Tricked on Treats

Having just bought my house on August 31, I wasn't sure what to expect for my first Halloween in the new 'hood.

So far, it's been pretty quiet at my little bungalow, second to last house on the dead-end street. There are a couple kids I see frequently, but the noise they produce is usually limited to the sound of their bouncing basketball.

When I walk the dogs in the morning I see evidence of children nearby in the form of a school bus looping through the streets. Faced with the evidence (school bus, young basketball players), I figured I'd better be prepared for Trick or Treat.

The whole Halloween Trick or Treat thing amuses me. You know, the magic of that one night of the year when people suddenly encourage their kids to ask strangers for treats, after preaching "stranger danger" the prior 364 days. But I digress.

Afraid of being  labeled "THAT HOUSE" ... you know, the one with the cranky old lady who gives out crappy candy (like NECCO Wafers ... what is the deal with those?) ... or worse, no candy ... I  bought candy to distribute to the hordes of begging stranger children who would be banging on the door.

And I went big, with name brand candy that cost an arm,  a leg, and half the grocery budget. Seriously, it was more than $25 for stupid candy that is now the reason I'll be dining on 25-cent ramen daily for the next week. Because you know ... I didn't want the begging strangers to think I was cheap.

On Halloween, I rushed home from work,  fed the dogs, then took the one willing dog for a walk while the other dog lazed in the house. The largest plastic bowl was already filled to the brim, prepared the night before. Continuing the candy trend started at work with Candy Corn, Caramel Cremes and Twizzlers, it was candy for supper -- several tiny Milky Way and Snickers bars.

To keep the dogs from getting too stressed during the upcoming commotion, Moose was attired in the Thunder Shirt and Pee Wee's Playhouse was running in the DVD player to distract them (still haven't bothered to order cable). The candy bowl was strategically located near the door. The deck /driveway light shone in all its brilliance and glory.

Tonight, there would be no fussing with the endless stream of moving boxes to unpack (and still more in storage). It was game time. I was focused. I was ready. I  was watching the clock.

The anticipation mounted. What would be the most popular costume? How many kids would show up? Would I run out of candy and have to hand out granola bars, apple sauce cups, and soy nuts in a panic?

It was thirty minutes before the first kid arrived ... a nondescript kid in a nondescript dark outfit of some sort, accompanied by a woman with a flashlight. I sprinted out to the deck clutching my gigantic bowl. That kid got six candies. If I didn't need that pricey Tupperware vessel, I might have handed the whole thing to him and called it a night.

It was another hour before the second kid arrived, a princess in a vibrant red, waist length wig. I noticed her when she was at the big house opposite mine. A guy who lives there talked with the adult accompanying her, put something in the  girl's candy-collecting plastic pumpkin, then got into a car and left. Just drove away while the princess, another younger kid in a wagon, and the adult male he seemed to know stood in front of his house.

Then the red-wigged princess darted across the street to my house, where she received a handful of candy before being scolded by the responsible adult, first for running across the street alone, and then for taking her wig off when she returned to the wagon. Then the adult dumps the candy into a sack in the wagon and tells the kid, "It's ALL mine."

By now, I'm bored out of my mind with the Halloween waiting game, so I'm standing in my doorway watching the street and hoping for more kids, because there is still roughly 100 pounds of candy I don't even like in that bowl. This was due to my brilliantly strategic move of buying high quantity bags of candy I wouldn't devour in advance. It seemed smart at the time.

As I'm staring out the door,  big daddy, still across the street, walks up the neighbor's driveway to the trash cans. I figure he's probably putting trash in the barrel. After too long of him standing there facing the house and barrels, I realize he's peeing, confirmed when he does the little hoppy step and hikes his pants back into place.  Meanwhile, the princess and the younger kid in the wagon are still on the sidewalk. In the dark. Alone. He returns to the kids and fumbles around in the wagon some more before they all walk up the street.

And that was it. No more kids. 14,000 pieces of candy and blow pops left in a bowl. Maybe it can be a head start on Christmas shopping.

Hand Surgery

I work in an 87,000 square foot store. There are between 75 and 100 mannequins under my area of control. The first week of the month, in addition to a lengthy list of projects, as many as 75 mannequins are scheduled to change outfits. That is another tale for another day.

If they are doing their jobs correctly as silent sales representatives, the mannequins inspire customers to spend money. Sometimes mannequins inspire a customer to want the clothes literally from the dummy’s back, because the items on the rack are not the customer’s size.

Some customers attempt to remove clothing from mannequins themselves, but ideally, they find an associate for help. Ideally, I will be in the store, not on a ladder eight feet in the air, and can quickly remove the item for the customer and redress the mannequin.

But retail is not always an ideal place.

Often, a nervous associate will attempt to dismember the form, which gets tricky. I know the feeling, because for a year I was a floor associate afraid to touch the mannequins, but sometimes required to do so.

For one thing, across the board, they’re breakable. For another, they’re all different -- some arms attach with magnets and pull off, others are a knob/slot configuration. Some lift up, others lift out. Some twist off at the torso. At least one is bound by the arms to a fixture with security tags to keep it from toppling over. Don’t even get me going on the legs and pant and shoe removal. The newer mannequins are glossy and slippery.

Things happen with the mannequins. Once, an unattended child grabbed a mannequin’s hand, and it came off. He threw it on the floor and screamed. And screamed. And screamed some more. His adults did not reprimand him for touching the mannequin.

The most common mishap occurs during dressing when an arm slides through a sleeve to the floor, fingers first. Like the time I changed a brand new mannequin into the second outfit of her brief time with us. Her slick, graceful arm slid through the Star Wars pajama sleeve and crashed straight into the tile floor. Oops. The Force was with me. The only damage was cracked finish on two fingers.

Recently, a coworker was removing a shirt from a mannequin for a customer. As sometimes happens, the customer decided to “help.” This is rarely a good thing. Trust us, we know what we are doing, or will act like we do. And you’ll feel better if we break something instead of it being you.

When customers “help” things can be thrown off balance. Some one (like me) or some thing (like store property) gets hurt. In this instance, it was a misses mannequin arm that suffered the injury when the customer attempted to assist the associate. The arm fell. Fingers were severed. The mannequin’s, not the associates.

The good-hearted associate searched for glue to repair the damage so she wouldn’t have to tell me about it. Maybe she’s afraid of me. Graced with resting bitch face, even when I’m not mad and I’m just thinking or stressing out over 10,000 things that need to be done, I have the appearance of intensity or something less than bliss.

Anyway. No matter how many times we buy Krazy Glue, nobody ever knows where it is. Luckily, this particular week, the only known bottle of magical adhesive had been given to me a few days earlier and was safe in my custody. So safe, my co-worker couldn’t find it. When she told me what happened, she was as apologetic as if my fingers were broken instead of the mannequin’s.

The day after the incident, the arm, hand, and two detached fingers were laid across my desk. The recently acquired glue was nearby. I examined the manufactured limb. Hollowed out fingers. Hollowed out hand. Something like newspaper inside the opening where one finger snapped off. Inspiration struck.

 A clean napkin was on the shared desk I call home base, which I could tear and twist around a paper clip and insert into the hand and finger for reinforcement. I imagined the wire pin to be like real surgery on a real finger, which thankfully, I’ve never had.

The hardest part of the whole operation was finding a paper clip, because we use binder clips. I finally found one, cut off a piece, and wrapped it in a piece of the napkin. After checking the fit and trimming off some of the napkin, I separated the finger and hand a bit, brushed on some glue, and pressed them together for 30 seconds as noted in the directions, which yes, I do read. It worked, so I did it again to attach the second finger.

The hand, however, had lost three fingers, so feeling all Phryne Fisher from Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries (my current Netflix obsession), I hunted for the third digit. It was on a sales fixture near the one where the temporarily one-armed mannequin resided.

There are times it pays to have been a broke-ass kid doing art projects on a deadline. In 20 minutes I developed a plan, found materials, located the missing finger, and restored all three fingers to the mannequin hand. It may not have needed the reinforcement of the pin and paper, but in my mind it helped.

The Dana Buchman secondary strikepoint mannequin now has three of the strongest fake fingers in the place. There are cracks along the break line, and someday, maybe I’ll have time to touch up the paint with one of the dozens of mannequin touch up kits in storage.

It was the first time I’d had a feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment at work in weeks. Possibly months, but I try not to dwell on it because it’s too depressing. Maybe I should go into business as a low-budget, traveling mannequin hand surgeon.

Dressed

The concept of “dressed” can fall into a broad range. Don’t believe me? Visit Walmart almost any time and you’ll see it all -- from threadbare pajamas to worn jeans and stained sweatshirts to fancy wedding guest attire and ball gowns. Check out People of Walmart (www.peopleofwalmart.com) for a real fashion show, although I bet many of the ensembles presented on the site were captured as people dashed in for snacks en route to a costume party.

I’ve known people who considered “dressed” to mean they had on one garment, say a pair of boxer shorts, making them not technically completely naked, and therefore “clothed.” Others I’ve known (my late grandmother comes to mind) wouldn’t consider themselves dressed unless donned head to toe in a coordinated, fully accessorized outfit and would never consider leaving the house in anything less.

My own concept of “dressed” falls into multiple niches, with very rational (to me, anyway) reasons to my potentially neurotic methodology.

In my former office life, work wardrobe items were subdivided into categories including but not limited to business portrait, client meeting, and all-day-in-the-office-while-clients-are-closed-for-holiday outfits. I didn’t want to be spotted in the office by a client looking like I thought it was clean out the garage day, and I generally tried to dress as if our biggest client would arrive at the office unannounced, which had, on occasion, really happened. For me, it was an image thing.

There are ensembles for “going out,” separated by level of casualness based on the target establishment, and different, fancier (often vintage) clothes for benefits and galas. I don’t like wearing conservative work clothes or plain pumps out to a club, so immediate after-work plans require attire be stepped up or down accordingly to match the plans. Or a quick dash home to change.

It probably sounds a little complicated. Maybe, but it works for me. And like I said, there are reasons. The whole office wardrobe thing was inspired by an early career mishap involving an ad campaign and critical bit of information that never trickled down to me, primarily that the three person IRA department of which I was a member would be featured in a newspaper ad.

The day of the photo shoot of which I was woefully uninformed, instead of my usual mostly-conservative banker suit, I arrived at work in a casual skirt, oversized sweater, and scarf. The art director arrived, declared my scarf made me look like a bank robber, and made me remove it, eliminating the element that tied the outfit together. Not a great fashion day for me. Worse, was the four month stretch where the three-quarter page ad featuring the three of us was plastered all over the paper, with me looking like a slouch.

Nowadays, a retail work environment has me moving between office, sales floor, and dusty stockroom all day long, with multiple trips up ladders. Current work clothing is a mind-numbing array of monotonous dust colored, androgynous khakis and neutral sweaters, peppered with the occasional pair of tweedy, dust camouflaging dress pants. It’s practical. It’s hideous. I avoid going anywhere directly from work and hope I don’t see anybody I know in the store. It’s a self-image thing.

If I’m sick and at home for any duration, it’s generally pajamas all day. If I’m sick and you show up at my house unannounced, I’m probably going to be pissed because, even if they are cute, I don’t care to entertain in my pajamas.

Again, there was a situation. It was during a stretch of unemployment, while married to a man who wanted a stay-at-home wife (which it turned out I wasn’t good at). It was one in the afternoon, and I lounged around in baggy red plaid flannel PJ bottoms and a red waffle-weave thermal top with no undergarments because these were, as the husband of the time called them, my “sleeping clothes.” I wasn’t going out and I didn’t expect anyone, so it seemed fine.

That was the day the president of the photography club of which I was treasurer stopped by on his lunch hour to deliver dues another member had given him. I nearly died of embarrassment when I made the mistake of answering the door. Not a proud fashion moment. It inspired the change in philosophy concerning “at home wear.”

Housebound with a cold, the concept of “dressed” is based on how awful I feel. One recent day, while in bed literally all day, was definitely a pajama day. Beside never feeling human again, my other big fear was that a friend would stop by with soup or something equally thoughtful and I’d die of mortification coming downstairs all pale and sickly, swathed in fleece PJs and the purple fluffy robe that makes me feel like Barney the dinosaur.

Another day with the same cold, still feeling lousy but somewhat less so, “dressed” meant changing from snowflake printed fleece pajama bottoms into solid black fleece athletic pants, which are essentially exactly the same, except I know that one came from the sleepwear department and the other from active wear. The cotton tee shirt knit pajama top was exchanged for a printed tee shirt knit “shirt,” topped with a fleece vee neck, and I was “dressed.” Sort of. I mean, I wouldn’t actually leave the house like this. That would require a change into “ohmigod, my luck I’ll run into someone I know, I better look like I at least tried” jeans, sweater, and makeup. And wouldn’t you know it, while I was the only one home, campaign workers came ringing the doorbell which I answered, dressed like a scrub in my fleece “outfit.”

Sneak Attack

I fall pray to the sneak attack. I once had office coworkers who discovered I can be a little jumpy. They would approach my cubicle as silently as ninjas when I was thinking, writing, and/or had my earbuds installed blasting music. All they had to do was utter a word or make a sound and I would literally jump up from my seat. Sometimes it happened in the kitchen as I was engrossed in making a pot of coffee. It seemed like a game to them, but it was so easy it probably wasn’t even even fun for them once the novelty wore off.

Lately, it’s happened with customers. I’ll be walking through the store, focused on what I just discovered needs doing but can’t write on the notepad in my hand because for the fifth time that day I’ve mislaid my pen. As I’m rushing through the store, silently mouthing “Clearance signs, Brand X accessory rails, holiday tower crowns,” a customer appears in my path asking where the socks are located. Startled, I jump. Then they feel bad for startling me. I direct them to the appropriate sock area, already having forgotten what I was retrieving from the stockroom.

At least once a year, I succumb to the sneak attack of a cold, flu, or some other annoying and disgusting ailment. It usually happens out of the blue around a major holiday or scheduled vacation day. I don’t even have to know anybody who is ill. I’ll be minding my own business, busily working on the last workday before said holiday or day off, and suddenly receive an unwelcome visit by a runny nose, sneezing, and general feeling of crappiness. 

On a regular work day I could use some of the many hours of accumulated sick time to my credit. But I can’t exactly call into work and ask to switch my holiday or vacation day to a sick day.

This week, I had a two day work week, with Monday, Thursday, and Friday designated as paid time off. I didn’t even know I had PTO until the approach to Black Friday and the busiest time of the retail year with all hands on deck and no vacation requests.

Unlike the many office jobs of my past where vacation time was bestowed upon the weary worker after a full year of full-time servitude, apparently my PTO was granted when I was changed to full-time status in June. Maybe it’s the retail industry’s way of atoning for wages that are less than half what I used to earn. In any event, the PTO didn’t print on my pay stubs for six full months so I never knew I had it.

Come January and the last month of our fiscal year, my 60.67 hours of time off was scheduled. It resulted in glorious long weekends all month long and freed up weekdays for skiing, which was nice, but paid time off in the summer at the beach would have been even nicer. Live and learn.

So anyway. To recap: last workday of a two-day workweek on the cusp of a four day weekend. Sniffles, sneezing, chills, feeling like death on toast.


Arrived home from work two hours late (was trying to cram five days work into two), ate supper, visited my neighborhood location of America’s second largest pharmacy chain for over the counter cold medicines. And mixed nuts, because they were on sale. Drank fizzy vitamin drink. Cancelled ski plans for Thursday morning. Tucked into bed with two mutts and a book, and after barely a chapter, enjoyed a lovely shot of the “The nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, fever, best sleep with a cold medicine.” Fell asleep, wedged between two snoring fur balls.

Ten hours later, I awoke to my paid day off and dragged myself out of bed to feed and let the dogs out. After returning to bed for several hours, I arose again to drink a fizzy vitamin drink and let the dogs out. Feeling as weak and limp as an overcooked noodle, it was a clumsy retreat back upstairs to bed. Several hours later, I tried the out of bed thing again, came perilously close to fainting, and bolted to the couch. After dining on scrambled eggs prepared by Mom, I encamped on the couch for two hours with a pillow and quilt, mindlessly staring at TV before returning to the bed which now felt more like a prison than a tranquil refuge.

On Friday, thirty-six hours after first taking to bed, I felt human again. Reborn and revived, I showered, dressed, and engaged in normal adult activities like drinking coffee and participating in conversations with other adults. I plowed through the 200-plus new emails accumulated since Tuesday evening. I resisted heading out to ski, because, after all, I’d been barely alive a day earlier, and why push it?

By early evening, emboldened by a feeling something akin to aliveness, I went out with a friend to a bar. And then to another bar with a band. And dancing. It wasn’t a late night, and I was home shortly after midnight and back in bed.

Saturday morning began with the usual activities of feeding the dogs, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper and Facebook newsfeed, and suddenly, I was sniffling again. And sneezing. And chilly, except where it felt like my face was on fire. It felt like Wednesday all over again, and it stunk, because now my Saturday was ruined. There would be no winter festival for me. No dinner with a friend. No anything fun because I felt awful again. Back to bed it was. Felled by another sneak attack.

Wardrobe Analysis

I got a new position at my retail job. I’m now the mannequin wrangler and graphic sign hanger! Ok, the official title is “Visual Merchandiser,” but that just forces people to ask what I do, so my wording saves time. I value efficiency.

This job means many things to me. Full-time hours with benefits are huge for my psyche. The pay raise is good for my wallet. There is even the bonus workout of schlepping ladders and rolling staircases through the store, then climbing them. I’m hoping to have the legs of an Olympian for ski season.

This position required a couple changes. The schedule sometimes has me arriving for work at 6 am, something I never imagined in my most hellacious corporate nightmares. Come holiday prep time, there are overnight shifts to decorate the store. There have also been wardrobe tweaks needed.

In office jobs in previous career chapters, my wardrobe was suits, dresses, or dress pants, paired with heels. There was a year-round sweater or jacket, because luck always dictated my assigned desk be directly below the Arctic air vent. Colleagues sweltered a few feet away while I silently chanted, “Shivering burns more calories.” Yes, I looked it up.

Mobility needs of cubicle life were limited to reaching for a pencil or the phone, and the most strenuous physical event on the average day was walking back and forth to the rest room, coffee machine, conference room, or copier. High heels are fine when one is parked in a chair most of the day.

My return to retail resulted in a wardrobe shift. The reality of standing for four or more hours and a once broken, still slightly numb leg that sometimes swells in the process ruled out most of my sit-in-a-chair-all-day footwear.

There were additional considerations. Customer service desk wardrobe evaluations included tests to check if shirt seams might shred a la The Incredible Hulk when reaching over the counter, or if a neckline provided the person on the other side of the counter with a full view down my top.

Sales floor wardrobe analysis focused on needing to bend, stoop, and squat to fetch items from the floor and restock low shelves. I learned the hard way which pants bore the potential of exposing butt cleavage and/or ripping open at the back seam. Long skirts got stepped on when walking; short skirts had other flashier issues.

Obviously, I don’t find dressing for work to be particularly easy. Maybe I over think it (along with almost everything else).

As mannequin wrangler and ladder climber, my wardrobe has morphed again. Almost immediately, clothing was analyzed through a different lens.

High heels are clearly out, as are soles that could skid when I’m precariously perched on one of the many ladders, or atop the three elevated displays holding full sized mannequins, or on the shoe cabinets.

Pockets are critical to my sanity. There are small parts involved in hanging graphics and it’s a really long walk from parts of the store and through the stock room, up 21 steps (yes, I counted), then to the furthest corner to fetch some critical one-quarter inch component.

Delusions of the fashion industry mean all ten pairs of my nice pants lack pockets. Some feature the bulk of welt pocket trim without the utility of an actual pocket. Sans pockets, I’ve dropped a handful of sky hooks from the metal ladder I don’t fully trust and perforated my sweaty palm with push pins while climbing the rolling staircase to tack up posters measuring 162 inches. Ahem, I mean “graphics.” And yes, “push pins.”

Ladder time is where I learned that if my pants (pockets stuffed with push pins, sky hooks, and ceiling clips) are a little loose, I can jam the handle of the push pin banging rubber mallet into the waistband, freeing my hands to schlepp a 10, 12, or 14 foot long graphic up the ladder in one trip. Yes, this comedy routine is usually a solo performance. 

The beauty of carpenter pants with hammer loops and plentiful pockets is now brilliantly, belatedly obvious. I wore them in high school because, at the time, they were fashionable, but their true functionality went completely untapped. Too bad denim violates the company dress code, or carpenter's pants would be my “go-to” pant.

A change from my new baseline of dust-colored, androgynous khakis paired with a usually boring shirt and neck-saving, sensible flats would be nice. Maybe a fashionable non-denim carpenter’s pant or a farmer’s overall in a dress-code compliant fabric. Vera Wang, Ralph Lauren, Jennifer Lopez, can you help me?

Seeing Ghosts

Some things seem bound to happen. Like running into a long ago ex who trampled your tender heart to mangled bits. It’s purely a matter of time when you both live and/or work in the same city.

The first few times it happened with this ex-boyfriend was at events where I was free to move about the venue and hide behind a plant, flee to the ladies room, or leave. Which is what I did. All three times. 

It had little to do with him. I’ve long since recovered from his erratic behavior where he would say how great everything was with us, and then, barely 24 hours later, declare he “needed space” and break up with me. Then, two weeks later, he’d be back. Lather, rinse, repeat, until we finally, thankfully, broke up for good.

It had to do with how I felt about myself. On none of those occasions did I feel good enough about my current occupation or housing situation to deal with this person, or anyone who knew me when I had an office job, my own place, and traveled.

When we dated in the early 1990s I was a full-time corporate treasury analyst, part-time ski lodge waitress, fledgling photographer, and full-time smart ass who regularly packed a bag and traveled on a whim. Recently divorced, I had a great apartment in New England’s second largest city, and was finishing my MBA. Life was shiny, good, and full of potential.

After him, I went on to even better jobs, better salaries, better boyfriends, and more interesting travel destinations. It’s funny how life unravels.

After selling my house and leaving a solid job in Tennessee in 2013 to be closer to family, I was two years into living at Mom’s, taking “closer to family” to a different level than initially envisioned. The only job I could find after 100 applications was part-time and minimum wage, which is where I saw Mr. I-Need-Space. At my pay rate, it would require a lot more than 25 hours a week to afford luxuries to which I had become accustomed and fondly remember. Like my own dwelling. And groceries.

I did not feel fabulous, or even adequate. I was feeling angry and trapped in my own personal definition of failure.

One day, feeling especially burdened by the specifics of life “back home,” my luck in dodging that ex ran out. I was at work, running a register to help clear the line of customers-waiting-to-pay. While finishing a transaction, I scanned the line to estimate my triumphant return to the glamour of clearing the fitting rooms.

There he stood at the front of the queue, looking better than ever, waiting for the next available register. Which appeared to be mine. It was too late to drag out the current transaction with time-sucking, idle chit-chat. We were done. That’s why I was scoping out the line in the first place.

There was always the chance he wouldn’t recognize me. My hair was really short when we dated, and now it’s a few inches shy of my waist. Instead of contacts, I’ve been wearing glasses at work. 

He approached the counter and set down a pair of gloves. He looked me right in the eyes and said, “You should smile more.”

If it was anywhere but my work, I might have told him to shut the hell up. Or playfully asked if he was always so bossy with store clerks. The me he dated a couple lifetimes ago would have blurted either of these without hesitation. The current me felt mostly brain dead with nothing to say.

My flight instinct begged to activate, and if I was anyplace other than the checkout, I would have relocated to the fitting room or a far corner of the building the instant I spotted him. But I was trapped behind the counter.

I said “Hello,” and asked if he’d found what he needed -- standard transaction dialogue. I asked if he was using a store charge card (standard query) and if he knew he could get a discount by opening a store charge (standard query). I finished with “That concludes the company speech,” lest he think I was trying (and failing miserably) at basic conversation. 

While signing for his purchase, he asked, “How is your life?” I almost said, “Terrifying! I just saw a ghost!” The me he dated a lifetime ago would have. The current me is dull around the edges and snappy comebacks are rare.

The life story I could have told includes a recent return home after decades away, travel to three continents and multiple islands, three months in Korea followed by 12 years in Tennessee, and satisfying career chapters in writing and marketing. But I wasn’t going to fill him in on the past 20-plus years or even the past 20 minutes with a line of people waiting. Besides, it hurts to think about my old life, because right now, I lack the means for any of it. And my only crime was moving back home in a crappy economy.

The discomfort of interacting with someone I knew in more successful times led me to mumble something that may not have included any actual words from the English language. He left. The whole thing felt weird, because I felt weird. Like I don’t fit in my own life anymore.

As I was completing the transaction with the customer after him, he reappeared at my side of the counter, stuck a business card on the keyboard, and told me to get in touch with him “so we can catch up.” He left again. Feeling obliged to acknowledge the interruption, I said to my customer, “THAT was a ghost from forever ago,” as I returned to her transaction. 

And finally, the line of customers was gone, allowing my overdue departure to the safety of the fitting rooms.

Match this

A couple months ago, I joined an online dating site. Again. Here I am, toying with the mode of meeting a partner that previously provided mixed results. But real life isn’t exactly delivering lately.

Way back at the turn of the century, a now-ex-husband and I met through a popular (and still operating) dating site. We shared some fine adventures including an overseas military paper chase wedding and plans to be together forever.

Instead of forever, we lasted roughly a decade from dating to divorced. Granted, part of that time felt like forever, which is when at least one of us accepted we were incompatible and split. Ok, it was me who ran.

For a while, I kidded about suing the site for a membership refund and compensation for my time, but finally forgave them, accepting that the relationship’s demise had more to do with us being starry-eyed and mis-matched, and less to do with the site.

After a cooling down period, I ventured into the online dating pool of Tennessee and Kentucky.  Because I was both optimistic and on a budget, my commitment was limited to a three-month package. Unfortunately, there were few single, local men meeting my nonnegotiable requirements of no smoking, no heavy drinking, and holding a college degree.

Maybe my expectations were just too high. Good thing I omitted “must love the Oxford comma, criticizing television personalities for poor grammar, and discussing the AP Style Guide.”

There were email exchanges with a Kentucky man who wrote entertaining messages in full sentences. One day, however, he used his grammatically correct sentences to call me every foul name under the sun when I couldn't meet for coffee on short notice. And by “short notice” we’re talking within a couple hours.

After the name calling incident, he continued to email, demanding responses to rambling dissertations referencing his “great family wealth” and proclaiming I'd never meet another man like him. Let's hope he was correct about his particular flavor of crazy being in limited production.

Now I’m back in New England, and it’s my mother’s fault I’m involved in this online stuff again. She pointed out that potential suitors are not exactly storming the family fortress to take me on dates, and because I’ve lived with her for the past two years, there’s no pretending the situation is otherwise. Living 1,200 miles away had advantages I may have overlooked.

But hey, why not shop for a potential mate from the comfort of the home I rarely leave except to buy dog food and go to my part-time job? Antisocial, underemployed, kept by canines. Seriously, what man wouldn't want to be part of that? I probably don’t even need clever wording to make it sound attractive. But there I was, attempting to craft profile copy that makes me seem less boring than I’m afraid I am. Which is probably the scenario site-wide.

On a dating site’s “free communication weekend” I posted a recent photo and minimalist write-up, because I don't think anyone wants to read a novel for a dating profile. Or maybe it's just me, who also routinely rejects greeting cards for having “too many words.”

I vowed to respond to any and all messages received.

The first two days yielded 24 messages, which felt like more than the three-month volume in the Tennessee effort. It seemed an assistant might be needed, but it turned out I couldn’t respond without a paid membership. Apparently, “free communication” is a one-way channel, just like some offline relationships.

The wallet opened. Money was paid to cover three months of digital matchmaking.

Some 50 messages arrived the first week. Many were well written using complete sentences and correct grammar and punctuation, and seemed to be from sane men (as far as one can tell). Others were painfully brief: “hi!” or “ur pretty,” or “nice smile,” to which I responded with an equally minimalist “Hi!” or “Thanks!” What else is there to say to that?

I fell behind in corresponding while sick in bed for two days, prompting one guy with whom I’d swapped a few emails to declare an “impasse due to non-communication.” Seriously? It had been two days. I wonder what he’s like in an actual relationship. The woman probably needs to be microchipped with GPS.

Like the message lengths, the photos show extremes. Some profiles have no photo (what are they hiding?). Others have one photo, seemingly taken with their computer’s built in camera in horrendous lighting. The chin down, eyes glaring pose is less mysteriously smoldering and more Hannibal Lechter wants to FaceTime. It’s scary.

The other extreme overcompensates. The tab notation “25 photos” often means one pixelated image of a guy accompanied by random body parts and flowing hair of a mostly cropped out woman, and 24 images of scenery, vehicles, pets, and groups of guys at bars and sporting events with no clue as to which one is him. “Hey, look how cool my friends and I are! And I’ll never want to travel with you, because I’ve already been everywhere!” 

This could be interesting.