Alan C. Fox

Last Sunday, after seven weeks of being single, I enjoyed two dates. Thank you Elite Singles. I have found my stereotype of dating is (do not pardon the pun – please groan) out-of-date. Years ago you met people through work, activities, or family and friends. If you were serious you could use a matchmaker or dating service, though this use to seem a little suspect to me.

Today everyone meets online, I know many happily married couples who met on Match.com or wherever. So I’ve discarded my dated dating notions and my adventure has begun.

I met Carole online. We enjoyed three or four telephone conversations and a number of emails. Last Sunday morning I drove seventy miles north to meet her in person. This wasn’t a blind date. It was more like an introduction with benefits – our photos and other contacts.

Our meeting went well, and our conversation was so engrossing we didn’t order food until after we had talked for more than an hour. I believe our relationship will continue. Toward the end of lunch Carole asked me who had been the love of my life. Next time I’ll ask Carole who was hers.

Then I drove more than 150 miles south to meet Maria at a lakeside restaurant. Maria and I had never talked, nor exchanged emails. Through the online service she had invited me to meet her on Sunday. She seemed attractive in her photo, and her online profile was enticing, notably the “93%” compatibility rating. (Hint – post an up-to-date photo which is light enough to really see, and fill out your profile (pun intended) as fully as you possibly can.)

Maria was attractive in person. Inside the restaurant we chose a table, and she selected where each of us should sit. She ordered sparkling water. I ordered a Pepsi. Since it was early evening I had assumed we were going to have dinner, so I thought perhaps she had already ruled me out, choosing a quick drink rather than a meal.

Maria is European, and her accent was semi-thick. The room was noisy, and I have trouble understanding accents. I studied her face intently, and she became easier to understand as she talked. And talked. And talked.

On my drive home, completing a 330 mile journey for the day, I thought maybe I would write a hilarious account of this date and, perhaps, others to come. But in my Pogo Stick saga I poked fun at myself. Here I would have to poke fun at others, and that would be disrespectful to people who are out there putting themselves on the line.

After Marie talked for a while, without interruption, she became more personal.

“You know, Alan,” she said, “older people like us can fall in love.” She described a relationship she’d had with a man who was 87 when she was 67. I was moved when Maria told me, “He awakened in me something I thought had disappeared. I loved him. It was exciting. Then he suddenly died.”

That is a risk at any age.

As we parted she admired my car and mentioned that the man who had awakened her love had offered her the same model and color, I felt connected with Maria, another human being who, like me, was looking for someone to share her life with.

Her excitement poured over her dam of reticence, into my lakebed of need.

I drove home into a beautiful, imperfect, sunset, just like the heart of each of us.

Alan

I’m the boss. I own the building.

At home we use high quality toilet paper. In fact, it’s Charmin, a brand known for being squeezeably soft.

The T.P. at our office isn’t soft. This has been going on for more than ten years. I’m sure I’m saving money, but which bottom line should I be more concerned about? (pun intended).

A month ago I asked our facilities manager to order a better quality T.P.

“I’ll bring some samples for you to look at,” he said. Brave man.

Today I found him in the hallway, talking to our HR manager.

“When do I get to see the samples?” I asked.

“We replaced all of the T.P. a few days ago. Do you notice the difference?”

“No.”

“The new stuff costs almost double what the old T.P. cost.”

“Can’t we buy Charmin?”

“This is supposed to be just as good.”

“We can do better. Have our janitorial service buy Charmin if we have to. At Costco of course.”

But I intend to make a point that is as solid as our office T.P. What I’m really talking about is quality. Quality of life.

None of us can afford the best of everything, and even if we could it wouldn’t bring us enduring happiness. I invite you to take a look at the poem Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson (link below). I first read this poem in junior high school. I still remember it, so obviously this poem has an impact.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44982/richard-cory

But if we surround ourselves with quality – quality people, quality experiences, quality thinking – our lives become more meaningful and enjoyable.

So, while I’m thinking about it, you can subscribe (yes, blatant self-promotion) to two entirely free web sites that will bring greater meaning into your life.

The first is my blog: Peopletoolsbook.com

Sign up and you’ll receive a free (I hope it’s worth somewhat more than that), short, and funny essay every Tuesday morning.

The second is Rattle.com. If you sign up you’ll receive a poem every day of the year. I think you’ll agree that many of these poems are wonderful.

Well, I started out talking about T.P. I ended up somewhere else. It makes perfect sense to me.

And I have nothing to do now but wipe a smile off of my face.

Alan

I currently live with my dad in the fourth-floor master suite of the house I built for him more than ten years ago. He is 103 years old and is more comfortable sleeping in his reclining chair in front of his TV in the living room. His caretaker and her fiancé live in a bedroom below.

I arrived carrying some clothing and personal items. Also a bowl of apricot jam.

The apricot jam was created from dried apricots that my daughter Jill brought with her to my son Craig’s house where we stayed together for a week. Craig’s mother-in-law transformed those dry and shriveled apricots into the most delicious jam I have ever tasted. Plump apricots, sweeter than kisses, in a thick syrupy gumbo. When I left I asked to take some with me. They gave me the entire bowl.

This morning while showering I thought about breakfast. I immediately began to salivate as I thought of starting my day with apricot jam on toast. Then I began to worry about how much jam was left in the bowl and how long it would last. After all, there are three other people living in this house, and I assume that one of their favorite foods, apricot jam, must be the same as mine (I might have a fixation). I worried they might have finished off “my” supply of jam yesterday while I was gone.

Then I “caught” myself. I am selfish. Of course. We all have to be a little selfish in order to survive. I want the jam for myself. I don’t want to share it. I want the bowl of jam to be in the refrigerator for me to enjoy. Only me. Am I a dog protecting his bone? Arf!

But I am also a socialized human being. I stop at every red light. Almost all of the time. I stand in line at the grocery store. I treat a friend to lunch at a restaurant. I am sooooo f***ing generous. Yup, I sure am. Except when I’m thinking about apricot jam.

So I took the high road. I realized that apricot jam is a resource from the earth and from my daughter Jill and my daughter-in-law’s mother. And from farmers and from Casa De Fruta in Hollister, California. And resources from the earth are supposed to be shared amongst all of us. Right? Like roads and lakes and national parks.

Accordingly, I hereby officially and publically announce that the bowl of apricot jam in my father’s refrigerator can be devoured and enjoyed by everyone.

Of course, you will have to search for the key to the lock on the refrigerator, and ignore my note on the bowl: DANGER – THIS JAM MAY BE DANGEROUS TO YOUR HEALTH.

Enjoy!

Alan

P.S. It is now three weeks since I wrote this blog. No one else has touched my jam, and I think there is still enough for two, maybe three more breakfasts.