Christmas with a Stranger

I'm sorry I've gone almost 2 mos. now without a post. I don't know if that means I'm a recovered dater or if I've just given up. Take your pick.

A few updates. For one, I have taken one of my favorite blog postings, the one about Machine Gun Man, and submitted it for a North Country version of the Vagina Monologues put on by the local theatre company. It's been accepted and will be performed Valentine Day's weekend. Of course. I was given the option of auditioning for the part as well, but I didn't want to hog all the talent in the Valley so I declined. Besides, Rita Marino deserves to keep sole rights to triple threat (dancing/singing/acting). Although anyone who has seen me dance knows this is not really an issue. I guess I'd substitute writing for dancing and kick Rita's ass.

I've spent much of the last two months trying to convince myself that I'm attracted to Mr. Clean. He has been trying **so** hard, as have I. I've gone on arduous hikes to impress him. He's hung out at countless Hoot Nights to show his interest. He even endured a snow boarding lesson which went not as well as hoped. He went in enthusiastic and came out humble. "I spent all day on my ass. I think I broke my hip," he whimpered as we drove back to civilization. All this, yet not a single zing of chemistry. He is not nearly quirky, damaged or creative enough to win my affection. He is off with his family for the holiday week. He doesn't know it yet, but he is toast.

I'm already on to my next victim. I sat next to the newscaster from the local radio station at a media event I organized last weekend. "Did you know the 7-11 is open on Christmas Day?," he asked. "What sort of putz has to work on Christmas?"

"I'm working Christmas Day," I shared, "So that would be me."

He recovered quickly and suggested we get together for dinner at the 7-11 when I get out of work. "You know that hot dog that spins around for 12 hours on the grill? We can split that," he suggested.

Since then he scouted every option for Christmas Day dinner and finally suggested a restaurant that, unbeknown to him, is my favorite in the region. He picks me up at 4pm tomorrow after work. "Maybe we can find a place for a sleigh ride after," he promised.

I barely know this guy, other than recognizing his voice as the one I hear on the radio every morning driving in to work. He doesn't like to hike and admittedly will not try skiing. He has to be at work at 4am so he does not go out at night. But so far, he gets an A+ for humor and persistence. He may not have a ripped physique, but he has impossibly made me look forward to Christmas tomorrow.

Dog Daze

I saw something amazing on an online dating site last night. I got a message that I had received a note from an interested prospect. So I logged in and found a nice note from someone who lives fairly locally. His profile picture was not bad. Then I dug into his photo gallery and found pictures of his dog.

But not just his dog - his dog with puppies!

Oh, cute little puppies! But wait, what IS that? What is THAT photo? Oh, it is the dog giving birth to puppies. IT IS THE DOG'S PLACENTA!

Yes, this man posted photos of his dog's afterbirth as part of his online dating profile.

It is always nice to understand a person's interests and activities. And photos are a good way as they say, they are worth a thousand words. But this? Are you serious? Is this an activity you want to partake of with your date? Do you have a dog fetish? Did you forget where you were uploading these photos?

So yeah - I deleted his note.

Meanwhile, things are chugging along nicely with Mr. Clean, as I now have named my new potential paramour. He doesn't have the earring but he is bald, wears tight tee shirts and has muscular arms. And he cleaned up after he made dinner for us last week.

90 Days

I recently responded to an ad on Craigslist - something I haven't done in close to a year. But since there are so few eligible bachelors here in my little town, when you find some advertising, it can be worth a little investigating. He's a computer programmer, fresh from the city, now telecommuting. A snappy dresser and martial arts expert with a shaved head, he definitely is not the typical north country guy. Which is fine by me.

 

So we met for dinner Monday night. Then drinks and music on Tuesday. Then dinner at his place Wednesday (he's a good cook), followed by going out for more drinks and music after. Three nights in a  row - a record! And this from someone whose ad stated he wasn't interested in anything long term or serious. He is new in town and wants someone to show him around.

 

I confessed last night that in my four years of dating, I have never made it beyond three months with anyone. "I've never made it past 90 days either!" he shared.

 

"Maybe we'll be like a double negative," I added. 

 

As I was getting into my car last night, he asked what we were going to do the next night. Four in a row? I initially said yes but later begged off due to work commitments. 

 

Only 87 days to go!

 

 

 

The Interview

I went on a lunch date with a nice but uninspired gentleman yesterday. This is part of my strategy of investing as little time as possible in each loser, I mean, prospect.

It's not that he wasn't OK looking (how's that for damning with faint praise). But he showed up wearing a gray sweatshirt. And when I casually asked what he did for work, he launched into a work history dialogue that literally took up the entire hour time slot of our lunch.

Now if he were an astronaut or surgeon, this might have been interesting. But 20 years of beverage distribution ... not so much.

In his defense, he was VERY nervous. I think talking about the familiar was his coping mechanism. But I found myself leaning forward and going "uh-huh, oh, really?" as I have done through many job interviews in my day. Let's just say he's not going to get the job.

But at least he was better than the other prospect who I was to meet for a drink last weekend. Until his pregnant angry wife emailed me and warned me off (he represented himself as divorced). Who then subsequently asked if I would give her a statement for her lawyer. I begged off saying I hadn't even met him, only talked once and really REALLY did not want to get involved. Note to self - don't switch over to "real" email address until much further down the pike. I googled my name (which is eponymous with my "real" email address) and the screen lit up like a Christmas tree. It would be so easy for her lawyer to find me. I just hope she respects my request for privacy as quickly as I respected her request to cancel. I guess we'll see what happens.

Meanwhile in the offing is a dinner date with someone who just moved to town. He doesn't know anyone yet. He telecommutes from a high paying job in the city and loves living in the mountain. I have been warned by friends to not tell anyone about him - especially other women - as this fresh meat will likely be snapped up quickly.

"Most of the responses I got to my ad were from robots and women from overseas looking for VISAs," he told me. "You were the only real person to respond. At least the only one not 20 years older than me." So I've got that going for me. I just hope he's a meal to remember.

Class of '83

I went through an interesting exercise this evening. I scrolled through the Marshfield High School Class of 1983 on Facebook.

 

I would like to say, on behalf of every ugly duckling and late bloomer, that time makes for the best revenge. Every popular kids is now looking 10 years older and 50 lbs. heavier than our age.

 

Interesting side note - the few of us who dabble in the performing arts are by far the best looking. Not that this is saying much, relatively speaking. But in high school were were in the back row of drama club, trading tips of Rubiks cubes and Culture Club casette tapes.

 

 

Love Stinks

I know I have been letting my loyal blog readers down by my infrequent posts but let me give you some funny updates. I wish I could tell you that I have been too busy having an intense secret love affair, so involved and discrete that there has been no time to turn on the computer let alone update you, but that would be a lie.

 

A lie, as in what most of the losers I run into tell me constantly. Like the movie Momento, let me work from the present day backwards to get you up to speed.

 

A nice note from a man in upstate NY recently arrived, responding to my online dating ad. He liked that I'm a musician. He liked my glasses. He would be in the Valley this weekend on a trip with his kids and would I meet up with him for coffee? We were to meet today but then I got a surprise email this morning. From his pregnant wife. Yes, she apparently hacked into his email account and sent me this chilling message:

 

"do not meet this man he is not what he says.  he is nothing but lies,  stay away from him he is the worst sort of person there is"

 

OK! Coffee date cancelled. Even if she is the crazy liar, this does not sound like anything I want to inject myself into. NEXT!

 

Then rewind back one night. I enjoyed a concert last night at a local venue, where I was also about two weeks ago for another show. At that time I sat next to a guy who was also by himself. We hit it off and he walked me to my car after the show only to wave a cheery goodbye and leave without asking for my number. So it was nice to run into him again last night. When he did the same thing. He did ask when I'm singing again at a local pub - and promised to stop by to see me there. Not holding my breath.

 

Then back 2 more days to Hoot Night. It was like the Homecoming of the Damned. There was Vinny the Firefighter (from last spring)  whose tiny close-set eyes lit up when he saw me at the bar. "Baby! Where have you been?" he exclaimed as he literally hung off my arm. "You gotta give me another chance, baby, you broke my heart!"

 

His crooning was interrupted by the presence of Mr. I Don't Find You Attractive from last summer (see previous post) who walked up to me, apparently forgetting his previous conversation with me, "Hi Beautiful!"

 

My eyes scanned the room desperately looking for some friends at a table, somewhere to escape. But there were none. What's that song? Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right.

 

So I played my set and sat down, approached by another man fan, who proceeded to critique my music and tell me what I can do to improve it. I scurried out the door at my earliest convenience.

 

Then last weekend, the return of Ed the Engineer. You know, the one who had a "funeral" where he got back together with his Ex.  Against all common sense, I agreed to go out with him again after things did not work out with the ex. A wonderful night out with wine and music followed by no phone calls all week and a lame email saying he's been busy. What the fuck? Why bother?

 

A call from a friend yesterday with whom I hadn't spoken for months. Asked me how the love life was going. "Not much going" I replied. Then I went into the litany of everything that is great about my wonderful life - health, financial security, good friends, good job, lovely place to live. Why can't that be enough?

What's New Pussycat

Long time blog reader Michelle recently called and asked why no postings lately. I started by saying that there was nothing new and then went on to rattle off half a dozen amusing anecdotes. So I realized it was time to post once again. Unfortunately, my stories are much like summer re-runs on TV. If you feel you have heard these before, you are probably right.

Here are my lasting musings, in no particular order.

Return of Machine Gun Man - Since he was kind enough to lend me his resort condo recently, I arranged for him to get a deal on the same at my sister resort in Cal. where he currently resides. He said he had recently met the girl of his dreams and wanted to take her away for Labor Day.

Fast forward to Monday, Labor Day, at what must have been dawn west coast time. A text message comes from him: "She's crazy! This whole weekend was a disaster!" Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Apparently she had a diva like rant on the ride up, and then proceeded to wear sweatpants to bed and rebuke his advances all weekend.

"She never even got to see the magic that happens when the sun sets," he texted. Yes, that is a real quote. I can say from experience that yes, she will never know what she missed. Remember, I even liked him for the first weekend we went away.

He promised to call me the next time he is back on the east coast. Why let all that talent go to waste.

Spaceman Take 2 - Drunken hook up at the Cave. Literally no way to even find the bed, let alone use it, so the kitchen had to do. Knocked the pots and pans off the counter. Managed to clear off enough crap off the worn leather couch (including the dog) to find a place to (not) sleep for the evening. Not a word since. When will I learn?

Coffee anyone? - This month's Oprah magazine has an article by a single divorced woman who is trying to date 100 guys in a year, meeting each of them for coffee only. This is brilliant. I realize that to properly manage my time with all these losers, I really need to lessen the time commitment. So I'm meeting a guy from Portland for coffee tomorrow. "Just tell me where and I'll point my GPS in your direction!" he gleefully suggested. He's a big skier and outdoorsman; all his pictures are him outside enjoying various activities. I'll give him 15 minutes and see what happens.

Kansas City, Kansas City Here I Come - "I know I'm far away, but before you say no, please, just read my profile. I own 5 guitars and have a studio, and have been a musician all my life and even though I live in Missouri, I think we can over come the distance thing if it's meant to be. I'm also a golf nut" This is one frontier I haven't crossed yet - long distance. I mean, really long distance. As in, further than Portland long distance. If he has lots of frequent flyer points, maybe this could work.

That and it would be really really easy to dump him after it doesn't work out after 3 dates.

The Biggest Loser

My life is like a reality TV Show. Except the losers I'm meeting aren't losing weight, they are the real kind.

 

Take Dave (please, take Dave). Called me last night from a TENT in the northern wilds of NH. "Oh, that's nice? Are you on vacation?" I asked innocently. "No, it's cheaper than a hotel. And since I lost my job, it's the best I can afford for the contract work I'm doing now when it requires travel."

 

He then went on to tell me what's wrong with women my age (!) and what they are looking for. He also shared that he hates anyone who doesn't share his love of moving frequently (ie he is borderline itinerent). In other words, anyone with a job and family. Click!

 

I ended the phone call swiftly - I have my own tent and camping alone would be preferable to the reality of this loser.

Unhappy Endings

Well, Ed the Engineer is no more. He cancelled over the weekend, presumably due to a death in the family. "I'm sorry! I need to go to a funeral and wake on Sunday!" his voice mail mesage to me. I thought it was odd that on a Saturday he would learn about a wake .. .and a funeral ... the next day, but I'm the trusting sort.

 

"That is the oldest line in the book. He has another date," gal pal Tammy warned me. I hate it when Tammy is right. Because this morning, I find an email explaning he has reconciled with his ex who is "ran into" this weekend. I could have fun with that euphemism but I'm in too grim a mood to do so.

 

On a related note, I had exchanged emails with a man for a year or two, as he moved out of town before we got to meet. He then sent a note last month asking if we could get together as he was coming back to the area. We made plans, set a date and then ... I never heard from him again.

 

Well, I didn't hear from HIM but I did hear from his estate. He went and died on me. Or at least that is what the woman who sent me an email from his account said. "He passed away recently. Those wishing to may mail a donation to xyz charity in his name."

 

I emailed back my condolences and asked ... what happened? "You can call his cell phone and I'll tell you," she replied.

 

I haven't called yet. I had a flash of insight. Maybe he wasn't really dead. Maybe he was married and now just WISHED he was dead as his wife contacts all his potential paramours.

 

And totally appropos of nothing, Lonnie tried to add me as a friend on Facebook. I declined but not before I looked up his profile and saw ... he is "in a relationship." Truly, everyone has found someone but me now. I hope she's not too smart. Well, if she's publically link to him, I guess that goes without saying.

 

Answers from the Past

When I was in high school, my dating successes were about as limited as I have found them as an adult. Then as now, I always had a lot of guy friends. Between my love of music and art, I hung out with an earthy crunchy crowd and we merrily tripped our way (literally) through the70s and 80s together before moving out of our South Shore resort town after high school.

 

I had a major crush on one of these male friends, a fellow art major, who, despite spending many hours together, never made the move. He did however pine over a mutual friend in our clique, Kara. "The girl with Hobby Holly eyes," he would moon about her. Too bad she had a problem with Qualuudes, alcohol and any other substance that could be abused. She also stole my other boyfriend Steve, easily and without any protest. With friends like this, etc., etc.

 

So it is with some surprise that I get to the true bottom of the story as I view his Facebook page today. He is in a relationship with ... a guy named Francis. Yup, he's gay. So truly, it never had anything to do with me. I'm sure his mooning over Kara was a cover up as to his real feelings, which undoubtedly were not something to make public in early 1980s Marsh-Vegas.

 

And in case you're wondering, I am not spending the weekend alone. I am cautiously optimistic about Ed the Engineer who I've gone out with twice now.  I don't have  nick name for him yet, but don't worry, I'm sure it's coming. 

 

If my life were a Steven King novel, he would play the part of the local middle aged sherrif, with his eye on the 40-something waitress at the diner who works in a seacoast Maine town. You know the type - looks like Ed Harris, a kind heart and a crooked smile. He's doomed, I'm sure, but as Hurricane Danny moves up the coast, it's any port in a storm.

I Heart New York

My vacation to New York State was more exciting than I would have dreamed possible. Sure, Acadia last summer introduced me to Kirk Lurvis, park ranger extraordinaire. But this year, I got more than an imaginary love interest one evening at sunset at Heart Lake.

My campsite was situated in the heart of the Adirondacks at the unlikely named Heart Lake, a small (yes) heart shaped body of water surrounded by trees and campsites.

I sat alone in a chair on a dock by the water. I read my book as the sun set.

"Excuse me, would you like to share this bottle of wine with me? I picked it up at a local vineyard today," a deep male voice intoned beside me. I turned my head to find the unlikely visage of a man who looked like a blond Charlie Sheen. 30-something buff hiker, sitting next to me with two wine glasses in his hand and a smirk on his face.

Of course I said yes. He was a college professor from an unnamed university in upstate NY. He had studied in Boston for one of his masters degrees (emphasis on "one of") and corrected me when I referred myself as a Bostonian. "If you grew up on the South Shore, you aren't from Boston." I stood corrected as the conversation went from favorite novels to guessing what creature each of us could make up out of the cloud formations above us. The wine buzz took over as the sun set and he gingerly hopped into the lake from the small dock, stripping off his shirt like an ersatz Matthew McConaughey.

"Come for a swim with me," he said as he gamely pulled my form towards his into the water. At first I protested. I was fully dressed! It was chilly! But alcohol makes one lose inhibitions so in I went into the shockingly cold water. He pulled me deeper into the water as the coldness instantly zapped my wine buzz. Suddenly the Harlequin romance in my head was replaced with a thought more sinister. "I am in the water in the dark with a stranger," my mind reasoned with my wild side. "He is pulling you deeper in the water. Get back to shore NOW."

I paddled back towards the dock and jumped back up into my chair. Fabio followed. "That was the most humiliating romantic moment I've ever been in," he complained. "That could've been so sexy. Haven't you ever hooked up with a guy before?" He put his tee shirt back on.

"I don't find hypothermia sexy, and my lips are turning purple," I stayed in my chair, not sure if I was sorrier for myself or for embarrassing the hunk who tried to pick me up.

We each went home to separate campsites, where my kid awaited me. Parenthood can be a bitch at times, but most likely this was a good thing. The next morning, I found his forlorn flip flop and an empty plastic wine glass by the dock. I took them back to him at his campsite. He sheepishly accepted the items saying he didn't remember where he had left them.

"You don't remember last night, do you?" I asked. "Sure I do," he lied. "I have to get back to my campsite and my kid. Have a great weekend," I said as I walked back, wondering what I missed out on. Near miss or good call? We'll never know.

Prettiest Girl at Hoot Night

I frequent a local tavern that hosts an open mic night every Tuesday. I am a regular. I walk in and the bartender pours me a Smithwicks without asking. The emcee gives me a subtle hand gesture acknowledging I have dibs in the order of performers. I tune up Martin and leave him by the stage and wait for my turn.

Unlike other aspects of my life, Hoot Night rarely disappoints me. It offers up a crazy quilt of musical talents. Last week, a pair of 12 year olds showed up and sang and played guitar with a stage presence I cannot compete with (and didn't - I left without playing. WC Fields would not appear in a film with dogs or kids and who am I to not follow his example). Ukuleles and mandolins are common place. And last night a bag pipe player enveloped the very small room with a few numbers backed by a rock band. You don't see that just anywhere.

I get up to do my usual shtick - a combination of Emmy Lou Harris and Bonnie Raitt. It's truly an open jam session. Suddenly behind me I hear the sweet sounds of a pedal steel guitar. Then the insistent pulse of a bass guitar. Followed by the not too subtle banging of an amateur drummer who joins in. Suddenly my usual solo gig is a full-on band and the crowd is cheering.

Not many women get up and play, and definitely not many women my age. Why is it that women give up their rock and roll dreams after kids, family and work take over? Clearly middle aged guys were out in force, at least at this little outpost. I've seen a few young women get up and play. And then that 12 year old. Then most of us take off for 10-20 years of child-bearing. Few if any come out the other side singing. I speak from experience. I'm only just starting to warm up myself.

So I sit down after my set. The row of guys at the bar give me a thumbs up and then turn back to the Sox game on the screen. It's the 11th inning and the Sox can't seem to pull ahead of the Tampa Bay Stingrays. A bag pipe wails in the background. It's Hoot Night and easily, I am the prettiest girl there. For now, this will have to be enough.

Scatter

When I was growing up, my father subscribed to the Time Life Book science series. My favorite book was on mathematics. It had large b&w photos and text next to it explaining various things like statistics and such.

 

There are two photos side by each in a spread. One shows a 1950s era family with 10 child, all boys; the other, all girls. What is the chance that the 11th child will be of a different gender? The answer? 50/50. Same as the first. That's statistics for you.

 

So it should be no surprise that my double header date two weeks ago resulted in zero, count them, zero forthcoming dates.  That's right - both preempted my ditching THEM by ditching me first.

 

Bachelor #1 wrote back, "I met someone Thurs. I'm going to give this a shot. Good luck!" As if meeting someone else had anything to do with his remaining mute from Sat. to his next victim on Thurs.

 

Bachelor #2 left a voice mail. "It was great meeting you! Maybe I'll see you on the ski slopes this winter!" This, in August.

 

So now things are back to square one, same as it ever was, with exactly the same potential outcome as that first post-divorce date coming up on four years ago.

 

"I wish I could find the off switch," I whined to my tarot reading friend tonight. "It's called menopause," she replied. "And in that respect, it is wonderful." I so am not ready to go into that good night.

 

I am working hard on distracting myself with other fun yet-non-libidinous activities, like golf. Talk about a game requiring patience. It makes the odds of dating look good.

Double Bagger

One bit of clarification I found on the "Ask a Guy" forum was the definition of the term "Double Bagger." Actually, I found 2 complementary definitions. It's either dating a woman so ugly you put two paper bags over her head - the second in case the first one breaks. The other: you put one bag over her head and the other over yours, in case hers breaks.

Now this story is apropos of nothing other than I pulled a double bagger of my own Saturday when I got invited out to lunch with someone after accepting the invite to see Queensryche that evening. In an effort to prove myself after last week's dating debacle, I went for it and did back-to-back dates in a single day - a first even for me.

I met the Insitg8tor (that was his vanity license plate number) at a lake-side beach and boardwalk in central New Hampshire. He was well-put-together, chatty and not unpleasant company as we tooled around town in his BMW convertible on a rare sunny day this dreary summer. He works in the construction trade and offered to tour me around a part of the island I had never been - a circle of million dollar oceanfront homes he had worked on variously over the years. Because of this, he knew which ones were for sale and vacant. We pulled into the first driveway and looked out over the abandoned dock and lake-front. "Can we go sit on the dock?" I asked, and knowing the homes were unoccupied and for sale, the Instig8tor agreed. We sat in over sized Adirondack Chairs as the choppy waters lapped up over the teak decking at our feet.

The first house was so much fun I insisted on doing the same with 2 other houses, each time imagining having the money to buy a second home for $6.8 million. So we were the waterfront vacation-home crashers for the afternoon - sitting in the sun and stealing the views. We knew if anyone questioned us - with his BMW sitting in the drive way - we could convincingly say we saw the for sale sign and decided to take a look to see if we were interested in buying the place.

We had a lot of fun although I admit he did most of the talking. The Rules would approve - I let him go on - and tried to look fascinated with his stories. He was mildly amusing and I wouldn't turn him down if he calls again.

Then I scooted over to the ocean to meet up with bachelor #2 Mark, with Queensryche tickets in hand. We took in dinner and drinks at a rooftop deck as the sun set and meandered over to the site of the concert. After being ID'd and frisked (not kidding) we presented the tickets and were told they were for another night - that's right, we got the date wrong.

You can tell a lot about a person by how they react to a change in plans. I turned to Mark and said "Time to play Skee Ball!" which we did in the nearby arcade. He didn't talk about himself all evening and even asked a few questions about me. How refreshing!

And while he was a good looking man, I have to ask Tammy what edition of GQ she has been reading. He reminded me of a cross between Steve Martin and Phil Hartman. And he didn't have a provoking vanity license plate - so I think if I had to choose, I'm going with #2.

I got home around 1am and thought about my over-ambitious-as-usual plans of that day. Tammy called to ask how things went. "I wanted to introduce you to a nice guy because your nice guy meter seems to be broken," she chided me. She's right. Time to take the bag off my head and pay attention.

Rolling Stone, Gathering No Moss

Indignant Gal Pal Tammy does not want me to give up on men in light of the recent abuses at the hands of the latest loser and blog fodder. She is a hairdresser and has a long time client who is single. "He is GQ Handsome, Kathy. You have GOT to meet him."

 

She has in her possession a pair of Queensryche tickets for Hampton Beach Saturday night. So she called the man in question (his name is Mark - I'm sorry I don't have a clever nickname for him yet) and offered up both the tickets and me. "But I don't even like Queensryche," I whimpered. No matter. She handed off my number to Mark, who called me tonight and sealed the deal.

 

This is a blind date in the true sense. "Do you want to give him my picture?" I asked. "Nope," Tammy said. "You're better off going into this blind - he already agreed to meet you without a photo so why muck it up now?" (Trying to decide how to take this.)

 

So I'm now doing a crash course on Queensryche. They appear to be a parody of Spinal Tap but I realize Spinal Tap is a parody of Queensryche, just done before most of their players were born. Mark does not know who they are either. We will be a couple of middle aged people wandering into a heavy metal concert at Hampton Beach Casino. We agreed that if it gets too weird we'll just leave.

 

Speaking of weird, my last date at Hampton Beach was with Machine Gun Man. While for the blog's sake, I hope this date is more interesting, for my sake, I hope it has a happier ending.

 

 

Ask a Guy

After the latest dating debacle, I decided to go my merry way and return to the social scene here in the mecca of NoCo and go out to my favorite tavern last night to play a few tunes and down a few beers. So imagine my surprise when I spy Mr. I Find You Unattractive lurking in the corner of the bar like a daddy-long-legs in a screen porch.

I attempted to ignore him and sat down with friends. No such luck - he is so socially inept that he comes over, thrust his hand between me and my friend and says "hi!" as he shook my hand. I said "hi" and then turned my back to him and continued my conversation. I left the bar shortly thereafter - I couldn't stand the sight of him.

When I got home I found an "Ask a Guy" forum on a dating site I frequent. I read some other posts and they were amusing so I posted my latest story and got these replies, most of whom back my friends' assertions that he is a whack job:

-----------------------------------
He sounds like an idiot and perhaps unstable. I would let your friends know about this guy. That way if he shows up at more of your hangouts they can tactfully get you away from him or not so tactfully make it clear to him that's he's not wanted.
-----------------------------------
You were always borderline to him. He decided to do a few dates, but after further reflection, he decided that he was not really into you. I do have to agree ... I probably would have called to break it off, but he chose to do it in person and at work; that is a little odd.
-----------------------------------
He sounds like he's socially retarded and that was his way of telling you he lost interest. Just...avoid him.
-----------------------------------
Possibly he is a couple croutons shy of a salad and you are better off w/o him. There are many blind leads in dating.
-----------------------------------
Creepy, crazy, stalker! get your restraining order ready.
-----------------------------------
I deal with retarded men daily. that is a specialty of mine. get your restraining order ready save yourself the drama. DO not take him lightly.
-----------------------------------
guy goes to her work just to tell her he thinks she is unattractive? that's not normal behavior. that is someone who is unstable. period, he went out of his way to insult her. its not like they were sitting on the couch at home.
-----------------------------------
I am wondering why he bothered to rush over to your work to tell you he isn't interested. It sounds like he's so afraid you'll reject him that he wants to save face by delivering the shot first.
-----------------------------------
He probably likes you but fears he's put himself out there too far without receiving some affection in kind. Making an ass out of yourself in front of your friends requires taking potentially self-deprecating risks, and he probably thinks he's communicated his interest in you.
-----------------------------------
this guy sounds like a socially inept fool. Erase all contact with him, and if he seems to "pop up" in some more familiar places, call the cops or something.
-----------------------------------
The next time (if there is a next time) he approaches you with whole handshake B/S or a similar routine, you remind him that he doesn't find you attractive, and tell him that you don't find people attractive that don't find you attractive, and that come to your work to tell you that. Tell him that if he has trouble remembering that you have no desire to talk to his crazy azz again, you will be happy to help him with a kick in the nads. Well, maybe not the nads kick part, but the rest would do nicely.

Crazy....crazy I tell you.

Oh yes, and you are definitely attractive. I don't know what his problem is. If you ever find your way to Portland Oregon, look me up
-----------------------------------
And this one from what must have been a psychologist:

What most likely happened is that he is dissatisfied with some aspect of your budding relationship, lord knows what, and is trying to break it off. This is hard to do, at least for him, and the tension and conflict (he is both drawn to and repelled from you) is crazy making (he is likely feeling clinical anxiety, as in an anxiety attack and can't think straight in those conditions). If he stays away from you and you stay away from him, he should go on with life and, then just a memory. There are all sorts of possibilities, but somehow what was happening resulted in a lot of anxiety and he's trying to defend against it, and of course, making a fool of himself. The thing about irrational behavior like that is that it is his problem; if he starts to make it yours through some delusion, then be careful. All you did was to be friendly and open.
-----------------------------------
First of all, why did he give you his number? A real man doesn't do that. A real man asks the woman for her number. So he instantly seems like an idiot from the start.

-----------------------------------
This is beyond egregious-bad manners, even beyond television. It doesn't sound safe, either. I hope you're able to stay out of his way.

-----------------------------------


Then there were those that blamed me for letting him know where I work - although those that know me know that my position is rather public and not a well kept secret. I was introduced by a mutual friend who shared my job right off the bat because it is just ... so ... damn... cool. That and the radio ad I am currently broadcasting that you'd have to be brain dead to NOT recognize as my voice. I might as well have had my employer's name tattooed on my forehead.

But that being said, I should take some of the blame for inviting this guy into my work and home too quickly. "You are just too nice to everyone," one friend shared last night. To think that this is a fault in this day and age is disheartening, but I guess it is.

The Virgin Queen

I am so lucky. I have so many awesome girlfriends I can call when the latest loser shits all over me. The "I don't find you attractive" asshole seems to have rung a particularly discordant note with my network of gal pals.

George the Cat opines that he is an controlling asshole using abusive techniques to manipulate me. My turning on my heel and walking away was just the right thing to do. Good for me! I feel better now. I never thought of it that way!

My sister suggested I immediately go back online to find someone else. "I don't mean to sound like Ma," (she said, sounding exactly like Ma), "But you are NOT getting any younger. Time is of the essence!" She has been married 3 times so she knows about this. I am concerned.

Gal Pal Kate says he pre-emptively dumped me anticipating my dumping HIM. Another controlling technique. OK!

Michelle can't believe the assholes that are out there. I agree - it's stunning!

I am exporting the contents of my blog now in an attempt to edit them down to submit them to a publisher. It comes to 98 single-spaced pages. I took an hour to go through, in reverse chronological order. I only made it back to April 2009! I am exhausted just going back one season. To think it's been 4 years since I told my ex. I wanted a divorce.

Last Friday I invited Corrine the tarot card reader over for dinner (see previous post). I can listen to her Hollywood stories for hours. Honestly, she is the most interesting person I have ever met. She told me about dating Steve Guttenberg and Bob Guccioni Jr., and her appearances on All of My Children and Night Court. She currently enjoys wearing flannel and my kitchen counter is as far as she will venture.

"Did you watch the films about Queen Elizabeth?" she asked over a glass of wine Friday, after I told her of my latest dating abuses. I had. I am a big history buff. "After her lover betrayed her and tried to overthrow her court, she painted her face white and returned to court announcing she was now the Virgin Queen. That is where I am in my life now. I'm OK with it."

After being married FIVE times (not a typo) she is taking a break. This is inspirational.

I spent today alone. I mean, ALONE - no plans with anyone. It was hard and wonderful at the same time. I got up early, went on a 10 mile bike ride, washed my car, finished a novel while at the beach, then read magazines by my swimming pool all afternoon. No kids, no friends, no man - and I am working hard on this being OK.

Maybe the problem isn't the lack of companionship - maybe it's the need for it at all.

Lost in Translation Again

After yet another stunning misread on my part, I have come to the conclusion I am retarded when it comes to men. I should not be allowed to venture outside alone. If I were in grade school, the little bus would be picking me up and I would have a full time teaching assistant sitting next to me in class, interpreting what the teacher is saying and what all the other kids understand without help.

The only guys that are interested in me are the other retards - the ones kept after class, riding the little bus alongside me, wiping their nose on their sleeve and telling each other about the latest Pokemon cartoon. The ugly, the fat, the misbegotten, and new for this month, the old and the married - are lined up and can't wait to see me again. The even marginally qualified? No thank you.

This latest missive after I mistook these actions from a gentlemen I met at a 4th of July party. Please follow along and tell me where I got lost in translation:

- met him at a party - he approached me before I left the party, shoved his name and phone number on a slip of paper into my paper and asked me to call him. This after making it clear he was single and had heard I was single.

- last Friday, asked me to meet him at the beach at sunset, then went back to his house and stayed up talking for hours around an open fire. He ended the night by playing me a love song on his guitar, telling me "I don't play love songs for just anyone. You inspire me." (EXACT QUOTE)

- called me Wednesday and asked to come over with his son, and the four of us hung out and had what I thought was a good time. No, I take that back. It was a great time.

- when he left that night, he hugged me and said "please call me" OK, follow me? Would you think that this was someone who was at least MARGINALLY interested in me? (Programming note - no, I didn't sleep with him.)

So imagine my surprise when he came to a large concert event I was working last night, pulled me aside, and said "I'm not attracted to you. Sorry!" I said, "Oh, wow. Yeah, I guess it's better to just get that over with. We can be friends, right? Can't have too many friends. OK, I have to get back to work now! Bye!"

So there I am, pulling together the single largest event of my career, surrounded by literally thousands of people and all my co-workers, having to put on my happy face and get back to work. He did not have the decency to leave and instead skulked around the rest of the evening asking if I needed help with the event. I declined and silently prayed he would vaporize.

It was a warm summer night. Everyone in town was outside at the concert. I ran into my vet at the show - a lovely woman my age who recently split from her husband. There she is - with a new guy! They are holding hands and clearly digging each other. How did she do that? Then I run into PAL and his girlfriend. They sit side by side, enjoying the show, leaning over to enjoy a kiss and hug occasionally. Salt! Wound! Arggh!

Don't get me wrong. I know I am lucky. I have a great job, financial security, a beautiful home, a lovely daughter and good health. How many people would be happy enough with that.

When I got home from work last night, I called faithful friend Tammy. "What an asshole," she said. "He came to your WORK to tell you that?"

As I type this, I am finishing up my 3rd cup of coffee. I need to run - the little bus will be picking me up soon and I need to pack my book bag.

Just a Note Before I Go

It would be hard to beat my last vacation, jetting off from Louis Armstrong International Airport after dumping the Postman at Jazz Fest. But as I prepare to leave for a week of camping on the sodden Maine coastline, in what weathermen are calling the coldest, wettest June in 100 years of record keeping, I am thinking of giving up vacation permanently and saving myself the money and frustration.

 

That being said, my Subaru is packed and I've bought new rain coats for me and my daughter. I also bought a portable DVD player, cards, dice and copious amounts of alcohol. I'm ready!

 

But before I go, an update on the dating scene. Alas, Lawrence of Acadia was a bust, just like you all warned me he would be. Why oh why do I fall for someone with great language skills again and again?

 

Speaking of which, here are recent photos of Machine Gun Man, who is currently working in San Francisco. He has brought his Craigslist tactics with him to the West Coast. "Women keep thanking me for not being gay," he tells me. He doesn't look bad, except for the speedo. If only he could keep his mouth shut.

 

But back to Lawrence. Nice guy, actually a great day together, but he is 3 inches shorter and much balder than advertised. Staring down at the top of his shiny pate most of the day, I realized that height is definitely a deal breaker for me. We went on a 15 mile bike ride along the Maine coast. Fortunately I am very fit and was able to keep up but I kept thinking that he did not really vette this point with me much. I am imagining a less rugged date staggering back to the parking lot in kitten heels after just 2 or 3 miles. Not me! 

 

It wasn't just the physical appearance that did him in. He told me about his job aspirations. It is to become a permanent substitute teacher at a local school. How's that for climbing the corporate ladder. What, was the temp agency out of gigs? When we pedaled by a strawberry field being picked by itinerant workers, he said, "I've done that!" He just got his own apartment 3 weeks ago. Prior to that, he was "in a house with other people." I didn't ask what that meant - just pedaled faster to get back to my car.

 

Meanwhile, the Kavorka is strong with me. When breaking down my PA system after a gig last weekend, the cook at the restaurant carried out my equipment to my car for me then asked for my number. I was as surprised as he was when I gave it to him, "REALLY? Wow!" he said, as he dialed my number from his cell to make sure it was real. I will need to find a way out of this one as I am back playing at this tavern next month.

 

So off for a week without a computer and little cell phone reception. That should keep me out of trouble.

change to our regularly scheduled programming

The problem with having multiple personality disorder is that you sometimes get confused. So I'd like to apologize to those of you who, logging in to read about my latest dating disasters, instead read my work-related blog.

I got a call from a co-worker and loyal reader of this blog asking if I had truly given up on dating and was reverting this blog into a mouth piece for work.

I almost dropped the phone in my hurry to log on to make sure that I hadn't inadvertently posted my personal life on my company website and Facebook page.

Thankfully that wasn't the case. I actually had posted the story to BOTH personal and professional blog, but had only linked up the professional one. Thank GOD.

And while the tubing park going in at my place of employment will be a slippery slope, it isn't nearly as slippery as the foibles of dating after 40.

Nicotine

I was just checking my email when I noticed this message from a dating site I no longer frequent. I couldn't help myself. I checked him out. This is not quite as good as Machine Gun Man's profile and emails but he is a close second. Below is his email to me. I just shot him a note back so we'll see what happens. Don't worry, I won't cancel the wine dinner no matter what happens. :)

 

This is bachelor #2. Etc., etc.

I know it can be a long way from the booming metropolis AND cultural mecca of Bangor to northern NH- in fact one could almost say you can't get theuh from heuh. But I'm a thoroughly desperate man! Just kidding. Sort of.

My profile photo stinks, and I apologize for that. Ihave lost 15 pounds since then, but I didn't really climb Katahdin - I had my head photoshopped onto a photo of Dick Cheney on top of Katahdin. But other than that my profile is almost entirely honest.

I'm trying to get a better photo on to my profile, but my technological capabilities are roughly the equal of those of your average neolithic man. I figure the less time I spend on computers the better off I'll be.

In any event, you said you love the outdoors, and few things give me as much pleasure as hiking, backpacking and camping...once the black flies have all died and gone to hell where they belong.

I love hiking on the AT, and one of these days, maybe this summer, I'm going to finally get off my lazy white butt and do the 100-mile wilderness right here in the great state of Maine. I know a place here in Maine - Caratunk, to be precise - where one can hike to one's heart's content, get a pint of good beer and sit in a big outdoor hot tub. That, in October, is sheer heaven.

But that's enough for now. I hope this message finds you in good health and good spirits, and if I don't hear from you I wish you the best of luck with your search.

Take care, Lawrence (of Acadia)

Here is my member profile:

Wicked Cunnin' Mainuh

Greetings! It is sunny and 70 degrees here in Bangor, Maine, and I am absolutely dying to get outside and enjoy this fabulous weather, so this might be a little briefer and less witty than it might normally be. I recently moved to Bangor, and I offer no excuses for what might seem to some an act of sheer lunacy. Hey, if it's good enough for Paul Bunyan and a blue ox, it's good enough for me!

I like to hike; camp; swim; travel; read; ski; snorkel; talk politics, sports and history; write; and speak foreign languages. I enjoy going to movies; eating out; eating in; watching (a moderate amount of) sports; and drinking (a moderate amount of) beer. I like to play with kids, especially my own (he's nine years old and lives with his mom in Montville, Maine), and I like to play with and walk dogs.

I am fairly political, and I'm a lefty, so it probably wouldn't work with a conservative, a reactionary, a neofascist, or even a good, old-fashioned fascist.

I've traveled a fair amount in these here United States - 47 of them - and in Canada, Latin America, Europe and Africa; and I've lived in Latin America and Europe.

I love kids, and animals, so if you have any, that would be no problem. If you write I will write back - how's that for a deal? My father and I have been corresponding weekly for 33 years, so I am capable of writing!

In any event, I wish you luck with your search.

Sideways

I think with the departure of The Postman, including the self-immolation of my vacation and the resultant $235 charge from JetBlue for exiting stage left, I am officially Burnt Out on Dating. I know, I know, I have said it before. But this time, I mean it. I don't even crave it. The thought of going on one more bad date exhausts me. I tried it one last time about a week ago. Much like a life-long smoker might take a puff on a discarded butt months after quitting, I went out with a not-very-promising suspect for dinner.

He looked like he was once a good looking man. But at whatever his age is now, clearly not the age he claimed to be, he was at best worn around the edges. The discussion over dinner about his not one but two forms of Hepatitis did not help. I am not judgemental about people. This alone would not rule him out. But he kept saying over dinner, "I wish I could have a drink but my liver couldn't take it!" Yeah, I am way too much at the top of my game to go down this road.

So instead I sent the email excerpted below to a select group of gal pals (sorry Levent). I can only hope the bottle of wine will act like the uncorking of a genie from the bottle. As it says in The Secret, "Your Wish is My Command."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

When I got divorced 4+ years ago, I treated myself to a trip to Italy. It was truly the most fantastic vacation of my life. Part of my trip included a tour of a vineyard and winery where I bought some of the most incredible Italian wine I have ever enjoyed.

I saved one bottle - possibly the most expensive bottle of wine I have ever bought. It was about 70 Euros 4 years ago so you do the math. I vowed to save that bottle to share with the perfect man who undoubtedly would come into my life in short order. After all, this whole divorce thing is going to be FUN! It's going to be like going to DISNEY WORLD! Why, it should have only been a matter of weeks before someone rode in on that white horse, corkscrew in hand, to uncork both the wine and my happy ending.

As I recently eyed the dusty bottle in the sideboard of my dining room, I sighed and wondered if I would have a chance to enjoy this wine before it turned to vinegar. How long can you keep a bottle of wine like that, anyway?

Then, a thought occurred to me. There is not much point in waiting for some stupid guy to come along to bring me happiness. One of the unintended happy outcomes of my dating disasters and delights of the last few years has been the support, laughter and shared stories with you all. So fuck it, I said to myself. I'm going to host a dinner party for the girl friends who have been so supportive.

And we're going to open that bottle of wine and toast to what really matters - friendship through thick and thin.

And this is just for you. No stupid men allowed. :)

And for those of you who will hem and haw and wonder what family, work or significant-other commitments you might have on tap preventing you from coming, I would challenge you to ditch them because this is going to be a good one.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

So far there are 5 of us attending. Two regrets who are ironically enough going to WEDDINGS the date of the dinner. And one who is going to her husband's father's early father's day fete (hello - did you read the part about ditching your husband this once?). Have fun with the in-laws!

This blog photo is of me and my girlfriends from Italy. We drank Limoncello in the wood-fire hot tub outside our villa. I can only hope the dinner party in Madison is half as much fun.

The REST of the Story

Those of you who are Paul Harvey Fans will appreciate the late broadcaster's signature closing of "and that is the REST of the story." I used to swear he and Casey Kasem both died 50 years ago and their radio shows were computer generated. Now Paul has gone and really died so there goes that theory.

So the rest of the story. Back to me. This is part blog, part therapy, as I sit here avoiding yard work and pondering why yet another nascent relationship is in the shitter. I truly think that I do not know how to separate the wheat from the chaff. Any guy who is in my approximate age and geographic range and is breathing has a chance with me. After all, who am I to dismiss someone just because they are shorter than me, with bad teeth, low IQ and no discernible shared interested other than being single?

After meeting The Postman, one girlfriend pulled me aside and said, "Kathy, you are so much better looking than you give yourself credit for. You can go for better looking guys than the ones you date." Ouch. I keep thinking I'm middle aged and live in the middle of nowhere. The whole half a loaf is better than none theory clearly was written by someone dating after 40. I'm just sick of half loaves.

So I am going to share with you all the early warning signs I had with The Postman and ignored:

1. I found his online photos to be unappealing but he wrote nicely and asked me out so I did it anyway.

2. He doesn't ski. He snowboarded once but bruised a shoulder so NEVER AGAIN. You never know, sports are dangerous!

3. He lied about golfing. Said he was a golfer but deeper into it confessed he USED to golf. Years ago. At the little par 3 course near his house. He was nervous about golfing with me. With ME? Have any of you seen me golf? I date better than I golf.

4. I already dished on the second date debacle where he "forgot his wallet." What I didn't tell you is that he didn't just insist on continuing on with our lunch date. He went on a fucking shopping spree using my credit card. After a pricey lunch, we went GROCERY SHOPPING at his suggestion.

I drew the line when he asked if we could pick up concert tickets because at that point I wasn't sure if I wanted to see him again. That and the fact the he came out and said he would not repay me for these tickets (I am guessing upwards of $100 for the pair) but rather he could pay for the next concert we went to! I made up an excuse that I was busy the night of the show and said no.

While he did repay me for most of the groceries (but not lunch - he just bought me lunch the next time), he stiffed me on one of the stores we visited. Just about $15 but are you KIDDING me? I was so afraid of offending him I didn't end the date right off like I should have. The next morning he texted me asking if he blew it by forgetting his wallet. Even he knew I should've ended then but no....

5. He partakes in absolutely, positively NO physical activities other than walking from food cart to food cart at the Jazz Fest. His large stomach and complete lack of muscle tone prove it. He reminds me of my ex. Nuff said.

6. He has sleep apena which requires that he sleep with a head apparatus that blows air up his nose. It was like sleeping next to a Hoover. I resorted to ear plugs but even this was not enough - I slept with a pillow over my head most nights.

I am not someone to judge anyone for a physical ailment and sleeping with a snorer is worse than this. But one night in New Orleans when I got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night and came back and saw this fat guy in my bed with an appliance attached to his head, the constant sucking noise filling the room and thought to myself, "how soon can I fly the fuck home?"

And the worst of all ...

7. Crooked teeth. Really crooked. I know my teeth aren't perfect but apparently this is a new dealbreaker for me.

So now I feel better. I hope I will raise the bar and keep it high, not dating someone "just in case" they are a really good guy in an ugly package. We all know how the story ends.

The Dating Game

The angry text message came through this morning. "Why didn't you call me back Monday? I deserve better than what you give." Then before I could reply, a second one, "I'll mail back the jacket you left in the hotel. Good luck in the future." I guess the Postman decided to not go quietly into that good night.

 

I don't know what is worse when the end comes in a relationship - being the dumpee or the dumper. I can tell you that without exception, every time I was the dumpee, I was not given the satisfaction of a conversation or any form of closure with the dumper. The phone calls and emails just stopped coming. So I swore I would never treat my dumpees that way.

 

So when I ended it with Lonnie, I told him exactly why I didn't want to see him again. Except for the being stupid part. I don't think he would've understood that. It was like clubbing a baby seal to death. It was exhausting for me and painful for him. And even after that he continued to call and email me asking what happened. Stupid is as stupid does, I guess.

 

So this time, I swore I would try "the fade" as it appears this is the most popular method used by guys, at least in  my case. I wish being evasive worked for my psyche but it doesn't. I replied to his text messages offering to talk tonight, offering up the real but not-entirely-honest excuse of being too busy with family commitments the last few nights to call back. As of yet, no reply. And I don't know what would be worse, receiving the package holding my jacket, silently rebuking my rebuff. Or a difficult phone call this evening, nicely explaining, "It's not you, it's me!" More lies but meant to salve his wounded ego.

 

I think of the many times I've been the dumpee. Spaceman, sending me an email saying he was busy every night until further notice. Erik, who did the classic fade, only to call me a year later, take me out to meet his entire family, then fade again before showing up on Facebook a week later "in a relationship" (I'm STILL trying to figure that one out). And don't even get me going about Jesus or PAL. PAL didn't even tell me before he was HOSPITALIZED and his girlfriend was by his side at the hospital. Talk about not giving closure.

 

So I sit looking at my cell phone on my desk, waiting for another damning text message. What is worse - the silence or the guilt. Either way, it's a game I'd rather not play.

There's No Place Like Home

It is with some hubris that I re-read my posting from last month about my anticipation for my trip to New Orleans. It's like the surgery that was a success but the patient died - I had a great vacation but the relationship with the Postman is a non-starter.

Why you may ask? First off, when I arrived he was crawfish red from head to toe. This was not a vacation tan. This was a "I don't believe in sunscreen so I'm just going to get a base tan first" ignoramus sunburn. This was a sunburn so awful even strangers gasped and asked in horror what happened. He took each opportunity to regale the shocked Louisiana native with his bizzaro theories on how sunscreen causes cancer. Then I got to hang out with him 24/7 as he peeled the dead skin off every square inch of exposed flesh. Yum!

Secondly, there was no transaction too small that he paid for (and I mean, like, for bus fare) that he did not then turn to me and say "you can pay it the next time." Don't get me wrong - I paid my own way and did not expect a free ride. But I guess I should've expected this from someone who put in his dating profile that "he didn't believe in giving gifts for holidays and birthdays as he'd rather give surprise gifts on occasion." In other words, don't expect anything and you won't be disappointed!

Another transgression - when in the deep south, and you are a chubby postman from northern New Hampshire, do not attempt to affect the local's pronunciation of regional terms. For instance, New Orleans is "New Or-leens" or perhaps, if you are feeling rakish, "New Or-lins." Do not under ANY circumstances attempt "N'awlins" with a straight face. Even the locals don't call it that. And definitely not white guys. Or fat white guys with peeling red flesh.

So what was I thinking, planning a TEN DAY trip with someone I had not even gone away with for the weekend? It seemed like a fun, spontaneous thing to do. Something out a Hollywood movie, starring, say, Sandra Bullock and John Cusask. I could pretend this was so, as long as I didn't make eye contact and pretended I was by myself. And New Orleans is as good a town as any to do that. I lost myself in the crowd at the Jazz Fest and at the casino, the French Quarter but unfortunately NOT the small hotel room we shared. So I cut the trip short and paid $200 to fly home 3 days early.

As I settled in on my couch the day of my early flight home, with my cat in my lap, a glass of wine in hand and Martin nearby, I thought it was money well spent.

The Big Easy

Well, I have taken a HUGE leap of faith and agreed to go to New Orleans on vacation to the Jazz Fest with the Postman. He was going alone, had the hotel reserved and after peppering me with details the city and the event, I gave in. I think it is going to be a LOT of fun.

Some of my friends and co-workers however are questioning my sanity. First, by going on vacation with a guy I've been dating just a short time. Second, that his is a guy I met ... online. Somehow traditionalists would have an easier time of it if this were a man I met at last call at the Parka. No bother, I'm going anyway.

I've been divorced for nearly 4 years now (hard to believe). And other than one weekend away with Machine Gun Man, I have never spent any protracted time with any of them. So an 8-day trip to one of the most romantic cities in the world is quite the flyer I'm taking. But with the Jazz Fest schedule hosting literally every musical artist I've ever wanted to see, I'm sure I can get lost in the crowd if the togetherness is too much. That plus beignettes and coffee at Du Monde every morning. And no open container laws.

The Postman Delivers

I had the pleasure of turning 44 on Friday. To celebrate I went to a northern Vermont ski area with my daughter and a friend and skied our little hearts out all weekend. Fun fun! Fun, that is, until I went to check out on Sunday and found my car keys missing.

That's when the real fun began. Do you know how many locksmiths are available on a Sunday afternoon near the Vermont/Canadian border? Let me give you a hint - starts with a "Z" - as in ZERO.

Complicating things is that my sexy new 2009 Subaru has a laser cut computer chip embedded key.

Being an optimist, I called every locksmith in a 75 mile radius. Joey the Locksmith offered to come out the next DAY and for a minimum of $225, he would pull out my ignition and cut a new key for me. "I know how to do this better than the dealership!" he bragged. Hmmm ...

Then I called the dealership, or rather, the Subaru hotline, who said they could tow it to the nearest dealership 40 miles away the following day, and then I could pray they could rekey the car the next day. I told this to Joey and he laughed. "Two days at best, trust me on this."

Fools to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am, stuck in a luxury condo at Jay. The AAA rep was kinder. She suggested "don't you have any friends who can drive up a spare key for you?"

I have to admit, I am lucky to have friends that I would even consider calling to ask for a favor like this - a 300 mile round trip on a Sunday night. Gal pal Cindy agreed immediately but would not arrive for several hours.

I took the down time to call the Postman to commiserate. "Why didn't you ask me to help?" I told him thanks anyway, I was all set. My plans were in place and I didn't want to make him make an 8 hour trek with a 7 am start time at work the following day. I hung up and the phone rang back stubbornly 10 minutes later. "Why don't I meet up with your friend half way so she isn't driving the whole distance."

And that's what we did, so that each person only had half of that 300 mile trek. I was on my way again at 9am today, and home by noon, in time for a root canal (yes, this was a red letter day for me).

"I owe you big time," I told The Postman. "Anything you want." He said a hug and kiss would be sufficient. "Gee, I tried that to get the locksmith to come out earlier and that didn't work." There was no laughter following my joke - I think I have to get him used to my humor. And no, I did not really offer the locksmith sexual favors. I only wish I had thought of it sooner.

Addendum

I just wanted to let you all know that The Postman met me for lunch today and paid me back. So there.

The Postman Always Rings Twice

I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist that blog title. Because my current victim, I mean, person of interest, is a postal worker.

Since I have spent most of my career pumping out millions of direct mail packages, this surely must be a match made in heaven. He is big into live music, seems to be intelligent, doesn't live too far away and has seen a lot of the world thanks to his time in the service (that would be the Navy, not prison). He golfs but does not ski, so 50/50 there.

He has made it past date #3. First date was dinner and shooting pool at a local dive (my selection, honest). Second date, he came to the tavern where I was performing and hung out all night listening (remember Machine Gun Man, who walked out half way through my first song? Yeah, me too).

Then yesterday we went to Portland Maine together for the day.

It went great until he reached into his pocket at the first shop we went into. His face went gray as he realized he didn't have his WALLET.

Now I know what you're thinking. That is the oldest ploy in the book. But I don't think you can fake that look of total desperation. "I changed what I was wearing 3 times because I was so concerned about looking good for you," he gushed. "I left my wallet in the other pants."

So yes, I paid for the day with the promise that he would pay me back for everything.

What choice did I have - be gracious and have the good time we went on to have, or say "no fucking way," and end the day (and the nascent relationship) on the spot. I took the high road.

So in terms of the deal breakers, he does not seem to embody any of them (although I might want to add "wallet" to the list in hindsight). In case you are wondering, I continue to follow The Rules and they do indeed seem to work.

There is just one leeeeetle thing that concerns me.

He seems to be a doppelganger for my ex. I don't mean the bad qualities, but he totally reminds me of him both physically and in some other respects, not the least of which is his employment (my ex worked for Fedex for decades, a kissing cousin to the USPS). He loves to cook. Grew up with a single parent household with his mother and likes to shop. "And no, I am NOT gay," he protests.

So we'll see where this goes. I'm nothing if not an optimist.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I keep getting plaintive emails from Lonnie Ray. They are more succinct and spaced apart so I give him credit for listening in part to my last tirade. I've moved on; he just didn't get the message!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now's It's Just Getting Silly

When I was 12 or 13 years old, my 18 year old sister went out with a guy a few times and then no longer wanted to see him. She was not much of a dater so even by age 18 she had very little experience with the task at hand. So she and my mother - who now I realize was criminally negligent - concocted a scheme by which I would call the gentleman in question to tell him to shoo.

The women in my family are famous for their rather distinctive low speaking voices. So even despite my tender years, I sounded very much like my older sister. And since both my mother and cherished older sister said it was OK, I pretended to be her when he called. "You sound funny." He caught on quickly. "I just have a cold. Sorry, I don't want to see you any more. Bye!"

I'm not sure what I got for the dirty deed. Knowing my older siblings, it was probably a hit of blotter acid or a six pack of Heffenreffer. Either way, I see how incredibly inappropriate it was for my sister, let alone my fucking MOTHER, to recruit me for this deception.

However, at this very moment in time, I am wishing I had a little sister.

Because Lonnie Ray is absolutely, positively, driving me CRAZY.

Two days ago we made plans for dinner Thursday night (see previous blog). Today while I was running errands, my cell phone rang and I let it go to voice mail. I figured I would return calls when I got home after lunch. As I was fixing my salad, my home phone rang, which I again ignored. Shortly thereafter, my cell phone rang again. After lunch, I saw that yes, all three calls within that one hour period were from LR.

I called him back - "Are you OK?" he asked plaintively, "I'm sorry if I'm annoying you."

"Is something wrong with YOU?" I replied. He then reconfirmed our dinner plans, said (yes) I miss you (!!!!!!) and hung up.

Not 30 minutes later another phone call. I was busy mopping the floor. "Why can't you come down tomorrow night instead?" Um, job? Family? Commitments? Plans with SANE people? I had already told him I have a crazy work schedule so this question was spurious.

Then as I logged in to check email, a message from him which he sent after the 4th phone call, with a follow up question from our last conversation not 25 minutes previous.

I am carefully considering how best to dispatch him. Paul Simon's song did not cover this one. If my sister had a phone, I would call her and ask for payback. It's a bitch.

Miss you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This was the real subject line of my last email from Lonnie Ray. As my eyes scanned the row of extraneous punctuation, I was concerned. What? Only 50 exclamation points? Truly, he must not care for me any more. But as I counted them once again, I can see that all 70 were still in place. Phew!

I approach it like a game - by phone, by email, I try to get him to elicit another sentiment than "I miss you." I don't think that my daughter, as a needy toddler when I traveled on business, was as mournful at my absence as LR. In a 10 minute phone call yesterday, he EASILY uttered this phrase 10 times. I tried to find out more about his day - what he did, who he saw, how work was going, etc., but he is completely unable to redirect from this singular thought. This isn't conversation - it is a volley where he will state the phrase until I repeat it back half-heartedly.

I have been trying to keep LR at bay. I hate to cut him lose entirely. His statement of "I hate to drive" is raising its ugly head as the last two times we had plans he cancelled when he had to come here. On the other hand, if I'm in his neck of the woods, it's fine. This might make for an easy exit: "I sold my car! I"m sorry! I can't possible make it down to your place." (click).

But Thurs. I have business in Concord so we are getting together for dinner. He suggested an Italian restaurant I knew of. "Oh, that sounds great! I love Italian food. See you then." Somehow this straight forward statement confused him. "We don't have to go there. Whatever you want!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!." I believe he is thinking so hard about his next iteration of "I miss you" that he wasn't listening. After reinforcing that I liked his choice, he got it. I .... LIKE ... I-TAL-IAN ... FOOD .... OOOOOOOOOOOOO KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK???

Fortunately I have to return home after dinner, thus making for a short evening.

Then I made the mistake of mentioning that I am on vacation the last two weeks of April and am looking for something fun to do. "I can't take any time off from work but you can come down here. That's what you'll do." I politely declined and he repeated it as if he didn't hear me. So I got out my 2x4 and hit him with it - no, I am actually looking for something ... FUN ... TO DO - I DO NOT WANT TO SIT ALONE IN YOUR EMPTY APARTMENT ........ OOOOOOOOOOOOO KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK????

So yeah, this has got to end soon. I'm wearing the characters off my keyboard for "1/!"

Perfect 10

I recently joined a new online dating site that features a means by which other members can "rate" your photo. It breaks down the ratings by age group. The good news is, guys ages 32-41 dig me. Those under 32 not so much.

But who cares about them. So not to hold off any longer, here are my ratings as of today:

So it is good that guys in their late 30s dig me. More so than guys over 40. And who cares about the ones in their 20s - they practically need a babysitter.

And who are these women who are rating me? I thought I was spending too much time on these dating sites! They rate me more severely as men the same age. Bitches. They're just jealous.
In case you are wondering, here is the photo they are rating.

I looked at the "top 500." Most are blonds in halter tops, I could do that. And their average rating is about 8.34 so my rating in the mid 7s is pretty good.

Anyone who knows me know I am a stats Nazi. These are very small sample sizes. The confidence factor is pretty low.

So wish me luck. I may not be perfect, but I'm better than 73.4% of the rest of the people out there.

Friend without Benefits

Sorry I have not been blogging as frequently as I used to. I've been busy doing useful things like sobbing alone in the bathroom stall at work.

I unexpectedly broke down at an event this weekend. As I walked into the building I had a flash back to the previous year at the same function. I had spent the evening bewildered as PAL refused to sit with me, and left early without telling me (see earlier post on this topic from, yes, a year ago). I honestly had not thought about him or the event in months and have even had some mildly enjoyable social occasions with him recently. Moving on. Or so I thought.

Before he walked through the door, new girlfriend on arm, and marched over to introduce her to me. I smiled sweetly, said hello and asked her to repeat her name. Chit chat ensued, and as the drink in my hand emptied I decided to let loose.

I pulled him aside and whispered in his ear, "I'm going to be an asshole now." And proceeded to tell him how this event will always remind me of how badly he treated me days after we spent the night together for the first time. How much his rejection hurt me. Then I turned on my heel and walked away as he said "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

Miserable fast forward to the next day when I once again had to deal with the sight of him at work. I avoided him until it was unavoidable. "I had that coming," he said. Then just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, he added "I thought we were just friends with benefits! That's all! I didn't mean to hurt you!"

This second affront sunk in overnight. But suddenly it all makes sense. Talk about your misaligned expectations.

But it's too small a town to hold a grudge. Winter will end soon and with it will end running into him on a daily basis. But the bigger question is, how did this blow up the way it did.

I'm cool!

I've moved on!

But other than the notorious poison pen letter in the chicken soup, I never had an opportunity to tell him -- face to face -- how much he hurt me. Perhaps this vetting will allow me to finally close this chapter and move on. Or in the words of my bible, HJNTIY, "Friends don't make you cry into your pillow at night."

Good night PAL.

Build Your Own Dream Date

When I was a child, I had a picture book of animals. The pages were divided in 3 so each critters body was split between head, toros and feet.

Look! An elephant with the legs of a giraffe! A hippo's middle with a ostrich's head! A kitty with a dog's bottom! What fun it was to dream up my own special creatures.

Upon recent reflection, I realized I still need that book as a woman dating in her 40s. So many men ... so many good traits and so many flaws. If only I could build my own dream date!

After a recent call with girlfriend MM, complaining about the recent needy weirdness from Lonnie Ray, she suggested I put together the opposite of my list of deal breakers, namely, deal makers.

And now, for a listing of what good parts I would take from each of my last several year's worth of dates:

Lonnie's taste in music. Spaceman's smart-allecky sense of humor. Jesus' intellect. PAL's humanity. Erik's love of family. Wild Thing's bank account. And how can I leave out - Machine Gun Man's, um, singular physical attribute. Oh, to combine them all into one wonderful person!

But I know it is unrealistic to think I could get all of the above in one single person. I would be happy to settle for one with even just two or three. Or at least a personality transplant for Machine Gun Man. Now that would be an animal worth creating.

February Doldrums

Just a quick update. My Valentine's Day was sweet, considering I worked a 12 hour shift, came home and fell asleep in about 15 minutes. Lonnie sweetly presented me with an expensive bottle of champagne, chocolates and strawberries in front of a roaring fire as I got home from work at 9pm at night.

I gratefully accepted the bottle of bubbly as he popped in the romantic comedy movie he had rented for the evening. I made it past the opening credits before I fell asleep. A head cold on top of a sick work schedule knocked me down.

I don't know - maybe blog reader MM is right - there will be tears on a vintage guitar soon and they won't be mine. He is so sweet and so totally, completely out of his league that he doesn't even know it. He isn't stupid; I've gone at lengths to say it. But he ain't smart. Did I put smart on my list of deal breakers? I think I need to revisit that list.

Meanwhile WT visited me last week for coffee and fessed up what I already knew - that he was married and had lied to me about his status. Cold comfort but closure nonetheless. I made him pay for my latte.

Chicken Salad and Tea

George Costanza:

Yeah. No, no, no, wait a minute. I always have tuna on toast. Nothing's ever worked out for me with tuna on toast. I want the complete opposite of tuna on toast. Chicken salad on rye, untoasted, with a side of potato salad and a cup of tea.

Elaine Benes:

Well, there's no telling what can happen from this.

Jerry Seinfeld:

You know, chicken salad's not the opposite of tuna. Salmon's the opposite of tuna, because salmon swim again the current and the tuna swim with it.

George Costanza:

Good for the tuna.


My strategy of doing everything the opposite of what I usually do is working out swimmingly.

I continue to ignore Lonnie's bad writing skills, a trait which formerly would've sent me scurrying. Who gives a shit how many exclamation points follow his missive stating how much he can't wait to see me again.

And for what it's worth, I want you to know that he actually reads books. He had a biography of Benjamin Franklin he is reading on his coffee table - and no, it wasn't the Scholastic edition. He's been telling me about his work at the state house to pass education reform and a new teacher's union contract. For the teacher's sake, I just hope he didn't WRITE the contract.

And now Valentine's Day looms large this weekend. It's been a looooong time since I've been anyone's Valentine. My ex and I used special occasions like Valentine's Day, our wedding anniversary and birthdays to torture each other and use extortion tactics to hurt each other. I recall our last February 14th together, when I ripped up the card I had bought him and threw it at him. Good times!

But in talking with Lonnie (oops - almost typed Loonie just then) this week, he is asking what types of flowers I like for when he comes up this weekend. And this is making me antsy.

I'm thinking I have to get something for him too. Which card to get would be a loaded question. Nothing with "love" in it. Way too soon for that. Are there Valentine's that say "I think you're hot but want to leave it at that." So I'll be stopping by Hallmark today to find a card to express my ambivilence in an upbeat yet non-commital way.

"I've told my mother about you," he added after the flower question. "She'd like to meet you."

Holy cripes! What the hell is this? It's been three years of prolific yet casual dating and now ... (ominous music) I'd like you to meet my mother.

I think it is telling that Valentine's Day is preceeded by Friday the 13th this week.