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.