’s not funny….it’s not funny at all. They lift their legs to fart, point their asses at you to fart, bend slightly at the waist and push to fart, and regale you with stories of farts. So very unCary Grant like, don’t you think?
I want to go back…if only for a day. I want the Cary Grant sort of bachelor to swoon over me and dance with me and have no intentions of sleeping with me at the end of the night. Which inevitably leads me to believe, perhaps those bachelors were gay??
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Sweet Dream Little Man
Sometimes stories rattle around in my head as if my brain were a crazy, lit-up, bell-ringing pinball machine. Ideas, thoughts, memories, stories, like tiny pinball , shoot and scatter about the corners of my mind, pinging and ricocheting—sometimes getting lost into chasm of the unknown never to pop back out, and sometimes, like now, sticking around, always finding some way of continuing to dart around and gain momentum. Just when I think I’m going to lose the last pinball—that’s it—game over—something magical happens and the ball explodes back to life. Such is the same with this story. I can’t seem to stop the pinball and the game points, at this point, have accumulated astronomically. Therefore, I will write.
This is the story of Dylan. Born February 8 , 1990, Dylan Michael Polomcean was to be the first born boy of my younger sister Shelley and her husband Jon—except we never call him Jon, we call him Bub—or Bubby. Which, if anyone cares to ponder, I’ve come to believe is strictly a crazy Delaware County ritual. Kennedy is Tee, Wayne is Spike, Dustin is Duddy, hell, even my father-in-law—God rest his soul—Paul, was called Bill. Some things aren’t explainable (take my marriage). I just see it as one of our charming quirk. At any rate, Dylan’s birt--or so the pinging pinballs have reminded me lately--was fast. Shelley went into labor, was uncomfortable for approximately 90 minutes, and the next thing we knew the most precious tow-haired, indigo blue-eyed baby boy was handed to her, changing her life, and, by extension, all of our lives.
I guess Dylan’s first 5 years are what I recall most. I don’t know why that is and I guess it doesn’t really matter. I like to believe, however it is because it takes my mind back further away from June 25, 2007. And the further back my mind can go from that date, the safer my memories and Dylan are. He was such a blondie. The first thing that comes to mind when I think of him this fine, delicate, deliciously light-blonde hair. So soft, so light, so feathery it was almost angelic. I always wanted to touch his head first, as if some mystical innocence would pass from him to me. He was average height and average size—just right—like baby bear in the story of the Three Bears. He was perfect. The next thing you knew, however, his little 2 year old head looked up at you and you were mesmerized by the most intense, azure, mischievous blue eyes you have ever encountered. Dylan’s eyes said it all. “I know I shouldn’t, and you know I shouldn’t, but I’m going to anyway” is what they said time and time again. It’s also what they did time and time again. His mischief got him into a lot of trouble over the years, it was also one of the things I loved about him best.
He was an only child for about 1 year and 10 months, only to be greeted with what would soon be coined as his “partner in crime”—Dalton Matthew. Dylan and Dalton. I remember fondly thinking it sounded like the makings of an old western gang hailing from Tombstone. Scary part is, by the time they were 5 and 6 they probably would have fit right in with a gang. Dylan and Dalton. Mischief and Mayhem. Fric and Frac. It didn’t matter what you called them, you just knew that where there was one, the other would follow. Like a tiny shadow, Dalton was stuck to his brother. Captivated by his antics they often times seemed more like twins. Except they weren’t. Dylan was the older and you always knew he would fiercely protect his brother from any harm.
And if you thought he was a big brother to Dalton, you wouldn’t have believed his protective nature when the youngest—a girl—FINALLY—came along. Kennedy Sue. Except, as mentioned previously, we called her Tee—a name that stuck when her cousin Kiley couldn’t pronounce Kennedy—only Tee. Dylan was now the epitome of a protector. Loving, loyal, and kind, I believe Tee lived and still lives her life without any fear. After all, what was there to fear? She had Dylan.
As I sit here in my long t-shirt, bare legs tucked underneath me, one strand of curls over my left eye, the pinball memories start shooting faster, as does the beat of my heart. Fleeting memories yes, but forever embedded in my mind. Chicken chasing, Elvis Presley CD’s, summer school, his giggles at his Uncle Rob’s neverending antics, 4-wheelers, Forrest, Gary, hunting, fishing, just being young, just being alive. These years are such a blur now. I close my eyes before I write, searching for words to describe the love I feel but the marbles in the game are moving faster, bouncing off flippers, shooting out of hidden holes, whizzing, zinging. The more I try to focus and get them to slow down, the faster they shoot by. Maybe there are no words.
Dylan is now 17. Just completing his junior year of high school, he is a typical teen age boy. Adventurous, young, free, happy, and in love. It is now that the memories and pinball start to move in slow motion. Now that I don’t want them to each frame of memory is painfully slow and crystal clear. The tears fall freely now. I wasn’t there when Dylan died. Sometimes I think that’s worse. The images our imagination conjures up are sometimes far worse than reality.
We lost Dylan on June 25, 2007. Tragically, horrendously, unfairly, our little blonde haired baby boy passed away the same way he came into the world—too quickly. He left behind a mother and father who are forever changed. A brother and a sister who ache for his guidance and protection. Friends and family who, as time goes by hurt less, but still hurt and are left to wonder why. And he leaves behind an aunt. Me. Whose memories are not happy until they are words on paper. I miss you Dylan. I only hope that those last moments were filled with the same images I have—happy, free, alive.
This is the story of Dylan. Born February 8 , 1990, Dylan Michael Polomcean was to be the first born boy of my younger sister Shelley and her husband Jon—except we never call him Jon, we call him Bub—or Bubby. Which, if anyone cares to ponder, I’ve come to believe is strictly a crazy Delaware County ritual. Kennedy is Tee, Wayne is Spike, Dustin is Duddy, hell, even my father-in-law—God rest his soul—Paul, was called Bill. Some things aren’t explainable (take my marriage). I just see it as one of our charming quirk. At any rate, Dylan’s birt--or so the pinging pinballs have reminded me lately--was fast. Shelley went into labor, was uncomfortable for approximately 90 minutes, and the next thing we knew the most precious tow-haired, indigo blue-eyed baby boy was handed to her, changing her life, and, by extension, all of our lives.
I guess Dylan’s first 5 years are what I recall most. I don’t know why that is and I guess it doesn’t really matter. I like to believe, however it is because it takes my mind back further away from June 25, 2007. And the further back my mind can go from that date, the safer my memories and Dylan are. He was such a blondie. The first thing that comes to mind when I think of him this fine, delicate, deliciously light-blonde hair. So soft, so light, so feathery it was almost angelic. I always wanted to touch his head first, as if some mystical innocence would pass from him to me. He was average height and average size—just right—like baby bear in the story of the Three Bears. He was perfect. The next thing you knew, however, his little 2 year old head looked up at you and you were mesmerized by the most intense, azure, mischievous blue eyes you have ever encountered. Dylan’s eyes said it all. “I know I shouldn’t, and you know I shouldn’t, but I’m going to anyway” is what they said time and time again. It’s also what they did time and time again. His mischief got him into a lot of trouble over the years, it was also one of the things I loved about him best.
He was an only child for about 1 year and 10 months, only to be greeted with what would soon be coined as his “partner in crime”—Dalton Matthew. Dylan and Dalton. I remember fondly thinking it sounded like the makings of an old western gang hailing from Tombstone. Scary part is, by the time they were 5 and 6 they probably would have fit right in with a gang. Dylan and Dalton. Mischief and Mayhem. Fric and Frac. It didn’t matter what you called them, you just knew that where there was one, the other would follow. Like a tiny shadow, Dalton was stuck to his brother. Captivated by his antics they often times seemed more like twins. Except they weren’t. Dylan was the older and you always knew he would fiercely protect his brother from any harm.
And if you thought he was a big brother to Dalton, you wouldn’t have believed his protective nature when the youngest—a girl—FINALLY—came along. Kennedy Sue. Except, as mentioned previously, we called her Tee—a name that stuck when her cousin Kiley couldn’t pronounce Kennedy—only Tee. Dylan was now the epitome of a protector. Loving, loyal, and kind, I believe Tee lived and still lives her life without any fear. After all, what was there to fear? She had Dylan.
As I sit here in my long t-shirt, bare legs tucked underneath me, one strand of curls over my left eye, the pinball memories start shooting faster, as does the beat of my heart. Fleeting memories yes, but forever embedded in my mind. Chicken chasing, Elvis Presley CD’s, summer school, his giggles at his Uncle Rob’s neverending antics, 4-wheelers, Forrest, Gary, hunting, fishing, just being young, just being alive. These years are such a blur now. I close my eyes before I write, searching for words to describe the love I feel but the marbles in the game are moving faster, bouncing off flippers, shooting out of hidden holes, whizzing, zinging. The more I try to focus and get them to slow down, the faster they shoot by. Maybe there are no words.
Dylan is now 17. Just completing his junior year of high school, he is a typical teen age boy. Adventurous, young, free, happy, and in love. It is now that the memories and pinball start to move in slow motion. Now that I don’t want them to each frame of memory is painfully slow and crystal clear. The tears fall freely now. I wasn’t there when Dylan died. Sometimes I think that’s worse. The images our imagination conjures up are sometimes far worse than reality.
We lost Dylan on June 25, 2007. Tragically, horrendously, unfairly, our little blonde haired baby boy passed away the same way he came into the world—too quickly. He left behind a mother and father who are forever changed. A brother and a sister who ache for his guidance and protection. Friends and family who, as time goes by hurt less, but still hurt and are left to wonder why. And he leaves behind an aunt. Me. Whose memories are not happy until they are words on paper. I miss you Dylan. I only hope that those last moments were filled with the same images I have—happy, free, alive.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
There Is One For Me
There is one for me.
There is one man out there for me. He’s quietly waiting, working, playing, sleeping, and unaware of me and the love that is to be, but he’s there, nonetheless.
He’s the one who I can share it all with--the hopes, the dreams, and the craziness.
He’s the one who will listen without judgment to all my secrets and, turn, be willing to tell me his.
He is the one who is not afraid to shed a tear when our family pet tragically passes and equally unafraid to chase me to the bedroom and toss me on the bed when he feels playful.
He is the one who hears the thoughts I never speak. He senses my pain, my happiness, and my love for him simply because he can.
He looks at me and sees a lost girl who needs her hand to be held when others see a needy, opinionated bitch. He knows about my past yet asks of me only the present and our future.
He believes I make him whole. He believes in my stories. He believes in me.
He is a happy, fun-loving, loving, giving human being who wakes each day striving to be happier, more fun-loving, and increasingly loving and giving because of me.
He adores his family and takes mine in as his own. He shares those things that are sacred to him and makes me unafraid to share mine as well.
He dances with me in the moonlight in the kitchen in the middle of the night when we can’t sleep and simply smiles when I ask for the one hundredth time if he took the trash out.
When my heart whispers “I need you,” he hears it as a scream from across a crowded room and makes his way to me.
I am, along with his family, a priority. He may not be able to, but will always at least desire to be with me before work.
He will look at me in the morning, hair a mess, bare-faced, wrinkled pajamas and terrible morning breath and see beauty only.
He will notice others—prettier, more successful, younger—but will only smile as he now understands that prettier, more successful and younger is not me—and what he wants most is me.
There is one for me.
There is one man out there for me. He’s quietly waiting, working, playing, sleeping, and unaware of me and the love that is to be, but he’s there, nonetheless.
He’s the one who I can share it all with--the hopes, the dreams, and the craziness.
He’s the one who will listen without judgment to all my secrets and, turn, be willing to tell me his.
He is the one who is not afraid to shed a tear when our family pet tragically passes and equally unafraid to chase me to the bedroom and toss me on the bed when he feels playful.
He is the one who hears the thoughts I never speak. He senses my pain, my happiness, and my love for him simply because he can.
He looks at me and sees a lost girl who needs her hand to be held when others see a needy, opinionated bitch. He knows about my past yet asks of me only the present and our future.
He believes I make him whole. He believes in my stories. He believes in me.
He is a happy, fun-loving, loving, giving human being who wakes each day striving to be happier, more fun-loving, and increasingly loving and giving because of me.
He adores his family and takes mine in as his own. He shares those things that are sacred to him and makes me unafraid to share mine as well.
He dances with me in the moonlight in the kitchen in the middle of the night when we can’t sleep and simply smiles when I ask for the one hundredth time if he took the trash out.
When my heart whispers “I need you,” he hears it as a scream from across a crowded room and makes his way to me.
I am, along with his family, a priority. He may not be able to, but will always at least desire to be with me before work.
He will look at me in the morning, hair a mess, bare-faced, wrinkled pajamas and terrible morning breath and see beauty only.
He will notice others—prettier, more successful, younger—but will only smile as he now understands that prettier, more successful and younger is not me—and what he wants most is me.
There is one for me.
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