The Explorers Club
No. CLXXI - Doctor Sir Richard Croft (1762-1818), Princess Charlotte (1796-1817), & the "triple obstetrical tragedy."







Try as I might, I could not locate an image of the good doctor. Instead, the internet search engines fed me a steady stream of photographs of the tomb of one of his ancestors, also a Sir Richard Croft, and the tycoon Sir Richard Branson. So much for our vaunted "Information Age." Pictures of the doctor's familial home, Croft Castle, and the royal residence that saw two of this episode's three deaths, Claremont, seemed insufficiently specific and thus inappropriate.

Project PANDORA: The Other Woman, Part Deux
'Twas early December of '09, the year just past, and I'd planted a romantic (or at least lustful) kiss on a girl for the first time in, literally, years. (Wayback Machine.) I was well pleased by this turn of events, though I was unsettled by one nagging detail. I'd kissed the Other Woman; I'd pulled her body toward mine as we kissed, wrapping my hands not around her shoulders or her waste, but her arse; I'd even rested a hand atop her right breast shortly before our embrace ended; and I'd done all this without ever having a real conversation with the Other Woman, and that didn't sit right with me. I thus resolved to take her out on a proper date for two reasons, accorded equal weight by my reckoning: {a} I wished to see her again, based on her instant crush on me on the night of our meeting and the desire in her eyes on the night of her birthday, and see if I returned any of her obvious affection, and {b} I'd done things all out of order, I'd engaged with her physically before knowing much of anything about her, and I felt obligated to remedy this to some small degree by getting to know her.

To this point, the initiative had belonged exclusively to the Other Woman. She had let The Cowgirl know that she had a crush on me; she had, it can be presumed reasonably, arranged for me to be invited to her birthday festivities; and she had made sure that we had the moment alone at the end of her birthday, the moment in which we kissed. But now I was determined to take the lead. A date, a proper date, that was what was needed. By Jove, that was the ticket! So, I contacted the Other Woman to arrange a date.

This turned out to be a far trickier business than might have reasonably been supposed. She was, it seemed, quite busy. It was getting on to be the end of the semester, after all. Fair enough, thought I, I shall woo her in the new year. She was to be, it seemed, quite busy in the new year. The Other Woman is a theatre major and was to participate in a team-based competition that is a big to do in the collegiate theatre world. She insisted that she did want to see me, but simply had not the time, a topic to which we will return presently. She scolded me for having abysmal timing; scolding is rather often delivered in a playful manner, and when so administered can be awfully endearing. The Other Woman's scolding was curiously humorless, leaving the impression than she was in earnest, that I was being genuinely scolded. I asked her if she would like to see me and when she said she could not I asked her to contact me when she might be available. But she would not allow me thus to turn the tables, and repeatedly insisted that I persist in my inquiries.

Here a train of thought, defensive and suspicious, began marshaling itself amidst my little gray cells. The Other Woman was very busy, I could well understand that, but the dual assertions that she both wished to see me and yet could not spare the time to do so rang false. If she wanted to see me, would she not, in the vernacular, make the time? As The Proclaimers tell us, "love can move mountains." This was not love, but I was not asking her to move mountains. I was asking for a few hours of her time, hours she said she wished to spend with me. And why was she so adverse to ringing me when a hole opened in her busy schedule? Why was it so vital that the requests always come from my end? So that she could be the one always to say, "Sorry, no." She wanted to keep me dangling, she wanted the flattery and ego-massage of being pursued. I am open to alternative explanations, dear readers, if you've any to offer, but I've thought about her pattern of behavior as dispassionately as I am able and this is the only answer that holds any water. My ire was roused, my pride was wounded, and I was prepared to wash my hands of The Other Woman.

And then Brother-in-L.A.W. piped up. I must have said more than I thought I had on the Farcebook, or certainly left far more to be read between the lines than I'd intended, because in swept Brother-in-L.A.W. with a detailed analysis of the situation and advice aplenty. I was working myself into a lather, looking to make some manner of dramatic gesture toward The Other Woman to let her know that the boat had sailed. Brother-in-L.A.W. counseled against this. Why should I listen to Brother-in-L.A.W.? His codename says it all. He's my brother-in-law. By that I don't mean that his advice should be heeded simply because he's a family member. I chuckled just thinking about that sentence. No, Brother-in-L.A.W. is my brother-in-law, meaning he married my sister, and my sister is a hell of a catch. The Guy won the heart of The Gal; The Guy has much wisdom to contribute to the eventual success of Project PANDORA. Brother-in-L.A.W. won the heart of The L.A.W.; he, too, might have much to teach me. Brother-in-L.A.W. was of the opinion that The Other Woman was a timid, frightened creature, one with whom I should exercise the patience of a saint. I'm no illusions of saintliness, but I have for years been teaching myself patience, repeating as a mantra the words of Rudyard Kipling, "If you can wait and not be tired by waiting." So, I set aside my instincts—reminding myself of what Jerry had told George, "If every instinct you have is wrong, then the opposite would have to be right." I thus determined to endure with good cheer The Other Woman's slings and arrows.

After a continuation of the previous pattern, I was finally able to cajole her to agree to a lunchtime assignation. I walked to the U of M-Flint Theatre, adjacent to the David M. French Hall and wandered into the backstage labyrinth. I found The Other Woman at the appointed hour and after a short wait while she disengaged from what she'd been doing, having made no obvious effort to respect the hour of our appointment, we walked to the Buckham Alley and entered The Torch. Whatever chemistry had existed between us as we made out at the end of the evening on her 21st birthday was long gone. Cross my heart and hope to die, I made my best effort; I was funny, I was charming, I was an attentive listener, but The other Woman was standoffish and unwelcoming. We conversed awkwardly throughout lunch, paid our separate tabs, and walked together only as far as Saginaw Street before bidding each other farewell. We neither hugged nor kissed, and no commitments were made for further communication. Adding insult to injury, after being inside The Torch both my parka and treasured tartan scarf reeked of cigarette smoke, requiring laundering post haste. This was in January of this year.

The date that propriety had demanded had come to pass and, even though it was an utter debacle, at least I could now wash my hands of the filthy business and walk away satisfied that I'd made every reasonable accommodation, done all that I could. My romantic history is chockablock with opportunities missed and dates never requested; at least this time, I'd dared, I'd made the effort, and I came away with no regrets. And, it must be said, a greater faith in my own instincts. In fairness to Brother-in-L.A.W., he was shooting from the hip without a full appreciation of all the facts; his advice is broadly applicable and seemingly quite useful, even if off the mark in the case of The Other Woman. That, as they say, was that, and I went back to angling for the affections of The Impossible Ingenue and scanning the horizon for other prospects.

Except for collecting and organizing my thoughts to write the original "Project PANDORA: The Other Woman" post in February (the first ride on the Wayback Machine, above), I had rarely thought about The Other Woman until out of the blue I received a late-night text message from her in May: Wayback Machine, Mark II. (I strongly suggest reading, or re-reading, the transcript of that text message conversation before reading any further.) I admit I was caught completely off my guard. Why hadn't I called her after our date? Because, Other Woman, you'd done your level best to postpone and avoid that date for weeks, and when it finally happened you were dull and singularly not engaging. Aside from the possibility of again putting my hands on her bum, what possible motive would I have had for calling? Not so fast, I chided myself, let's not be hasty. Yes, the date had been a horror show and everything had happened out of order, but I had kissed The Other Woman, and put my hands on her bum. That was far more success than I'd enjoyed with either The Most Dangerous Game the previous summer or The Impossible Ingenue over the preceding six months. The Cowgirl had warned me from the start that The other Woman had low self-esteem, which prompts all manner of self-sabotage. Maybe I had inadvertently spooked her on our date and made a mistake in never again calling her. I was dubious about that last bit, but decided to give things with The Other Woman another go. True to my word in the late-night text conversation, I rang her mobile and left a voice message.

I entered into the enterprise with no expectation of success, which was just about right. I left The Other Woman a voicemail, to which she did not respond. I sent her a pair of texts messages about the voicemail, to neither of which she responded. I sent her an email via the Farcebook, informing her of the voicemail and text messages; she replied that she'd left her phone at her family's weekend home, to which she would not have access until the following weekend. She never directly addressed the content of the voicemail or the text messages. And then she left for South Dakota for the summer. No sweat off my back, but this time, all due respect to Brother-in-L.A.W., I'm going with my instincts. If she wants to get together once she returns to sacred Michigan, I'll be open to the prospect, but I'm done jumping through hoops. The burden of communication will be hers. She'll have to get in touch with me, she'll have to respond constructively to any communication I send. No retransmissions or second chances on my part, if she wants anything to happen she's going to have to get over her pathetic poor self-image excuse and do some of the heavy lifting.

"If every instinct you have is wrong, then the opposite would have to be right." True enough, but not all of my instincts are wrong.

Codename: CHAOS
The secret behind all my dealings with The Other Woman is that she doesn't like me. Or, she might like me a little, but not enough to break through all the rubbish in her head, not without a chemical assist. (As the old, oft-misquoted corporate slogan ran, "Better things for better living… through chemistry!") The Other Woman only likes me when she's imbibed, fortified herself with the old liquid courage. This, plus my fondness for how "O.W." looks in the transcript of our late-night text confab, has prompted a change in her codename. Should she ever again contact me, she'll be known as "The O.W.L.," for "The Other Woman… & Liquor." The Other Woman doesn't have time for my idiosyncratic charm, but The O.W.L. thinks it's important that I know when she's horny and drunk.

Project MERCATOR
On Thursday night, I went to a midnight screening of Despicable Me, in loathsome 3D. I had no particular desire to see the film, and having seen it I am unsurprised to report that it was relentlessly derivative of Pixar's plainly superior films (and I say that not because it was computer animated), but I had not been a midnight film in ages and I salute the Action Hero's efforts to drag MERCATOR out of the midsummer doldrums. As the Action Hero, a distaff acquaintance from school named Jamie, and I chatted in the lobby, I came to the realization that if I'd seen a midnight movie since Revenge of the Sith—an unbelievable five years ago—it had slipped my mind. Despicable Me was cute, but the heartwarming bits between the despicable protagonist and his orphan charges were formulaic beyond all credulity, the supervillain-y (not be be confused with noun supervillainy) bits were pale stylistic imitations of The Incredibles, and the chief source of laughs (or at least intended as such), the yellow minions, were equal parts Jawas & the Squeeze Toy Alien triplets from the Toy Story trilogy. If there was an original idea in Despicable Me, it was so cleverly disguised as to escape detection.

The Impossible Ingenue sent me a text message today, reminding me that the Psych season premiere is tomorrow and saying we should watch it together. One of the inferiorities of text messaging is that I cannot know to how many other people she transmitted the same text. I texted back "What venue do you propose?", hoping she'd suggest her own house but expecting that she'd write something along the lines of "Your house?" Instead, though it didn't come as any surprise, she replied, (sic) "Someone with a tv? Lol." (More on that below.) I admit that I'd rather watch Psych by myself; the gang talk too much during episodes, and with an eye toward being the Host with the Most, I must divide my attention between my guests and the episode, even though I hold that Psych deserves my full attention. On the other hand, the whole point of MERCATOR is to fight my reclusive instincts, instincts that lead to isolation and decreased happiness. On the gripping hand, and this is the argument that has carried the day, if I invite The Impossible Ingenue and the gang over to watch Psych, as I did several times throughout the fall and winter, good form will require that I invite The Most Dangerous Game; after the misadventure of her last visit to the house (Wayback Machine, Mark III), I frankly do not want her over here. My father's campaign materials are strewn all about the house and Bog only knows how boorishly she'd again act. 'Tis a risk of unpleasantness I am unwilling to venture. My strategy then is to stick my head in the sand and hope tomorrow evening passes in blissful isolation.

Project PANDORA: The "Unpossible" Ingenue
The above exchange is not why my romantic intentions toward The Impossible Ingenue have faded past the point of vanishing, but is it emblematic. The Ingenue is constitutionally unwilling to give a straight answer to any question. This has been the case as long as I've known her, but in one moment, without any warning, that habit ceased being cute and became wearisome, even repulsive. Much of her behavior is driven by her desperation to be treated as being older than she is, and that I can forgive. But her ceaseless evasiveness makes me question what kind of friendship this is, utterly precluding any notions of romance. If she's always playing some or another game, are we even friends?

So, I'm not going to achieve the impossible. Even were it possible, I've lost all interest. This is not impatience speaking, this is the realization that there's nothing here worth the wait. The Impossible Ingenue was the whole reason The O.W.L. was regarded as an other woman, but now that both ventures have come to naught your humble narrator has moved along to greener pastures.

Project PANDORA Backlog Checklist
"The Other Woman, Part Deux"
nevermore The Impossible Ingenue
Stephanie & Amy post script
fun & games with The Trollop
Comrade Coquettish & From Russia, with Love

The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Huey Lewis & The News, "The Power of Love" via iTunes (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary:

"The power of love is a curious thing,
Make a one man weep, man another man sing."