I Am Worth More Than a Maple Latte

"Does that taste good?" The man next to me at the bar queried me as I took the first sip of my Stoli Cosmo. That was the start of a long and interesting conversation with the newest blog-fodder, who I will nickname Wild Thing or WT for short. WT recently bought an outdoor-wear company in town and splits his time between his home in Newport and North Conway. His explicative-ridden banter was amusing. Our conversation turned to both business and personal items as he allegedly has been wanting to do some deals with my company for some time but didn't know who to contact (lucky me).

We exchanged business cards and under the guise of commerce promised to stay in touch, which he did the very next day. I snuck away from work for a brief "lunch meeting" with him today to drop off some information, at which time he asked me what I was up to this evening. "Making turkey soup and hanging out with my kid. Why do you ask?"

My instinct was to hustle and find a babysitter and abandon my child for the evening. I contacted new friend KA to ask if she could babysit. "You're going to drop everything for this guy you just met? You have to say thanks but no, maybe next time if you can give me more notice."

This of course went against every instinct I have. "But nothing has worked for you yet, right?" Damn me for sharing my dating horror stories with her. But she was right. "Trust me on this - do not call him back, do not get a babysitter -- he will go back to Newport and think about you all week."

So here I sit staring at my cell phone and wondering if a text message counts as a call.

KA also provided good counsel when I complained about Spaceman's recent cloying behavior towards me in anticipation of his landing more business. "He bought a maple latte to my office this week- twice! He helped me figure out my digital camera." I told her, "Maybe he wants to make amends."

"Kathy," KA scolded me, "you are worth much more than a maple latte."

So as I contemplate Mr. Wild Thing, she reminds me I am worth more than a coffee drink and I must have faith that another opportunity will come up even if I decline this one.

The thought of saying no is both liberating and frightening. Fact is, I am exhausted and was looking foward to a quiet night at home with my daughter. And so far, he hasn't called anyway, so I don't have to feel like an even bigger loser who not only jumped on the invitation but then also arranged for an unnecessary babysitter.

So it is as easy as saying no and then reeling him in the next time? Is it really that easy? Or am I so socially retarded that I will blow it over and over and over again?

Meanwhile, the latest Craigslist guy has turned MIA. I followed "He's Just Not That Into You" rules and have not called. Maybe it's just a holiday-induced delay, but my new social experiment requires absolute adherence.

Or maybe my shrink is right and both are just textbook examples of my bad taste in men.

I guess I'll find out more tomorrow. I have a business meeting in the a.m. with WT that we agreed to regardless of this evening's outcome.

Perhaps I'll serve Maple Lattes.

Auld Lang Syne

I am a liar. I lied when I said I was taking a break from dating. And I lied when I said I would stop obsessing about PAL. But it's not my fault, honest. New friend and potential new blog reader KA recently dished with me about PAL's new nurse girlfriend, who in my mind I saw as a cross between Meg Ryan and Pussy Galore.


"She looks like a chicken Muppet," KA corrected me.

WHAT? This is not what I had in my mind's eye. "A chicken Muppet?" I repeated. I didn't even know what this looked like so I share with you here what a Google image search served up.

"She's skinny and bug eyed. She looks like someone let the air out of her," KA continued.

I am torn. Part of me feels vindicated and relieved. I could not bear the thought of PAL tooling around town with a babe on his arm. It felt good until I thought ... he chose the chicken Muppet over ME.

Then it got better when I went to a holiday party tonight and ran into one of PAL's coworkers. She shared with me that when he is out with her, he does not introduce her as his girlfriend, merely his "friend."

Now I just feel bad for the Muppet. He is doing to her exactly what he did to me - avoidance, ambivalence and denial. Fucker.

But enough about that loser. There are many other losers to talk about. For instance, Spaceman has resurfaced, but only because he wants something from me. But best of all, his iphone is calling me again. He's not calling, just the iphone (see previous posting "Are you there god, it's me, iphone). Just like old times, but without the sex.

Meanwhile things move along sloooowwwly with the new guy - or at least slow by my standards. We've gone out twice this week and spoken two more times, but in my neediness, this still leaves me wondering if he likes me. We belong to the same gym so I paged through the spinning schedule until I saw a class he is taking, so I can "accidentally" run into him tomorrow. Is this fucking high school or what? I'm following the "He's Just Not That Into You" rulebook - I am not calling him, I am not asking him out. But there was nothing about Spin classes in that book so I think I'm good.

Maybe slowly is how normal relationships develop. I have no idea what "normal" is. Is normal falling into bed with someone almost immediately? Going to a strip club on a first date? When abnormal is the norm, how do you know how to behave?

But Christmas is just a few days off and it is snowing like crazy tonight. It's silly to think anything meaningful will happen before the holiday.

And in the meantime, I have a chicken stewing on the stove.

Out Takes

Because I am cruel, I am going to post some of the out takes from some of the literally dozens of replies to my one single little ad on Craigslist last week. While I am still fervently praying things will work out with the new guy, I decided to scan through the also-rans. I was right in my intial reaction that he was the best of the bunch.

But for your reading pleasure, some of the more amusing also-rans:

Expecting Robots or Russian Brides
Not many real people on here....but maybe tonight is my lucky night.

Not What to Say About Your Own Photo
I'm the fat guy in middle, two great friends with me. I was on my Canada trip and just got out of the lake swimming with my friends dogs.

Indiscriminate
what age you want?

Illiterate
I didn't have a lot of time yesterday to wright. I am 38 moved here about a month ago I have met alot of good people up here. but haven't met anyone that makes my hart flutter. I am very into romance I am a big snuggle bum I also like to cook. and am pretty darn good at it lol . I don't have a computer here with me so I use my roommates.

Anything Goes
I have been divorced 4 years now. My ex and I dabbled in the swinging lifestyle with some other couples and even hosted a few parties in our home. Swinging is lots of fun and it's something I would like my partner to be willing to do it with me now and then just so we can have some variety. I like a woman who is kind and loving to all she meets. She should be open-minded and honest as I am. Bisexual would be a huge, huge bonus, but it's not a requirement. I am honest to a fault and feel it's important to put that out there up front. I've also never cheated on anyone since High School and never would. (Editorial note - how would you classify swinging??)

If you'd like, I do have nudes I don't mind sharing with you. I haven't a shy or jealous bone in my body and am a bit of an exhibitionist.



After paring out these greatest hits, I gave up. There were literally too many to go through. How can it be, with so many souls out there, so many of us are alone?

With This Ring

It is official - I am really truly divorced now.

I sold my wedding band and engagement ring this week.

I shopped them around to a few local jewelers. With gold prices at a relative high, it was good opportunity to sell them to help pay for holiday gifts. Why the hell not. They were doing no good in my jewelry box.

I felt ever so slightly disembodied as I handed the ring to each jeweler to appraise. I remember the joy and anticipation of the original purchase. A good friend of my now-ex was a jeweler just opening his own shop in the Boston Jeweler's Building. He took the train home with a pocket full of diamonds and came to our home and let us pick out the gems. I wanted a double banded engagement ring with a diamond that we were assured was of the highest quality. And a wedding band studded with smaller diamonds.

The first jeweler peered at the larger diamond and implied it was neither 14 carat nor a real diamond. "I find that hard to believe, although anything is possible," I scoffed. After some hemming and hawing he relented that it was indeed real gold and diamonds, but he went on about how it wasn't a very good diamond and wasn't worth much. He offered a low-ball price that sent me scurrying from his shop.

The next experience was better. They offered me 30% more than the first guy and didn't try to tell me it wasn't real. Although even at this price, it was much less than half the original purchase price from 20 years ago.

They gave me a check on the spot. Morbidly curious, I asked what they would do with the diamond, lying helplessly on the black velvet surface of the jewelry counter (the ring, not me). "Take it apart, melt down the gold and resell the diamond. Probably match it up with another diamond for a nice pair of earrings."

It was hard not to feel a twinge after hearing that. What bride, mother or girlfriend can imagine THAT history of half a pair of stunning half-carat earrings.

I deposited the check on my way back to work and forgot about it.

But today as I balanced my checkbook in Quicken, a conundrum. The deposit needed to be categorized. It wasn't payroll, freelance income or a bonus.

I issued a credit to myself for "gifts given."

Santa Baby

I know I said I was swearing off dating for a while, but much like a crack whore, I just can't help myself. I lasted a whole two weeks, when on a snowy miserable Thursday night home alone, I enjoyed a bottle of wine and posted on Craigslist. "Anyone want to go out Saturday night?" That was it. I went to bed and woke up the next morning to a full inbox.

It was overwhelming and I cursed myself for my tipsy folly in posting the previous night. Why would I start this up again so close to the holiday mayhem? Most of them were the usual suspects - unattractive unintelligent lonely hearts' club members. But one stood out - "meet me at the Parka Fri. night" - he asked without asking me for a photo while including his own picture in his reply.

"There is no way," I thought to myself, "someone this good looking could be asking ME out without a photo." But there he was - probably circa 1986 I reasoned. Before the accident. Before the weight gain.

So we met up at the Parka and it was one of the rare instances where the man in question was BETTER looking than his photo. Holy shit - how did this happen? He lives locally, is intelligent and has all his teeth. He appears to avoid all the deal breakers (see previous post) including the height requirement (sorry LO). The only downside is that he shares the same first name as my ex (but that is what pet names are for, right?). And I am an acquaintance of HIS ex (small town).

We talked and danced the night away and exchanged phone numbers at the end. And low and behold, he actually called me today and we're going skiing together tomorrow.

Maybe it was the St. Jude's prayer card on my bedroom dresser mirror. Or my furtive wish to Santa to not be alone on the holidays. All I know is, I'm looking forward to Monday for a change.

The Secret

I am shoving aside my copy of "He's Just Not That Into You" to again page through last year's hit pop-psych phenom, The Secret.

I'll tell you what the secret is ... all men are fucking pathetic. I don't need a 198 pages of tripe to tell me that.

Especially today, after a coworker accidentally dashed my recent short-lived hopes when she came into the office with some Dirt. "You would not BELIEVE who I just saw at the Chinese food joint with a blond bimbo on his arm," she gushed. It was a friend of hers who had just left his wife, and unbenownst to her, had asked me out on a date just a few days ago. Just another fucker who at least I got advance warning to bail. This one never even got out of the starting gate.

This on the heels of a late night phone call from PAL who bewilderingly asked me if I would get together with him to play guitar, specifically a tune that I would have called "our" song a few months ago. I was like, um, would that be with or without your girlfriend in the room? I mean, what fucking phase is the MOON in right now?

So back to The Secret. For those of you who have not read it, it does have some interesting theories. For those of us who have been in therapy for years, you will easily recognize its concept as cognitive behavioral therapy. Basically, your thoughts control how you feel, so you best think good thoughts.

The book describes it one step better. You are a radio station transmitting on a certain frequency. So it's up to you if you are playing Jazzy Lite Hits or Gothic Death Fugues. It's all up to you. You decide what tune to play and the universe plays it back to you. It's that simple.

So I try to imagine what frequency I have been emitting to bring upon me the pantheon of fools I have endured these last 3 years. Have I been broadcasting a request for drunken cruel thoughtless losers? What would the call letters for THAT station be?

So I will again read through the dog-eared pages and review the highlighted text. "Your Wish Is My Command," the genie promises. In the future, I'll have to be more careful what I ask for.

Deal Breakers

I just went through the horror and discomfort that is breaking it off with someone who is ga-ga over you and who you have no interest in seeing again.

Say good bye to janitor-boy. I called him tonight (after seeing his incoming calls to my home, office and cell phone numbers) and told him I needed to take a break from dating for a while. The truth, but definitely needed to take a break from HIM. This after he came to visit me at WORK one day last week. He was put in his place when the office receptionist asked him, "do you have an appointment with Mrs. Bennett?"

I am getting wise in my old age. Rather than wade neck deep into the muddy waters I cut him lose after two eventful but doomed dates. I give him credit for keeping it dignified. Ditto for myself.

However I kept some details from you, my loyal blog fans. I didn't reveal that he was a chain smoker and that for our first date we took my car because he spilled a beer in his on his way home from work and it reeked of alcohol. Or that he owned a pawn shop. Before he went bankrupt.

I ended this swiftly thanks to the support of my shrink (who surely must be living in Grand Cayman by now on the riches of trying to cure this head case) and to my best gal pal Michelle who coached me to break it off with him vs. invite him home this evening (fine line).

After sniffing through a session this weekend with my shrink on the recent abuses by PAL, I mentioned Janitor-boy. She just about snorted coffee out her nose as I told her about the beer-ride. "I just have bad taste in men, don't I?" She didn't disagree.

Another new friend suggested I make a list of "deal breakers" to help me screen out likely paramours, since I seem to have no issue with quantity, merely quality, of suitors. So here they are, in no particular order, for how I need to determine if a likely mate should be pursued or not:

-Non-smoker
- Not shorter than me
- Not a sociopath (good bye, Machine Gun Man)
- Not neglectful (good bye Spaceman)
- Not emotionally abusive (good bye PAL)
- Not an alcoholic (good bye every guy in my blog)

So with this list I look forward to a very merry, very all-alone holiday season. I look forward to a long holiday weekend in Vermont with my vegetarian/lesbian best friend. Maybe joining a socialist cult in Vermont is just what I need to steer clear of the usual suspects this holiday. Now that's something to be thankful for.

Desperate Measures

I have to admit a guilty pleasure - when I get the chance and am home on a Sunday night, I tune into Desperate Housewives. There is a new storyline where the Susan character (played by Teri Hatcher, a 40-something siren) hooks up with the guy she hires to paint her house. She struggles to legitimize their relationship because she is hesitant to tell her friends, the infamous ladies of Wisteria Lane, about her decidedly working-class beau.

While she hasn't figured it out yet, I am sure a hundred TV script writers are furiously working on a solution. I hope they broadcast the results soon.

You see, I met someone interesting this week - a moderately talented singer guitarist who asked me out after meeting him at a local guitar jam session. Only problem is that his real job is a "maintenance engineer" at a large historic hotel in town.

Now, those of you who have been to my house understand why someone in this line of work might be appealing to me on a number of levels.

I live in the World's Largest House. I am single, never home, and own a house the size of the Denver Airport, with an in-ground swimming pool and an acre of lawn to mow. I have been trying to sell it for 6 mos. to no avail. And in the meantime, I am struggling to keep up with it given my complete ineptitude with anything that exists in 3 dimensions (ie the real world).

My older sister has resorted to dating tradesmen over the years, depending on what repairs she needed around the house. Leaky toilet? Hello, Mr. Plumber! She ultimately married an electrician. Smart lady.

Last winter, I paid an HVAC specialist $120 to change the AIR FILTER on my furnace. I tried to replace it myself and managed to remove the furnace cover in such a way that I was unable to replace it, and the damn thing would not run without it.

And don't even talk to me about my lawn tractor. I repeatedly ran into and over things with it and then asked unwary male co-workers to come over and help me fix it each time. Now they see me coming and run.

Or maybe I should consider dating a car mechanic. My Subaru has a look that says "don't fuck with me ... I have driven into other cars and I won't hesitate to run you over next."

So back to the gentleman in question. I think what sealed the deal for me when he said he is state certified in pool maintenance. Sign me up!

But it does bring to mind certain conventions on status and stations in life. This new guy (I have to come up with a nickname for him, don't I?) is like driving a Honda Element - not overly attractive but pretty darn practical and gets you where you need to go.

Meanwhile, Francois (remember him?) cancelled with me this weekend because he was afraid to drive in the rain. Give me a workman in Carhartts over a wuss like that any day.

At the very least, I am grateful to add another character to my blog fodder. And if some things get fixed around the house in the meantime, what's desperate about that?

Brass in Pocket

"I'm so heartbroken. I want to write a song about it but I don't know a word that rhymes with AAAAARRRRRGGGGH."
Phoebe on "Friends"

Today marked the end of an era. I sold the Fender Telecaster guitar I purchased in high school. Fenders were made by Leo Fender, so I nicknamed this blond-beauty "Leo."

It was long overdue - I rarely played it and it had appreciated in value. I had a good offer on the table so I sold it to a fresh-faced high-school senior who counted out 10 $100 bills and sent me on my way.


I hesitated only for a minute. I had recently bought a much better instrument for my purposes (see earlier Martin posting). But I took a moment to ruminate on the days of my youth when that guitar was the Martin of its day and I was so excited to get my hands on it.

I was in a rock-n-roll garage band in high school. I was the token girl in an all-guy assortment of b-rated musicians who favored the works of Aerosmith and the Doors. When I joined the band, we widened our repertoire to include Fleetwood Mac and the Pretenders.

As much as I loved playing guitar and singing in that band, what I really loved was the lead guitarist, Steve. He was the first of many unworthy men who would lead me on and dump me repeatedly. It was nice to start out the pattern at a young age, so as to ensure I could make the same mistake over and over and over for the rest of my life.

He was a better guitarist than I was and played a Fender Stratocaster. I went out and spent what was at the time a sick amount of money to buy my Tele. If I couldn't win his love or out play him, I could out-spend him.

Steve was a winner, all right. He had a gaggle of girls around him most times, me included, and dated each of us at his convenience. Shortly after the first time we slept together, he offered to fix me up with his friend so that we could (get this) go out on a double date. And to think I carried a torch for this guy for YEARS. Amazing what I'm willing to do for a cute, funny, guitar-playing loser sack of shit.

Speaking of which, PAL is getting over a life-threatening illness and is just home from the hospital. During the course of events, it came to my attention that he has a new girlfriend, a nurse, who was by his side at the hospital. As recently as the day before he was hospitalized, he was doing his usual act: leading me on, asking when we could get together and trying to cop a feel (this at a FUNERAL - I am not kidding).

Guess a nurse was more valuable in a life-threatening emergency than a skilled marketer.

So I dropped off a big container of home-made chicken soup to help him recuperate. I included a handwritten note inside the bag, tucked it in and taped it shut before I lost my nerve:

"They say there is nothing like chicken soup when you're not feeling well, so I hope you enjoy this home-made batch I cooked up last night. Glad to hear you are home and recuperating. I heard that your new girlfriend is a nurse and is taking good care of you. How fortunate for you. Maybe now we can put the ambiguity behind us and be friends. It's overdue. Take care and be well."

(And don't choke on the chicken bones in the soup.)

So farewell, Leo. Martin has taken your place. And Steve and PAL, if only replacing you both were as easy as handing over my credit card.

That's What Friends are For

I am so fortunate to have so many girlfriends and loyal blog readers. You have all sent me funny and heartfelt advice about my current situation. So I have to share some of the more interesting comments publicly, mostly about new developments with Beldar, I mean, Francois:

From blog follower K: Ok, so SOMETIMES "self-employed" is not code for "unemployed". And "French" is not code for "Conehead". But I am reserving potentially effusive enthusiasm until you can confirm that "no sex as of second date" is not code for "very gay". Let's put it all on Beldar and let it ride.

From friend Ruby the Tarot Card Reader: She did a reading for me last week. The reading revealed: A brash man stands in the way of my happiness (hello, PAL). I have been victorious in battle and am ready to receive the wealth and riches I am due. Then the "Strength" card came up. "You need to watch your sharp tongue with this new guy." Keywords associated with this character: Self control, slowness, softness. Yeah RIGHT.

Gal Pal Michelle is supportive as always. I told her about this tarot card reading, and the one noted in a previous blog posting. "Don't bite off the head of the man in the white robe," she warned me. She added: "You are amazing. Any guy that doesn't realize that and step up to the plate is only good for buying you drinks and carrying your guitar. You are a funny, beautiful, interesting, gifted woman that no one has truly appreciated just yet. I guess you'll just have to wait for spring."

How can you go wrong with friends like this?

Crazy Like a Fox

I have a confession to make. Whenever I get home from work early enough, I watch Dr. Phil.

The other day he was featuring a woman whose online dating efforts make mine look pathetic. She has dated literally hundreds of men and does not hesitate to jump on a plane to meet up with someone. She accepted a wedding proposal from one gent and even went so far as to buy a wedding gown and email him the photos.

While clearly I do not fall into her category, I was able to pick up two pieces of good advice from the show:

1. Crazy Attracts Crazy

and

2. If what you are doing isn't working, try something else.

I am keeping both in mind as I ruminate on date #2 with Francois. We had a lot of fun. He is just SO not PAL/Machine Gun Man/Spaceman.

But this is a good thing.

He did not grab my ass in public. He did not sleep with me on the first (or second) date. He is not a freakazoid. He did not hurt my feelings, or in any way act inappropriate. In short, I don't know what to do with him.

He emailed me this morning and asked to see me again so ... things are going well.

I'm just going to try to not act crazy so as to attract someone sane this time out. And to point #2, this is clearly different than what I've tried before, so on both counts I am following Dr. Phil's good advice.

Calling St. Jude

OK, so what a difference a day makes. I got an email on Saturday from someone a friend had suggested I meet as she thought we'd be a good match. Of course, a year had gone by since then, as we both moved on to other relationships and never met up. But now the earth and stars were aligned and we went out for dinner Sunday night and we really hit it off.

So now I am dating a most unlikely gentleman by the name of Francois. And in case you haven't figured it out, he is Chinese.

Kidding, he is FRENCH. A real Frenchman, with a French accent, the whole nine yards. He's an American however and has been for about 20 years.

When I got home at 1 in the morning after our date last night, I Googled him. Now I am totally intimidated. Professionally speaking, I have been merrily writing junk mail and spam for the last 20 years, while he has been (no shit) unraveling the human genome.


His last job title was "Chief Scientist" and got his (two) degrees from the University of London.


He is currently self-employed and is living comfortably off what I can only surmise is the massive profits of selling off the last business he co-founded. I think he created the search engine, or a search engine that other search engines use. Yeah, that's it. Christ, I can't even explain what he does - he's THAT smart.


I can only guess he is hanging out with me for comic relief. He lives in the town where I went to college, so I know he knows my decidedly blue collar background. Yet he called back, so I guess it's all good.


It must be my eyeglasses - what Chief Scientist can resist the "sexy librarian" look.


And unlike the fools of yore from this blog, he a) insisted on picking up the tab b) did not talk incessantly about his ex or his mother and c) did not take me to a strip club on our first date.

I hate to be hopeful. I hate that I hate to be hopeful. But I'm going to be, just a little bit for now. Even St. Jude catches a break now and again.

Fire Breathing Jesus

Happy Halloween. This time of year will always remind me of one of the first guys I dated when I got divorced, one I have occasionally and affectionately referred to as "Jesus" in this blog. In case you were afraid I was falling prey to religion, rest assured I was just referring to someone who had an uncanny resemblance to the Messiah, and trust me, only in appearance with no other shared traits.

Jesus and I met online when he was training as an EMT, taking a temporary break in this line of work from being a Super Gen-i-us (please read this like Wiley Coyote would) for a variety of technology companies. He wrote a book on XML which apparently was the bible on the subject (he he - get it? bible?) for some time.

He agreed to the long drive north to New Hampshire to meet up for our first date. As luck would have it, he was the first on the scene of a car accident on a dark rural road on the drive up.

He arrived, wild eyed with glass in his long hair, an hour late but excited about his first "real" EMT encounter. We went out to dinner as he regaled me about himself. Including a rather long story about his working on the TV show, "Kukla, Fran and Ollie"

We went back to my place where he read my tarot cards until 3am, whereupon he left and drove 100 miles home.

Our next date was in his next of the woods, northern Mass. I noticed his neck was bright red. Apparently it was from his attending a Halloween Party the night before where he went as Jesus. But not just any Jesus. He was a fire breathing Jesus.

In addition to being a super gen-i-us, life-saving, EMT, book-writin' computer programmer, he was also skilled in the art of FIRE BREATHING. This involved putting some sort of fuel in his mouth and lighting it as he spewed it outwards. For Halloween, he wore a Jesus robe and did his trick for his fellow party goers. Go figure.

I think one of the reasons he wanted to date me was to me was to prove that he was smarter than me. He was, but he was rather unattractive in his zest to prove this to me. My online ad said I wanted someone who could "keep up with me." Of course, I was talking about physically (skiing, biking, hiking, etc.) but he took it as a intellectual challenge.

I knew our days were numbered when he cancelled plans with me because he was having friends over. He couldn't include me in the plans because these were friends from his ivy-league college who shared his PhD level of education. No Bachelor's Degrees allowed, and certainly not one from a state college.

We ended it over a drink in Harvard Square. I had driven 2 hours to see him, to break things off. He was over an hour late and I stupidly sat at the bar waiting for him, to say goodbye. I hugged him and left minutes after he finally arrived.

So much for emotional intelligence.

Halloween will also always remind me of one of my first dates with PAL. In his off hand way, he did not really invite me to join him at a Halloween Party at a local bar. I arrived dressed as Paris Hilton and showed up an hour early by accident. The other patrons at the bar, there for dinner and not for the costume party, thought I was just a prostitute killing time at the bar.

After several hours, I gave up hope that PAL was coming when he came in, took my hand and swept me onto the dance floor to the strains of Prince's "Raspberry Beret." He had me at, "is that a Chihuahua in your purse?"

But we know how this story ends.

This year, I'm making sure I'm occupied for Halloween. I'm working until midnight. No use inviting the ghosts of Halloweens past to remind me of where I've been.

Blinded by the Light

It was unexpected and hit me like a fist to the stomach. I logged into Facebook after being away at a family wedding for the weekend and scanned my friend updates. A former boyfriend (and minor blog character) was listing himself as "in a relationship." Even though I had long ago determined we were not really a good match, it was a sucker punch to see another person advertising his new happy relationship, a task seemingly impossible for me. I saw him last about a month ago (see the "Lost Weekend" post) and somehow always thought if all else failed, I could always call Erik. Another one bites the dust.

Perhaps my bitterness has to do with the date. You see, today would have been my 17th wedding anniversary. Not that I'm sorry about that or anything. But that fact is compounded by my attending a wedding this weekend, that of my niece.

She has married well, a man of Indian descent with a large and prosperous extended family. In fact, I have never been to as large or lavish a wedding in my life. Part of the ceremony involved the groom riding a horse towards the temporary Hindu temple set up at the private country club where the wedding took place. He was on a horse only because an elephant was not easily available.

Since my niece has a Facebook page, I am certain wedding pictures will be posted soon. Another Facebook friend announced to all that she was engaged - a flurry of congratulatory comments followed. I doubt I would know that this minor acquaintance was engaged were it not for this device. Nor would my former paramour's new found love be rubbed in my nose as it was so blatantly today. And no, over the months we dated he never swapped his profile from "single" to "dating." And neither did I.

That's the problem with the Internet and this so-called "social media." It makes you transparent. Unless you are a comment on my Facebook page, in which case you are a snub I can't seem to erase. I was able to tell Facebook I wanted to "see less of Erik," which alas did not make the offending comment go away. Nor am I bitter enough to delete him as a friend all together.

Speaking of transparency, blogs apply to this category as well. About a month ago, I stuck my neck out and asked Spaceman to join me at the wedding this weekend. He declined, citing a trip out of town to Tennessee for business. But a post to his blog yesterday morning seemingly has him in the very local environs of western Maine.

I think I prefer the darkness of ignorance to the blinding truthfulness of the Internet.

Now as I wrap up this post, I try to come up with my customary funny or ironic close. Much like a good man, it's just not coming to me right now.

Aiming Too Low

I was reading a news article today on CNN.com and realized I have been aiming too low. It's time to cast aside the men of northern New Hampshire and Maine and head to New York City.


You see, I read that my all time favorite movie star celebrity comedian Bill Murray is getting divorced!


In reading this article, I can see he is clearly in the same situation I am in. Except he is a world famous actor and comic. Other than that, EXACTLY the same.



Targeting the newly divorced is a great strategy for 40-something women to use to find dates, or so I heard. Movie stars are no exception.

Look back at my last post. Now look at the headline of this article. Coincidence? I think not. Surely the earth and stars above are aligned now, pointing me to his home in upstate New York. His ex claims that he is addicted to alcohol, marijuana and sex. Sign me up!

People who know me know I can figure out just about anything. So I am truly thinking about how to get myself in front of Bill Murray. Of course, in my head, I have Bill Murray circa 1992 in my head, say, from his Ground Hog Day era. The Bill Murray of 2008 is a little more gray around the temples. But at age 58, he is likely to be salvageable. Plus all the money and fame will help me see beyond the age difference. And his ex-wife is 42. Coincidence?

Another thing I have in common with Bill ... golf. But his last public golf outing included driving a golf cart when intoxicated in Sweden. Now who hasn't done this? Of course, he wasn't on a golf course when he did it - but that's merely a detail. It just makes him more loveable.

So clearly Bill and I have enough in common to sustain a relationship. Now I just need the introduction. So please, if you know Bill, just forward him a link to this blog. I'm just a few hours away from New York by golf cart.

Waiting for Columbus

Many of my friends are married and in their 40s and 50s. They listen to (or read) my dating stories with amazement, much as I'm sure early astronauts returned to earth and told their wives and kids about their adventures. "Are you sure it's safe, going up in that rocket?" they'd ask in amazement.

Most share with me that they could never ever do it, that they would rather die alone than dive head first into the world of dating again. To help them better understand the ship of fools on which I sail, I have categorized my potential paramours into 3 categories:

1. The Tragically Single - This is the life-long bachelor. He usually has reached his 40s and is proud to never have been married and is childless. Ladies, if you think you can change him, you are delusional. You do not reach this stage of life remaining unmarried without it being a single-minded (ha!) and deliberate effort. Trying to inject yourself into his universe is an exercise in futility. Especially doomed if you have children as they can relate better to your pets or your PC than to anyone under the age of 18.

2. The Devastatingly Divorced - This guy has been married at least once and sometimes twice. Usually he had not been married for long. Regardless, there is often much bitterness and enough baggage to employ a Red Cap for a lifetime. Either has gone years without dating or is barely divorced - either way, he still is just not ready for this. There can be a lot of overlap with this character and the Tragically Single.

3. The Paralyzed Parent - Shares custody of his kids with an Ex who keeps the custody schedule in a locked vault in an encrypted file. Despite the divorce, she manages to completely run her Ex's life by dictating when he can see his children. Unable to make any plans further out than 48 hours, just in case his parental services are needed. Unwilling to introduce even a long-time girlfriend to his kids because he "doesn't want to confuse them."

So let's see, never married; married then divorced with no kids; married then divorced with kids. They all suck. But what other options are there?

I hear rumors - more like fairy tales, or unicorn sightings. A business acquaintance was divorced at the same time I was. We traded divorce war stories on a business trip together shortly after my divorce was final.

10 months later I get an email from her announcing her name change. Yes, she managed to get remarried in those 10 months to a man with 2 kids, in her home town, to a guy she had known in high school. They were now happily married and living together with their Brady-like blended family.

After re-reading her email, I called her angrily and left a message on her voice mail. "How did you do it?" I insisted. "How does ANYONE do that?"

Put this in context. I have been living in Splitzville for going on 3 years. As anyone who reads this blog knows, I have no trouble meeting men. In those 3 years, I have not introduced a single boyfriend to my kid or had a date for the company Christmas party or family wedding, any of the hallmarks of being a "couple." If I were honest with myself, perhaps I would categorize myself as a #2. How damaged am I? How ready would I be if Mike Brady materialized tomorrow?

"Just stop looking for a while," gal pal Michelle suggested today. "Have you thought about getting your MBA? That would be a nice distraction!"

But since when does giving up result in success? After all, didn't Christopher Columbus finally find what he was looking for? Just when the entire crew was ready to give up and turn around, didn't they find the passage to India?

Well, maybe that's not the best example. Maybe Michelle is right. Maybe I need to board a ship full of Italians and sail for parts unknown. Now that's a ship I'd gladly board.

Sanctuary

I am trapped at a coffee house on a Friday night, thanks to my locking my keys in the car out front. Luckily they have internet access so I can kill time writing here.

I had stopped at a restaurant across the street after work. I walked in and found my ex-husband there and, with no other excuse to avoid him, killed some time together. Fortunately we have a child in common and that filled the time. Still, not what I wanted to deal with.

Last night I went out out with Spaceman after completing a phototgraphy project at work. As we walked towards our cars at the end of the evening, he regaled me again at how busy he was, and how his place was a wreck and how he could not possibly invite me back to his place. "It's awful but I guess you can come back to my place if you want."

"Eactly how little self esteem do you think I have that I'd take you up on that?" I said as I turned on my heel. As I walked away I thought I felt him tug on my jacket to stop me (but I was mistaken).

The next day, just to be sure I was playing my role in my dysfunctional fucked up un-relationship, I invited PAL over to dinner tonight hoping to have an adult discussion about things. He actually said "I think I have something else to do tonight but I don't remember what." So I prompted him, "quick, think up something!"

Ater which, when I got into work I was walking around in the jacket I was wearing last night when someone pointed out that there was a lift ticket stuck to my back. Spaceman had stuck it on my back as I walked away from him the night before. I realized the furtive tug was nothing of the kind.

He called today to ask me out to lunch to make up for the night before, at which point I told him the ticket thing wasn't funny, that it was a childish thing to do. "I can't help it - I'm a 12 year old," was his excuse. Not one to turn away a free lunch, I took it but it really was just a chance to look at the photos from last night. I let him pay, fucker.

I hate them both, honestly.

I'm going to a concert tomorrow night with new blog reader Amy and she has invited along a single male friend - she insists she isn't setting us up but at the very least he sounds interesting. I can do no worse.

So this coffee house I am stuck in - now waiting 90 minutes for a tow truck - has a journal that people are invited to write in. All sorts of information in there and some surprising confessions. I was going to write but realized I could buy computer time for $5.

But the reading was compelling. One person confessed she was cheating on her husband. Another said he was moving out of town. Who would think a coffee shop could provide such sanctuary on a chilly fall evening?

Everything I Need to Know I Learned from Star Trek

Now that I'm approaching the third anniversary of the dissolution of my marriage, I thought it was prime time to reflect upon the hits and misses of my dating life since then.

When I was married, I imagined dating to be much like going to Disney World, but with less cash changing hands. I couldn't wait! In fact, it's been more like being lost in a corn maze for 36 months. I know there's an exit here somewhere ...

But I digress. The local Maine TV station has been playing reruns of vintage Star Trek episodes and I watched several of them this weekend. I realized that Kirk and Spock could be used as an exercise in contrast in life and, yes, in dating.

Step One is determining if you are more of a Spock, or a Kirk. I would say I'm more of a Spock, definitely a left brain kinda gal. You can tell because of the eye-glasses. That and the fact that at age 43 I am blogging Star Trek, wondering why I can't get a date.

Step Two is comparing your style in picking up the opposite sex to Kirk or to Spock.

Kirk would go at it with anyone. Remember that female alien with the green skin? Yeah, he was good with that. He had no problem feeling up his subordinates either. Yeoman, Communications Officer, you name it. In a short velour mini-dress? Come into my quarters, baby! Kinda like Austin Powers but better looking.

Spock was more thoughtful. Because he was only half human, he only occasionally craved female companionship. But when he did, watch out. Kind of like me and too much vodka. Although in the most memorable episode, Spock gets doused by some sort of alien flower spore and runs amok, proclaiming his love for the first native he comes across. Definitely like me and too much vodka.

As an interesting side note ... in researching photos for this post, I came across a surprising number of homoerotic photos and illustrations depicting Kirk and Spock. I had never thought of this! How could this be? Yet there they are. This one is just funny, not racy. This is a PG-rated blog, after all. Google it yourself if you want to see the crazy-ass stuff. I will never watch Star Trek the same again.

So I think my new strategy is to be more Kirk, and less Spock. I need to be open to the possibilities that present themselves. Even if their complexion is a little green. Beam me up!

He's Just Not That Into You

After hitting some rough patches while dating early on in my single life-dom, I bought the popular book, "He's Just Not That Into You." It gives single gals all sorts of handy advice to help them understand that they deserve better than the losers they have invited into their lives, and how to avoid falling into the same trap over and over gain.

I think I should've bought more than one copy, or perhaps bought the extra large type edition as I seem unable to get even the basics right, charging again and again into the arms of the wrong man, then wondering what I did wrong.

Tonight I went out with a group of friends from work, including Spaceman, who is doing some photography for the company I work for. As I drove home (alone) afterwards, I thought how his behavior was so completely unlike what one would expect from a man that you've been dating for months. No arm around the shoulders, did not offer to walk me to my car when I left (albeit earlier than the rest of the group), no query as to when I might be free again later in the week. Just a rant on how terribly busy he is at work.

I had thought about asking him about a round of golf or inviting him over for dinner the next day, but why waste the effort when I already know the answer. He recently informed me (by email) that he "will be working every day until midnight or beyond until further notice." And to answer the question, yes, I do need a house to land on me.

So rather than get angry, I came home and pulled out my dog-eared copy of the book and re-read the good advice it offered:

He's Busy - Just because he's busy doesn't make him more valuable. "Busy" does not mean "better." The word "busy" is the relationship Weapon of Mass Destruction. Remember, men are never too busy to get what they want.

The He's Out of Town Excuse - If he's not making a serious effort to make sure that while he's out of town you don't go out and find someone else, then I think you've just boarded the he's just not that into you jet. Buckle up!

It's Better Than Nothing - Is better than nothing what we're going for now? Have you lost your marbles?

"I know that guy you are dating - he is the man made up entirely of your excuses. And the minute you stop making excuses for him, he will completely disappear from your life."

So it is with this re-reading that it is becoming increasingly clear that Spaceman must soon go the way of Machine Gun Man. I'm done making excuses. It hurts me to just sit back and watch the inevitable dissolution. But it brings to mind the childhood ditty:

Yesterday Upon the Stair
I Met a Man Who Wasn't There
He Wasn't There Again Today
I Wish That He Would Go Away

Do-A-Holic

This was to be a rare weekend, one where I had nothing to do for 2 out of the 3 days. I had no evening plans, and a stack of good books to read and DVDs to watch. I stockpiled my kitchen with goodies to cook and bake.

By 4pm Fri., I was in my sweatpants whipping up some of my famous red sauce when the phone rings. It's the guy who I dated 2 years ago who lived in an unheated cabin on a lake. Now, while I like him just fine as a friend, I'm not interested really in dating him. Plus, I was truly content just chopping tomatoes in my kitchen. So why in hell did I say yes when he asked me to go to a party with him in a town 2 hours from where I live?

I'm just a girl who can't say no. 30 minutes later, I was out of my sweatpants and in his truck on the way to parts unknown. It was a lot of fun but we didn't make it back home until 11am the next morning. There went my morning of cooking and working out. But I still had time to go to the driving range and shopping Sat. afternoon.

Fast forward as I'm walking off the driving range. Who's there but PAL hanging out on the deck at the course with some friends. I was on a mission to finish up my shopping but did I stick to said mission? Hell no. Next thing I knew, I was sitting on the deck with the 3 of them. Then for reasons I'm not quite sure, went along with them to the next bar after that. Now that afternoon was shot. Have to finish up the red sauce next day.

The round of golf with Spaceman on Sunday was a lot of fun but took up a span of 8 hours. Great fun but definitely no time for sauce.

So I look back at my 2 days with no plans and ponder how it turned into a lost weekend. I think the call of the unknown and the spontaneous is just too much of a siren song for me. This would explain a lot of my exploits, including the entire span of time spent with Machine Gun Man.

I could've hung up the phone Friday night and gone back to my sauce. But I wouldn't have met some of the really cool people at that party. Or trotted past PAL and friends instead of joining them. But I never would've found that biker bar with live music on Saturday afternoons (and some of the dirtiest dancing I've seen in public in a long time, but that is a story for another blog). So I guess there are advantages to being a "do-a-holic." As Warren Zevon sang, "I'll sleep when I'm dead."

And on that note, I'm going to bed now. I have to go to work in the morning. After a weekend with nothing to do, I'm exhausted.

Why Do I Do It?

Warm welcome to new blog reader, A.P., who I met at a conference addressing how new media is impacting old media, otherwise known as "newspapers" and soon to be known as "those things we used to call newspapers."

Don't get me wrong - I love print. Reading on screen is not equivalent - experientially or qualitatively - with reading the printed page, be it a book, newspaper or magazine. I remember when a relative brought home an "E-Book" contraption 20 years ago. Guess what - it never took off. The well-written word will not be replaced by poorly written blogs. The means of writing have changed over the centuries, from cave drawings, to quills and ink, to typewriters, to computers. There's nothing like a good story and that's never going to change.

Speaking of good stories ...

... I played at a local coffee house last night. Spaceman had offered to come take photos of me. He was a no show. There was a small but appreciative crowd. I got paid a stipend and all the coffee and snacks I could eat. As I plowed through my large mocha latte and chocolate pecan pie after I finished up, PAL walked in. "I thought you started at 8," he said. "ENDED at 8," I corrected him. He never has been good with numbers.

We then went out to another restaurant that has a really cool bar out back with an open mic night. How I could have driven by this place for 6 years and never seen it, I don't know. Super cool room with lots of good musicians. Again I had to redirect PAL's hands at the end of the evening, but he gets lots of credit for showing up.

Unlike Spaceman who calls me today to tell me he didn't make it because he volunteered to fill out gift cards for a friend's business instead. "Plus I didn't want to intimidate you when you were on stage." Yeah right!

I'm taking Spaceman golfing for his birthday on Sunday. Provided there are no dogs or gift cards, I'm sure he'll be there.

A Play in Three Acts

I don't know what sign the stars were in this weekend, but it was a weird confluence of happenings that took place. I'll spare you the suspense and just tell you it has a happy ending.

Act 1
I unexpectedly hung out with PAL Friday night. He called me about a mutual friend's going away party we would go to together. We met up at the local watering hole beforehand. Talk about a sight for sore eyes. He was dishing out just the brand of Irish malarkey I was in need of that evening. He put a warm hand on my shoulder. "That shirt really brings out the color of your eyes." "Your perfume smells wonderful ." "Did you cut your hair? It looks nice." "You have such a beautiful smile." I knew it was just flattery but it was just the ticket.

We had a good time together at the party then went out to hear music and dancing afterwards. He walked me to my car, as I casually brushed his hand off my ass. "Call me when you're done depriving yourself," I said as I got into my car and drove away. I was proud of myself. I took the enjoyment of his company and left behind the usual disappointment when he fails me. I'm learning.

Act 2
It had to be done. Machine Gun Man needed to be dealt with. I locked myself in my bedroom and dialed his number. With my usual forthrightness I told him it was over. The secretiveness about his living arrangements, the distance, etc., were not working for me. I left out the part about his being a freakazoid and not wanting to be seen in public with him.

"I have something I need to tell you," he said. Oh boy. Here it comes. I'm married. I'm an ax murderer. But no ... he hasn't let me see his house because ... he has ROOMMATES. I chortled, "That's IT? You have had me thinking you were married or Jeffrey Dahmer. Tell me, are you married to one of your roommates?" So add lying to the list of offenses, on top of being a freak.

It was all anticlimactic. Another proud moment. I didn't back pedal or mince words. He emailed me this morning after ruminating on our conversation. He is such a good writer. I wish that was good enough.

Act 3
Last Friday, Spaceman had me in a dither. He had sent me such a cryptic email that, as far as I could tell, he was cancelling our date on Sunday so he could dog sit. This is what I read. This is how my girlfriends (who of course I immediately called and read the email) interpreted it.

Now, those of you who are dating know that you usually don't take the gloves off, verbally, for quite some time when you are in a new relationship. This email pissed me off enough that I didn't care if it was the last exchange we had.

I called him, and he was on the golf course with the iPhone. It was unfair to launch into things when he was about to tee off, but that I did. "You are cancelling with me to DOG SIT? That is the LAMEST excuse I have ever heard," I complained.

"But you're a CAT person," he desperately tried to explain in the 60 second break before it was his turn to drive, "you wouldn't understand." This didn't help his cause.

His voice mail message, several hours later, was effusively apologetic. I must've misunderstood. He has awful communication skills. Of course we were still on for Sunday.

Ultimately, the rain on Sunday cancelled our game of golf. But it was a nice night to stay in (with the dog) and watch the Pat's game. He cooked us dinner that evening and brought me coffee in bed the next morning - not a bad means of apologizing.


EPILOGUE

I'm laughing as I type this -- a song is on the radio, "Hooray, Hooray for Tom" - the stars are definitely aligned over Madison this week.

Hello, God, It's Me, iPhone

So MGM is not one to get shaken off easily. I got an email from him this a.m. He went to a trade show where my company was exhibiting, even though I was not there.

He went up to one of my employees who was working the show, and talked her into taking a photo of him in front of the booth.

I am immensely grateful that he did not disclose his identity to him, so horrified I would be to be associated with this odd person doing such an odd thing.

His bizzaro email:

"So if ((name changed to protect the innocent)) tells you how great it was, casually ask if she took any pictures. She got at least one - it was me standing next to the poster. I asked her to take it and show all her friends at work, maybe email me a copy - but actually I just wanted her to take one of me for you, and now it's up to you to get a copy."

"Be casual about it, don't worry about letting on (I didn't 'out' you to your friends from work - I figure when you're ready to introduce me to your friends, you will.) But get a copy."

So yeah. Weird is as weird does. What do I expect from Mr. Best Ad Ever on Craigslist.

And not to be out-done, Spaceman called me last night, invited me to play golf with his league today, then called back this a.m. to un-invite me.

Now one other funny thing about him, other than his complete lack of manners, is his iPhone. It mis-dials easily. So I frequently get calls from his pocket. After he called to cancel, his iPhone called back. I whistled loudly to no avail. This happens frequently enough that sometimes I just listen in case something interesting gets said. I can hang on as long as I like - the iPhone will not hang up once it inadvertently dials me.

You know - now that I think of it, the iPhone has called me a few times after Spaceman has called to cancel on me. Could it be ... the iPhone is ... his CONSCIENCE?

I imagine conversations like, "There, Tanya. Are you happy? I blew her off again. Now let's go dancing." But usually I just hear the wind blowing or the sound of fabric brushing against the receiver.

If only the iPhone could talk. "Hi, Kathy? It's me, iPhone here. I gotta tell you. You can do a LOT better than Spaceman. You know the golf league? Bunch of drunken losers. You're much better off hanging with your kid tonight. Oh, gotta go. Call you later!"

Completely apropos of nothing, let me share with you the blog of a business associate I had dinner with last night: www.livingoprah.com

It's interesting enough - but what is really interesting is that this blog has generated so much interest, she now has an agent, book deal, TV appearances, etc. She's living my dream!

So please, loyal blog readers - share this with anyone (who doesn't know me) and get the word out. My blog is much funnier than hers. And why give Oprah more media coverage than she already has.

These Happy Golden Years

Loyal blog readers are wondering ... so what does the Spaceman LOOK like anyway? One would think that someone who works as a photographer for a living would have ample shots of himself. "I'm rarely on the other end of the camera," he advised. So the best I can give you is this Doonesbury cartoon.

Duke properly embodies his approximate appearance and attitude. Bill has more hair and he doesn't smoke, but everything else is spot on.

I had occasion this weekend to go on a business trip to a golf resort in Vermont (I know, tough job). I met up with a personable married couple about my age who have been together over 20 years. Despite 2 decades together, they still appeared to like one another. What novelty!

They golf together, hike, ride motorcycles ... all sorts of fun, convivial activities. I felt the same way after meeting them as I did last month on another fun-filled trip to a Penn. resort, when I saw a family walking towards the tennis courts together. Mom, Dad, Biff, & Bunny - all on vacation together - oh, these happy golden years!

So what happened to me? Not that I'm bitter or anything. But I should be walking around the swanky hotel with my happy nuclear family, reaping the rewards of a lifetime of hard work, finally resting on my laurels and sharing the bounty with my loved ones.

But no -- I'm cruising websites and hitting the bar scene at a time of my life when honestly, I just want to bake up a batch of flax seed muffins and fold laundry. What a cruel joke it is, being thrust into the dating scene at age 40.

Of course, cartoon characters are ageless. Duke and Honey have been circling in the gray area of their non-relationship for 30 years now. He, always unattainable and cynical. She always hopeful. Now, I've only been dating for about 3 years so maybe there's hope for me yet. I can't imagine still going at it at age 73. Talk about your happy golden years.

King of Pentacles

It is probably telling that one of my best girlfriends is a tarot card reader named Ruby. Whenever I meet someone new, I am under strict orders to ask for his sign. You see, I have a man in my future, and he is the King of Pentacles. An earth sign. A highly ambitious, successful and steady man who is absolutely positively in my future. Just not the near future. He has been hanging out there in the ether for about a year now.

As I have suffered through the pantheon of fools, Ruby has steadfastly told me that each of them absolutely was not the one. Leo? Tons of energy, but no. Scorpio? Lots of fun, but no way.

"Ok, Ruby, he sounds great, but WHEN." She flips a few more cards. Cards showing beggars. Walking in snow. (This can't be good.) "After the snow flies," she promises. This reading was in June. So in the meantime, I look for a great man in flowing robes and a crown, sitting in a throne holding a shield of Pentacles. Wish me luck.

Back in reality-ville, I had back-to-back calls last night from Spaceman and MGM, the Dumb and Dumber poster-children of my dating life.

MGM asked me to go to a concert for the next night. It became clear he hadn't actually bought the tickets yet. Then he allegedly pulled up a website and said the concert was cancelled. Click.

Then Spaceman calls for what, I don't know. I think he woke up this a.m. hung over and vaguely recalled calling me from a party he didn't invite me to. Maybe that was it.

So tonight I'm home with my two favorite males - Biscuit and Martin. A woman could do worse while waiting for her King to arrive.

Kill Bill

You would think that during a blissful vacation in beautiful Down East Maine that I would surely be lacking in tales to share with you from the dating front.

However after pitching my tent I realized that the last time I had been in this very same place, I was VERY newly divorced and just starting to date. I had just gone out with a realtor from Maine (what is it about guys from Maine) and thought we had hit it off. He had called me several times during my camp trip just to stay in touch, which seemed sweet at the time, but now in hindsight I realize it was significant of nothing. Because that is exactly where things went when I returned from vacation that time.

However, this time, I did fall in love ... with a National Park Ranger named Kirk Lurvis. Kirk Lurvis, Kirk Lurvis! How I love that unlikely combination of vowels and consonants as it rolls off the tongue. All cleft chin, park ranger uniform and chock-full of useful information about the rocks beneath our feet, Kirk Lurvis joked with the kids, winked at the mothers and walked into my dreams. Don't try Googling him - he's clearly off the grid. But I can dream, can't I? Take off your ranger hat, embossed leather belt and sensible shoes, Ranger Lurvis. Not since Yogi Bear met Ranger Smith was there a more momentous meeting.

OK, now back to reality. I came home and unpacked when my phone rings. It's Space Man. There is much raucous laughing in the background - he is obviously at a party. "I noticed you called me," he said. I had called him during my 5 hour drive home from KirkLurvisVille the previous day. "Yes, I'm back! Where are you?" He was indeed at a party - a party being thrown by a company he works with. Clearly everyone had brought a guest or their kids -- everyone except him. "Too bad you're not here - it's a lot of fun!" -- yes, he actually said this.

I pointed out he hadn't invited me. "Yeah, I thought about calling you earlier but ..."

But But But ... but you DIDN'T you loser. "I've only been here since 2 or 3." It was now 8pm, meaning his excuse was ... he didn't call me because he was only going to be at the party for 6 or 7 hours. Barely worth bringing a guest.

And the coup de grace -- as our conversation wound down, he said, "Have a good week." And with those 4 words he telegraphed his non-intentions as far as seeing me at any point in the near future.

Now, those readers who know me know I have custody of my kiddo every other week. This is my off week, and he knows this. So "Have a good week" might as well be "have a great month!"

So I'm diving back in online - don't try to find me, because it's not a mainstream dating site. And it has special functionality to block guys from Maine.

Just do the math, kath

Faithful blog reader Andrea is a bit of a songstress herself and offered up this reply to my earlier posting:

Just do the math, Kath
He aint' runnin' for senate, Bennett
Even Biscuit don't give a Triscuit
Just click the send button.......

Her email was followed quickly by MGM, giving me more fodder to hate him. I don't even like his taste in music (with possible apologies to Talking Heads):

Crue :Kickstart My Heart Girls, Girls, Girls Wild Side
Slaughter :Fly to the Angles
Talking Heads : Burning Down the House
Warrant :Cherry Pie
and of course ... Barry Everything Can't Get Enough

If I hadn't met the guy, I would SWEAR everything he is doing is part of a bad reality TV show. "Let's take a REAL nerdy guy, give him a James Bond-like car, a credit card with unlimited funds and a script writer and let's see what happens. He has to be somewhat good looking but we have to make him exceedingly annoying. Then we'll see how long it takes for the chick to dump him."

Wait, I think that was a movie, wasn't it? Or should I anticipate Alan Fudd walking out of the shadows. "You're on Candid Camera!"

You Can't Make This Shit Up

This is just too good NOT to share.

I signed into my gmail account to find this message from MGM - thank god we missed each other:

"Heya - if you're online tonight and see me on, IM me. I'm on youtube walking through the myriad of 80's hair bands watching old videos - Motley Crue, Scorpions, Def Lepard, Ratt, Poison, Winger, Warrant, Slaughter (Fly to the Angles!), Van Halen, Whitesnake, Bon Jovi ... figured we could share our favorites back and forth in IM :-)"

Rhymin' Simon

"The problem is all inside your head", she said to me

The answer is easy if you take it logically

I'd like to help you in your struggle to be free

There must be fifty ways to leave your lover

She said it's really not my habit to intrude

Furthermore, I hope my meaning won't be lost or misconstrued

But I'll repeat myself, at the risk of being crude

There must be fifty ways to leave your lover

Fifty ways to leave your lover

You just slip out the back, Jack

Make a new plan, Stan

You don't need to be coy, Roy

Just get yourself free

Hop on the bus, Gus

You don't need to discuss much

Just drop off the key, Lee

And get yourself free



Well, Paul Simon didn't include anything in his classic song about dumping someone by email, so I guess I'm on my own.

After much thought, I've decided I need to end it with Machine Gun Man. It's been real, it's been fun, but it hasn't been real fun.

Except for when his mouth is shut, he is asleep or I am distracted by (ahem) other activites, I absolutely positively CANNOT stand him. Talented as he is, I can't continue to avoid being seen in public with him. I can't imagine even introducing him to any friends. "Did you hit your head?" they'll ask in amazement. "Are you feverish?" others will ask worriedly.

He is a live action version of Roger Rabbit. A cartoon character amongst human, he is unreal, in the true sense of that word. Kids, cats, humans, you name it, he fails to relate on any emotional level that can be construed as "normal."


Besides, Space Man is growing on me. As long as I'm ping ponging between the two of them, I ain't ever gonna get serious with him. So I need to let him rise or fall on his own merits, without the distraction of Roger Rabbit bouncing around in the background.


But alas, this weekend I'm heading north for yet another camp trip with my kiddo. No opportunities for blogging or hooking up but always a chance for more interesting characters and stories. Maine is just full of both.

Redemption

 

I spent most of last week on vacation with my daughter at Old Orchard Beach, Maine. It took me away from the inanity of my current dating life and let me enjoy some time at the shore doing my favorite thing - sitting at the beach reading trashy novels.

We stayed at a campground where surely the term "white trash" was originated. Wild Acres promised "75 acres of serenity." I suppose if you lived in Hell's Kitchen, Wild Acres would come across as serene. But for us two country mice, it was a mass of humanity pressing itself against the shore on this hot August weekend.

We made reservations late and I committed the cardinal sin of chewing out a fellow tourism industry worker. The young-ish man behind the counter looked up at me wearily when we checked in and I complained about our site. It was muddy. It was small. It wasn't nice. "You know it's been raining for, like, a month right?" Of course I knew it but I complained anyway. When I got over myself a few hours later I felt badly for abusing him but it felt good at the time.

We were greeted almost immediately while setting up our tent by our "neighbors," one of whom was actually sitting in a taxi-cab. The disconnect of a taxi-cab at a campsite took a while to digest. The couple explained they were camping together but that the boyfriend was working until 3am most nights and then returning to the campsite. "Hi, my name is Brandy," the girl introduced herself. "Of course you are," I replied. I expected nothing more than someone named after a cheap liquor. Said boyfriend did indeed return "home" every night at 3am and proceed to cuss out Brandy, obviously forgetting that tent walls are thin and his f-bombs hit the ears of all the children in adjacent sites.

But we were there for the beach and the beach we got. It was back to back to back humans right up to the water line. It was honky-tonk all the way but we went whole hog, riding the ferris wheel, the roller coaster and eating trashy junk food like deep-fried oreos. While my kid rode her boogie board in the waves, I sunk back in my chair and dozed while an airplane flew banners overhead with messages appealing to the tourists. "Bella's - Best Pizza on the Strip" and "US Airforce Band Concert Tonight on the Common."

Maybe it was heat stroke. Maybe I was dreaming. But through a haze I stared at a new message on the plane's banner. "Not Good" it read. That wasn't quite right. "Not Good Enough." Not Good Enough for what? The little plane circled and circled then flew away. Then I woke up and realized it was indeed a dream - but in this state, my mind shared what my heart knows. Not Good Enough. Not one of them. Not even close.

Meet Martin

I am so excited to announce that I am totally in love. Forget Spaceman, Machine Gun Man, heck, even forget Jesus ... I have found MARTIN.

Martin is a smooth skinned brown-eyed beauty with a silky voice and a physique that won't quit. I just can't keep my hands off him. I met him in a music store last weekend and it was love at first sight. We left together, I took him home and we've spent every minute together ever since.

Spaceman talked me into the 3 of us going out the other night. We went to the Wildcat Tavern, and we had a great time. There was no jealousy at all - heck, he even thanked me for bringing him!

Machine Gun Man all but ignored him. I tried to tell him how much Martin meant to me but he wasn't listening. He just walked by him in my living room and pretended he wasn't there.

Biscuit runs from the room when he makes a noise.

Martin is a musician like me - we like all the same music. I've spent most of the last week going through boxes and boxes of sheet music, and we play all the old tunes together. It's amazing how he knows all the same songs. It's like we were meant to be together.

Martin is really into the environment - he claims to have figured out how to save the rainforest. Of course, this just makes him all the more loveable, even if it wasn't the first reason why I fell for him. It just adds to what makes him irresistable.

Unfortunately, Martin comes with a heavy price. I'm going to be selling off various personal belongings to be able to afford to keep him around. But that's OK, he's worth it.

By now, you may have figured out ... Martin is ...

MY NEW GUITAR.

Love Me, Love My Cat

They say you can tell a lot about the person by the way they behave towards animals.

I'd like to think that my cat, Biscuit, has super-feline powers and can, in an instant, ascertain the quality and character of a man within seconds of meeting him.

However, if Charles Manson were to visit my Madison home, Biscuit would glue himself to his blood-soaked limbs and ask to sit on his lap. In short, Biscuit is no judge of character. He has loved them all - from PAL to Jesus to Machine Gun Man.

So I'll have to resort to judging the man's attitude towards the cat as yet another measurement of his inadequacy.

Biscuit doesn't just sleep on my bed, he sleeps on my HEAD. Machine Gun Man takes issue with this and not only tosses Biscuit out the door ("fly, kitty, fly!"), he then LOCKS the door, as if the cat might sprout opposable thumbs, rear up on his hind legs and open the door to claim his rightful spot on my scalp. What MGM fails to realize is that Biscuit is the Man of the House and HE is the visitor.

Mr. Nipple Fetish (remember him?) was terrified of Biscuit. He locked out the cat saying the thought of having him in the room gave him night terrors. (In hindsight, the thought of spending the evening with him gave ME night terrors.)

Spaceman is a complete softy when it comes to animals. He lives in a "below grade" apartment so that his now deceased beloved elderly Golden Labs could easily get in and out the door. Upon meeting Biscuit, he said he was not a cat person, although he was very friendly towards the furry guy. He also didn't dead bolt the door to bar him from the room.

The next week he cut a date short so he could go tend to a stray cat that had gone on an unintended ride on his engine block. The next day, he took the stray to the vet to have his burned paws and belly tended to (the image this conjures up, of the cat clinging koala-like to the engine, is awful). He put posters all around town and ultimately found a new home for the stray. If only I could get him to pay as much attention to me. Maybe if I crawl up on his engine block and sustain minor injuries.

Mr. Hawaiian Lai has two cats who were very cool. I met him right after he had had them both groomed for summer (their both being long-haired) and their fur had the consistency of a chamois cloth. I think I liked the cats better than him. The cats slept on the bed and there was no dead bolting involved. He considered getting a third cat but thought somehow it might lead some to question his hetero-sexuality (although personally I have never heard of cat-ownership being one of the markers of sexual preference, who knows).

So alas, looking at this pattern, there is no correlation between cat ownership, Biscuit-worship, or cat tolerance and whether or not a date is going to work out with me. How easy it would be otherwise. I'd just buy the subscriber list to Cat Fancy magazine and voila, instant match.

I'll just have to go on my hunch, that how a person treats an animal is likely a good indicator of how they treat just about everyone else.

Bottoms Up

I am experimenting with dating while not under the influence and I have to tell you, it's not pretty.

Frank doesn't give a shit if I'm drunk, sober, upright, upside down - as long as I'm listening, he's game.

Others are concerned. "Do we like each other when we're sober?" Spaceman asked worriedly recently. We'll find out.

We went golfing yesterday. "Let's have a pre-round lube!" I was encouraged into the bar next to the course. Confused looks were exchanged as I ordered a diet Coke with lime. While I generally suck as a golfer, this round was bad even by my standards. Not a good start.

Then we went out to dinner and "drinks." He had 3 beers, I had cranberry juice. He then - get this - proceeded to poke fun at me.

The drive home - alone - was startlingly in focus and with no fears - founded or unfounded - that a police car would drop in behind me.

Spaceman is currently cleaning out his apartment, which he has dubbed "The Cave." I have been there once - there was a rough path through the debris to his bedroom, which was graced with a large dog who shared the bed with us for the evening. I haven't been back since, as he wants to clean up (after seeing my home and discovering that yes, adults can and do have nice houses). "Why not just save yourself the trouble and date a blind girl," I suggested.

A blind date in the true sense - what a concept! So of course I googled this when I got home. Can you believe there is NOT a dating website for the blind? Sorry Spaceman, you're on your own. Either that or you'll have to poke my eyes out. Which would be preferable to another sober round of golf with you.

5 Types of Men that Women Avoid

I recently checked an email account I use(d) solely for online dating and found an article from E-Harmony entitled "5 Types of Men that Women Avoid." What is startling is that all 5 of these types seem to all be rolled up in my new paramour, Mr. Craigslist .

Now, with apologies to E-Harmony, my version of their enewsletter:

1. Mr. Gadget - Last night I got to hear, in detail, about his very first video game (not just a Commodore 64, a Commodore 32!), right through in chronological order to a new XBox race car game that allows him to enter the EXACT SAME sports car that he now drives!

"No wonder you haven't had time to unpack or buy furniture," I replied after listening to a 20 minute dissertation on the relative drag of road surface on the tires of his Nissan. I WISH I was joking but I'm not. He won't let me see where he lives because he claims to have no furniture. Either that or a wife and 3 kids. Take your pick.

2. The Man-Child - If I hear one...more...time ... about his teenage job lifeguarding, I SWEAR I'm going to pull each hair individually out of his new goatee (don't make me tell you his lame gay-bashing joke told at his co-workers expense with the word "goatee" in the punchline - I've already heard it twice this week and I can't bear to even type it).

3. The Sociopath - Those of you who know me may have had the (dubious) pleasure of hearing me play my guitar. Since I've been seeing this guy for going on two months now, and since he never asked, I offered to play a tune for him. He requested "Stairway to Heaven." Not kidding. I played it - the guitar part anyway. Then I played a James Taylor song which apparently moved him so much that he - get this - LEFT THE ROOM in the middle of the song and returned at the end without comment. I put my instrument away after that and he said nothing.

4. The Chatterbox - Don't worry about making conversation. He does all the talking for both of us.

5. The Victim - "Things ended badly with my last girlfriend," he warned. "Where did you bury the body," I asked. But seriously, he just got angry and said he would never ski with her again but he suspects she will change her mind this winter when the snow starts flying again. Apparently she just wanted to use him for sex, a typical FWB set up which he has warned me is "not his thing." Unfortunately for both of us, this is his sole redeeming quality.

So move over, Dr. Warren. I don't need E-Harmony for dating advice - I've got Craigslist.