Stella, Doc Marten and Pearls

Every girl has a go-to store, a shop where you can find a fabulous outfit for not very much money.  My favorite shop is a consignment store, run by two really pretty, sweet sisters.  Their shop is full of great finds.  Designer clothes at reasonable prices, amazing handbags, fabulous boots and shoes.  Really fun stuff, with a constantly changing inventory, so you never know what you'll find.  Plus, the sisters are an instant party.  I don't really shop too much these days, I have neither the time nor the money.  I also have a lot of clothes, shoes, boots and handbags.  But if I need an outfit for an occasion, or work, or just because the sun is out and I'm feeling pretty, this is my place to go.

I'm a little funky in my fashion choices.  I love dresses, and will wear them year 'round.  In the winter I'll wear them with tights and cashmere cardigans and maybe a down jacket and some really tough boots.  In the fall and spring I'll wear a dress without tights, but with boots, and with a cashmere cardigan and maybe a down vest or a leather jacket.  In the summer I like to wear a sundress with a cotton cardigan and sandals or flip flops, or a pair of cowboy boots.  I love pearls, wear them all the time.  I love mixing a Target dress with a J.Crew cardigan, Frye boots and a Cole Haan handbag.  And who says you can't wear an Ann Taylor dress with Doc Martens?  Not me, certainly.

Typically, men don't like to shop.  I, however, once dated a man who used to accompany me to my favorite store, and follow me around, looking at what I picked out.  He would attempt to pick things for me, and usually they were things I would never wear.  He hovered over me, in an irritating fashion, wanting to know why I chose what I did.  Told me my purses were too big. Thought my pearls were too big.  Told me that I shouldn't wear boots, that they were a little rough and made me look like I was screaming for attention.

Hello- isn't fashion about screaming for attention?  Isn't that the point?  And, since when are pearls too big?!I have my own style, and I know some people think it's a bit off.  Maybe.  But it's me, my look, and I own it.  I guess if you don't like it, don't look at me.

Mr. Control-Freak really didn't really like my Doc Martens, and ultimately I decided I didn't really like him.  I chose the Docs.

The moral of this story is:  Never pay full retail.  Find your own style, whatever that may be.  Don't let some controlling man tell you what you can or cannot wear.  If it comes down to choosing between a man who doesn't like your boots and your boots themselves, take your boots.  They don't argue, they walk with you where you want to go, they look really good, and most importantly, they keep your feet warm.

A Really Good Coffee Date

I have a fifteen minute rule for meeting potential dates from the internet.  I have figured out, fifteen minutes is enough time to judge whether there is any chemistry, and whether or not you actually want to see him again.  And vice versa.

On this particular Sunday, I was meeting my oldest friend for brunch.  We grew up together.  We've been friends since we were five.  She's family.  I scheduled a coffee date for after our brunch, allowing for plenty of time before and after eating for talking, window shopping, and, of course, trying on shoes (her) and boots (me.)  The area where we were meeting has a couple of really great shoe stores- boots are one of my weaknesses.  There are also great restaurants and coffee shops.  It's sort of like a one-stop pig's feast- everything I love in one place.  The guy I was meeting was amenable to meeting at one of the coffee shops on the street. 

I guess I was a little nervous.  The guy came across as a bit jaded, but pulled no punches, and had no grammatical errors in his profile.  He wrote well.  He flat out said he was smart, which I like, but didn't appear to be full of himself.  He was attractive, with a really nice smile, and wore sunglasses, which, actually, I can appreciate.  He rode a motorcycle.  We seemed to have many similar interests, in fact we were matched up at over 90%, but you just never know if there will be any chemistry.  Plus, I myself was a little jaded, having been on a flurry of coffee dates in the last couple of weeks.  So, I scheduled a hike for later in the afternoon with my gay boyfriend, figuring that I'd be done with coffee and the guy pretty quickly, as is my usual pattern.

I was wearing my lucky date outfit, which consists of good jeans that fit really well, a navy blue flowy tank top, and a pair of tough boots.  I brought a jacket but fortunately the weather cooperated, and it was sunny and almost warm, so I could show off the flowy tank top and my arms.  (I'm a muscle-head, and lift weights regularly- my arms are pretty toned.)

I was pleasantly surprised when he showed up- he hadn't lied about his age, and his picture was pretty accurate.   Devilish smile.  Blue eyes under those sunglasses.  Sharp as a tack.  Really funny.  Outgoing.  Great personality.  A bit rough around the edges.  I felt like someone had dropped a ton of bricks on my head.  And time stood still.  We sat there for well over two hours.

I never did get that hike in, but my gay boyfriend ultimately forgave me.

What Do They Put In Girl Scout Cookies?

You used to be safe, because to get Girl Scout Cookies, you needed to know a Girl Scout and order them directly.  Now, you go to any supermarket, and there they are, innocently sitting there out front with the evil boxes stacked up next to them, smilling in a winning fashion, asking you sweetly how many boxes you'd like.....

You know full well, that when you get home, all you have to do is open the box, and it's all over.  Those cookies are gone.  You don't know just how you managed to eat an entire box of them without even breathing out, but you did.

This Girl Scout Cookie phenomenon doesn't happen to me with any other kind of cookie.  So, I've come to the conclusion that they must have some kind of drug in them.  Some kind of insidious, addicting drug that won't let you rest until every single Girl Scout Cookie in your house is gone.

Tell me, how am I suppose to fit into my jeans?

A Dinner Date

Before I established my fifteen minute rule, as well as my no long-distance dating rule, I made a dinner date with a man who lived a couple of hours away.  We agreed to meet in a restaurant in my town.  It's a popular spot, with decent food, not too expensive. 

He showed up, a little late, at least 20 pounds heavier than his picture.  He seemed like a nice enough man.  We had exchanged a couple of e-mails, and a couple of phone calls, and after all, it was just dinner.  There was a little wait for a table, and so we sat there, exchanging chit-chat.  He immediately confided that he had been concerned that I was a psycho, like his ex-wife.  That she only slept with him five times in twenty five years.  That because of his "needs," he had a series of affairs that meant nothing- "a man must do what a man must do."  As we were seated for dinner, he ordered wine, and proceeded to drink at least four glasses to my one.  He also polished off the bread basket, while extolling the virtues of the casual affair as opposed to marriage.  Variety, according to him, really was the spice of life, too bad he spent so many years married before he discovered this.  Dinner lurched along, and I kept thinking, "Just get through this.  It'll be over soon." 

He was a staunch conservative Christian, disturbed by my being pro-choice and pro-gay marriage.  He tried to tell me that the only suitable reading was the bible- all the answers were in there.  I don't want to be dismissive of anyone's religious beliefs, but I am a fairly voracious reader in many different genres, and I don't restrict myself to one book for one faith.  I need variety in my reading material, much like he apparently needed variety in women.  Suddenly, over desert, he leaned across the table, and said, "Isn't it exciting to realize that you belong to me, and I belong to you?"  Oh jeeze.  Time to run like hell for the hills.

Well, certainly it was no love connection.  Nowhere in the doctrine of my faith does it condone extra-marital affairs.  If you want to have an affair, well, maybe you shouldn't be married.  Just my opinion of course, I'm not so good at marriage myself.  But, to me, a vow is a vow, and marriage is a sacrament.  If you don't want to keep it, don't do it.  Also, having sex five times in twenty five years of marriage, well, that seems like a really bad relationship.  Again- my opinion.

At the risk of repeating myself:

1.   Fifteen minutes is plenty of time, both to make and get a first impression.  
2.   Forget long-distance relationships.

Laura's Wedding

A while ago, my daughter's skating coach got married, and invited us to the wedding.  Logistically, it was a bit complicated, because my daughter was in an art program in a different county for the summer, and not living at home.  But she was close enough to go, so we went together.  This eliminated the complications that arise when you are in a waning relationship, and he doesn't really want to do anything with you, and yet you are obligated to ask, for the sake of appearances.  More on that, later.

So the morning of the wedding, I went to get get my daughter.  Picked her, and her 3 bags of laundry up and we came back home.  Started laundry, then went off to get her an outfit for the wedding- she had "nothing to wear."  We went to my favorite consignment shop, and much to her surprise, found a great dress, and shoes, and everything fit to her satisfaction.  This made her really happy.  I could afford it all, this made me really happy.  I had a cute little clutch for her to use, so fortunately I didn't have to buy that.  Back home we went, to put clothes in the dryer and start another load.  And primp for the wedding.  It was a beautiful, warm summer day.  The wedding was in another town in our county, the dinner and reception in another city in another county.  When we left for the wedding, it was almost hot.

We were feeling so festive.  I had really missed having my daughter home.  My son was still there, eating my refrigerator down to the racks, but it's really different when suddenly you can see the counter top in the bathroom, and there isn't makeup and jewelry all over the place.  You miss those little things.  We had to park some distance away from the chapel, and my daughter learned why you just take cabs or park really, really close when wearing stilettos- they are hell to walk in, as good as they look. 

The wedding was so beautiful.  Gorgeous bride, handsome groom.  Truly like that fairytale we all envision.

By the time the service was finished, the fog was starting to come in.  We hadn't brought sweaters, plus my daughter's feet were really starting to hurt her, so we decided to go home and get sweaters.  And flats for her.  And do another load of wash.

The reception was also beautiful.  I was having a lot of fun.  Then came the first dance.  The newlywed couple got up and danced. The love that they felt for each other was palpable; it made me cry, it was so touching.  You could just see it in the way that they looked at each other.  I realized, all this time, in the relationship I had been trying to maintain, that neither one of us felt that way about the other.  That I was settling.  I knew immediately that we were finished.  That before me, moving gracefully around the dance floor, was a couple deeply in love with each other.  I wanted to look at someone like that, and, yes, have him look back at me the same way.

At the end of the evening, my daughter and I went home, folded all of her now clean clothes, and then I took her back to school.  Much later, I finally went to bed.  Before I went to bed, I resolved:  No more settling.  I want real love.  Reinforce the whole doing-your-own-laundry-thing.  Get a car with better gas milage.

Faux-Spring Fever

In Spring, so it's said, a man's fancy turns to thoughts of love.  In Spring, my fancy, my mind, my whole being turns to thoughts of baseball.  I can't help it, it's just the way I am.  Of course, it's not really Spring, just Faux-Spring in Winter.  Warm enough to tempt you into wearing a flowing, sleeveless dress, a little cardigan, and showing off your somewhat tanned legs and perfectly pedicured toes in really cute sandals.      Sitting in the warm sun today, I designed the perfect date for myself.

It's a beautiful, warm afternoon, and there's an occasional breeze so you don't get too hot.  I'm sitting in a lower reserve box on the first base side of the infield at AT&T Park, and the Giants are up.  The pitching has been phenomenal, the batters have mastered the art of situational hitting, and my boys are up by at least 8 runs.  I'm eating a hot dog and garlic fries, and drinking a beer, and I'm with the man of my dreams, who is as much into the game as I am.  And eating his own fries, not mine.  And, he is as crazy about me as he is about baseball.

I really don't think that's asking too much.

Come on, Spring.  Go Giants.  Now, about that dream man-  he better be a Giants fan.  I bleed black and orange.  I'll find him....

Sunglasses

I love sunglasses.  I have always worn them;  as a contact lens wearer, they are almost a necessity.  Plus someone told me that they would keep me from squinting and developing wrinkles around my eyes.  Well, go figure, I'm 53, got those little lines around my eyes, anyway.  Because I like to laugh, and smile, and they just develop there.  Plus I swim, and goggles leave marks there, too.  I'm not likely to lose either the goggle marks or the lines, any time soon;  I won't be getting Botox or any plastic surgery, nor will I be giving up swimming.  I'm just going to disintegrate, slowly and naturally.  Facials and eye creme, and my sunglasses, well, they all have to help slow the process, somewhat, at least that's what I'm hoping.

Those pesky men looking at internet-dating-site-pictures, they want you without the dark glasses.  I don't have many pictures of me, anyway;  I'm usually the one taking the pictures.  The few I have, I have those sunglasses on.  I feel like the sunglasses make me look better.  This hasn't worked out so well for me.  Men, apparently, can be as snarky as women. 

"If I can't see your eyes, I won't know if you are kissable or not."  Hmm.  Guess we could go out and see, but you know?  I think I'll be washing my hair.

"Hope that woman of mystery thing works well for you."  Quite well, actually.  Did I mention that I'd be washing my hair?

"How can I possible recognize you? Your picture has sunglasses."  Well, gosh, that one's tough.  Intellectually, you must be a little slow on the uptick, because I don't look that different with my glasses off.  But, you know- don't worry about it, I'll be washing my hair.

"I think you must be trying to hide something."  Yes. You're right.  Caught. In. The. Act.  Gotta wash my hair, now.

"You'll need to e-mail me some pictures, without sunglasses, or I can't meet you."  What a shame.  I can't meet you- got a date with my shampoo.

"I think you are beautiful and sexy, but I need to see your face without sunglasses."  Honey, I'm so sexy that without my sunglasses I'm sure you'll just spontaneously combust, but don't worry, the water from my hairwashing will extiguish the fire.

"Unless I can see the whole of your beautiful face, without dark glasses, I won't know if we are true soulmates."  Give me a fu*%ing break.  Soulmates, just by looking at my one dimensional picture, without sunglasses.  See any of the above comments regarding my hairwashing.

And the bitch of all this is- I have short hair.  And, apparently, plenty of time to wash it.

The Santa Factor

I had an experience a while back that incorporated my belief that men lie habitually on the internet dating sites, along with my belief that long distance dating is a really bad idea. 

The man was everything I was looking for- he wrote well with no grammatical errors, was educated, fit, financially secure and tall and attractive.  And, he had blue eyes, one of my particular distractions- really, if a man has blue eyes, he can pretty much be an illiterate troll and the chances are excellent that I'll never even notice.  We all have a weakness, I guess that's mine- or at least, one of them.  Anyway, he was about ten years older than the dream man I had envisioned, but he had this full head of beautiful white hair and those blue eyes.  And he was really smart.  So I decided to meet him, in spite of the fact that he lived a couple of hours away.  I am the queen of justification;  I figured, well, if something comes of the meeting, I work full time, I'm busy during the week, we can see each other during the weekend.  My daughter was horrified.  "Mom!" she said.  "You can't be serious!  You're really going to date.... Santa?????"  I laughed her off.  I am an adult, more experienced, more worldly than a teenage girl. What the hell does she know, anyway?

Out of the mouths of babes.

So he agreed to come to my town.  This was before my 15-minute-time-limit-rule of initial meetings, so we agreed to have dinner.  It was a beautiful afternoon, warm and sunny, and I sat in the sun, waiting for him at the designated meeting place.  A short man walked by, checked me out.  I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, but dismissed him.  Short, nowhere near six feet tall.   Kind of old.  Dark hair.  I was looking for white hair.  But- wait- the man was swinging back around, coming over with a big smile on his elderly face.  "Allyson!"  he said.  "Is it you?  Are you Allyson?"   In the afternoon sun, his badly dyed hair shone red and cheesy in the glinting sunlight.  Every wrinkle of his geriatric face was starkly illuminated by the radiant afternoon.  Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, "What did you do to your hair?"

I've always been brilliant when caught off guard.

Looking back, I probably would have met him anyway, even if he had been truthful about his height and age.  I'm not ageist, but I was expecting a man five years younger- that's how old he said he was.  And the hair dye?  Please.  Nothing more vile than a bad dye job.  I did end up dating this guy for a while, because he was smart and funny and interesting, and hair dye eventually grows out, but it turned out that the hair dye and his actual biological age were only two lies out of many more.  And some of the lies were serious.  Again, if we had lived closer to each other, those lies would have come out much sooner than they did. 

Live and learn.  Leave Santa to Mrs. Claus.

Just this once- my daughter was right.

Illegal, Immoral or Fattening?

When it comes to legal or moral matters, I try to use common sense.  My personal belief is that anything goes between two consenting adults, regardless of sex, creed or color.  Unfortunately, the moral hypocrisy of our society often dictates otherwise.  Why is it that two men who love each other, or two women, for that matter, are not allowed to get married, if they feel that need?  How is their getting married going to effect me and my life, in any way except for the better?  Better, because there isn't enough love and happiness in our society anyway, and two more happy people in it can only help the general situation.  Why can a man and a woman get married for an hour, or a day or two, and then split up, and no one thinks there is anything immoral about this?  Why is a mixed race couple frowned upon in so many parts of society?  And why is it the government feels they should have a say about what I can and cannot do with my own uterus?

Thankfully, coffee, red wine and dark chocolate exist. And last time I checked, they were all legal and moral.  As for the fattening part- well, a girl needs her vices. 

Divorce

When my ex-husband announced that he was finished, that he was moving out and moving on, my first reaction was panic.  Sheer, heart-stopping panic.  Inside my head I was screaming, "What is going to happen to me?  What will I do?  How will I support myself?  I haven't worked in years!"  My second, almost immediate reaction was rage.  How the hell could anybody walk out on me?  I'm sure the words out of my mouth were mean, nasty, vitriolic and cutting, because that's the way I am.  And even though all this was many years ago, I can still feel the dual adrenaline rush of panic and then rage, almost simultaneous.

Of course, it was a situation long overdue.  For years we had lived a miserable existence, together but not together, with two little kids and a mortgage and bills and all of the baggage that comes along with life.  Somewhere in all that, communication and intimacy died.  Wiped out, along with cherishing each other.  Once you lose the intimacy, it's over.  For us, it was over years before we actually ended it.  I think in looking back, we were both culpable.  We really did love each other, very much, once upon a time.  But love is a fragile and precious thing, and it will die as surely as any houseplant I've ever had.  Love needs to be nurtured and cared for, and fed daily with conversation, tenderness, and caring, stupid jokes and smiles, and laughter.  It's a gift, and once it's gone- well, it's gone.

As I get older, I realize what a gift real love is.

Does Everybody Lie?

It's getting to the point, when I look at a potential date on the internet, I automatically add five years onto his age.  Because five years seems to be the average amount that men shave off from their actual, biological age.  Now, obviously, this isn't always the case.  Some men are perfectly forthcoming about how old they are.  But it happens frequently enough that you just start to wonder- does everybody lie?  Even women I know admit to taking off a couple of years.  I realize that when you're online, forget what your mother told you, about how what's inside is more beautiful than what's on the outside.  That it's better to be smart than cute.  I happen to think that's the truth, but on the internet, it's all just bulls%*t.  Because, sadly, inner beauty and a head full of brains isn't going to get you a date on Friday night.

You are judged by:

1.  A picture.  What if you aren't particularly photogenic, or are plain, or just plain unattractive?  How does your sparkling personality and inner beauty shine through?  I'm not sure about this, I'm still working through this little issue myself.

2.  Your birthday.  If you say you are 50, that triggers a certain mental image, that may or may not be true.  I, myself, am a perfectly youthful 53.  Of course.  Really, I am.

3.  Your profile.  That's a whole page of really stupid questions, facts, quotes and comments that you have to both write and answer, without sounding conceited, superficial, naive and stupid. This is where that inner beauty your mother told you about is supposed to shine through, but unfortunately any guy seriously looking probably didn't get past the picture. 

I'm thinking rather than lie about my age, I'll just photoshop some gorgeous model's face onto my body.  Actually, also maybe her body over my body while I'm at it.  Picture problem solved.  Of course that might make meeting the date a little difficult, because he'll be looking for a supermodel, and you'll be looking for someone five years younger, and 20 pounds lighter. 

Sigh.  No one ever said this dating thing was easy.

The Thorny Issue of Valentine's Day

Even when I've been happily coupled up I've always felt uncomfortable on Valentine's Day.  Why is there just one day devoted to love and romance? Why is it dictated by Hallmark and the advertisers who want us to prove our love and devotion by spending our hard-earned dollars on junk and sugar that we don't really need?  Why do restaurants always jack-up their prices on February 14th?  If you're with someone, why isn't a part of everyday something like the idea of Valentine's Day?  Even between jobs, kids, life, shouldn't there be a moment when you look at each other and are just happy that you are together?  No relationship is perfect, and you will get irritated with your partner.  And they with you.  That's life.  But really, if you never lose track of why you chose them to begin with- well, I guess that's what Valentine's Day is to me.

As for February 14th, I always cave in and send out Valentines to my friends and my kids.  Underneath my skeptical and sarcastic exterior beats the heart of a romantic.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Opposites Must Really Attract

Why does it seem that nice men always end up with really witchy women?  This has always been one of life's eternal mysteries, in my mind.  I've seen it over and over, throughout my life;  really polite, seemingly intelligent men, with scary wives or girlfriends who appear to be outwardly bitchy, self-centered, rude, demanding and condescending.  These women are pills that I wouldn't want to spend any time with.  Would these men be too bored with a nice woman who might actually like to hear what they have to say once in a while, and care about their opinion?   A woman who would care about them, and let them decide something once in a while?   Maybe the face these men and women present to the world is just for show, and at home the women cater to them, value them, appreciate the fact that they have a nice, decent guy.

Right.

I had a date with a guy who spent the entire time telling me about his ex-wife.  She was apparently a piece of work, and he was still completely besotted with her, in spite of the occasional descriptive expletive.  She had left him for his best friend, and yet in spite of that betrayal, she still had him by the short and curlies. 
That date lasted the requisite fifteen minutes, which is what I allot for meeting new men.  Let's face it- you can tell instantly, or pretty close to it, if anything is going to develop;  I see no reason to prolong agony.

Surely there is a nice, attractive guy out there who wants his female counterpart.

If A Man Says he's Bi, Does That Mean He's Gay?

There's just no getting around this.  If a man says he's Bi, he's gay.  Run for the nearest exit, as fast as you can.  Save yourself  much grief and heartache. 

Trust me on this one. 

Love Your Frenemy.

All women know at least one woman  who is a frenemy.  Someone to whom you are socially polite to in public, but know anything you say will be twisted and repeated by her in strange and malicious ways.  For one reason or another, you keep on being polite to her, usually because if you make her your outright emeny, she'll just be much more evil.

Let's face it, women can be vicious.

My frenemy is the kind of woman who will look you up and dawn, and then proclaim, "Oh, you look fine.  I mean, you don't look like you used to, but you look okay."  Great.  Gotta love that. Or- "What's the matter?  Is something wrong?  You look so- oh, I don't know, old and tired today.  I'm really concerned." 

Maybe I should just make her an enemy.  Seriously, how can she be worse to me than she already is?  When she found out I was internet dating, she asked me if I was planning to clean up my diet.  You know, eliminate things like cookies.  Wine.  Probably food, in general.  I said no, I happen to like that stuff.  She told me that I was looking a little pudgy and that I needed to be more careful about what I ate.

Gotta love how sisters stick together, don't you?

Excuse me.  There are cookies in my cookie jar, calling to me.

Does Happiness Show?

I've often wondered, if you're happy, do you just look better?  Smiling instead of frowning, being relaxed and at ease instead of tense and stressed.  I'm sure there's a correlation.  I'm not just talking about the glow you get from good sex,  even though I think that's related, too, since good sex'll make you happy pretty fast.
I really think there is an inner peace, a serenity, that you get when you are content.  And that has to show.  Maybe if I cultivate happiness, I'll look younger, can give up make-up, will lose my wrinkles.....

Well, it's a thought.  A happy one.

May-December; Too Bad It's Only February

How old are you?  If you meet someone and have a connection, does it really matter?  If you are a 25 year old woman, and you start dating a 50 year old man, people will look at the woman as either an innocent or a gold digger, and women will look at the man as a dirty old perv.  Men will look at the man with a great deal of admiration.  But if you reverse it- a 50 year old woman and a 25 year old man, everyone looks at you funny.  Even with the current cultural Cougar phenomenon, women aren't supposed to be sexual, and the implication of an older woman with a younger man is that they will be having sex.  Lots of it.  Yet, men will high-five an older man with a younger woman, the implication being they are having sex.  Lots of it.

I just hate hypocrisy. 

"Hey! Does rubber make my butt look big?"

I don't have any sexual fetishes.  I don't have any problem with people that do.  I guess I'm pretty "normal" in my sexual proclivities.  However, lately, there's something about me that keeps attracting these men that want a little extra. 

The man who wanted to know if I was "into" domination and/or submission.  That really, he was okay with either one, even though he would much prefer me to submit because he enjoyed being the dom just a bit more than being the sub.  But, if I chose to be the dom, would I please wear really high heels? 

The local man in an open marriage who was looking for a new sex partner.

The man all the way across the country, who offered to fly me out to have sex with him and his wife for the weekend.

And, the man who put me on his favorite's list.  Out of boredom, I looked up his profile.  He was looking for fit women who wanted to wear rubber and carry whips, and would pay handsomely for this little pleasure.

Honestly.  Is it really that hard to find a boyfriend?  One without whips, chains, rubber suits and a wife who wants to watch?

I need a drink, now.

The Stalker: A Cautionary Tale

My cell phone rang this afternoon, interrupting my thoughts.  I answered it without checking my caller id- big mistake.  It turned out to be my last relationship, a man who was depressed and self-medicating with alcohol.  In fact, that was the reason for the end, his refusal to either admit that there was a problem or do anything about treating it.  As the child of a bi-polar alcoholic, that was a road I had no intention of going down again.  I'd spent too many years fixing myself.  Anyway, it was rather disconcerting to hear his voice, and hear him trying to make me the bad guy for "kicking him to the curb." 

He was a long distance relationship.  He had fallen on hard times, was working the night shift.  At the time I figured, well, at least he's working.  There really is no dishonorable work, in my opinion.  Because we saw each other maybe every other weekend, I actually didn't know there was an alcohol problem.  He never slurred his words, fell down or giggled or did any of the stereotypical things that drunks do.  And, unlike my mother, his temperament didn't change when he drank.  He did drink a lot of white wine when we were in for the evening, and never showed it, and I just assumed that it was because he was a big guy.  It wasn't until after it was over, that I realized that he did indeed play the manipulative head games that drug addicts and drunks play.

I think if we had lived in closer proximity to one another, the alcohol would have become an issue sooner.  Because the veneer would have cracked, and I would have seen the problem.

It came out, in the end.  And he turned mean when I told him to move along.  And called all the time, using a blocked number.  (I typically never pick up a call from a number I don't recognize or have in my contacts.  I figure, if I don't know who they are, they can damn well leave a message, and maybe I'll call them back.)
I moved after we broke up, and I don't think he knows where I live, which is good.  That makes me a little uncomfortable.  I don't think he's dangerous, but I think it's a little creepy when you are dealing with someone who is not completely rational.

I feel lucky to have a circle of good friends who have my back.

"The Long and Winding Road," or Long-Distance Dating

You can't believe it- after all the frogs, you have finally found your prince.  Everything you've ever wanted in a partner.  Smart, fit, good looking, employed, nice teeth, whatever you're looking for, here he is.  The only problem is he's two hours away.  At first you think, okay, how inconvenient.  Then you start trying to rationalize it.  I mean, you work full time, you have kids, you go to the gym, you have friends and hobbies and many things that keep you busy during the week, maybe just seeing someone only on the weekends is fine.  Maybe it can work.  It'll give you all the space you need, during the week.  You can spend the weekends together- wild, passionate, wonderful weekends, just the two of you.

Well.  Not that you asked for my opinion, but of course, I do have one.

Call it the reverse-Nike:  Just don't do it.

"... Even educated fleas do it..."

Shakespeare called it "making the beast with two backs."  Fornication.  Copulation.  Intercourse.  Relations.  An arrangement.  F*#king.  Whatever vernacular you want to use, sex is out there in abundance.  If all you want to do is get laid, well, welcome to computer dating.  I think that roughly three quarters of the men out there are trolling for bait.  Some are up front and open about it, others a bit cagier.  I don't actually think it's a problem if that's what both parties are looking for- I mean, really, is there anything better than sex?  What goes on between two consenting adults in the privacy of their bedroom is entirely up to them.  That said, there seems to be a distinct disconnect between men and women, searching for the elusive right relationship.  Most women want permanence.  A partner to come home to, someone to take care of them once in a while, and offer emotional support, etc.  Men want some of that, I think.  But mostly, men want sex.  The permanence part?  Maybe not so much.

Then there are all the rules about when it's appropriate to have sex.  First date?  Second date?  Third date?  If you do it on the first date, will he then think you're not "serious relationship" material?  It's all so stupid, isn't it?  Don't judge me by what I will and won't do.  In fact, just don't judge me.  In return, I'll try to not judge you. 

Maybe we women should be more in the present instead of  thinking about permanence and the future, and just enjoy what's right here.  If it's going to turn into something more, it will.  Conversely, if it's not going to go anywhere, it won't, you can't make it happen.  And honestly, if some man is going to judge you as unworthy because you sleep with him too soon, well- do you really want to be with that kind of person anyway?  I wouldn't. 

Here's my own personal bottom line.  I am over fifty.  If I want to do it, I will.  Rules be damned.  I'll make my own rules.  And just enjoy my life.

And sex.