Letter from a Leftover

I know I reheat well. Maybe even taste better the next day, perhaps even a littler saltier, as the only Jewish spice (salt) settles in. I know I’ m re-heatable.. reusable…recyclable, an ecologically sound treat.. if we could just try us again.

However, there is never a next time.. rarely a reheat. In fact.. once left.. usually inspires the eater, in this case the ex, lover, boyfriend, soul-mate, renter—to discover theirs.. their salt to their pepper, their x to their o, their life sympatico.

Many people discover patterns of behavior in their adult life, patterns carefully outlined and scrutinized by their life-coach or therapist which seem to inhibit their ability to love, be loved, maintain a job, pay taxes..

“You know, Larry, as soon as someone wants to get close to you .. you find faults in them.. you project your own insecurities onto.. them! “

“I DO?!”

“Sanford let’s look at your past relationships. It seems you only involve yourself with people who are well...unavailable, reflective of unsurmountable obstacles.. you have lost them, before you even have them.”

“Go on..”

“Well… Olivia was incarcerated.”
“But temporarily….!”
“True, and Mrs. Cohn, though very supportive of you, was in the early stages of senility—“
“Don’t you see, Dr., or Social Worker, it made it an adventure. With her, I got to re-introduce myself each time, a tabula rasa, if you will.”
“And let’s not forget, the Mennonite.”
“Oh yeah.”
“You couldn’t even play cards around her.”
“I love cards.”
“I know, so you need to find someone who doesn't believe cards are a gateway to hell.”

My father, following the divorce of my mother, would date many women, women who for the most part were at least 10 years his junior, wore lots of lip gloss, and were to my child self, physically beautiful. Flight attendant, secretary (to him), drug trafficker, disco diva (LOVED HER!!) were my dad’s new life lovers. One even bought me a screwdriver. (It’s just orange juice!) I was eleven. His pattern in regards to mate selection was overtly non-detectable, some had degrees, some were just getting their driver’s license, some had children, were divorced, were now getting a divorce, one for sure was our family’s summer girl*, others were blonde Shicksas (Yiddish for non-Jewish woman, mostly blondish without a trace of Semitic frizz and curl) brunette Shicksas, and some were of the same Tribe, Jewish women usually very sassy who loved the rough and tumble of my father and his fast-paced, bookie-filled (we were told to call the bookie, Uncle Joel), and amphetamine filled life. The pattern surfaced following relationships with my dad.

Several, of the women but not all following the life and times of my father, which often included some sli-ght exaggerations such as:
"Yeah, I did two tours in Vietnam actually, my dad was discharged at 18 due to Crones)"
Or when requesting a table at a restaurant he would often state his name as,
"Dr. Alexander" (he actually never finished college). He told me we would get seated faster this way.

Several of the women we sat with, ate with, sometimes even vacationed with, and would soon after my dad, become? Discover? That they were indeed gay.

One woman who we will call, Luanne, in particular, who I liked quite a bit, she sold paper, and who I believe my father did as well, began a serious relationship with a woman, on the heels of a several year relationship with my dad. They did, what I would later learn is often typical of lesbian relationships,
“What’s a lesbian’s second date?
“Renting a UHaul.”

And moving in was not my dad, but a woman named Nadine.
“You and Nadine at least have the same hair color, though she has a little more muscle than you, and spits farther,”

“ Mmmph.”

Perhaps these women needed stability after the chaos of my dad or desired softer skin.
“Dad, maybe you should use some extra-strength lotion—soften your skin or something?”

Regardless of the why, my dad was left to question perhaps how the loves of his life.. not just left him but also left him for women, for the gendered opposite. In the Nadine case she was the opposite of my father in temperament, never smiled, wore purple sweatshirts, whereas my father had his clothes often created by designers (he had labels which read “Made for Buddy Alexander), and she didn’t shave.

It appears that I have inherited perhaps not his pattern (only one of the men I have swapped saliva with preferred guys over chicks, which may have explained why he danced so well), but a post-relationship pattern.
Quite systematically, almost every relationship I have had no matter how intense or how fleeting, 100 nights, 1 night, results in that person often immediately finding their spouse, their lifetime partner, their love. It’s like I either prep them emotionally to be able to reveal and be present in the subsequent relationship, or they seek the actual opposite: most likely Gentile, traditional (has serving pieces and cooks with things like coriander and cumin), little mental health history (or rather not tattooed or blazoned on a blog-wasn’t a test case for Prozac, la la..la), and likes dogs not cats. With the exception of one or two, the chronic pot smokers and alcoholics.. oh yeah, and the Mason, all of those that I have loved, deeply, profoundly, honestly, soulfully, seek love elsewhere and immediately after we hang up the phone or the ichat.
What is it? I try to not overwhelm, to wait, to live in a state of give and take, to foster equality.. to be present, I mean I fuckin’ teach this stuff—yet…

Yet, I’m left over, passed over (should I take the lamb’s blood off my door?) and many of these men who tell me I am, “magic, super-human even, the sweetest, the nicest, cutest, brains and beauty, sexy” find foundations and security and equanimity elsewhere. It cracks my soul. Even the men with whom I have initiated the departure, the dénouement (one, because all his stories ended in “And the we smoked this big fatty.” Needed a little more variety there.), find immediately their love of life, their raison d’etre, their flower, and sometimes from my own garden.

I imagine what their internal whether conscious or unconscious dialogue is,

“All right, Sam, sure.. sure, she made me laugh, dug moats so I could travel to undiscovered territories, helped me fight off my senses of self-loathing, empowered me to believe in impossibility, became a light to my darkness, was able to be submissive so that I could feel strong, wrote me poems about my struggles, our conversations flowed, there was symmetry and chemistry and creativity—BUT… she always calls me right back and she gives too much. Doesn’t make me feel nervous but too secure. I need a chase. And someone who doesn’t have a 401K and tenure.”

Maybe if I had got the Brazilian.. maybe then.

The why is elusive…the pain profound. I am consistently a leftover, as the most recent love or desire sits down to a life with their main dish, one full of carbohydrates, proteins, sweetness and security. And I sit, rewrapped, ready to be warmed up, but most often, discarded for something or someone whose ingredients to me are indeed a mystery.

*a teenage girl usually from Wisconsin or Michigan,, usually one who had never been to the big city of Chicago, who would live at the house, take care of the us kids, so the mothers could play Mahjong.