Considering The Possibilities

20 08 2012

Time seemed to move slowly while I was waiting for the lawyer to read my blog and deliver his verdict. We kept up our email communication, but we did not see each other while he was digesting the information here on My Dating Prescription.

In the meantime, I had a distraction as my communication with My Stalker/Super Fan increased. Although I didn’t have the slightest clue who he was, he didn’t frighten me, so the stalker label didn’t exactly seem fair. However, unlike my other readers, to my knowledge, he never commented directly on the blog, and opted instead for sending me emails. They were slightly dirty-minded emails just funny enough or well written enough to skate the edge between sexy and creepy, but this alone seemed reason enough to let him retain the stalker label for the time being.

Regarding his identity, all I had to go on was a name, a zip code, and a bunch of emails that made me laugh out load, and not LOL, but REALLY laugh out load. My Stalker/Super Fan is hilarious. That’s one thing I do know about him for sure.

As I mentioned in Man #100, My Stalker/Super Fan and Therapy Thursday, as our emails increased I found myself more and more intrigued by him. I wanted to find out more, but because he seemed to like playing this mystery game with me, I found it difficult to ask the questions I wanted answered. And yet, there were times when he provided tangential personal information while still remaining anonymous.

For example, there was the time I questioned whether or not he was using his real name, and he scolded me for questioning him.

“I can’t believe you have the cojones to call me out on my name. I accept your nom de plume and your anonymity. My Mom’s name is …, [and he included her phone number] if you have any questions about her Dear Son…”

I’m sure he was bluffing. He knew there was no way I was going to call his mother. What would I say?

“Yes, hello Mother Stalker. My name is Wilma, and I’m calling because your son, My Stalker/Super Fan, gave me your number so I could call and ask you questions about him. You don’t know me yet, but you will, because in a couple of years when I finally finish dating 100 men on this prescription that my crazy therapist gave me, your son has hatched an elaborate plan to make me fall in madly in love with him.

Yes, uh huh. That’s what he said,…madly in love yes. I wouldn’t make that up. No. I see. He’s always had an active imagination? Ok.

Well, he gave me your phone number, and I was wondering if you could please confirm some information for me. No,…no, ma’am, I’m not a telemarketer. No, I can’t actually take your number off of the Do Not Call List, because I don’t have the list…No ma’am. I would never ask for his social security number. I was thinking more along the lines of how old he is and what he does for a living. Is he a good son? Does he call you regularly? …What’s that?

He has other people call you?

Strange women named things like Wilma…I see. Well, thank you for your time. Have a good day. Yeah, you too. Ok. Ba bye now.”

Yeah,…no.

He knew I wouldn’t call her. I did, however, do a reverse look up of the number on 411.com and confirmed that the person living at that number had the same last name as My Stalker/Super Fan.

See. Tangential. I think he totally expected me to do a little research. Apparently, if I want to know who he is I will have to work for it.

I started to consider all of the possible scenarios. You can get an email address for any name you want these days, and identity theft runs rampant. Once he had the email address, he could just look up a phone number for people with the same last name on the internet.

As the information we shared via email became more personal, however, I started to worry more about the fact that My Stalker/Super Fan could be anyone. What if he was someone I had already dated who was trying to mess with me? What if he was one of my classmates from my MBA program? Or worse. What if he was one of my professors? He could even be a husband of one of my married friends, and I might never know. The point is, I don’t know who he is, but I started running through all of the possibilities.

Over a year ago, I had tried to inquire about his age, and the only information I got was,

“I am older than you, and can teach you much if you are willing to listen Grasshopper. I’m number 100. Boys first, men last.”

See, funny, but the mystery is frustrating to say the least.

Recently, I asked him his age again, and he finally told me he is 63 and old enough to be my father. However, he added that I didn’t need to call him Daddy.

Great. Thanks.

He is actually several months older than my mom. To be fair, my mother was pretty young when she had me. I am 44.

I’m less concerned about chronological age and more interested to know about his health and joie de vivre. As some of my recent dates have proven, while one man can be my age and seem like a grumpy old man another could be active and a lot of fun. I tried to ask My Stalker/Super Fan for more information on this, but he seemed annoyed by it, and replied,

“Have I given you reason to question my cognition? I do 45 minutes of cardio daily at a heart rate of 85% of max for 30 year old. Perhaps if your questions were more specific. Like…CAN YOU STILL GET IT UP?”

I explained that, yes, besides the fact that I had dated some men younger than him who were fuddie duddies lately, I was also very interested to know, when date #100 finally came, if I would be able to ride him like a pony without giving him a heart attack.

I mean, just because I haven’t had any sex lately doesn’t mean I don’t like sex. I’m just picky about who I have sex with. In fact, at this point, I have a lot of pent up energy, A LOT of pent up energy. I could seriously hurt someone, especially an old man with a shoddy ticker.

His response,

“Fuddy duddy? I’m strong, fit, and tan. You can do chin ups on my hard on. I don’t need Viagra. Besides, do you have any idea what that shit’s made of? It’s half Miracle Grow and half Fix-A-Flat.”

See. Funny, but it also put an end to my inquiry.

One of my friends was mortified when I told her his age, and said, “He should be dating women my mom’s age, but my mom says all the guys her age want women our age. The 80 year old men are the ones interested her, and she says all they want is a purse or a nurse.”

My mom and stepdad were less concerned and cited successful relationships they knew where a similar age difference existed.

Sam and Really Really Nice Guy had opinions too.

“Tell her about your stepmom,” Sam said.

“She’s 57 and my dad is 75. They’ve been together for about ten years,” Really Really Nice Guy said, “but now my dad has Alzheimer’s.”

“So she’s taking care of him,” I asked.

“Yep.”

“Well, My Stalker/Super Fan told me he’s really fit,” I said, and I told them what he said about his exercise routine.

“Well, my dad was really fit too,” Really Really Nice Guy said, “he ran every day, and every morning he ate oatmeal. He’d make his bowl of oatmeal, line up thirty different vitamins on the counter, and put lecithin on his cereal. Now, look at him. He doesn’t even know who his wife is.”

“Wow,” I said, “So, what are you saying? That even if My Stalker/Super Fan has the endurance to stick around to be Man #100, I’ve only got 10 to 15 good years with him tops?”

“Yep, probably,” Sam said.

I had to think about that.

I want to know what you think.

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Are You Trying to Make Me Like You?

17 08 2012

Over the past year and a half, I’ve recounted my dating adventures, but I haven’t written much about the hundreds of emails I have exchanged with men in order to set up these dates. It’s kind of ridiculous. I would have a panic attack if I actually started tracking the numbers on the emails and texts needed just to set up one date.

It’s like when you’re in sales. You need 200 prospects a week, 60 contacts, which might result in 10 appointments, and hopefully, if all goes well, 2 sales.

It’s fucking exhausting is what it is.

Then you get these guys who want to send a hundred one-sentence emails or texts, and it starts to feel less like dating and more like work.

Case in point:

The Characters:

Short, Italian Man (SIM) – a real Italian, from Italy, not one of those Jersey Italians who don’t even pronounce their Italian surnames with the correct Italian pronunciation. (Yes, I’m talking to you, Teresa Giudice.)

Tall, Buxom Woman (ME) – a Viking, blogger, and mom, short on time and patience and long on sarcasm and expletives.

The Scenario:

SIM originally started sending me messages in April, but because I was mostly unavailable due to my MBA coursework, I put him off until after graduation. Then, with summer activities, work, and time that I wanted to spend with my kids, I put him off some more. I have to give him credit for perseverance.

A couple of months ago, he emailed me and asked me for my phone number so we could text. I sent him a message and said,

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. I don’t like giving my number out to men I haven’t met yet, and texting is the fastest way to piss me off.”

Yes, this is how straightforward I have become. Rather than let these men fuck it up on their own I like to give them a warning. I’m a busy woman, and I don’t have time to play with my phone all day long, and when men can spend all day texting, it makes me wonder if they have a job.

Fast forward to the other day and SIM asked me for my phone number again, so we could “flirt” through texting. This is apparently his idea of fun. I wasn’t too excited by this idea at all since the last Italian who flirted with me through texting made a surprise reference to his c&%k, but since SIM and I have finally scheduled our first date for Wednesday next week, I figured it was time to exchange phone numbers.

I like to get a guy’s phone number just ahead of a date in case one of us is running late or can’t find the other at our meeting place.

I felt the need to warn him a second time about my impatience with texting. I basically said I don’t like it so don’t abuse it.

The Result:

Last night I received a text while I was meeting with my wine club (I mean book club.)

SIM: and this is my number. ciao

This morning…

ME: Ok. Thanks. I didn’t see your text until really late last night. I didn’t think you would want me texting you at 11:30 p.m.

This afternoon…

SIM: yep. it s you…sorry your number was not iny phone, and didn’t memorize it 🙂 …

ME: That’s ok. My phone doesn’t know who you are yet either.

SIM: then i guess we are two strangers

ME: As far as our phones are concerned, yes.

SIM: is this Wilma?

(WTF? Who the fuck did he think he was texting? Apparently, I am one of many…and so is he. He has no idea. Mwah ha ha. )

ME: As tempted as I am to fuck with you and say no…yes, this is Wilma.

SIM: lol…(I hate when men use lol. Actually, I hate when anyone uses lol. What are you? Twelve?)

SIM: listen to you so innocent looking with hot legs 😉 and using the f word 🙂

(Oh god, just stab me in the eyeball with a sharp stick, please.)

ME: You just don’t know me yet.

SIM: sweet and naughty is a good mix 🙂 (Insert Beavis and Butthead laugh here.)

ME: Does dropping an f-bomb make me naughty? I thought it just made me foul-mouthed.

SIM: you got a point 🙂 …let me hope 🙂 lol

(Ok dude, enough with the fucking smiley faces already.)

ME: You can hope, but you should never assume.

SIM: well assuming is ok when you hope to bw proven wrong 🙂

ME: So you’re hoping I’m not naughty?

SIM: no! i am hoping you are 🙂

ME: Then wouldn’t you hope to be proven right?

SIM: i can see you have been paying attention!

ME: I”m very detail-oriented and it’s hard to not pay attention when my phone keeps beeping at me.

SIM: i should stop …you specifically asked me not to flood your phone

ME: Yeah, I can understand the excitement, given that is has taken over four months for us to get to the first date but it would be a shame to mess it up now.

SIM: yep. ok, i will be mindful don’t worry. enjoy the weekend 🙂

ME: You too.

I’m supposed to meet him next Wednesday. Is it wrong of me to feel intellectually superior at this point? I’m a little worried that he was beating off while telling me he hopes I’m a naughty girl.





Man #29, The Kept Man…The Aftermath

4 08 2012

You may find it shocking to know that I don’t spend every Friday and Saturday night out on a date. In fact, I usually reserve those nights for time with my good friends or family. Last night was no different. My friend, Sam invited me over to hang out with her and her boyfriend, Really Really Nice Guy.

She offered up vino and time in her hot tub in exchange for a helping of my sage chips. This is a typical thing for me. I get invited to places, all expenses paid, in exchange for my cooking. Most people have to sing for their supper. For me, it’s the other way around.

Really Really Nice Guy had gathered fresh sage from Sam’s garden, and she had a craving. When I arrived, I was quickly handed a glass of wine and got to work in her kitchen. As I was standing over hot oil flipping sage leaves with tongs, we started talking about my recent adventures in dating. I started telling her about The Kept Man and how promising emails had quickly devolved into the discovery that the man was a slob and a sponge.

“You mean you broke up with him because of his landscaping,” Sam asked, incredulous.

“No, correction, I did not break up with him. We were never together. You can’t break up with someone if you were never together.”

“Ok, so you stopped seeing him because of his landscaping?”

“You can’t call what he had landscaping, and, no, it wasn’t just because of that.”

Sam happens to be one of the people who has been giving me a hard time about being too picky. She says I should define three deal breakers, and if a man passes those three things, I should consider him a solid dating prospect. I happen to think Sam is full of shit.

Besides, what does she know? She has Really Really Nice Guy. Really Really Nice Guy does really, really nice things for her. She couldn’t possibly know my pain.

“You should pick three things, like Rhonda, and stick to them,” Sam said.

Rhonda is another friend of ours. She has three deal breakers. One is that a guy has to be okay with her bush. She’s not shaving for anyone. The second is they have to be okay with her porn. What can I say? Girlfriend likes her porn. I can’t remember what the other one is, but anyway, Sam thinks this is the approach I should take.

Of course, that means I would have to define my three deal breakers. Believe it or not, one of them is not, “You must be at least this tall to ride this ride.” However, these are relationship deal breakers, not dating deal breaker. I’m not having relationships yet, and I don’t think I’m going to talk about bush or no bush on a first date.

I don’t know what my deal breakers would be. I’ll have to get back to you on that.

So, anyway…where were we?

Oh yeah, so Sam was giving me a hard time about dropping The Kept Man like a hot potato.

“Ok, for the record, I did not stop talking to him just because his house was a mess. The guy was a mooch. He’s sponging off of his ex-wife and then he can’t even get off his ass long enough to make sure that people can get to his front door.”

I couldn’t tell for sure, but I think Really Really Nice Guy agreed with me on this. From what I could tell, he’s been doing a great job keeping things together at their place. In addition to fixing things around the house, he cooks.

Sam was still looking at me in disbelief, and it was starting to piss me off so I continued.

“Besides, what do you know? You always meet guys who want to fix things,” I say, waving the tongs in Really Really Nice Guy’s direction, “I always meet men who break things, and I’m sick of it! I’ve had that argument before. When STBex and I were together one of the STUPID things we fought about all the time was the yard. It was ridiculous! Anytime I asked him to mow the grass it ended up in a big fight.”

I’m a tall woman, almost six feet, and I’ve always had a big voice, probably from all those years of using my diaphragm to project my voice in choir. Then when I get upset, I get louder. I continued on my diatribe.

“Do you know that one time when we were fighting over the yard, I asked STBex, if since he didn’t want to mow the lawn, if he would be ok hiring someone? Do you know what he said?? He told me he wasn’t going to hire anyone, but I could. He was totally fine to let our house look like we were the white trash neighbors on the street, and if I wanted it to look any differently, it was up to me to pay for it. Believe me, fighting over taking care of our home is not something I’m willing to fight about again. It’s a stupid argument to have! Stupid!”

Phew! I was spent. I took a big swig of my wine.

“I’m not doing that again,” I said, putting my glass down, “I would rather be alone than argue about something as stupid as taking care of my home. The next man who gets to share a home with me is going to care about himself, his home, his family, and ME goddamnit.”

And just like that I had my first deal breaker.





The Leading Man and Important Lessons

23 07 2012

I don’t know if it’s just me, or if you’ve noticed too. It feels like things have gotten a bit sloppy around here, and I need to take care of some minor housekeeping. It has come to my attention that there is a loose end I have failed to tie up. Admittedly, in the last two quarters of my MBA program, I was a little frazzled; my blogging became sporadic; and the flow of things around here got a little off. It’s not easy being Superwoman, but I intend to set this blog back on the right track if it kills me.

Sidenote: Actually, when I was a little girl, I wanted to be Wonder Woman, not Superwoman. I think it was the costume, the golden lasso of truth, and bracelets. And what prepubescent girl in the 70s didn’t hope to one day have tits like Lynda Carter?

Anyway, the little discussion that erupted over Man #27, The Flavor Saver made me realize I had never followed up to tell you about what happened with Man #24, The Leading Man. You may recall when we last saw The Leading Man, he was giving me a hug, kissing me on the cheek, and telling me we should definitely go out on another date.

Hooray! The date had been really comfortable and fun. The Leading Man wasn’t one of those guys who made me feel I had to be anything other than who I am, and I definitely wanted to go out with him again.

So, I patiently waited for his call…

I made sure I sent him a text message, telling him I had fun and thanked him for the date…

…and I waited.

He sent me a friend request on Facebook.

Confirmed.

Waiting…waiting…

Pretty exciting stuff.

I commented on a picture of his dogs.

Waiting…

I sent him a message asking him if he ever got that Thai food he had been craving. (Hint, hint.)

No. He hadn’t.

Nothing.

What.

The.

Fuck?

I had a conversation with the friend who had set me up on my date with Man #24.

“What’s the deal? Did he say anything to you guys?”

“No, sometimes we go months without hearing from him. He’s just like that sometimes. Sometimes we have to call him and leave messages telling him to call us because we’re worried about him.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. And, she and her husband thought a guy who does this would be a good leading man for me in their romantic comedy?

This is why letting friends set you up on dates is a bad idea.

“I don’t know what to say,” she said, “I would just leave it alone and maybe he’ll call you.”

“Yeah, I’m not going to chase after him.”

By that time, I had already had my date with The Karaoke Kripple, determined he was looking for a sugar mamma, and was searching for my date with Man #26. I had 75 other men to date, and time’s a wastin’. There was no sense in waiting around, hoping for another date with The Leading Man.

I’m not going to say it didn’t bother me though. It made me wonder about a couple of things. First, why do men do this thing where they say they want another date and then never follow through? It doesn’t make sense to me. I guess after having dates with a couple dozen men, I can sort of understand how, at the end of a date, a man might not want to deal with the awkwardness of saying, “Well, it was really nice to meet you, but this is the last time we will be seeing each other.”  In fact, I have a backlog of writing I need to do, and, shamefully, I recently did something similar to the date who will become Man #32. I promised something at the end of the date that I knew, in the moment, I would never deliver.

I know. I’m not proud of it, but it happened.

But, like I said, with a little first date experience under my belt, I can see how it happens. However, also because of my first date, 100 date experiences, I can also say how important it is in these situations to take corrective action immediately. It makes no sense whatsoever to lead a person on, and I certainly don’t invite my blog fodder to be friends with me on Facebook.

The other thought that crossed my mind was that, as I had feared, I was no longer the thin, attractive woman The Leading Man remembered from that summer party in 2006. That had to be a major disappointment for him. During our conversation at the bar, he even seemed disappointed that I was dying my hair auburn. I wasn’t even the blonde he remembered. I seriously considered that my extra weight played a significant role in his decision to not ask me out again.

So, you see, even I, super heroine, serial dater that I am, get rejected sometimes. Counter to popular belief, it’s not just me doing the rejecting.

This happened a little while ago now, and I’ve had time to think about it. The important lesson here is not “Oh, boo hoo. He doesn’t like me.” It’s not, “I’m a big fat fatty so I don’t deserve love.” No.

The important lesson is that when a man says he’s going to call and he doesn’t, he’s doing you a favor. The way my date with The Leading Man went down had direct comparisons to my date with The Blues Man. The Blues Man had also said we should go out again and left me wondering what was wrong with me. This time, however, with The Leading Man, I just quietly let things fade away, went on about my business, and didn’t get all heartbroken over it.

This may sound anti-feminist to some, but one thing I have learned in this process is that I don’t like doing the chasing in a relationship. I don’t like the woman I become in that relationship dynamic. I want to be feminine. Please let me be feminine even with my potty mouth.

I’ve had my experiences enabling passive-aggressive men, and it is a thankless job. That shit is hard work, and it’s not worth it. I personally don’t think pursuing a man pays off in the end. When a man knows what he wants, he will go after it, and if he doesn’t want me, there is really no reason for me to want him.

Unfortunately, Seattle, as a city, has a very passive-aggressive personality. Some theorists hypothesize that it is due to our bad weather; we’re all hunkered down, shoulders up, heads down against the rain. But regardless of our weather, the guy for me won’t be afraid to ask me out for a first date and then a second and then a third.

If he’s divorced, he’ll talk openly about what happened in his marriage, but he’ll resist letting his ex get custody of his balls. (No woman in her right mind wants a man who is still letting another woman drag him around by his cojones.) No, the man for me will have his balls. He’ll be ready to be in a relationship. If he’s scared, that’s fine, but he’ll muster up his courage and do his own work instead of expecting me to be his therapist.

So, the important lesson is: Rejection is fine, because I want a man who wants me.  That seems like a no-brainer, doesn’t it? I want a man who wants me, and I want a man who will wrap his hands around the back of my head and kiss me so I know it.

Ok. I know. In addition to Wonder Woman, maybe I also watched Gone with the Wind one too many times growing up.

Photo here.





Yes, I’m A Picky Bitch

18 07 2012


Picky Picky

It’s true. I’m a picky bitch, or, at the very least, I’m a ninny.  It seems the recap of my date with Man #27, The Flavor Saver, got under the skin of a few folks, prompting a number of comments informing me I am too shallow and always looking for the bad things about men instead of the good.  I’ve been told to work on myself instead of being so damned negative.

Ok.

(Note to self: Increase workouts at Experience Fitness from three days a week with the trainer to six. Call Mom more often. Meditate more. Don’t worry; be happy.)

It is rare that I write an entire blog post in response to reader comments. The last time this happened was when I wrote Inhale, Exhale in response to “Jewish but not a Doctor” ripping me a new one after my date with Man #4, The Poser.  This process of dating and blogging has evolved, or perhaps devolved, over the past year and a half, and it might be time to reflect on my process and get your comments and suggestions on how to move forward.  Although, I will say, that as the writer of this blog, and the captain of my vessel, I retain the right to do whatever the hell I want, and choose or not choose whomever I want as a partner, as I see fit.

The prescription: date 100 men without getting serious with anyone.  You may recall that none of this was my idea.  I never wanted to be divorced, and when my therapist told me he thought I should get back out there and date, I thought he was a nut job. I will also remind you that I don’t particularly like dating.  In fact, I think it sucks.  If I could meet the man of my dreams and never have to go on another date, it would be fine by me.  However, here I am. I’m doing it. I hate it, but I’m doing it. Just that alone makes me want to say a big “fuck you” to anyone who wants to complain about my methods.

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. I would rather read a textbook on soil science than respond to another email from a man saying, “nice legs and a pretty smile too…. :)” (Insert Beavis and Butthead laugh here.)

And yes, before you ask, that is the content of an entire email in my inbox on OkCupid, right now, as we speak…and you have the gall to wonder why I’m selective.

And about my methods…blogging about my dates is inherently flawed for sure, but it is what I have chosen to do. Knowing that I can share my misery with the rest of the world somehow makes the whole process a little less painful. However, in terms of the actual process of going on a first date, I can’t say that it really changes anything. There is this assumption that I approach each date looking for the reasons why I shouldn’t date a guy, rather than looking for things that are good. This is actually not true. You must remember that all of my blog posts are written after I have been on the date and determined that there will, or will not be, a second one. Like anyone else out there dating, I have posted my online dating profiles.  I exchange emails with potential dates to see if they can even put two words together. If a man asks me out, I go out, try to look cute, engage in a good conversation, and hope he will call me again if there is a spark. I don’t go on the date looking for it to be bad. Why would I bother wasting my time doing that? That would be stupid.

I will say again, as I’ve said many times before, if a good man comes along, I am not going to throw him away just because I haven’t reached 100 dates.  As this blog proves, finding the one with whom you’re compatible is like finding a needle in a haystack, so I will not let a good man pass me by if he happens to come along.

Now, all of that said, here are the problems I see.

First, if I meet someone I like, and I happen to get hung up on him, like I did with The Blues Man, you, my readers, tend to get a little disappointed that I’m not following my prescription. Well, actually, I think some of you enjoy when I go off my meds and write about a male lead character who you hope will become my prince.  Who doesn’t like a good fairy tale?  But, for the most part, it seems there are a lot of you out there who like rules, and when I don’t follow the rules of my prescription, it makes you a little edgy.

For the sake of foreshadowing, however, I will just say I have an upcoming dilemma to share, and this brings me to my second point.  Where dating and blogging really go awry is when I meet someone I like. At some point, very quickly after I meet a man, if I don’t want to have what happened to me with The Blues Man happen to me again, I have to tell the man I like about my blog, and before you go telling me that I don’t have to tell him, I’ll just remind you about this little thing called Google.  I’ve been at this long enough now that My Dating Prescription comes up as one of the things I do, so I feel it’s only right to disclose my dating endeavors to a man before we go out again.  The mere mention of my blog weeds out any man who is going to have a problem with me dating other men while dating him, and any man who isn’t comfortable talking to me about what he is willing to share online about our relationship.  To be honest, if you really want to help, this is an area where I could use some pointers on how to deal with this problem.

Third, I want to address this whole issue of negativity and being picky. Like I said, I approach each new date with the hope that I will never have to go on another first date ever, ever again. So, imagine this is you. You go on a date; your date is pleasant enough; but you know you would not want to be in a long-term relationship with the person. Perhaps there is no chemistry for whatever reason. Perhaps her tits are too small.  Maybe her butt is too flat.  Maybe she smacks her gums when she eats.  You, a person who is not writing a blog, can go back to your friends and simply say there was no chemistry, or, perhaps, you don’t mention it to anyone at all.  In fact, if you want to stick your head in the sand, and never examine why you keep dating bitches (or assholes) who walk all over you, you can do that without any self-examination or reflection on what it was about the date, or an entire relationship for that matter, that didn’t work.

I, however, have created this problem. (Or, maybe my therapist created the problem.) Anyway, how interesting would it be for you, dear readers, to read for the 27th time, that I did not have any chemistry with someone?

(Yawn)

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

I have to come up with a unique name for each gentleman, and I also have to find something that stood out about the date that will make for entertaining reading. Believe me, if I wrote each blog post like most men write their online dating profiles, there would be nothing here worth reading. After the fifth one, they would all start to look and sound the same. Just this process of making each man seem unique creates the impression that I’m a picky bitch.

In real life, does it really matter that a man is too short to ride the ride? As it turns out, no.

Am I really opposed to facial hair? Apparently, I’m only bothered by facial hair that ends up in my nose when I kiss a man.

There are a lot of reasons why two people may lack chemistry. I just happen to be writing about it. I wish the ratio of men I have dated to men I want to date again was lower. Believe me; I do, but it’s not.  If it were, I would appear less picky, and dating would be a lot more fun.

Finally, in regards to the suggestion that I “start working on transforming [myself] into the person [who] has the ability to be in a successful relationship,” I would say that this process of writing about my dates is actually helping me do that. You, the readers, don’t get to see all of the behind the scenes action, but there is definitely an evolution happening, allowing me to feel more empowered and more self-confident. In the past, I settled for a “successful relationship” that, in reality, involved me just being happy that a guy wanted to be with me.  That sounds like a woman with pretty low self-esteem, doesn’t it?  I sacrificed a lot of myself in the process, and I learned the hard way, that a man who will not accept me, for me, is not a man worth having in my life. In this process, I’m not asking any man to change; I’m just moving on to the next number when the chemistry isn’t right. The mere fact that I pick one detail and write about it for entertainment sake, does not make me a picky bitch; it makes me a creative writer. The fact that I’m a picky bitch is what makes me a picky bitch.

At the end of the day, when you meet someone you like, it really comes down to the whole package, not just a wayward flavor saver.

Now, you will have to excuse me. There is a gentleman with a goatee who is patiently waiting, ticket in hand, to see if this operator will let him ride the ride even though he doesn’t meet the height requirements.

Go buy the Picky Picky poster here.





My 30 Minutes of Fame

16 07 2012

Flora M. Brown, PhD.

It has come to pass. I am a dating expert. I go to parties, people find out that I write a dating blog, and I spend the rest of the night talking about dating.

I am also a Wizpert.  You can find the Wizpert button in the sidebar of this blog.

Now, I’m doing Blog Talk Radio interviews.  Dr. Flora M. Brown of Color Your Life Happy interviewed me this morning.  Check out “A Dating Prescription May be Just What the Doctor Ordered.”  I’d love to get your comments and questions, and as usual, feel free to tell me that you think I’m full of shit if the mood strikes you.

Alternatively, this will make a great drinking game.  Get a group of friends together; listen to my radio interview; and drink every time I say the word, “um.”  You should be plastered in no time.

Cheers!

Flora’s photo is here.

Listen to internet radio with Flora M Brown PhD on Blog Talk Radio





My First “Quarterly” Reflection

15 06 2012

I suppose throughout the course of any epic journey one should stop, take a moment, and reflect.  After dates with twenty-five different men, this is one of my moments.

I still remember THE moment, the moment minutes after my husband and I had returned from the airport.  My husband had been gone for three weeks, one week in Mexico for work, another two in Colombia with family.  We had just arrived home, and suddenly, I realized he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring.  I still remember where I was standing, where he was sitting, what he said when I asked him where his ring was.

“Yeah, we need to talk about that,” he said casually.

It only took a second for a heavy feeling of dread to lodge in the pit of my stomach.

“While I was gone I was telling my family that I was getting a divorce.”

Funny how he had not mentioned it to me.

I don’t think I really heard the words.  I mean, I guess I did, but my mind felt like it was swirling, and I was trying to grasp the meaning of the situation.  It was almost midnight, my husband and I had been getting along lately, talking on the phone frequently while he was in Colombia.  I had gone and picked him up from the airport.  I had driven forty minutes out there and back at eleven o’clock at night, and now he was saying he was getting a divorce.  From whom? Me?

I was in shock.

A strange thing had happened while he was away on his trip.  My wedding ring had cracked.  The underside of the ring, the palm side, where it wears more heavily from daily wear and use, one day suddenly cracked all the way through.  I won’t lie.  I thought it was a sign.  I didn’t want to believe it, but all the signs were there.  This one, however, the cracking of my wedding ring, that seemed like certainty.  I knew it was over.

There I was, standing next to our entertainment center. He was sitting on the couch, telling me he was getting a divorce.  Not that he was thinking about it, not that he was planning it, he was just doing it.  Period.

I felt betrayed.  I suddenly pulled my wedding ring off of my finger. I had continued to wear it despite the crack.  I suddenly pulled it off, shook it at him and said, “my ring cracked while you were gone.  It’s probably not even metal. It’s probably a fraud, just like our marriage.”

I slammed it down, hard, on the top of the DVR as he shrugged off my statement.  I felt mocked.  I turned around and fled to the bedroom.  I cried all night.

The next day, I twisted my cracked wedding ring into a serpentine shape and threw it in the garbage.

They say that divorce is like a death and that the first stages of grief are shock and denial.  I had been in denial a long time despite the cracks in my marriage.  Although I lived with them on a daily basis, I didn’t want to see them.  I wanted to cover them with spackle and pretend they weren’t there.  I am not a quitter.  I was a wife, and I was going to be the best damn wife I could be.  I would not quit.  There was absolutely no way I was going to be the quitter.  No way.  We would go to counseling; we would evolve as a couple; but we would not quit.

Denial.  I thought I had enough fight in me for both of us, but that’s not how relationships work.

The truth was, deep down, I knew he hadn’t loved me for a long time.  In fact, I didn’t think he had ever loved me. That was painful.  It’s painful still.  Things had been said, cruel, hurtful things, meant to sting and torture.  I had chosen to deny their meaning.  I cloaked my sorrow in red wine and swore that I would not be the one to give up.

So, when my husband decided to quit, it really pissed me off.

Fucking quitter!

That was about a year and a half ago.  The shock and denial have been replaced by other emotions, sometimes anger, sometimes sadness.  I’m no longer in shock, and there’s no longer any denial that my marriage is over.  It’s over.  Dead.  No going back.

So, regarding these first twenty-five men I’ve dated, what have I learned?

Well, I’ve learned that denial is a dangerous thing.  The denial didn’t start when I said “I do.”  No, it was there all along.  Yeah, STBex had been charming, but there were always signs that I might be making a mistake.  I had chosen not to see them.  I just wanted to be married so badly.  If I had any words of wisdom for young women out there, it would be that things don’t get better just because a man decides to put a ring on it.  I had made excuses for my husband’s bad behavior because I loved him.  I’m not willing to do that at the expense of my health and sanity again.

What it has meant for me in dating these first twenty-five men is that I’m not willing to make excuses for a man anymore.  Barring some catastrophic life crisis, it is rare that people change, and my pre-marriage naiveté has been replaced by the wisdom that marriage is hard work, not a fairy tale.  The problems that exist in a relationship before marriage will only intensify once you depart the wedding ceremony.  Marriage has to be a partnership or it will never work.  You can’t drag the quitter along with you.  Life is hard enough without dead weight.

I’ve questioned the sanity of my therapist many times over.  It seems like a dangerous prescription in some ways, telling a person to get out there and date, not knowing for certain what she will encounter.  However, each new date has been a chance for reflection.  Although I’m reflecting on where I’m at today, after these first twenty-five, I realize I’ve been reflecting all along.  I’m still learning what I want, but, now, what I know I want, what I know I need, is to just continue dating.  I don’t want a boyfriend.  I don’t want a relationship.  I don’t want anything serious.  I just want to go on the occasional date.

Most of my friends have a dating rule that they will not have a relationship with a someone who is divorced for less than one year.  Just speaking from my experience, I now believe this is a good rule.  Sure. Everyone is different.  I’m sure one’s mental state is deeply impacted by whether he or she is the person leaving or the one being left, but divorce is a drawn-out process, both legally and emotionally.  It doesn’t seem fair to drag a new person into that mess before I’m really ready.

I don’t think I feel bitter.  Uncompromising maybe, or even a little bitchy sometimes, but not bitter.  A couple of my friends have started to encourage me to keep my dates around after I’ve written about them, but I don’t really see the point.  Besides, maintaining my blog fodder was never supposed to be part of the deal.  One of my friends warned that if I don’t watch my tone in my blog posts, there’s a chance future men won’t want to date me.  I’m okay with that too.  I don’t write to be mean or spiteful.  I simply write what I feel in my core.  My theory is that someday, when I am ready to really date again, maybe when I’m 80, there will be a guy who really gets me.  He’ll have a job (or a retirement account).  He won’t be a compulsive texter.  He won’t be emotionally or physically abusive.  He’ll understand my sense of humor.   He won’t be a quitter.  But most importantly, I won’t have to make excuses for him.  I won’t have to be in denial about our relationship, and I won’t have to tell myself stories to spackle over the cracks.  If cracks form, they will be like the ones found in the glaze of antique porcelain or in the skin on the back of an old person’s hand, formed by time, wisdom, and endurance, the cracks of someone, or something, that hasn’t quit.

Photo here.








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