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.



Pretty exciting stuff.

I commented on a picture of his dogs.


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

No. He hadn’t.





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.


Ms. MDP Attends a Singles Party, Part 2

23 06 2012

Armed with a Manhattan and words of advice from the tall, loud man in the kitchen to, “be sure to try the cayenne pepper popcorn,” I headed back out into the main rooms of the house to give mingling with the other singles a try.  I scanned the living room, looking for someone who wasn’t already in the middle of a conversation with someone.  It appeared people had already begun to pair off.

I walked, pink paper in hand, from the living room to the dining room where the food table was set up, bypassed the food for the time being, and ventured into the front room of the house.  It seemed like everyone was already talking to someone.  One of my friends was talking to a very handsome, tall man, and I couldn’t help but think that I probably wouldn’t have the guts to talk to him.  I noticed one of my girlfriends across the room and commited the cardinal sin of networking/mingling.  I went over and started talking to someone I already knew.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

“Not well,” I said with a sigh.

“Well, who have you talked to so far?”

“No one.”

“No one?”

“Well, there’s this weird guy in the kitchen,” I said, “He’s not part of the party, but I’m supposed to try the cayenne pepper popcorn.  It’s supposed to be really good.”

“How many men have you found on your list?” she asked.

“None.  I haven’t really tried yet.  I don’t think I’m very good at this.”

“YOU’RE not good at this? Oh, come on.  What’s your problem?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just not sure how to start,” I said.

“Just pick a guy, walk up to him, and say HI, give me a hint to which one of these things belongs to you,” she coached, referring to our long list of tidbits from the men at the party.

“Really? Is that what you’re really doing?”


“Huh,” I said.

“Now get back out there and get away from me. You’re blocking my action,” she said, “I’ll talk to you later.”

I felt like I was back in little swimmers class when the swimming teacher forces you let go of the side of the pool, pushes you out, away from the wall, into the water, and tells you to blow your first bubbles.  I needed a fucking snorkel and a mask.  I started to figure there would be nothing wrong with noshing on some party food, drinking a few Manhattans, and calling it an evening.

I started to move through the house again, and realized that a slight bottleneck existed at the base of the stairs and between the dining room and family room.  The space there narrowed, and as people passed through, it was almost impossible not to at least say “excuse me” to someone. Opposite the bottom of the stairs there was also a little alcove.  This was my spot.  I put my back to the alcove and stopped there for a moment.  The location offered me both prospect and refuge.

Within moments, I was face to face with a little Chinese man, looking up at me and asking, “Are you a top or a bottom?”

“What?!!” I asked.

“Top or bottom?  Is your quote on the top half of the page or the bottom?”

“Oh,” I said, “I actually don’t know. Let me look at your paper.”

He held his blue piece of paper out so I could scan the tidbits offered up by other women and find my own.

“Well, I guess I’m a bottom,” I said.

“Does yours have anything to do with travel?” he inquired.

“Sadly, yes,” I responded.  Obviously, this guy had figured out how to narrow down his choices by cutting them in half and then in half again.  Smart.  I made note to use his tactics on the next person I spoke to.

He quickly asked me a few more questions and narrowed the tidbits down until he was certain that I had “lived in Rome and taken cooking classes while there.”

“What kinds of things can you make,” he asked.

“Well, homemade pasta, ragu Bolognese, different kinds of risotto, limoncello…”

“Cool,” he said, “Ok, now do me.”


“You have to find my thing on the page.”

“Oh, yeah, ok.  Well, are you a top or bottom?”


“Perfect,” I said.

“Travel related?”



This would be more difficult.  At least with the travel-related tidbits you could then move to narrowing things down by hemispheres or continents.  After some work, it turned out he, “is known as such a big eater that a couple of coworkers think he can shut down a buffet.”

“You don’t look like a man who can put away a buffet, but I believe you.”

“Oh, I love to eat,” he said.

We stood there, mushed into the alcove, talking for quite a while longer.  He was a smarty-pants, engineer and was very easy to talk to.  Although I could have stayed and spoken to him for much longer, I finally figured I had my technique down, and I was ready to try it on another person.  Plus, my Manhattan was gone, and I needed another, key word being needed.

As I was standing, waiting for a drink, a tall, handsome, blonde man approached, and started talking to me.  He said he wasn’t too worried about the contest. He was just interested in having a lot of different conversations.  I wished I had his confidence and could navigate this party without my pink piece of paper.  One more Manhattan and baby steps, that was what I needed.  We talked for a few minutes and then moved on.  As he was walking away he said, “oh, by the way, I wish I was in a boy band.”

I looked at my pink piece of paper and sure enough, there it was, near the bottom, “wishes he was in a boy band.”

Second dose of liquid courage in hand, I decided to finally go check out the infamous cayenne pepper popcorn.  It was good, but not really my thing.  Plus, party food that requires dipping and scooping does not mix well with people who are starting to get drunk.  The guacamole, which I had also been told to try, was a disaster.  It was starting to brown and had become the burial ground for a few chips, which had met their demise in mid scoop.  There were some bleu cheese, bacon, and date things that were ok, but over all, I decided I could do without the party food.

I spotted The Chinaman across the table.

“Are you working on this?” I joked, waving my hand over the table.

“Mm, yeah, sort of,”  he smiled in mid chew.

I decided to head back to my alcove…

Ms. MDP Attends a Singles Party, Part 1

20 06 2012

One of the interesting things about people knowing that I write a dating blog is that I frequently get invited to various activities to which I wouldn’t ordinarily be exposed.  Often, I feel as though I’m being invited just because the host is hoping I will write a blog post about it.  There have been countless happy hour invitations from people I barely know after they have learned about My Dating Prescription.  Then there were the more exciting invitations, the vibrator party and the invitation to be part of a swinger’s club.

Often, I decline.

The singles party I attended last Saturday, however, was not one of these events.  I had actually been invited, by a good friend of mine, to this party a number of times.  The host and hostess of the party happen to be married (to each other) and throw this party at their house every year for their single friends and their single friends’ friends.   The party has been going strong for well over 10 years, and I had actually been invited years ago, before I was married.  In the past, something always came up and I had to decline but not this year.

The invitation to this party is time-sensitive, because the hosts only accept invitations from the first 50 men and 50 women to respond.  To get onto the guest list you have to provide an interesting tidbit of information about yourself; it has to pass muster with the host and hostess; and you hope that you get the ok before the guest list becomes full.

Believe it or not, I didn’t know what to write fo my tidbit.  I didn’t divulge the fact that I write a dating blog.  Instead, I wrote some crap about having lived in Rome for a short period of time and taking cooking classes while I was there.

This turned out to be a mistake,…and I should have known it would be a mistake.  At this point in my dating journey, I have read enough online dating profiles to know that most people try to sound impressive by listing all of the places they have ever travelled in the world.  It actually becomes a little annoying.  Let’s face it.  If the most exciting “favorite place” you can think of is a vacation you took 15 years ago, your life is pretty dull, and you need to get honest with yourself and your potential date about the fact that you spend an inordinate amount of time sitting on the couch with the remote.  That goes for me and my cooking in Rome too.  I should have known better than to provide that tidbit for this particular party.

However, I would like to state, for the record, that on my online dating profile I DO NOT list the countries I have visited.  I mention atmospheres I prefer instead.

But anyway…Rome was a mistake.  Approximately 50% of both the men and women at the party provided a tidbit about travel. Alas, it appears I am neither unique nor creative.

So, I had sent in my poorly chosen tidbit, received an email informing me I had been allowed access, and was sent a list of various alcoholic beverages from which I could choose to help supply the singles bar.  Check, check, and check.

On the night of the party, I showed up at my girlfriend’s house for a pre-party pre-funk.  There would be four of us going to the party together.  Safety in numbers.

We arrived at the party, deposited our alcoholic beverages at the “bar,” which was a long folding table filled to the edges with bottles of hard alcohol, no beer, no wine allowed.  Extra bottles were sitting on the floor behind the table along with a couple of ice chests and other various bar implements.  It appeared that most of the living room furniture had been removed or pushed back. Good call.

My girlfriends and I were each given a pink piece of paper and a pen.  The men got blues ones.  (It seems I’m not the only one lacking creativity.)  On the paper were the tidbits for all of the men at the party.  The men, of course, had all of the tidbits for the women, including my unoriginal tidbit about Rome.

To make things interesting and to get things rolling there was a contest.  I’ll be honest. I didn’t pay attention to what the prize was, and I didnt’ take it too seriously.  The objective of the contest was to match the tidbit with the person who had done the tidbit.  Let the mingling begin.

Here is a sampling of tidbits for the men…

…(who)se travels include a max elevation of 60,000 ft & a min. of -1,380 ft below sea level.

…has been inside the Kremlin.

…was a volunteer radio DJ at two rural colleges in the Phillippines.

…has a new town named after him in the Peruvian Amazon.

See what I mean?  I would need a drink before I went on this little adventure.  I tried to get to the “bar,” which turned out to be almost impossible.  Apparently, I was not the only one who needed liquid courage to embark on this evening.  It was worse than a packed night club on a Saturday night.  The “line” was at least three people deep, and the floor was already sticky.

I finally got a Manhattan, and scanned the room for my first conversation.  I suddenly realized that I am not good at this.  I’m okay at networking, but the extra pressure of the situation being a singles party threw me off.  Even when I’m cruising the online dating sites I don’t like to reach out to a man first.  It’s just not my style, and there I was, expected to go face to face, toe to toe, and ask someone if he…let’s see…”had to spend an unplanned night in the Costa Rican jungle when his guide got lost.”

Being single sucks!

There was something else I noticed.  My girlfriends are much better at this than I am.  AND, they have no problem talking to the best looking men in the room.  I, on the other hand, avoided them.  WHAT is wrong with me?  It appears I have confidence issues.

I tried to escape to the kitchen.  There I encountered a very tall, very loud man who asked me what I was drinking.

“It’s a Manhattan,” I said.

“Oh, good call. You’ll need it.”


“No problem.”

I noticed he did not have a blue piece of paper.

“Oh, I’m not part of the party,” he said, “I’m just helping with the food.  Have you tried the guacamole?”

I had not.  I was not going to stand next to the food table, gorge myself on party food, and refuse to speak to anyone.  I had to put my big girl panties on and go talk to someone.  Fuck. I hate my life sometimes, and I hate my friends for talking me into this shit.

I headed back out into the fray…

Divorce is Immature and Selfish According to Penelope

28 02 2012

I’ve subscribed to Penelope Trunk’s blog for about a year now, and, today, this post entitled, Divorce is Immature and Selfish. Don’t Do It., caught my attention. The title was probably more impactful today, because of some recent developments in my own divorce. I can happily say there appears to be a light at the end of the tunnel.

I can’t say I entirely agree or disagree with Penelope. Overall, it’s a good post with a lot of well-made points.

Do I think STBex was selfish in his decision to want a divorce? Absolutely YES! In fact, I’m still a little angry at how deceitful and self-centered I feel he was about the whole thing. Will I ultimately be better off by him leaving? Definitely. The big difference, however, to my marriage and PT’s arguments on marriage is that STBex and I had no children together.

My kids were already teenagers by the time STBex came into our lives, and they never really developed any deep relationships or respect for him.

In fact, last night, I asked K2 if he was angry that STBex left. His response was, “Where did that come from? I don’t give a shit about STBex. STBex was an asshole!”

So, will my kids be better off now that I’m getting a divorce? Yes, probably.

Which brings me to the part of Penelope’s post that I don’t agree with…the idea that people in abusive marriages should just stick it out for the kids.


I can happily say that I have never been in a physically abusive relationship, and I owe a great deal to my mother for that fact. If my mother had not had the courage and the audacity to risk her life and the lives of her children to escape her marriage, thereby ending the cycle of violence, I would not be the woman I am today.

The destruction caused by violent marriages is rarely, if ever, isolated to the two spouses involved.

What about the children in violent marriages? Do you think they don’t end up abused too?

On that point, shame on you, Penelope Trunk.

Rom Com, Scene 2

6 02 2012

So, in the romantic comedy that is my life, I anxiously awaited my date with Man #24. I remembered the last time I saw him. We had both been at a party at our friends’ house. It was summer and I remember what I had worn and what he looked like. I was in a turquoise linen skirt that I had purchased in Italy and a wrap-front halter top that probably showed a bit too much cleavage, and he had been in a light-colored pair of pants and white shirt and had his hair in a long ponytail. It was 2006, before my emotionally turbulent relationship with STBex, and I was about 80 pounds lighter than I am today.

This last fact had me extraordinarily nervous to meet him again. I’m sure that’s the me he remembered, and I dreaded the thought of the first moment when he saw me again. What would he think? Various scenarios and self-critical thoughts went through my head. I really didn’t feel like being rejected again because of my weight.

I talked to my friend again, and ask her what she thought he might think about how much weight I’ve gained.

“His weight’s gone up and down too. He doesn’t seem like someone who judges people like that.”

This didn’t really bring me any comfort. Anyone who has done any online dating at all can tell you that even the fattest guys on still want a woman who is “athletic and toned.”  I went into a brief period of self-loathing and grief, mourning the woman I used to be, the sexy one in the halter top and skirt.

Perhaps as a way to put my guard up, I said, “You know, I’m not usually into guys with ponytails.” (The only exception had been a Mexican tamale with a ponytail like Antonio Banderas in Desperado, and even that had been short-lived…but yummy.)

“Oh, he doesn’t have the ponytail anymore.”

“Oh that’s good.”

“Well, our phone conversation went really well, so I’m looking forward to our date,” I said. Secretly, I was thinking it was SO much easier to stay fat and introverted instead of going out to meet someone who had seen me in my former hotness.

But I did it. I screwed up my courage, put my big girl panties on (really big), and went to meet him at Schultzy’s in the U District.

Final Gifts

11 12 2011

The past two months of my life are a blur. I’ve been back and forth to Eastern Washington to help with my uncle’s hospice care several times. I took a leave of absence from work, sent Thor to stay with friends, and asked my son to fend for himself. I would return to Seattle only to attend my MBA classes, catch up on personal business, and replenish the fridge so my son wouldn’t think I had completely abandoned him. It’s been physically and emotionally grueling.

In late October, minutes before I was about to leave Seattle, once again, the mail arrived. It was a package from Amazon. I tore it open, and inside, I found a book called “Final Gifts.” There was no note to indicate who had sent it, but it was about the hospice experience and communicating with the terminally ill.

I searched for a note and found nothing. I even threw the packaging away and went back to the garbage to dig it out to search for a note again, but found nothing that would tell me who had thought to send this to me.

Since it seemed extraordinarily timely and relative, I stuffed it in my bag and packed my car. It seemed like it would be immensely helpful, and, oddly, lighter reading than my “Capital Budgeting and Investment Analysis” textbook.

Each time I would return to Eastern Washington, even if it had only been a few days, I would find my uncle worse off than he had been when I left. I don’t know why this seemed like such a shock to me; even when I was with him, I could see the day-to-day progression in his cancer. I saw it in the amount of times he asked for morphine. I saw it in how easily he became exhausted and needed to sleep, and I saw it as numerous visitors came to see him, causing him to cry when they were gone, knowing that it would be the last time he would see them.

When he first came home from the hospice facility, we had a morning regime of breakfast, medications, newspaper, hike, always in that order. Most of the time, he would shuffle around the house in his slippers, but at around 11 a.m. every morning, he would let me know he was ready to go. He would put on his old hiking boots, jacket, and hat and want to go for a hike.

As always, I let him dictate where and how far we would go. Surprisingly, with his pain under control, he had a lot more energy than he had when he was in the hospice facility. The first time we went out, I asked, “Do you want to take your walker, just in case.”



He’s a pretty proud guy, and I’m fairly certain he didn’t want the neighbors to see him pushing a walker up and down the street.

The first day, we went around the block, and he was soon exhausted. I felt relieved that we didn’t go too far, because I was concerned about him falling or having the pain break through his medications. The next day we went a little farther, and the next day, the same thing. Each day, we progressed until we were walking to where the sidewalk ended at the end of a nearby street, and then, walking along a natural trail, through the sand, behind the housing development he lives in. We would end up back in the development, a few blocks away from his house.

He hated being cooped up in the house and wanted to get out every day, so our routine soon looked like this: breakfast, medications, newspaper, hike, morphine, nap, lunch, golf channel, more medications, another nap, nightly news, dinner, more medications, and finally, bedtime.

I started to sleep with a baby monitor in my room, so I could hear him if he got up in the middle of the night.

It was painful each time I had to leave and come back to Seattle, and one day during our hike, I said, “I hate leaving. Every time I leave and come back, you’re worse,” and I started to cry. My uncle reached for my hand and he too started to cry. We walked like that in silence for several minutes. These are the moments, the conversation, the gifts that nobody will be able to take away from me from this experience.

Sometimes we would just sit in silence. Other times, he would tell me stories from when he and my aunt lived in Cameroon, South Africa, or Alaska. I guess in a way, he was completing a survey of his life. He had done a lot over the years. On one trip, he sent me home with the horns of a Central African Giant Eland, ranked 8th in the world. He had shot it on safari in 1962, and the next day, over the bucket of water that he was soaking the horns in, proposed to my aunt. I jokingly let him know that the scenario did not seem very romantic.

“I suppose you were letting her know you could provide for her, huh?”


The neighbor gave him a hard time about trying to bag two prizes in two days. (Ironically, in later years he had become opposed to the idea of safaris.)

He talked about teaching himself Swahili, so he could one day hike Kilimanjaro. He had given up the idea when my aunt got sick several years ago, and regretted that he never got to go.

By my fourth trip to visit him, he could no longer go out for our long walks.

Increasingly, he talked about hiking Badger Mountain, and said that he wanted to leave with me and go hike Tiger Mountain one more time. I could imagine him hiking up and never coming down. This is where the book, “Final Gifts,” was useful. The book talks about how, as people near death, they often talk about doing things that involve going somewhere or doing something like they did in life. Basically, my uncle knew he was too weak to hike Tiger Mountain, but he was preparing for a journey.

One day my uncle said, “Tomorrow I think we should hike Badger Mountain.”

My aunt and cousin didn’t get it, saying, “Now, you know you can’t go hiking.”

The effect on me, having read the book, was to consider that the following day perhaps he would go on his journey and not come back. Whenever he said these things I would go through a little checklist in my brain, making sure there was nothing left unsaid that I still wanted to tell him. Plus, it was an extra reminder to tell I love him.

My uncle is really the first person with a terminal illness to whom I have been extremely close. Helping him through this transition has been some of the most difficult work I have ever done, but, I have to say, in a strange way, perhaps it has also been the most rewarding. It has taught me a lot about myself and my capacity to love and care for someone. There are only a handful of other, similar milestones in my life, the births of my 3 children and my marriage.

I am back in Seattle once again. I have been back since the Sunday after Thanksgiving. My uncle had told me, “Bring the boys. I want to see them, and then that will be the last time.” “Final Gifts” explains that oftentimes people will signal the timing of their death, and I don’t expect my uncle to be with us at Christmastime. I think he knows. He told the neighbor the other day that he was counting the days. I could be wrong, the doctors didn’t even think he would make it to Halloween, but for some reason, I feel an intense urgency to finish this post before he passes.

Some things I’ve learned over the past two months:

  • Don’t dismiss the messages of the dying as “chemo-brain” or the effects of the medications. Pay attention to everything the dying person says. There are important messages and lessons there.
  • If you don’t understand, don’t dismiss. Ask open-ended questions.
  • Sometimes silence is the best gift you can give. You don’t have to have an answer for everything.
  • Touch communicates much more than words.
  • Leave nothing important unsaid.

Yesterday, fall quarter ended. I have two more quarters left in my MBA. While I’m in Seattle, I can’t visit with my uncle. He can no longer finish his sentences and therefore, has a hard time communicating over the phone. I’m grateful for the precious time I’ve spent with him over the past two months. Although difficult, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

And, one final thing I learned…

Over the past month and a half since the book arrived, I have asked all of the usual suspects, and hadn’t found the sender until last Thursday. Thank you, ElderBaud, for such a tremendous gift.

“Life is eternal, and love is immortal, and death is only a horizon, and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.” – Rossiter Worthington  Raymond, 1840-1918

Jai Ganesh

2 09 2011

During the years that I lived with my husband, I had a saying written in Sharpie on my bedroom mirror.  (For those of you concerned about Sharpie removal from said mirror, let me ease your mind by saying that fingernail polish remover makes permanent marker much less permanent.)

But I digress.

Anyway, while I lived with my husband, I had this saying written on my mirror.  It read,

“Most of life’s problems will disappear on their own if you don’t get too attached to them.”

Now, this is not to say that someone should bury her head in the sand and hope her problems just go away.  No. What it means is that we often make our problems bigger by giving them more space in our lives than they really deserve.  Back then, this saying served as an important reminder to keep my husband’s drama in proper perspective and to not let myself get caught up in petty arguments.

A few months ago, I erased the above saying from my mirror, feeling I no longer needed it.  It was no longer a significant part of me or the tools I needed for my daily life.  I replaced it with a list of goals I plan to accomplish within the next five to eight years.  I would rather focus on new positive steps in my life than focus on guarding myself from negativity.

I was reminded of this old saying about problems today, however, because I was still trying to decide what to do about the Spicy Italian Sausage.  I knew I didn’t want a long-term relationship with him, but I thought I might entertain the idea of having sex with him.  He has a hot body, it has been a while, and well,…

…it’s sex.

This blog has been basically sans sex since it’s inception in February.  Instead of My Dating Prescription, I could call it Sexless in Seattle, but that might have a completely different connotation. But as you know if you’ve been reading from the beginning, my occasional use of the F-word is the closest thing I’ve had to sex, and I’m starting to look for loopholes in what my therapist means by “serious.”

So anyway, I was contemplating simply using the Spicy Italian for sex.

He said he wanted a long-term relationship, however, so I didn’t want to lead him on.  So, rather than dwell on the issue any longer, and making the problem bigger than it needed to be, I decided I would call him and have a frank conversation.  We’re both adults after all, and I believe honesty is the best policy.

So, yesterday as I was getting ready for work, I sent him a text asking if he was awake and if he could talk on the phone.  He responded,

“not able to now why r u horny?”

Ok, this is not the time for me to get distracted by how much I hate texting, bad grammar, and the like. The important thing to note here is that I had made no mention of the fact that I had been contemplating having sex with him at this point.  His “horny” comment came completely unsolicited.

I responded, “No, I want to talk to you when you’re available.”

To which I received, “stroking that big c$%k.” (Except he spelled it out.)

Wow. Now, at this point in our journey, you know I’m not afraid of the occasional dirty word, and despite the lack of it in my life at the moment, I happen to like sex.  What I don’t like is being spoken to (or texted) like a cheap whore. I did not respond. I finished getting ready for work, and while I was driving to work I realized my problem had just been solved for me.  This man was obviously not house broken, and there was no reason why I should ever speak to him again.

So, you see, “most of life’s problems will disappear on their own if you don’t get too attached to them,” and I feel so much better.  I can move on to date #21 without any complications.

Coincidently, yesterday was also the beginning of an annual celebration in India celebrating the Hindu deity, Ganesh, the Lord of Beginnings and the Remover of Obstacles, and when I found the following passage regarding Ganesh, I felt it was very apropos for the events of my day.

“…Ganesh has similarities to the gods Mercury or Thoth. He brings writing and knowledge. But he is most often known as the “Breaker of Obstacles”. This does not mean that if something blocks your way to success that appealing to Ganesh will result in your thundering through your opposition like some great juggernaut (a word derived from the name of a Hindu deity Jaganath). Rather, Ganesh breaks obstacles by working around them. He may not help you fix a relationship, but He might help you find a new one. He might not get you a raise at work, but you might get a job offer from another company for more money. Ganesh is a warrior, but is not into fighting for fighting’s sake. Indeed, that is why he lost his head and it had to be replaced with the head of an elephant. Rather, He helps you find other ways of overcoming obstacles. The real obstacles He breaks are those which prevent you from recognizing alternative solutions.”
Om gam ganapataye namaha!
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