Rabbis, Oprah and Dating

A well-meaning friend emailed a link to a page on Oprah.com, titled "Where to Find a Nice Guy." No, she wasn't suggesting I switch teams. Rather, she seemed to think I could "reverse-engineer" Rabbi Shmuley's advice to find where women might be looking for nice guys.

All due respect to the good Rabbi, he needs to find his way out of the nineteenth century.

His first suggestion is to look in houses of worship, where one will find "men with a spiritual disposition." Maybe. One also may find religious zealots, child molesters building their cred, and con artists looking for an easy mark (which also would be about building cred, come to that). In short, dear Rabbi, the scum of the earth now go to church not to pray, but to prey. I would be doubly cautious about anyone I met in a house of worship. Scepticism? Perhaps, though I would think it more on the path of prudence.

Next Rabbi Shmuley suggests bookstores, where "you'll find men who are intelligent." Obviously, the Rabbi hasn't been to a Borders lately, and seen the sort of books dominating the shelves. Rabbi, no one who reads the bovine droppings that constitute the vast majority of offerings from the American publishing industry can be considered intelligent. For every No Country for Old Men, or The Brief History of the Dead, there are a dozen dozen bodice-rippers or potboilers. Which do you suppose fly off the shelves?

On that same theme, he suggests libraries: "quiet, contemplative settings that often attract intellectual guys." Not to mention the homeless, who haunt public libraries as refuge from the weather. Now, lest anyone claim I am biased against those down on their luck, I am merely stating the obvious: libraries are no longer the ivory towers they once were.

I have a bit of ambivalence over Rabbi's advice to look to the military. I hold our armed forces in highest regard, but experience—first- and second-hand—proves today's Army attracts many undesirables. Does the name Timothy McVeigh ring any bells? We are fortunate that the wackos of any stripe generally are weeded out in the first two or three years of service, though a few slip through and make the Army a career. So yes, Rabbi, these are "men [and women] with a sense of mission." Just what that mission might be is what must concern us.

I had to laugh at the advice to look to charity events for "men with a social conscience." I have four words for you, Rabbi: court ordered community service.

Likewise, seeking a soul mate on dates set up by friends brought a chuckle. Whilst my friends might be "discerning in who they'll introduce," most of my friends have heard all my tales of blind date disasters—and thus steer well clear of setting me up.

Rabbi Shmuley also suggests the workplace and weddings as potential mate-finding zones. Even if I didn't work in my very own little study, at home, I don't believe in dipping my pen in the company ink. And weddings? Almost everyone I know is married, and has children. Perhaps when the children are ready to marry...

Rabbi, I must say this: at least you try to amplify your spot-on core advice ("Shmuleyism"): "A good [mate], while not easy to find, is possible as long as you look in the right places, and the right places mean venues that foster purpose, compassion, hard work and spiritual commitment." But Rabbi, you gotta get out in the world more.

When It Rains...

Gregory was late returning home last night. Very late. About half two this morning, I was awakened by doorbell ringing and fist pounding. I was rather in a haze, but lucid enough to realise his car was not parked in the driveway.

The Caddy had died, and he waited several hours for AAA to send a tow. Then he left both his house keys and the garage door remote in the bloody car.

Initial diagnosis: blown radiator, blown head gasket. Long story shortened, it seems we are going to be car shopping this weekend. And I'm going to be cashing out at least one more CD—this one well before it matures.

What the hell, I don't need to retire to Provence or Tuscany...

Turning Point

I have reached one of those proverbial forks in the road. The thing is, at this junction there are several choices, and each of those leads to several more.

For instance, one choice presented me is the offer of a job in my chosen field, naval architecture. The pay isn't bad, but it isn't worth what I would bring to the position. To be fair, I haven't practised in several years and thus have no recent credentials. I appreciate their need to see evidence of my abilities, and have been assured performance is recognised and rewarded quickly in this firm. Still, my CV should stand on its own merit.

Suppose I do accept this position. Well, first I'd have to move—across the country. Can I do that to my son, just leave him here? Not that he'd be out in the street: my mum has said he can live with her until he goes to Charlottesville. But he yet feels his mother has turned against him. Would he not feel I, too, have abandoned him? He needed more than a year to come out of his shell after being rudely tossed out on his arse. I just don't see how I can risk putting him through that again.

Down another road, I accept a somewhat less lucrative position with a DoD prime contractor. This one isn't in my chosen field, but is related, and at the very least I wouldn't have to relocate. I could even ride public transit to work, saving both my car and sanity. The problem is, I promised myself I never again would work as a cog in the war machine.

Yet another path is to take a very low paying (by my standards) job with one of the local businesses. A year or so past, this would not have been feasible. Even now it would mean considerable adjustment. While it is true many of those adjustments already have been made, given my circumstances, this would mean accepting as permanent what I have promised both Gregory and myself would be only temporary.

Another somewhat low-paying and uncertain path recently suggested was that I apply to the local school system as a substitute teacher. I suppose, yes, this is a possibility. At very best, though, it would be a stop-gap measure. I am not a licensed teacher, nor do I wish to be, and this seems to be the goal of many substitutes. Or so I have been told by those who should know.

Of course, I could continue on the same path, pursuing a career in writing. I could even go back to editing, assuming I could find work. There are too many very good—and far too many very poor—free lance editors looking for too little work, so I couldn't depend upon that to sustain us.

What has predicated this look down the road? Money. Filthy lucre. I don't want to label the situation crisis, as it is miles and miles from that point. Still, I am haemorrhaging cash. Two weeks ago, I had a CD mature and, rather than roll it over at current anaemic interest, I cashed out. Besides, I was confident those funds would sustain Gregory and me through this year.

And then I got hit with the semi-annual real estate tax bill. I knew it was coming, of course. I also knew it would be outrageous, given the current market. And I know it comes due again in December. What I did not factor in was how long I would be going without income. Nor did I consider the bleak economic outlook for the next six months—or more.

I'm not destitute, not by a long way. But if I don't follow a new road, the one I'm on surely will lead to a number of most unhappy changes in lifestyle and future. Still, none of my apparent choices seem viable. So I'll keep looking for that hidden path, the one barely noticable and perhaps overgrown from disuse. And maybe I'll take a short detour down one of the less attractive options. One must do what one must do, after all.

Home Again

I'll not say "safe and sound," as he's dangerously close to a good arse-kicking, but Gregory is home again.

He turned up last night about ten o'clock, after ringing home about half past seven. I must say, he had utterly no concept of the drama he had initiated, but he was most apologetic. And now that I know he's safe, I have the luxury of getting quite angry with him. To his good fortune, he has gone to class and so won't be here to bear the brunt of my wrath. And by time he gets home this evening, I'll have calmed considerably.

So, here's what happened to my wayward son...

It seems Tuesday was just like any other day. He went to his morning class, ate lunch, then went to his afternoon class. As he was leaving for the day, he ran into a friend in the car park. Said friend invited Gregory to his place, quite a ways out in the country. Gregory went.

At that point details get thin, and a bit hazy. I'm not at all certain I want to know what went on--ignorance is bliss, after all--but it seems time got away from them, and Gregory decided to stay the night. Now, as to why he blew off classes yesterday, apparently he didn't wake until noon. I still haven't had a good answer as to why he never rang me until prodded by a third party, though he did mumble something about not having a good cellular signal where he was. Never mind that the friend had a land line, and it was via that he rang me.

As for me, I called in lots of favours yesterday. For instance, a friend at the FBI got Gregory's cellular usage details for me, and I rang up the numbers he called most. (Brief aside: I believe it was one of those I spoke with who urged him to 'phone home.) But mostly, I worried. Paced. Drove to his college and cruised the car park looking for his car. Ate lots of Maalox...

But he's safe, has promised always to ring me when plans change, and has been properly contrite. So all's right with the world again, or at the least this little corner of it.

I still may kick his arse, though.

Missing

That's my son, Gregory. He's missing.

Gregory left home yesterday morning at 9:55, on his way to class. I asked whether he had funds for lunch, petrol, whatever he needed. He nodded and said, "See ya." Then he turned and walked out the door.

The last words I said--to the back of his head--were, "Be careful out there." Same as every morning.

When he didn't come home for supper, or ring to say he'd be late, I was annoyed. When he hadn't come home by the time I went to bed, I was pissed off. When I woke at 4:15 and he still hadn't come home, I began to worry.

It's now approaching 11:00, and Gregory has neither been seen nor heard from. This is entirely out of character for him. He calls when he's going to be late for supper. He lets me know days ahead of time when he has plans for an evening.

I have had the unpleasant task of informing his mother. I've spoken with her three times this morning, more than in the past year otherwise. As expected, this is somehow my fault.

I've spoken with campus security at his college: He was not in class this morning. They will check his afternoon class and let me know if he attends that one. That's about all they can offer.

I've spoken with local LEO's about this. The deputy was very sympathetic, and offered to do all he could--short of listing Gregory as missing. He would have done that, had I so desired, but considering the ramifications I opted to wait until this evening. At the least I know Gregory is not in hospital, jail, or the local psych facility. I'd almost rather he was. It's the not knowing that scares the hell out of me. My mind is running riot with all the what-ifs.

And so I write this post. Catharsis by blog, and in vain: I'm still scared to death. For the first time in my adult life, I don't know which way to turn, or what the bloody hell to do.

Tax Time

I met with my accountant today, just long enough to sign my tax forms and write four cheques. Four? Yeah: One to the feds, one to the state, another to the feds (quarterly estimated), and the last to my accountant.

And now I am officially broke. Well, to be honest, not quite. I do have $1548.51 in the bank, and a few hundred in my wallet, but that just-short-of two grand is going to have to cover all living expenses for both Gregory and me until about the end of May. Unless, of course, one or more of the many bastards who owe me, (gentle hint) freakin' pay me.

I do have a CD coming due on or about 25 May, so I won't be out in the street. But the time has come to hit the employment office, and pray that someone, somewhere in my vicinity has an opening for a 54 year old with an MSME from Cal, but no recent experience. Or an editor with lots of recent experience, but no relevant degree. Or... hell, I'll do just about anything. I just don't want to end up flipping burgers at Mickey D's.

WTF?!

In a world gone nucking futs, this takes the Nucking Futs Prize: I just read that Miley Cyrus, daughter of one-hit wonder Billy Ray, star of 'tween crapola and middle school fantasies, is writing an autobiography.

This spoilt brat is 16. What can she possibly have to say that would warrant more than a short interview in Tiger Beat? (Is Tiger Beat still published, btw, or am I really showing my age?) And does anyone believe this uneducated, semi-literate "star" will, in fact, write any of it?

This is the vast cultural wasteland that the once-noble publishing business has become. As they pander to the lowest common denominator in search of profit, literature dies.