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.