Man #32, Ye Olde Bachelor

After the emotional roller coaster I put myself through over Man #31, I still had the problem of telling him about the blog and getting his reaction to reading it before proceeding with a second date. Reasons 11 and 12 of my 13 reasons for Man #31 not to date me were:

11.   After my husband left, I started writing a blog called My Dating Prescription of which I doubt you would approve.

12.   I use profanity liberally, not so much on a daily basis in the way I speak, but in the writing of the above blog.  I also get the impression that you would want a woman who is a little more lady-like.

So, after Man #31 read my 13 reasons not to date me and said he would still like to go out with me again, I insisted that he take a look at the blog and try to get a sense of what exactly he would be getting himself into. These days, it takes a little while to get through the blog. I’ve written 127 blog posts and most of my posts are between 800 and 1200 words. That’s anywhere from 100,000 and 150,000 words. Let’s face it. This dating prescription is starting to feel like a dating epic.

Anyway, while I waited for Man #31’s reaction and questions, I continued on my dating journey.

I had received an email from a man who said he was an active 47-year-old engineer. He was an avid cyclist, so the tale I recount on my online dating profile of my bicycle crash on Lake Washington Boulevard a few years ago had caught his attention. He had apparently had a similar crash, but, rather than landing on his head like I had done, he landed on his hip and broke it.

And, no, landing on my head does not account for my mental state. I’ve always been a little twisted. This isn’t something recent.

Anyway, Man #32 could sympathize with my extended physical therapy experience, and after we talked bikes, he asked me out on a date.

Even through his emails, however, I got a vibe that he was not very adventurous, maybe even a little OCD. He had never been married nor had any children, and it felt like he liked things a certain way, probably a little too uptight for me. Regardless, it was just a date, right?

His desire for control revealed itself more when we started to plan where we were going to go on our date. Although he asked for my suggestions, which I supplied, he promptly vetoed them and decided he wanted to meet at Latona Pub. He did not live in Seattle, but he had gone to Latona Pub before, and apparently, felt comfortable there. I’m willing to go just about anywhere as long as a man isn’t asking me to go eat glorified fast food, like Red Robin or Azteca, so I agreed.

We were supposed to meet at 6 p.m., and I arrived before Man #32. The pub was crowded, so I had to sit at the bar between two handsome men in their thirties. Poor me. While deciding on my beer, I struck up a conversation with both of them. They both recommended the stout, and although I don’t usually drink stouts in the summertime, I went ahead and followed their recommendations.

Man #32 arrived and instead of looking 47 he looked 57. He was wearing a brown silk t-shirt, a tan blazer, and khaki pants. His fiery red hair, although mostly missing on the top, had been sculpted up to a height of about an inch and a half above his scalp and then combed back to cover what was a very large bald spot. The whole thing was sort of see-through, and yet, with the light behind him, it glowed, like a fiery orange halo.

Since Ye Olde Bachelor had arrived, we were able to get a table. I said goodbye to my thirty-something companions. They sort of looked at the two of us as if they could tell we were on a first date, and I suddenly felt self-conscious. Even after we were seated, I noticed people looking at us, like maybe they were wondering what brought the two of us together. I typically get comments that I look 8 years younger than my age, and he clearly looked much older than most 47 year olds.

I always wonder how much men lie about their age.

When we started to order food, Ye Olde Bachelor commented on the restrictive diet he follows, and I started to wonder if that was the reason why his skin looked so old. He made me feel uncomfortable about choosing what I wanted from the menu. He wanted to share something, but then, he was restricted on what he was willing it eat.

It was a fucking pain in the ass if you want to know the truth.

Now, it’s not that I have to have my way all the time. I really don’t, but I started thinking that if a man can’t even give up enough control on a first date to let a woman order what she wants off a bar menu, what would a relationship with him be like? I’ve had experiences where a man ordered my meal for me and it was wonderful. When I was in Rome, for example, I had dinner with a handsome Italian man, and letting him order for me, so I could experience things I didn’t know, was fabulous.

However, Ye Olde Bachelor ordered the chicken quesadilla.

Oh yey!

Throughout the date I made polite conversation, but I was never able to relax. His mannerisms and questions just seemed very uptight and judgemental, and quite frankly, I was not attracted to him at all what with the orange halo and all.

As we left the bar, he walked me towards my car and asked if he could have my email address. He wanted to stay in touch. This is where I did that thing guys do when they say, “I’ll call you.”

I said, “I’ll email it to you.”

“Ok,” he said.

I walked away, got in my car, and drove home. Later than night, I sent Ye Olde Bachelor an email through OkCupid thanking him for the date. I did not include my personal email address.

The next day, I received an email from him. He said,

“I guess since you did not give your email address and/or phone number you don’t want to pursue it further. It’s OK, I thought you were nice but not a strong vibe, huh?”

Rather than just leave him hanging in silence, I responded,

“I had a nice time, but with further thought, felt there were some areas where we differ enough that it would difficult to pursue a relationship.  Thanks for meeting me though.  I had a nice evening and I enjoyed our conversation.”

Onward.

Photo here.

Apricots and Misdemeanors

I’ve been on a bit of a reflective path since I returned from helping my aunt and uncle in Eastern Washington, and today is no different.  I hope you’ll all humor me as I ramble aimlessly for a moment longer.  My recap of my date with Man #19, Thor’s Buddy is right around the corner.

I suppose I come by some of my “foraging” skills naturally.  I grew up on a farm in Eastern Montana, so at an early age, I was helping in the garden, milking cows morning and night, and eviscerating chickens every spring. I had the smallest hands.  (Oops. I should have warned all my vegan friends that was coming.  Sorry. The rest of the post is about fruit  and vegetables. Promise.) 

I love brushing humus and Doug fir needles from a fresh chanterelle, breathing in its fruity, woodsy aroma, and there is nothing better than a fresh baby carrot, plucked from the earth, sweet with a hint of mineral, its “terroir” if you will.  Love that.  (I do hope my readers realize that the “baby carrots” you buy in the store are not babies at all. They are full-grown, “adult” carrots that have been tumbled into baby shapes and they don’t taste anything at all like carrots freshly pulled from the garden.)

Some of the fondest memories I have of my Grandmother take me back to 1979, the year I was 11 years old. My parents were going through a divorce, so my grandmother would watch my brother and I while my mother was at work. Prior to this, I don’t remember a lot of contact with my grandmother, at least not in the way I got to know her that year. 

She was a real pioneer of organic gardening.  When all of her contemporaries were using Post WWII chemicals in their gardens, she kept things natural, and I learned a lot from her.  She was into organic gardening and natural medicine.  She would chew a clove of garlic every afternoon in an effort to stay healthy.  She would sit in the living room, while my brother and I watched her black and white TV, pop a clove into her mouth, begin to chew, and then as the taste got hot, she’d open her mouth and let out a long, “Haaaaaaa.”

It wasn’t pretty, but she was healthy.

Basically, if something could be grown, picked and eaten, or canned and stored for later, it was fair game as far as my grandmother was concerned. This was probably a product of her growing up poor, without a mother, and living through the Depression.

My grandmother, brother, and I would go for walks along the railroad tracks that ran on the edge of my grandparent’s property in search of the asparagus that grew wild there.  You had to get it at just the right time or it would burst into bloom and become unusable.  Asparagus is still my favorite spring vegetable, and I resist the urge to buy it at odd times of the year. This is an attempt to respect both its season and my nostalgia.  My sons love the one or two times a year when I use it in risotto with basil and lemon.

When my sons were younger, we lived in an apartment complex bordered by a small green belt where Himalayan blackberries had taken over.  (Himalayan blackberries are weeds here in the Pacific Northwest.)  The apartment management didn’t spray the green belt with herbicides, so every year, my sons and I would take bowls into the thicket and the boys would help me gather the ripe blackberries.  We would return to the apartment, fingers stained purple, and I would set to work making blackberry jam, blackberry cobbler, their favorite, and blackberry sangiovese sorbet.  YUM!

Fast forward to my visit to my aunt and uncle’s home in Eastern Washington, and one day my aunt comes in after a trip to Costco, all excited.

“The fruit on that apricot tree across the street is ripe and falling all over the sidewalk.  I’m going to go get some and make some jam.  Would you like that Sherry?”

“Oh sure,” my uncle responded somewhat indifferently.

“When are you going?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m going right now.”  (Of course she was; that’s how she operates.)

“Let me get my shoes. I’ll go with you,” I said.

We grabbed my aunt’s neighbor on the way and the three of us headed for the tree.  It really was beautiful. The arid climate of Eastern Washington is so great for growing stone fruit and the tree was covered in perfect, orange-gold apricots.  My aunt was right; there was fruit all over the sidewalk. Most of it was badly bruised or had been stepped on, but my aunt started picking up any fruit that seemed usable.

“There’s a bunch of ripe ones up there,” she said, pointing to the portion of the tree canopy that hung over the fence, “Can you reach those.”  (She can be a little greedy sometimes.)

“Maybe, if I get on top of this wall.”  The tree was on top of a three-foot tall concrete retaining wall.

Now, I don’t always cave to peer pressure, but of the three of us in our posse, we had my aunt who is in her 70s and is not supposed to lift more than 5 pounds; we had the neighbor, a very short Argentinian woman who is 5 months pregnant; and then, there was me, almost six feet tall, no major physical limitations, and with the largest wingspan.

I climbed up on the wall and quickly went to work picking as many apricots on the street side of the fence as I could reach.  It was broad daylight, and we were not conscious of how loud we were being.

All of the sudden La Argentina says, “I hear voices. Get down!”

Sure enough the owner had either heard us or seen her tree shaking, and was coming out to investigate.  I jumped down, put my bag of apricots out of sight, and was about to head in the opposite direction, when I realized that my aunt was walking toward the low end of the fence where the owner of the tree would be able to see her.

Shit!

“Your tree is dropping fruit and getting the sidewalk all dirty,” my aunt said.

Nice! Make the owner of the tree feel like a public nuisance for not harvesting her apricots in a timely manner.  (The strategies one can learn from little old ladies, I swear!)

“Can we buy some from you?” my aunt continued.  Never mind the fact that none of us had any money with us.

“No, that’s fine. I’ve been meaning to get out here, but I can’t keep up with them. Just take what you want.”

“Oh, ok. That’s really nice of you,” my aunt continued. She talked to the woman about her tree and her garden.  Eventually, the woman went back inside and I scrambled back up onto the wall to continue picking.  We took everything I could reach on the street side of the fence, quite a haul, and went back to my aunt’s to make apricot jam, my uncle’s favorite.

Later that day, my aunt returned from the grocery store and announced that she had seen apricots priced at $3.99 per pound.  You could tell that she was pretty proud of herself.

“Well, at that price, I guess it’s a good thing we didn’t steal enough to make it a felony,”  I responded.

My aunt and uncle, la Argentina and her husband, and I had a lot of fun joking about our little escapade.  La Argentina’s esposo suggested that the next time we tried to steal something maybe we should do it under the cover of darkness instead of in broad daylight.  AND, maybe we should cut out all the giggling and talking.

My trip to Eastern Washington could have been all sorrow and tears, but we tried to inject some joy and in the process, I came away with apricot jam and memories to last a lifetime.

Finally, one of my favorite Mother’s Day gifts was a card and bouquet I received from my sons when they were all pretty young.  They were probably about 14, 8, and 5 years old.  The card was a piece of white, 8 1/2 x 11 inch paper folded in half and in half again to form the card.  On the front, it simply said, “Happy Mother’s Day!!!”  On the inside, on the left in colored pencil, there was a picture of a sun, blue sky, a red flower, and green grass.  It was labeled with arrows.

“This is a sun.”

“Ground/grass.”

“We didn’t steal this one.”  This last note was pointing at the red flower.

On the inside, on the right, they had written the following, “Dear Mom,  Today is da day of da Mom.  Yo be da bestest mom in da whole world. Since you da best, we stole some of our flowers as a gift to you. We Love you Very Much. Love, Your Boyz”

Accompanying the card was a mixed bouquet of flowers my boys had picked from my neighbors’ parking strips.  Now, I don’t want anyone to think that I’m encouraging theft, but the flowers are all gone and I still keep this little card in a keepsake  box.

And, I guess, as this illustrates, apricots don’t fall far from their tree.

Weight Loss Weigh-in Wednesday #6

Yes, I do realize that it’s Friday.

I figure I need to get back in this blogging game at some point, and I want to keep certain things consistent around here.  Plus, Weight Loss Weigh-in Wednesday just seems to sound so much better than Fighting My Fat Friday.

That would get your attention though, wouldn’t it?

Sad to say, there has been no weight lost on this weigh-in Wednesday.  The stress of the past two weeks may have something to do with it. (Plus the fact that my aunt seems to have an afternoon ice cream habit and she likes to have an accomplice.) 

I can proudly say, however, that while I was in Eastern Washington, I went for a hike 6 out of the 8 days that I was there. Hiking in Eastern Washington is definitely different from hiking in Western Washington.  I’m used to the sheltering canopies of conifers and moisture, not sand dunes.  I made sure I was up and out by 7 a.m. everyday in hopes of getting my hike in and getting back to my aunt and uncle’s air-conditioned digs before the heat really kicked in.  Plus, instead of worrying about cougars and bears, I had to watch out for coyotes and rattlesnakes.  Luckily, all I saw was a jack rabbit, coyote poo, some quail, and LOTS and LOTS of sage brush.

I started my personal training with Zach back up this week.  It was good to get back in the gym, and now he’s switching things up on me a little.  We’re moving from exercises that emphasis strength and balance to exercises that will be faster and provide a more cardiovascular emphasis.  For example, he made me do mountain climbers today, which seemed to make every ounce of fat on my body jiggle. Also, instead of regular shoulder presses, he gave me a lighter weight and had me press them alternately and faster.  He also threw a new core exercise at me, which I hate.  I know it will be good for me, but ab exercises are the worst.  It could have something to do with the fact that most of the weight I carry now seems to be in my stomach and my ass.

Zach always demonstrates the exercises for me before I have to do them. So, this morning, he got down on the mat and showed me how I was supposed to sit up on my butt, feet raised, torso raised, medicine ball in hands, and take the ball from side to side twenty times while keeping my feet and torso up.

“Oh, this is going to suck,” I said.

He dropped his head, smiled, and laughed, and said, “You can’t hate every exercise.”

“No just the hard ones.”

You would think that, at some point, one’s ass could become large enough to provide a nice stable base, like a blob of Silly Putty slapped down on a table to make the bottom flat, but no such luck.  My ass was not stable at all, but somehow, I managed to do three sets.  It wasn’t pretty though, let me tell you.  There were some pretty unattractive grunting sounds coming out of me. I didn’t let any “f” bombs fly though; it was too early in the morning for that.

One of my friends stopped by to buy fresh eggs this morning, (my chicken’s eggs, not mine,) and commented on how toned my arms are getting.  I briefly gave him a gun show.  The weight loss may be slow, but I’m still seeing things get redistributed.  I’ll discuss back fat versus lats at a later time.

Anyway, I’m back at it.  I have a couple more posts in the hopper and will try to work on them this weekend.

By the way, one of my subscribers asked me last time I posted about my weight loss whether the toes in the picture above were mine.  For the record, these are not my toes. Judging from their appearance, I would say these are the toes of a man. Don’t ask me how I know, I just feel like I know. You know??  In case you are wondering, my feet are, unlike the rest of me, relatively slender; my toes are painted; and, I have a toe ring.

Have a great weekend!  It looks like Julember in Seattle may finally be over.

Weight Loss Weigh-in Wednesday #5

It’s barely going to still be Wednesday by the time I post this. I’ve just arrived home after going to the first summer concert at University Village. My social life is killing my diet. I’ve found myself in social/drinking situations three times in the past week. My goal of only having one drink per week is not working out very well.  I’m just such a social butterfly…

with an apparent lack of willpower when someone wants to buy me a beer.

I was good for part of the day however. I made it to my personal training appointment at Experience Fitness this morning with Zach. He’s adjusted my workout slightly to deal with some elbow pain I was experiencing.

After my gym workout and a 40 minute walk going to and coming home from the gym, I walked around Green Lake with a friend of mine and Thor.  I got plenty of cardio this morning, but I blew it with beer consumption.

I did not lose any weight this week, but I’m still in good spirits about my progress in the gym.

Tomorrow is another day, a day to try to be more disciplined.

This social butterfly is going to have to learn to drink sparkling water with lime.

Weight Loss Weigh-in Wednesday #4

Today I weight 243. That’s a two-pound weigh loss since last week. The numbers on the scale aren’t moving very fast, but I am starting to see changes in the mirror. While I still have my belly, I’m going from looking approximately 7 months pregnant to about 6. The tale of the tape will happen when Zach, my personal trainer at Experience Fitness, changes my workout in a few weeks.  He has warned me that as soon as my body gets used to doing the workouts that we’re doing now, he will switch things up and make things more difficult.

That’s what personal trainers are for, I guess.  He really pushes me.  He’s not a drill sergeant, which is good, but he’s always pushing.  I’m up to pressing 30 pound dumbbells on the chest press and lifting 90 pounds on the lat pulldown. Basically, I’m back to lifting the kind of weights I did when I was in my twenties.

If I was trying to lose weight and get strong on my own, I probably wouldn’t even be making it out of bed to work out in the morning.  The accountability factor is huge.  I would feel like a shit if I missed an appointment, so I’m lacing up my tennis shoes at 6 in the morning and taking the 20 minute walk (one-way) up this huge hill to get to the gym.  Sometimes I have to hit the snooze a couple of times, but I always make it.  The payoff, of course, is that I’m starting to see measurable results in strength, endurance, and in how my clothes fit.

Last night, a friend of mine commented that I was looking thinner through my hips.  We were out at a Central District dive bar celebrating the fact that my friend, Marcy, had just been promoted to purple belt in Kung Fu. (Honestly, watching her test really made me want to go kick something.)  This outing was not good for my diet, because I ended up having two beers, (that’s four drinks already this week) with tater tots and nachos for dinner.  It’s not quite as bad as it sounds. The nachos and tots were shared between my three friends and I, but it’s certainly not the high-fiber lean protein my nutritionist would like me to be eating.

Starting the week with a party holiday is not easy.

Today is another day, and I will be good. I promise.

Today is, in fact, my anniversary.  Yes, I’m still married to that selfish f&%$er.  He had the audacity to send me a text message on Sunday asking if I would want to go have lunch with him. I was en route to Dora’s birthday party, so I told him I was already having lunch.  In response, he sent another text, “Want to do shots tonight?”

What an ignorant dick. I didn’t even answer.

I have already heard from him today, of course.  He wanted to know if I would want to go have dinner, and invited me to one of my favorite crepe restaurants in the city.  Damn it! He knows me.

I sent a text back, “To celebrate our anniversary???”

“We don’t have to if you don’t want. I just wanted to say thank you for being incredible and many other things.”

Yes, so incredible he needs a divorce.  I have another birthday party to go to tonight, so I will NOT be dining with my STB-ex.  Morbid curiosity has me wondering what he really wants, but something tells me sitting through dinner with him would not be worth it to find out.

Surprisingly, I’m not really that sad today. I think the 4th of July was harder for me than today.  The first year my husband was in the U.S. and two days before our wedding, we went to watch the fireworks at Gasworks Park.  His enthusiasm and the way he had been taking pictures and sending them to his parents in Colombia made me realize how much we take for granted in this country. It had actually made me cry.  This year, as I watched the fireworks, even though I was surrounded by friends, I found myself recalling that time, and it made me a little sad.

But now, I’d just like to get strong at Experience Fitness, maybe learn a little Kung Fu, and go kick him.

Weight Loss Weigh-in Wednesday #2

Well, it seems the scale does not want to cooperate with my efforts this week. I was 247 when I weighed in this morning.  When I went to see Zach, my personal trainer at Experience Fitness, I asked him if he would also take my fat percentage measurement again.  My fat percentage was also up slightly at 40.2%.

This sucks. It used to be so easy for me to lose weight. Now my 43-year-old metabolism is definitely showing.

Zach spent a good deal of time today encouraging me to not concentrate on the numbers, but rather, to focus on how much stronger I’m getting, how my cardiovascular endurance is increasing, how my balance is improving, and how I’m feeling overall.  He said it is very common for a person’s weight to go up initially and the important part is to not get discouraged.  He also pointed out that a two pound weight gain is rather insignificant.  It could be due to a whole host of factors related to the regular fluctuations in a person’s fluid levels. 

In other words, I might just be bloated.

Anyway, I’m going to keep my spirits up.  In the meantime, I’m going to pay more attention to the diet part of this equation.  This also means that I need to rethink my dates.  My nutritionist told me I could have one glass of wine per week.  That means that if a date wants to go out for drinks I will need to nurse my one drink through the whole thing.  I’ll also need to try to steer dates toward more non-food related activities. This may actually end up being a good thing, and maybe it will result in more creative date ideas.

Besides, there are only so many Happy Hours a girl can go to before it starts to become a little dull.