Where the fork am I?

Perhaps the winter weather is getting me down more than it usually does - I haven't been able to get my bike out for almost two weeks - but I find myself in a career quandary, besides being pissed off that I turned 60 last month.

My freelance work has been thin on the ground for the past two months, and to make matters worse, my main source of revenue may go away in a month or two. This is because the manager (let's call her Sheila, she's from Australia) who hired me, likes me, and throws as much work at me as possible (around 20-25 hours per week) will resign soon.

Sheila is leaving as the new Marketing SVP has decided that he doesn't like remote staff, and has demanded all remote marketing management to move to the Texas headquarters or leave. She likes her Georgia home and her husband has a good business going. However, the person who currently works with Sheila will remain as she's already working at corporate HQ, and she really needs me as she can't write newsletters and can't manage her time, either. Sheila has promised to point this out to management upon departure. So we'll see.

I've considered looking for a full-time job, but I would have to move to a big city and I don't want to do that. Alas, the single employer that actually displayed interest in me last month was located in - you guessed it - Cincinnati. So I've begun searching for new sources of freelance, although 100% of my previous two years' work has been provided by people I used to work with.

My spare time hasn't gone to waste, especially as my aunt contracted a particularly bad case of the flu in early December. She required three weeks of feeding, doctoring, monitoring, and several chauffered visits to doctors, ERs and urgent care facilities.

If anyone is wondering about my passion for the flaky cyclist Cincinnati*, I shut him down permanently about a month ago. After another of his invitations, followed by much anticipatory chat until 3-4 days before the date, I realized that this depressing invite/chat/plan/disappear cycle would never change.

I freely admit I cut him tons of slack all last year, as all I wanted was an evening of fetish-driven passion - with or without sex. It's such an adventure, even if just happens once. And for months, I really thought he would eventually deliver. Men tend to like sex and so do I, although the chemistry factor is mandatory and frustratingly rare. But poor Cincinnati kept overthinking it, would become overwhelmed with performance anxiety, and make a fake excuse at the last minute.

The last spin cycle began in early December. He suggested we get together the week after Christmas as he'd be back home from his annual family visit, and would have plenty of PTO left. I agreed, even though I was careful not to get too excited about it. I doubted he'd keep his word. The usual weeks of anticipatory chat followed, and then his messages cooled. 

After asking him via Instagram (our only shared social media) if he'd like to do something New Year's Eve, followed by two days of his silence, I messaged him for the last time.

"Not to worry. I've made other plans."

He responded in a few hours. "Enjoy yourself and be careful."

After that, I ghosted him. I didn't think about it; I just did it. I never even signed into Instagram again, which he'll notice, as we both shared some favorite Instagrammers and always left comments.

It can take a long time to realize that a relationship is hopeless, but once the coin drops, it's like getting a bad tooth removed. One goes from serious to practically zero pain in days.

I rarely think about him, and when I do, I feel sorry for him. He'll never know what erotic adventures he missed out on, and I doubt he'll meet another woman who shares his retro lingerie fetish. 

I've made no real effort to replace Cincinnati except to join the local cycling club, but the weather has made group rides pretty much impossible. I decided to peek at match.com a couple of weeks ago to see if there were any local talent, but there isn't. The locals mostly look like extras from Moonshiners, or they're very, very religious.

(Frank Sinatra has just begun to sing "That's Life" on my Bose Soundtouch/Amazon Music app.)

But not all is bad here. I still love the scenery and I get on well with my aunt. I think I can fix my income problems. And I tried out the local Orangetheory fitness place a few weeks ago, and I liked it very much. If I can improve my finances, I'll be going more often.

* See The Usual Suspects.

Home at last

After a second unplanned week in Texas, I drove the entire 804 miles back to Tennessee almost non-stop. Part of this was because I brought along an elderly, unhappy cat that my aunt had given me permission to bring with me.

Poor Buddy was dumped by his family after 11 years. They claimed he had become aggressive, which was quickly exposed as a bald-faced lie. Poor Buddy is scared of all other cats, including the occasional kitten who wants to play with him.

Thankfully, Buddy has already taken to his new home. I had feared he would hide under the bed for days, but he seems genuinely pleased to discover that he really, really is the only cat under this roof.

I'm very happy to be back. My aunt's happy, my clients have given me additional work, and the weather here is beautiful.

Where art thou, Obscure Object of Desire?

Long-term followers of this drivel may remember my longish affair some years ago, conducted with the tall banker I nicknamed Obscure Object of Desire* - mainly as we managed so few get-togethers. Although Cincinnati* has put him into second place in that respect, I guess.

Since he isn't a social media user, all I can see online is that OOD is getting greyer and still sings in the choir at a massive Methodist church up the road from me.

He seems to have patched up the marriage after we were all busted after my laptop theft, but I sometimes wonder how his domestic life turned out. Has he decided to settle for the sexless marriage like most people do? He's well into his 60s now, but aging much faster than is necessary as he has no interest in fitness.

Last night he even appeared in a dream of mine, after years of not appearing.

Like other dreams, it was mixed up as ever. I was in a cafe in NYC, sitting by the window and drinking coffee. OOD walks by and spots me. Here's the funny bit: I'm dressed like Elizabeth Taylor in BUtterfield 8, when she's bar-hopping in the black dress and pearls.

I'm made up (not with those Liz Taylor megabrows, thankfully) and I've just had my hair done. It's redder than it is in real life, though.

Initially OOD stares through the glass at me, then hurries off as if he's seen a ghost. I shrug and stay put. But two minutes later he is inside the cafe and sitting across from me.

He asks if I still have a motorcycle, still live in my crumbly bungalow. He seems to be shaking a bit, as if he has benign essential tremors. I tell him I've moved up north, sold the house and motorcycle and enjoying my freelance way of life. I don't show much emotion; I'm over him, as I am in real life. 

He says he has to go. But his parting remark: "I should have married you. You understood me."

* See The Usual Suspects.

Butterfield 8 and eggnog latte

Rather than ramble on pathetically about Cincinnati*, as I've back-burned him for the time being, I thought I would look at other things going on. I'm back in Texas now as I'm picking up more stuff, but headed back to Tennessee in a few days.

Last night I watched the 1960 movie BUtterfield 8 on Netflix. While I thought the ending was as hackneyed as they come - have you noticed how bad women always get killed in movies, even now? - I thought some of the scenes between Elizabeth Taylor and Laurence Harvey were pretty hot, and she did win an Oscar for the role she always claimed to hate. And although her figure might not pass muster with millennials now, I'd be overjoyed if I could wear a slip the way Liz did in the movie. If nothing else, you'll be amused how difficult it was to track down your romantic interests in 1960 without the help of the internet.

The movie's ethical double standard was to be expected. Elizabeth/Gloria is pegged a slut as she acts like a man where sex is concerned, while her lovers - married or not - never get any bad press from their own sleeping around. (I'm not sure this has really changed much since 1960.)

I couldn't decide what I thought about Laurence Harvey in this role. I liked him so much in Room at the Top and The Manchurian Candidate that I cut him way too much slack in other films. He was flat-out awful in A Walk On The Wild Side, although the only redeeming value of that movie were the Saul Bass opening credits.

The best news of the day? Eggnog latte is back at Starbucks, although since Tennessee has Peets Coffee - which is twice as good - I don't frequent Starbucks that much any more.

* See The Usual Suspects.

The Volunteer State expands

Last Saturday I packed up my truck, picked up an aunt, and drove to Tennessee. 

I wasn't able to bring my cat Esteban although my Tennessee Aunt had okayed this, as I didn't want to fit an aunt and a cat in the same trip, but Rachel has offered to bring him up. I think she'd enjoy a visit here anyway. 

I'm very much looking forward to checking out cycling groups and similar here. Chattanooga is a cool town, right down to its own Peet's coffee shop, which is 10 times better coffee than Starbucks. 

Early Friday morning, my Instagram pinged. Turns out it was Cincinnati* sending me a message, and since my account is now private, he had to ask me to accept the message. Of course I did. Turns out he wants to talk about recent events. 

I waited a few days before answering. While I would like this discussion as well, I think my readers will agree that it would be naive to make it easy for him. Eventually I wrote back and said that wouldn't visit him, but I would consider his visiting me here in Tennessee. 

I just sent that email a few minutes ago. Let's see what he says.

* See The Usual Suspects.