Alright, ladies and gentlemen…it’s time we had a chat.  So, put down that Blackberry, take your hands off the computer keyboard and finish up that email draft.  We’re gonna talk about technology - all these ‘new-fangled’ gadgets - and how they’ve changed our lives.  And specifically, how they’ve changed how we communicate in our personal lives.

Let’s hone in on one ultra popular form of communication…one which has now penetrated the masses (when your sixty-something mother joins in - that’s the true definition of market saturation).  I’m talking about ‘text messaging’.  This relatively new (in the big scheme of things) communication tool has exploded in popularity in the past five years, and brings with it, I believe, new rules for social communication. Like it’s sister technology - instant messaging - text messaging is considered much more ‘casual’ or ‘conversational’ than traditional forms of communication. A new abbreviated language even popped up around the two. It all just makes me LMAO. U C?

The downside of text messaging is the ability for someone (i.e. a horribly fearful or not-so-well-intentioned man) to thumb their nose at more traditional, and personal communication outlets.  Like the good ole voice to voice phonecall.  If said man fears rejection, or would like to throw out several baited hooks, or feels more comfortable suggesting a late night rendevous via text messaging, he can do so without fear of in-your-face disgust.  He can press ’send’ and hope for the best. Doesn’t work out?  He’s none the worse for wear.

For social planning (’any plans 2nite?) or a joke between friends (’U smell’), or even a quick note to a new romantic interest (’gr8 mtg u last nite’), text messaging is a thing of beauty.  But when it is misused to keep things at arms length, or to toss out a drive-by comment, or as a wall to hide behind, we fall into the trap of new technology pulling us, as humans, even further apart. When a man no longer picks up the phone to call a woman…when asking someone out takes on the form of hieroglyphics (’Ure hot…drinks 2nite?’), we’ve taken this “safe dating” thing too far.

Bottom line, don’t allow your ‘gentleman callers’ to pull you into the text messaging trap.  Play with it a bit, sure…nothing wrong with that.  But if the boy is serious about getting to know you, let it be known that ‘this old-fashioned girl’ still likes the man to do a little work.  This ‘old fashioned girl’ would actually like to know the sound of your voice before we hit the town.  And this gal would like to revel in the excitement of those first phone calls…you know what I’m talking about…the nights you spend, soar ears pressed to the receiver, finding out about each other: your favorite soup, or his most frightening childhood experience, or a detailed explanation of what each of you look like without the confines of clothing.  You just can’t do that on a cell phone key pad.

Am I right, or am I right?  Let me hear your thoughts.

The Navy gave Tom two choices:  accept the assignment to helicopters and serve out his seven year commitment as a pilot, or drop out of pilot training and serve three years as an officer.  Not surprisingly, leaving the Navy altogether was not an option.  Tom accepted this reality and chose (against his parents wishes) option two.  Seven years flying an aircraft which - in his mind - provided no training for the commercial airlines, was simply unacceptable.  To be quite honest, I didn’t blame him.  But I was in the minority.  His superior officers - men who had likely never imagined questioning a Navy directive - were none too pleased.  And Tom’s next assigment would reflect their disdain.  The orders, however, would not come for several months…a period of time we spent, almost exclusively, together.

Less than a year had passed since meeting my confident, quick-witted pilot.  But our lives had changed dramatically.  The perfect Halloween costume and weekend plans with friends no longer topped our list of responsibilities.  At 24, Tom was making decisions that would dramaticaly affect his life…decisions that went against the beliefs of those he respected the most.  At the same time, the economy was showing signs of recovery, and I’d decided to launch a new job search…pursue a career that better reflected my passions.  What would that be?  No idea.  But I prayed it would no longer include purchasing butterfly valves for projects in Uzbekistan.  And more importantly, for the sake of my social life (and possibly the quality of my work output), I vowed to turn down any position that required me to be at the office before 8:00 a.m.  A girl must have boundaries.  And three years of 7:00 a.m. - 4:00 p.m. workdays had taught me mine.

Tom’s extended downtime allowed this thinking man to think some more, or, dare I say, overthink.  Stress tore at his confidence and chipped away at his childlike wonder.  His bond with me became all-consuming, and, at times, suffocating…his happiness (or unhappiness) intricately connected to my every move, my every comment.  I loved him dearly, but I began to miss the self-assured, happy-go-lucky Tom of yesterday.  And, as much as I tried to quiet it with memories and denial, that little voice…the one deep down that we often try to squash…became too loud to ignore.  “Is this how he handles stress?”  “Will you always have to be the strong one?”  “What are you really attracted to?”  “DO YOU STILL LOVE HIM?”  I couldn’t answer that.  Not yet.  Tom needed me.  I was all he had.  Must stick to memories and denial.

Ironically, as Tom’s career spun out of control, mine seemed to take hold.  After months of waiting, I was offered the position of Assistant Account Executive in advertising giant, Ogilvy & Mather’s Houston office.  I was ecstatic.  Finally.  Finally I could put my untapped creative mind to good use.  Tom was excited and supportive, but I sensed an awakening…the beginnings of truthful acknowledgment.  He knew, as did I…our days were numbered. 

Two weeks later Tom received his assignment.  He would be placed on the oldest carrier in the Navy’s fleet and shipped out to the Indian Ocean…indefinitely.  On the morning of his departure, I was heartbroken and deeply concerned about Tom’s fragile emotional state.  But above all, if I’m completely forthright, I was relieved. 

I spent the next couple of months exchanging daily emails and an occasional phone call with Tom…keeping up the charade, for his sake, that our relationship was strong.  But it wasn’t.  My life was moving forward, my career was exciting and promising, and my connection with Tom had become an obligation.  It was time to move on…for his sake and mine. 

Tom was on shore leave, in a small hotel room in Japan when I told him the news.  Although he was sad, I sensed he also felt relief.  He knew, in his heart, I’d been hanging on for him…and underneath the new veil of insecurity, Tom was still a strong and proud man.  He made it easy for me and I promised to be there for him, whenever he needed a friend.  I meant it.  When I hung up the phone, I was surprised by my feelings…I’d assumed relief would be the overriding emotion, but there was something else.  I also felt confused.  Part of me knew, if we’d been older…more mature and less selfish, things could have been different.  Part of me knew, someday, this would be one of the biggest regrets of my life. 

Tom emailed regularly and his initial acceptance soon turned to anger - not an uncommon occurrence in situations such as this.  I made the decision to cut us off completely.  He gathered his pride and accepted my decision.  For more than ten years, we had no contact.  No calls, no emails…nothing.  Until the day a brief note in an airline mailbox changed everything.

The dim light of the early morning sun is peeking through the dusty miniblinds in Tom’s Corpus Christi apartment.

“Wake up, babe,” he whispers as he kisses my forehead.  I begrudgingly roll onto my back, eyes still closed.

“Aaaargh…what time is it?  Where are you going?”  My voice is dry and raspy.  His fellow pilots-in-training kept us out late last night.  They fed us multiple beers and groaned sufficiently at the sappiness of our newfound love.

“Flight test today,” he smiles.  He thinks my morning grumpiness is cute.  He thinks all my little quirks are cute, which scares the hell out of me.  “I won’t be gone long…go back to sleep.”  And he brushes a matted lock of hair from my cheek.

It’s been several months since our first meeting at the fabled Aquarium Lounge.  Tom waited days to call, maybe a week…it felt like a year.  But I held strong.  I also went out every night inbetween - to prove I didn’t care, of course.

I’d successfully avoided a serious relationship for two years now…the ending of the last had been too painful…an unexpected suicide bomber who’d climbed down my throat and exploded my heart.  It had taken at least a year to return to normal.  Well, not normal in the truest sense of the term.  But a “new” normal.  The kind that hides fear with band-aids and brick walls and biting humor.

I rub my eyes and raise a hand to guard them from the increasing sunlight.  He’s in his uniform.  His hair is shiny and clean and smells like heaven…or at least what I hope heaven smells like.  He grabs my hand and kisses my palm.  A knot forms in my stomach.  I’m in love.  And I’m scared.  But I’m not leaving.  I can’t imagine ever leaving.

“I love you,” he says.

I pause.  Intimacy is not easy for me…not anymore.  “I love you, too,” I finally whisper.  His fingers graze my arm as he rises from the bed and leaves the room.  I turn onto my side.  A tear rolls down my cheek and onto the beige sheets.

Tom has been flying for years.  His father was in the Air Force and is now a pilot for United.  It’s in their blood.  It’s all they know.  Because of Tom’s prior experience, he’s been placed in the Navy’s advanced pilot training program.  It’s an unexpected adjustment.  The Navy has their own way of flying…and Tom is having trouble breaking old habits.  His friends, novice pilots, are scoring higher on flight tests and it’s a tough pill to swallow.  He’s a proud man - extremely smart and a gifted pilot…but the Navy is hard on him.  They know how to break men.  It’s a tactic they’ve used for years.  Take the strong-willed and break them down to build them back up…mold them into proper soldiers.  Tom didn’t particularly want to join the Navy, but he passed the difficult entrance exam and was admitted into the program.

“So few have this opportunity,” his father said.  “You can’t pass this up.”  He respects his father, so he does as he’s told.

I can’t go back to sleep.  My brain is on fire…I’m barraged with dueling thoughts, fighting for space. 

“You can’t do this!”

“What if he’s shipped away?”

“This will not end good.  It never does.”

“Maybe we’ll get married and have babies and travel the world.”  I force myself to rest on this one.  The others are too painful to consider.  And, at this moment, I choose happiness.  It could happen…

Months pass.  The Navy is at the end of their fiscal year.  Money is tight and decisions are delayed.  Tom and I are able to spend weekends, sometimes even full weeks together…mostly in Houston.  He likes to get away.  Our connection is electric…roots grow strong and deep and grab hold.  Tom, a lifelong bachelor - previously adamant about avoiding relationships - is in love.  He handles it well.  He is sweet and kind, thoughtful and loving.  He is adored by my parents, friends…the whole lot.  I, on the other hand, am waiting for the other shoe to drop.  And on a rainy afternoon in Corpus, it does just that.

“I just got my assignment,” he says, the official paper still in his hand.

“And?”  I know he wants the big cargo plane…the P3, I think.  It’s good training for the commercial airlines.

“Helicopters.”

“What?  Helicopters?  I didn’t even know that was an option.”

“I can’t do this, Nikki,” he says as the paper falls from his hand to the ground.  “It’s seven years of my life…seven years.”

“We’ll figure something out,” I say - not fully believing my own words. “It will be okay.”

“No.  It won’t.  I’ve got to get out.  I have to find a way out of the Navy.”

Sneak Peek:  As you may suspect, the Navy doesn’t take kindly to those who want out.  Tom is determined.  But Uncle Sam has other plans…it’s the first time, I begin to suspect, that something hasn’t gone Tom’s way.  And he doesn’t handle it well.  In the meantime, my career is moving in a new direction…a good one.  How will these things affect our relationship?  Tune in to find out.

So, okay, you’ve heard snippets of my past relationships…and it’s possible I’ve sold some of these boys short in exchange for an abbreviated post or to hammer home a bitter valid point.  It’s true, one or two of these former loves could run head-first into a brick wall and be none the worse for wear, but for the most part, my choices have been pretty dang good guys.  And were it not for the awful fate of poor timing - on two separate occasions - one of these choices may have turned out quite different.

 The other day, I read a blog entry (on the wonderful www.nothingbutbonfires.com) that reminded me of my first go-round with *Tom.  The trigger?  Holly - the blog’s author - was recalling the early days of her relationship, her boyfriend’s time in the Navy, her visits to see him and the heartache of leaving.

Flashback (mine - not Holly’s)

The Year: 1997 (I think.  Memory bad.  Very bad.)
My “cousin” (nephew of Mom’s best friend) is in Navy Pilot Training in Corpus Christi, Texas.  I’m in my mid-20’s…just a few years out of college and still acting as if Monday brings with it two afternoon classes and not eight hours of responsibility.  *Jay (”cousin”) calls on a Friday afternoon to see if he and a buddy can come up to Houston for the evening.  Corpus isn’t holding their interest…they need a taste of the big city.  (Because it’s extremely difficult to get attention when you’re a handsome Navy pilot…or they’ve worked their way through all female resources in Corpus.  I’m going with the latter.)

“Head this way!” I say.  “We can meet at…” where else? “…my favorite bar!”  I provide the appropriate directions, wish them safe travels, and call 42 of my closest friends.

The Setting:  Aquarium Lounge, Houston, TX (damn, I miss that place).  Old house converted to bar.  Two rooms.  Sloping floors.  Tattered couches and booths.  Worn pool table.  Dirty aquarium dividing rooms.  Nasty warning signs posted throughout establishment.  “Don’t touch (velvet Elvis) art!”, “No smoking on couch!”, “No drinks on table (what?)”, “Don’t yell for bartender!” Danger! Danger! Danger!  Culprit of postings:  Miserable old woman and owner of popular dive.  We avoid her.  She’s one mean bitch. (Part of mystique)

Jay and fellow fly-boy have arrived.  I have not. (Please…a girl needs to make an entrance…or maybe I was just late.  Again, I’m going with the latter.)  The boys are seated in the front booth.  I arrive, wave hello, and am immediately diverted to table of friends directly behind them.  I quickly greet my pals and return to Jay, and “well HEL-LO…who might this be???”

“Nikki, this is…”

Fellow Fly-Boy Description:  Tall (uh huh), thick jet black hair (oh, my), flawless olive skin (Lord help me), slight attitude, but harmless (remember - was in my 20’s…this was still turn-on), quick humor - capable of back-and-forth banter (always gets me), Navy pilot-in-training (self explanatory), California boy (this is just too much), and confident (uh oh).

“Nikki, this is Tom.”

“Well, hello Tom,” I said.  “How ’bout a game of pool?”  Because I’m cool like that.

(Editorial Aside) The truth is, I don’t remember our first words (it’s that bad memory thing again).  I just know that we had a blast, played some pool, eventually crossed over into innocent flirting and then (according to Tom’s much more accurate recollection ten years later) we kissed by the bathrooms - likely under a “No kissing near bathroom” sign.  Looking back, I only vaguely recall this important moment, but I do remember two things quite clearly:  He was deadly attractive and I was incredibly intrigued.

Jay and Tom stay the night.  (Nothing sordid to report, folks.  Get your minds out of the gutter!)  Tom and I practice our outside-the-bathroom kiss a few hundred times, and then, in a beer-soaked haze, pass out and sleep until early afternoon.

The boys hang around one more night and, on Sunday morning, return to Corpus to train with their fellow hotties.  Tom asks for my number - sort of as an afterthought…determined to continue the single life and keep this interesting, smartass of a girl at proper arm’s length.  His heart has other plans.

Nikki’s 20-Something Reaction:  Play it cool, of course.  I’m 26, living in a fun town, surrounded by lots of friends with whom I attend every big-ass-beer night and live music performance Houston has to offer.  I have diversions, readers…I have entertainment options.  I don’t fall for cocky, adrenaline junkies…hot pilots from California do nothing for me. 

Two days later:  DAMMIT!  Why hasn’t he called!

To be continued…

Sneak Peek:  What’s it like to be emotionally glued to another human…and still feel the need to be closer?  And what about Tom’s career?  Everything, including joining the Navy, is meant to bring him one step closer to accomplishing his childhood dream of becoming a commercial airline pilot.  So what happens when the Navy assigns him helicopters?  Will he choose to accept his fate?  Attempt to leave the Navy and train for the airlines as a civilian?  Or drop out of pilot training and be shipped out to sea?

*Names changed to protect the innocent…or not-so-innocent…or maybe just to make things appear more mysterious.

Oh, boy.  I’ve got to be honest with you.  I’ve really struggled with the decision to discuss this particular topic…it is, after all, a hotbed for controversy.  The mere mention of this word, this thing, often sparks heated debate between men and women.  It (unfairly, I believe) pits independence against loyalty, and in extreme cases, good against evil.  And most importantly, the love of this controversial creature often perpetuates an ignorant stereotype.

Am I speaking of devout Christians and their love of Jesus Christ?  Well, no, although I’m sure many Christian women have argued my fiery topic with many a Christian man.  Am I recklessly sticking my toe into the choppy waters of today’s great political race?  Uh uh.  But something tells me this discussion would divide Barack and Hillary like no other issue has.

So, what is it, you ask?  Get to the point, Nikki, before I hit the back button and return to Perez Hilton.

 Fair enough.  Here goes…I will now speak write the words that I’ve often held back on first dates, or even second or third:  I, Nikki Wynn, am a cat owner.  And I am proud of it.  I’m sorry to have held this information back for, what, going on five/six posts now…but I needed you to adore me for who I am, not what I love.  Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?  You know why?  BECAUSE IT IS!  Less than ten years ago, this admission did not strike horror in the hearts of potential suitors, or illicit not-so-carefully hidden looks of pity from smug marrieds.  But the passing of twenty-four hours, just twenty-four measly hours - from October 24, 2000 to October 25, 2000 - was all it took.  That was the day I turned thirty and suddenly became the creepy, old woman who lived in a shoe house full of cats. 

Let me clarify, I have two cats…not twenty.  I refuse to have just one (the guilt of an animal home alone would tear at my very soul).  I have two…have never had more and probably never will.  Although it’s possible I’ll add a dog or two to the mix at some point.  Why?  Because I LOVE ANIMALS!  I grew up surrounded by them.  We may have lived in the classic confines of suburbia, but there was a veritable menagerie behind our doors:  cats, dogs, hamsters, wounded Blue Jays, crawdads, lizards, newts, tadpoles/frogs and the occasional box turtle.  I loved them all.  Black, white, red or blue…I didn’t care…I was an equal-opportunity animal whisperer.  This is tough for me to conjure up, but I will do it for you, dear reader:  One of my most horrifying childhood memories was the day I had to hand over the stray puppy I’d found at a Friday night high school football game (we named him “Lucky”, of course).  Much to my dismay, my evil parents had posted “Found Puppy” signs in and around the stadium, and Lucky’s thankful owners were soon located.  They showed up at our door with a plate full of cookies and a sad lesson…apparently I wasn’t Noah, I didn’t have an ark and I couldn’t have two of each.  I have one big, fat sweet tooth, but I didn’t eat one of those damn cookies…not one.

Alright, let’s get back to the issue at hand:  women and cats…or more precisely, women over thirty and cats.  I do realize there are men out there who adore felines, and I salute them and their blessed hearts - but for the sake of a clear cut argument, let’s stick to the majority.  Most men “claim” to abhor the “furry, distant, boring” creatures (their words, not mine).  In my experience, at least, these men have never owned nor spent more than fifteen minutes in the presence of these “independent to a fault” animals.  Barring severe allergies or a violent childhood attack, this loathing is ill-conceived at best.  Sweeping generalizations often accompany their hatred and the phrases “they just don’t give a shit if you’re there or not” or “they have no loyalty to their owners” are often tossed around like confetti, albeit with much less fanfare.

I work from home.  I am around my two not-so-slender gatos (Bella and Pawly) most hours of the day…and night.  To call these girls independent would be like calling Eliot Spitzer faithful.  I have a cat underfoot at every moment…and I have the bruises to prove it.  I am awakened by the freakishly large, Bella, every morning.  She slowly, and methodically, walks over my ribcage to rest in front of my face.  She then stares at me with an intensity that drives my tired ass to insanity.  When I ignore her, she slowly, and methodically, walks again across my ribcage, paws at my back and repeats the process until I angrily toss the covers aside and exit the bed.  She then leaps underfoot, looks up at me and, I kid you not, I think the little bitch smiles.  Occasionally annoying?  Yes.  Independent?  Not even close.  In fact, as I type this in my bed, late night, Pawly slumbers on the pillow next to me - one paw on my shoulder - and Bella, well she’s a foot away, flat on her back, and yes, staring at me.  Because that’s what she does best.  That and fetching.  Yes, she fetches.  Did I just dispel another myth?  Well, looky there.

There is something interesting that happens when a man falls for a woman with cats.  His long-held beliefs about the little furballs and their complete uselessness, begin to change.  It’s subtle at first, and certainly not revealed to his male counterparts, but the change it is a’comin’.  And how do I know this?  I’ve lived it…first-hand.  Every single serious relationship I’ve had started with a man who “didn’t much care for cats” and ended with his complete and total devotion.  And because men can be a bit, well, hard-headed (we’re not talking about me right now), acceptance of this growing love was often accompanied by a caveat.  A caveat I heard time and time again. It went something like this:  “I really don’t like cats…but I do like yours.  They’ve got real personality…they’re funny and affectionate and devoted.  They’re just different.”  Now, mind you, I’ve had a number of cats over the years…these men didn’t all know the two I currently share my home with.  The sad reality of animals is, their lifespans are far too short, and if you love them and live long enough, you will have to say a tearful goodbye to far too many.  So, some of my past loves knew Ceasar, others knew Pawly and Sterling, and the latest knew Pawly and the nightmare/dream that is Bella.  But the caveat remained the same:  “Yours are different.”  Each time, I held my tongue and forced a smile.  But I wanted to shout to the heavens:  “THEY’RE ALL DIFFERENT, YOU FOOL!  THEY ALL HAVE PERSONALITIES!  YOU LIKE THEM BECAUSE, AGAINST YOUR BETTER JUDGMENT, YOU LIKE CATS!  YOU ARE A CAT LOVER!”  (insert evil laugh)

I could bore you with my own stories and those of my sister and friends…examples of men obsessing over the best caretaking techniques, the proper food for healthy kidneys and long life, and the shelling out of thousands of dollars to keep their now precious felines alive for just a bit longer.   I could describe the men who came to love their adopted cats with a passion that is sometimes, unbelievably, unmatched by the women they met them through…but I will not ramble on, for fear that I will lose you to another blog, or (egads) work.  I will just say this.  Open your minds, my masculine friends.  Do not write off the thirty-something single woman…the one with the quick wit, great legs, informed brain and kind heart - simply because she utters the awful words:  “I have a cat.”  Because here’s the truth - when you whittle it down - I think you can put humans into two categories:  not cat or dog lovers…it’s much more basic than that…it’s those who love animals and those who don’t.  Which do you believe are more compassionate, more responsible, more loving…and who else can bring to you their love with a bonus or two.  Give it a shot.  You won’t regret it.

I must leave you now.  Bella is opening a cabinet, eating a piece of toilet paper, and batting about some toxic cleaning fluid in hopes of stealing my attention away from the computer.  Aloof and independent.  Yeah.  Right.