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."

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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.

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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.