Another Day at the Office

Once upon a time,  I worked for what had to be the most dysfunctional office in recorded history.  I started  working there on the same day as another woman, one who eventually became, and is to this day, my best friend.
The tone of the firm was set by the manager, who was a misogynist and a letch at the same time.  Every morning, the younger, single men of the firm would file through his office, to give him blow-by-blow descriptions of of their dates the night before, and whether or not they got "lucky."  He firmly believed that any woman was fair game, no matter their height, race, or weight, because, "they are all the same size lying down."  He would routinely call me into his office, pat his thigh and tell me to come take a seat.  Or- he'd ask me to please drop a pencil in front of him, then bend over and pick it up.

Of course, the men took their cues from him.  Constant cat-calling, leering, grabbing.  The men were the pigs in charge, and we subservient women weren't allowed to forget it, ever.  One young guy was especially charming.  In between sexually harrassing the women in the office, he would pick his nose- I mean really dig for gold- and flick the boogers against his computer screen.  Click.  Click.  Click.   Pause- oh, yummy- bet he was eating them, as well-  click.

The receptionist was an older woman, divorced and bitter, lips constantly pursed, her face permanently screwed up in disapproval of everyone, especially me and my friend.  A dried-up, hate-filled middle-aged woman that was so miserable and unhappy that she radiated hate and misery to all those around her.  My friend and I dubbed her "fish-face" because with her teased, blonde bouffant hair, the pursed lips and her disapproving expression she resembled a carp.  And really, she wasn't that old, nor was she really unattractive, but she was so nasty, hateful and prissy, and the constant mean expression on her face just aged her by at least fifteen years.  "Smile.  It'll make everything better,"  I always wanted to say that to her, but of course, never did.  To this day I refer to that nasty, screwed up kind of face as a "fish face."

And the really scary thing is, I'm sure that receptionist was in her fifties.  She wasn't old, but she might as well have been dead, for all the interest she took in anything.  So she hated us, but talked to the other women.  The rest of the women in that office hated us, too.  They were all cliquey.  None of them would talk to us- we were new, outsiders, and attractive, and the men liked us and talked to us, which just made them that much more hateful towards us.  It's ironic, because both of us are what I would call easy talkers- we can carry on a converstaion with just about anyone, including an inanimate object, and yet- those women really didn't want anything to do with us.  So eventually we gave up, and just talked to each other. 

Yeah, I loved getting up and going to work every day.  Talk about a hostile work environment.  All that, and very little pay, as well.  Truely, the American Dream.

The strangest thing about that office was this positively creepy group of ultra-conservative-born-again-Christians.  These people prayed constantly.  I mean, dropping onto their knees and praying in the middle of the office, in the middle of whatever they were doing.  They had prayer lunches in the conference room every day, everybody was welcome to join them.  I didn't.  And of course, the men in this group were as letcherous as all the other men in the office.  The women, they kept their eyes down and probably serviced their men.

I left.  Eventually, my friend left, too.  Only two good things came out of that nuthouse.  One, I met my best friend.  Two, I acquired writing material for life.

Married Men Need Booty Calls, Too

I was checking out writing gigs online, and there it was:  Some guy was looking for a female ghost writer, to write his online dating profile, and answer e-mails from potential dates.  Hm.  I was already convinced that 95% of men online lie.  It must be more like 99% with some even paying other people to be them.  Just to get a date.

Maybe that's what happened to this guy I met for coffee.

He was really good looking, so he didn't fake his picture.  He was from Jamaica, huge, at least 6'4", lots of muscles, skin the color of coffee with lots of milk in it.  He swaggered when he walked, and as he sat down and said "hello" in his musical voice a number of thoughts zig-zagged around inside my brain:   Really good looking.  Steroid god.  Full of himself.  Really good looking.  Bad clothing choices- shirt was way too tight.  Amazing biceps.  Amazing pecs.  Amazing delts.  I hate men wearing ostentatious necklaces- my jewelry should be enough.  Really good looking.  The lizard part of my brain couldn't get past his physical attractiveness.  I know I always say that men are dogs... well, woof.  Women can be just as bad.  There was only one reason to date this one, and it wasn't his brains.  He demonstrated the lack as he opened his mouth and tried to make conversation.  And unfortunately, it was pretty awkward.  Sorry, pretty boys, especially built ones, just shouldn't talk.  It blows the fantasy.

He could have been one of those guys paying someone to write his profile. I only say this because in his profile, he could write, and articulate his thoughts.  Hell, he actually had thoughts.  Not the case in person, I'm afraid. 

I was just getting ready to excuse myself, claiming that I had to take my Guinea Pig for a pedicure, figuring he would never figure that one out, when he reached a hand out and stopped me from leaving.  "You seem like a nice girl," he said.  "I need to tell you the truth.  I only signed up for on-line dating because I was looking for sex.  I'm married, and my wife doesn't understand me, or my needs."  I think my jaw dropped a little.  Partly because he was propositioning me, partly because he actually got a complete sentence out, and partially because he stretched his arm out. It was something to behold.  He smiled at me, lazily.  "Would you like to touch my arm?  It's really hard."  Ok, buh-bye.  Off to slap myself upside the head for my lascivious fantasies.

What a waste of HGH.  Maybe steroids make you stupid, I don't know.  Well, no brains, no headaches.

He sure was pretty, though.  Woof.

My First Mistake

Once upon a time, a lifetime ago when I was actually young, I got married.  I was 21.  He was 23.  I was coming off a period of heavy-duty drinking, partying and drug use, and he represented stability to me.  He was an engineer, working, fiscally and socially conservative.  I hardly knew him.  At twenty-one I didn't even know myself. 

I was such a stupid child, I didn't really think about the ramifications of getting and being married, the level of commitment it takes, the fact that we couldn't agree on anything, not even something as simple as the type of ice-cream to buy, and that I really didn't even like him.  He was close-minded, controlling, misogynistic, homophobic and racist.  I didn't think that once you're legally hitched, getting unhitched isn't easy.  It all just seemed like a big adventure to me.  Escaping the control of my overly strict upbringing, and my alcoholic bi-polar mother.

In my gut and in my heart I knew it was a mistake.  I didn't love him.  I didn't even like him.  I was standing with my Daddy, waiting to walk down the aisle, and I looked at him, and told him that I thought it was a mistake.  Daddy looked at me, and said, "If you don't want to do this, don't do it."  I said, "What about all the people?  What about Mom?"  He said, "It doesn't matter about them.  If you don't want to do it, don't do it."  Of course, I didn't listen to him or to my intuition.  I chalked it up to cold feet, and got married anyway.

What an idiot I was.

Every single time in my life that the intuition in my belly tells me something is right or wrong, I ultimately regret it when I don't listen.  Because it's always right.  I am learning to believe in it, and ultimately believe in my own sense of judgement.

The man was abusive.  Go figure, his being controlling, a misogynist, homophobic and a racist.  That should have been a clue for me.  The marriage lasted four years when it should have never happened.  I wanted out after six months, and he couldn't and wouldn't accept that fact.  After I moved out, he stalked me, waiting for me in the halls of school buildings at night, because I was finishing my Master's degree at this point.

I felt so trapped.  There is absolutely nothing worse than being in a bad relationship.  Being alone is better.  Dating a series of losers and an occasional great guy is better.  Hanging out with my cat is better.  Hanging out with my friends is better.  Hiking alone with my ipod is better.

There were signs from the beginning that it was doomed.  You know, besides the misogyny, homophobia and racism.  He hated cats.  He threw my pet kitten across the room in a fit of rage.  I found that kitten a new home immediately.  He locked me in the closet.  He explained to me quite seriously that I didn't need any friends except him.  That he was the only person I should have in my life.  That there was something wrong with me if I wanted to go out with a friend.  That there was never any need to travel to any foreign country, that the only place worth seeing was America- but only certain parts, and then only in his parent's ginormous RV.  Certainly we couldn't go anywhere that had any other races besides whites.  He used offensive terms for every ethnic group.  The only sport he liked was basketball, and the Lakers at that-  just not the African American players.  I actually used to enjoy basketball until I lived with him.  He didn't like football, and he hated baseball.  He didn't want me watching football or baseball.  It wasn't necessary, since I had him and the Lakers.  I am so thankful that sex with him was repugnant, and I didn't have any children with him.  Imagine the horror of being linked to that fungus forever through a child.  Shudder.

Really, all the other obnoxious stuff aside, hating baseball was the sign of a deep character flaw.  I should have known.  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I think all mistakes in life are lessons that need to be mastered.  And never repeated.  You trip, you fall, you pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and keep on going.  Because, I am ever optimistic about love.
After that miserable experience, I told myself that I would never, ever make that kind of man-mistake again.

And, I haven't.  I make new ones.  And pick myself up, brush myself off, and move on.  Stupid optimist that I am, I never give up.  I have learned that you actually have to like the one you're with, and have some points in common.  And there really needs to be that electricity between you, or you may as well be brother and sister.

Also:  if you go through enough of the wrong ones, culling away, what you want will become clearer and more focused.  You'll just know when the right one comes along.

Suicide

In the dating world, some people consider the coffee date to be date number one.  I have it on good authority from my gay boyfriend, that the whole coffee date thing is just basically checking each other out.  If a man makes it though my fifteen minute test, then we can move on to real date number one. 
Believe it or not, even I fall prey to a bad date.  Man magnet that I am.

This man made the cut, and we agreed to dinner.  He was a little older than me, rather serious, graying hair, seemed to be fairly in shape.  He was a dentist, divorced 3 years.  Blue eyes.  I patted myself on the back for not making a comment about what I've always called "divorced dentist cars," because sure enough, he drove one;  a fire-engine-red Porsche Carrera.  Talking with him, at coffee, I felt a twinge of misgiving- which I promptly blew off as nerves.  Surely this one was fine.

We met in a town near the towns in which we lived.  It was a cute little Italian place I was familiar with, casual and warm atmosphere, good food.  I sat in the lobby and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  After fifteen minutes, I picked up my bag and was just getting up to leave when he came flying through the front door, harried and a bit disheveled.  "Hi,"  he said.  "Sorry I'm late.  My bitch of an ex-wife was on the phone, whining as usual about how I don't give her enough money.  Doesn't matter how much I give her, it's never enough.  Hell- I paid to get the bags taken out from under her eyes, and bought her huge boobs- you'd think that would be enough, but no.  Then she had to have liposuction.  She has to have botox every couple of months.  Lines filled in around her mouth.  The lips made bigger.  Her hair needs to be highlighted and colored, and now she's adding extensions.  And she gets her nails done every other week." 

His ex-wife sounded like a really high-maintenance type of woman, but at least he finally stopped talking about her.  I'm pretty low maintenance.  I get a manicure and a pedicure every other week.  Get my hair cut every six or seven weeks.  Get a facial every couple of months.  No wonder I'm not aging so well.  Don't have the plastic surgeon on speed dial.  "Shall we go get our table?" I said.  I was pretty hungry.

Once seated, I attacked the bread basket.  Divorced Dentist watched me with fascination.  His ex-wife never ate bread.  Or carbs of any sort.  Or, I gather, food.  She was a size 0, except for her gargantuan breasts.  "She is," he said, "perfection."  Meanwhile, he was hitting the red wine with gusto.  And, damn it, he was still talking about her.  Mostly because I was chewing and listening.  

As we got through our salads, I think the wine started affecting him.  He started getting- oh, I don't know, morose.  I was busy eating and listening to him when suddenly I heard him sniffle.  I looked up, and to my horror, say a tear drop off the end of his nose onto his salad plate.  Uncomfortable, I quickly looked back down at my own food.  Shit, shit, shit.  Do I just have "SUCKER" written all over me, or something?  Not to be insensitive, but really, I'm tired of dealing with men who have emotional issues. 

The best was yet to be.

The waiter served out entrees- we were both having Linguine with clams.  He took two bites, put down his fork and spoon, and announced, "I think I'm going to kill myself."
The linguine wasn't that bad.  I looked up mid-chew, and realized the guy wasn't kidding.  Damn.  I really was hungry, and now I had to put down my fork and be sympathetic, and caring.  Well, the hell with that- the guy was nuts, his ex-wife was nuts, and I was nuts to be out with him, but above all else, I was hungry.  I continued to eat.  He continued to talk about how he was going to end it all. 
"I just don't get any joy out of anything, any more.  No pleasure.  I hate my job.  I hate everyone.  I would be better off dead.  I'm thinking a knife across the forearm -" he pantomimed from his wrist to his elbow- "might be the quickest, but really messy.  I don't know about hanging.... Pills might be somewhat painless, but what if I choke on my bile and don't die?  I could shoot myself, but then, I'd have to get a gun."    I tried to make sympathy sounds though my food, but at one point I miscalculated and a clam fell out of my mouth into my lap.  He was so wrapped up in misery and self-pity that he didn't even notice.  Actually, I don't think he noticed me the entire evening.  Finally, I had had enough.  I grabbed my bag, told him I was going to the bathroom.  He kept talking to his food- I'm not sure he even noticed I was gone.  Or, that I bypassed the bathroom, went out to my car, and just went home.

I never did find out what happened to him.  Hopefully he got back together with his ex- I think they deserve each other.  I sent him an e-mail apology- told him I got really freaked out about how I could never measure up to the beauty of his ex, so I ran for it.  I never heard back from him.

It was pretty crummy of me to leave like that.  I'm just sorry I didn't take my pasta with me.

Politeness

I got an e-mail the other day from a man I don't even remember writing.  He was that memorable.  Apparently, my gorgeous photograph made an equally impressive impression, because he said that he's been  too busy to even think about dating, and, really, I just didn't do it for him.  He knew we wouldn't click.  He wished me success.  I sent him a reply- something like, "Thanks!  You, too."  I was impressed that he could glean all that from a photograph.

Now, seriously, I always try to weed out the ones with obvious personality disorders, and eliminate the ones that are really conceited.  I can't stand people that are full of themselves, nor can I stand rudeness.  Honestly, it can't be that difficult to be polite- wait, yes, for some people, it can.

It brings to mind a date I had a while ago, before I came up with the all important fifteen-minute-coffee-date screening.

Driving into the City, I managed to find legal street parking, on a Friday night.  This, in and of itself, was reason to celebrate.  I was optimistic about this man.  We exchanged perfectly charming e-mails, no huge grammatical errors on his part, and had a nice phone conversation.  He was in his late forties, dark haired, fit, clean cut.  Brown eyes, a bit of a departure for me. 

He was waiting for me outside the restaurant.  Gave me a really long hug, hands sliding down the small of my back until I backed off.  We went inside.  Walking to our table, he kept touching me.  I just figured he was just really tactile.  I'm not. During dinner, which was pretty good, his knees kept brushing mine.  Conversation was a little stilted, punctuated by long awkward silences, broken only by our chewing and the clink of our silverware.  It wasn't going very well.  I just couldn't wait to leave.  I even skipped dessert, which is pretty unusual for me.  We split the bill.  He offered to walk me to my car, and did, even though I insisted that it wasn't necessary.  He kept trying to put his arm around me as we walked, and I kept doing stupid things, like dropping my keys, and coughing really loudly and obnoxiously.  I finally just told him to stop, and just back off my ass.  He looked at me, and said, "You really aren't very friendly, are you?"  "Actually, I'm very friendly to the right person,"  I said.  "I guess you're just the wrong person.  I don't like to wrestle when I'm walking."  He looked at me, and said, "You f#*king women are nothing but teases.  You're just a frigid bitch."  Okay then.  On that happy conclusion, we walked in silence back to my car, which, thankfully was close.  When we got to it, I said, "Well, thanks for dinner."  Suddenly he lunged at me and started kissing me, grabbing my breasts and my ass and anything he could while I tried to get away from him.  I had my car keys in my hand- so I hit the panic button, and the alarm and the lights just went off, causing him to leap back and giving me the opportunity to get away and into the car.  What a creep. 

When I got home, I sent him an e-mail, something like,
"Thank you for dinner.   We will never be a couple, because there is no chemistry between us.  Good luck in your search."  Adequate and polite.

Adequate, even though I was still pretty pissed off at the whole octopus routine, there at the end.  I wanted to say something about how he was a jerk with no manners, but I decided that I needed to be polite. 

Apparently he didn't feel the same way.  The next day, I got an e-mail reply from him.

"Dear cold f*#king  bitch,  if  i wanted to see you, i would have written you you shouldnt write me you have no reason to tell me what i can and cant do, you c%&t  i hope you die you f*#king tease you are a whore like every other woman i hope your p*#&y falls out and rots."

Master of anger, the run-on sentence, and poor punctuation all at once.  What a prince! What a writer!  How could I let this one slip away?  Hmm.  Well, actually, I'd rather spend the evening with my cat, or at the gym. 

Better luck next date...

They Burp. They Fart. They Snore.

I was having lunch with a friend of mine, discussing men.  She took a bite of her food, and daintily chewed it, wiped her mouth with her napkin.  "You know," she said, "overall, I would have to say that men are a disappointment."  I was kind of surprised at her attitude, given that she's been married to a great guy for thirty years.  She shrugged.  "They are untrainable.  They burp.  They fart.  They snore.  They can't do more than one thing at a time.  They are pigs, can't pick up their underwear or a towel to save their lives.  They turn into two-year-olds when they get sick.  And- if they had to have a baby, well, let's just say that population control wouldn't be a problem, would it?"

I had to admit, she had a point.

Why is it then, that I am so fascinated by men?  Why am I devoting my precious spare time to finding the right one?

Men are so different from women.  For all the reasons that my friend mentioned.  But at the same time, men are loyal.  If you tell them something in secrecy, usually they won't repeat it, and they won't use it against you unexpectedly, at some later point in time.  They are usually pretty direct.  They are fun to attend sporting events with, because they are into the game and let you watch it, as well.  Sometimes, they can cook, and enjoy it, which is huge for a working woman.  Sometimes, they are handy and can fix nagging little things around the house.  And- if they can't they'll hire someone who can.   They will check the oil in your car, as well as the tire pressure.  Maybe even put gas in the tank.  They will hold a door open for you.  Carry your shopping bags.  Not comment too much on the vast number of black boots in your boot collection. 

The truth is, I just like men.  And the male body.  I like the way the male and female bodies fit together.  When a man holds me, I feel protected.  So even though men emit disgusting noises and smells, and may be challenged when it comes to cleaning a bathroom, I will always want one in my life. 

I guess that's why I'm doing all this.  So I can find the right one to grow old with. 

Hey, it'll give me something to talk about.

Crush

Funny about crushes.  It doesn't matter how old you are, you are always susceptible.  There is often no rhyme or reason.  Look forward to the mailman?  Or the garbage man?  How about the UPS man?  The cute checker at the grocery store?  The guy that makes your latte?  The best thing about a crush is that it has the potential to be anything you want it to be.  Love?  Marriage?  A torrid affair?  A guy who will be everything you desire, and yet- because he's someone you admire from a distance, you will never get to discover his flaws, and the elements that make him a human being.  He'll never disappoint you.  He'll just be that perfect picture on the fridge.  Easily replaced by the next perfect picture.

Like everything else about me, my crushes are all over the map.   Liberace, the gay pianist.  Who has a crush on Liberace?  Me, of course, as a kid.  I just thought he was to die for, and I didn't have a clue what a gay man was.  Also through the years, were:  Walter Cronkite.  Peter Jennings.  Mick Jagger.  George Harrison.  Prince.  Placido Domingo.  Frank Sinatra.  Christopher Hogwood.  Clark Gable.  Cary Grant.  Steve McQueen.  Sean Connery.  Johnny Depp.  Daniel Craig.  Brad Pitt.  George Clooney.   John "The Count" Montefusco, who pitched a no-hitter against the Braves when I was a junior in high school.  Joe Namath.  Will Clark.  JT Snow.  Howie Long.  Joe Montana.  John Madden- now that he's not regularly on TV anymore, I listen to KCBS every weekday morning to listen to him.  Boomer Esiason-  I like football on CBS especially to watch Boomer make his comments.  Also- in spite of the fact that I knew he was a juicer, and he kept marrying bimbos, I thought Jose Canseco was kind of a god.  And then there's this gorgeous young kid at my gym.  I've never spoken to him- after all, why spoil the fantasy?  He's perfect from afar.  Up close, he might not be able to put a sentence together.  Better to just look.

I had an actual date the other night.  And it was fun.  We went to a hockey game, and our team won.  There's nothing like being at a live sporting event.  Baseball is my game of choice, but I also love football,  hockey, soccer, swimming, water polo, track.  Nothing like being there, part of the action.  Even though I suspect I would have had fun watching the game on the couch with this guy.  I think I might have a teensy little crush on him.

I wonder if he can ever measure up to Liberace?

Snake Charmer

A man I know received an e-mail from a woman who was interested in meeting him. She said, "If I were Goldilocks, I'd say you were perfect."  I thought this line was obvious and cheesy, yet clever.  In fact, I was a little jealous because I wish I had thought of it.  By contrast, I received an e-mail from a man who said, "Why do you live so far away?  Your town may be quaint and everything, but don't you know that it's inconvenient for me?  I take mass transit everywhere, because I don't have a car.  I don't have a job, either."  Since I didn't respond, I have no idea whether or not he even had a place to live.  And, actually, no interest in finding out.

Finding the perfect introductory hook is tough.  You want to appear intelligent yet approachable, not too serious, and somewhat flirtatious.  And, then there's me.  I'm usually pretty direct.  Sometimes that works, sometimes not.  I respond when something captures my interest- a funny line, no grammatical errors, blue eyes.  I got an e-mail from a man who was a Herpetologist.  His speciality was snakes.  I confess, I was both repulsed and at the same time fascinated.  "Fifteen minutes,"  I thought.  "Where's the harm in that?"

We met at a local coffee shop.  He was pleasant looking, mild-mannered, in his late forties.  Wire-rimmed glasses.  Blue eyes, always a plus.  Receding blondish hair, thinning on top.  Average height and build.  He had with him what looked like a gym bag.  I asked if he was planning to work out later, thinking that we had that in common.  He looked down at his bag, then back at me, and laughed out loud.  He had a nice laugh.  "That's not a gym bag," he said with a smile.  "That's Horace and Hal and Charlie."

He had brought some of his snake friends to coffee with us.

Horace and Hal were orange and red and black Corn Snakes, and Charlie was a black and white striped King Snake.
"I have twenty five all together," he confided.  "I love snakes, everything about them."

I'm kind of boring.  I've always had dogs and cats and guinea pigs.  I've always wanted a horse.

He reached into his bag and pulled out one of the Corn Snakes.  "This is Hal," he said.  As Hal lazily wrapped himself around his arm, a shudder of revulsion slid up and down my spine.

Some of us are not snake people.

Meanwhile, at the next table, a young girl was sitting with her laptop.  She was pretty, in spite of jet-black dyed hair and really heavy, messy black eye makeup.  She had multiple piercings in each ear, and a pierced nose, lip and eyebrow.  Both arms were colorful, covered with a sleeve- tattooed from shoulders to wrists.  She looked completely enamoured of Hal.  She came over to join us.  "Oh.  Wow.  Like, can I like, touch him and stuff?  He's hella sick."

I guess she was a snake person.  And, oh, goodie.  She also had a pierced tongue.

Before long, the other two snakes were out, and the girl was letting Charlie the King Snake slide up her arm and around her neck.
Snake man had completely forgotten about me.  He had apparently made a love connection, all right- just not with me.  I said "good-bye" when I left, but I'm not sure it even registered.  I'm sure that the snake man and the pierced girl and Hal and Horace and Charlie and all their brethren are quite happy together, wherever they are.

I'm thankful for the fifteen-minute-coffee-date-rule.  I'm thankful for my boring bipolar cat.  I'm thankful snake man didn't study Arachnids.

Even The Good Ones Are Dogs

A friend sent me the following joke:

An attractive blond from Ireland arrived at the casino,  She seemed a little intoxicated and bet twenty thousand dollars on a single roll of the dice.
She said, "I hope you don't mind, but I feel much luckier when I'm completely nude."  With that, she stripped completely, rolled the dice, and with an Irish brogue yelled, "Come on, baby, Mama needs new clothes!"
As the dice came to a stop, she jumped up and down and squealed, "Yes!  Yes!  I won!!!"
She hugged each of the dealers, picked up her winnings and her clothes and quickly departed.
The dealers stared at each other, dumbfounded.  Finally, one of them asked, "What did she roll?"
The other answered, "I don't know- I thought you were watching the dice."

THE MORAL OF THE STORY:
Not all Irish are drunks; not all blonds are dumb.  But all men are men!!!


My point here, is that no matter how great the guy is, no matter how intelligent, kind, sensitive, or understanding he is, he's still a guy.  Which means he is still ruled by- his other head.  Woof.

That said, we, as women, should definitely use this fact to our advantage.  Men are so easily distracted.....

Shuffle Shame

People have been known to laugh at the contents of my Ipod.

I have to hide the face of it, so people can't see that I'm rocking out to the Partridge Family.  Or the Jackson Five.  Or the Backstreet Boys.  Or Eminem.  Or Sabbath.  Or Placido Domingo.  Shuffle Shame- that's what my kids told me it was called. 

My Ipod is the soundtrack to my life.  It's got everything on it:  Bach, Mozart, Puccini, Brahms, Rap, Rock, Country, really bad Pop, Motown, R & B.  I keep it on shuffle so it just constantly plays whatever comes up.  I don't do any mixes, because, honestly, I don't know how to do that.   And I think it will automatically make a mix for me, if I tell it to, but I'm happy just letting it go and seeing what comes up.  My Ipod is one of my best friends.  I hike with it, listen to it in the car, at the gym, and at home.

Whenever I have a negative experience, I turn on my music.  It just makes me feel better.

My college break-up album was Linda Ronstadt's Hasten Down The Wind.  After a bad break-up, my friends would put that on the old turntable and commiserate with me, feeding my broken heart with sisterhood, nicotine and beer.  Of course, that album is in my Ipod, somewhere. 

One night I was driving home from a bad dinner date.  Seriously bad.  This was in the days before I screened with the fifteen minute coffee date.  My date was great on paper, and his e-mails were okay, so we went ahead and decided to plunge into dinner.  He was good looking, very clean-cut.  Unfortunately, in person, he seemed to misplace his personality, his sense of humor, and even the ability to speak.  I don't know if he was painfully shy or just found me so unattractive that he couldn't even make eye-contact.  He spent the better part of the date staring fixedly at his food, chewing with great precision.  The conversation went something like this:

Me:  "So, how long have you lived here?"

Him:  "Oh, for a while."

At least five minutes of silence, broken only by chewing.  Have you noticed that when it's uncomfortable, five minutes seems like five hours?

Me:  "You said you like to hike.  Where are your favorite trails?"

Him:  "Oh, you know- outside."

Me:  "Mountains?  By the ocean?  In a park?"

Him:  "Oh- yeah I guess."

About five minutes more of silence, feeling more like five years.  "I know!"  I thought, triumphantly. "Sports!  I'll talk about football.  Or- even better, baseball.  Maybe then this guy will loosen up."

Me:  "So, how about those Giants?"

Him:  "Uh- Who are they?"

Honestly.  Even my ex-husband will talk sports with me.

Finally, I just gave up.  I talked more to the waiter than to my date, because the waiter was cute, had some animation, and was willing to dissect the last ball game with me.  My date continued to chew, staring at his plate.  I never felt so desirable in my life.  At least he chewed with his mouth closed.  Maybe that was it- his mother taught him not to talk with his mouth full, so he just kept his mouth full so he didn't have to talk to me.

We shook hands good-bye, which, thankfully, signalled the end to an excruciatingly painful evening.

On the way home, "Lose Again" came on, from Hasten down the Wind.   Just made me feel better.  It was followed by the Stones, "Gimme Shelter", the Prelude from a Bach cello suite played by Yo-Yo Ma,  "Lose Yourself" by Eminem, and  Daniel Powter's "Bad Day".  And "At Last", by Etta James.

Now, with variety like that, how can you stay in a bad mood?

The moral of this sad story is:  Keep your Ipod loaded and ready.  It's the balm for everything that ails you.

Love And The Married Man

It's always been my personal opinion that getting involved with a married man is just wrong.   And yet- sometimes it happens.  Being the other woman in that situation just feels bad.  I've been there, inadvertently. 

I got involved with a man that I met online.  He was everything I was looking for.  Tall, handsome, professional, blue eyes.  (Have I mentioned that I have a predilection for blue eyes?)   He was a Yankee fan, though- I should have known, right there, that it would never work.  He was also, unfortunately, married.  When we met, he was "almost divorced."  A year later, he was no closer to being divorced than he was when we met.  Something was always in the way.  He and his wife seemed to exist in this sick symbiotic relationship, fraught with constant drama.  (I hate drama.  Hatehatehate it.)  His wife loved drama, and she loved nothing more than to manipulate the situation to suit her.  She needed his help.  Could he come over and do this, or that?  She couldn't possibly sign anything, she was busy, she was working, the kids needed something.  Anything.  She had a headache.  All the tension was giving her a migraine.  And he would ride the drama wave.  Looking back, I can see that he was still in love with her, and that they had always played games with each other.  And probably still are, to this day.
When I ended it a year later, they were no closer to divorce than they had been when he and I met.  Granted, I ended it 6-9 months later than I should have.  He would have been a perfect fling, a diversion.  I thought it was an entirely different type of relationship.  Not only am I stupidly optimistic, I am also stupidly loyal.

Nevertheless, my heart was broken.  One of my friends decided I needed to get out of my funk, and get over the guy, so she took me to Las Vegas.  She is beautiful, with a great smile and a sparkling personality.  She is one of those vivacious, fun women that men can't resist- they trip over themselves trying to get her attention.  I'm not like that.  In addition to NOT being a man magnet, I also can't drink very much- really, a lightweight.  So here we were, in a town known for drinking, and partying, and gambling.  And I brought books, my ipod with its geeky music and a journal, and prepared to work on my tan by the pool.  My first morning there, I was reading in the sun, and suddenly this huge shadow covered me.  I looked up, blinking, into this- stomach.  This old man was standing over me, and immediately started pestering me with all kinds of questions.  Turns out he was from Florida.  Where was I from?  Was I alone?  He wanted to know if we could be "friends."  He just wouldn't leave me alone.  I finally packed up to leave, telling him I had plans with my friend- and he followed me.  His stomach, which deserved it's own zip code,  followed me too.  Fortunately, he ran into another friend, and as he turned away to say hello, I was able to dart into the elevator.  When I got back to the room, my friend was laughing her ass off, because our room overlooked the pool, and she was able to watch the whole sad situation. Later that night, I went down to the sports bar to watch the Giants.  To get there, I had to pass by the Karaoke bar, where some really bad Tom-Jones-singing was happening.    It was Mr. Stomach. 

Good times.

I was able to sweet talk the guys who worked in the sports bar into putting the game I wanted to watch on one of the big screens, front and center.  Men kept coming by to start up conversations.  I was a bit irritated- I really wanted to just watch baseball.  And drink my beer.  I got comments like, "Wow!  It's so cute that you like baseball."  "Do you need me to explain to you what's going on here?"   "I can't believe that a woman who looks like you actually watches sports."  And eventually, Mr. Stomach came by, but I just ignored him and wounded, he eventually he wandered off in search of other prey.

The trip was really fun.  My beautiful party-animal friend would come in about 6:00 a.m.- right as I was getting up.  We would order room service, eat breakfast together, then she would go to bed and I would go to the pool, and read and write.  And I would be able to watch baseball in the afternoon and evening.

After that trip, I was eventually able to move on.  Sometimes all you need is a good friend who will listen to your whining, sympathize to a point, then kick you in the ass, give you a beer, and drive you to the Chicken Shack.  That's what friends are for.

Wait A Minute: You Think I'm A Booty Call???

The more men I meet and the more I date, the more I'm convinced that I just exist on a different plane of reality from the male species.

I had a dinner date with a seemingly fabulous man.  Attractive, professional, fit, interesting.  Blue eyes, salt and pepper hair.  We got along really well, and at the end of the evening, he told me he wanted to see me again- maybe Saturday? Well, I had no plans for that evening, and we got along fairly well, so I agreed. 

Saturday morning he called.  His plans had changed, he couldn't have dinner, he had to go into the City to meet some friends.  Could I meet him for lunch, instead?  I almost said no- but then, I figured he was really trying to make up for cancelling at the last minute.  So I agreed. 

We met at a cute little cafe.  We talked, and ordered our food.  He leaned forward and looked at me intently.  "I just don't want to play any games," he said.  "I'm really attracted to you.  Do you want to come over to my place right now and have some wine?"  I looked at him.  He was serious.  The guy was propositioning me, at lunch.  He had blown off our dinner date but he still wanted to take me home.  He never stopped to consider whether I was attracted to him as well.  At this point I was noticing how beady his blue eyes were.

Are you fu*&ing kidding me?  I burst out laughing, I just couldn't help myself.  In fact, I couldn't stop.  I think he was insulted by my reaction.  "I don't really think it was that funny of a question," he said, rather pompously.  How is it I had never noticed that he was full of himself, before this moment?  "Well," he said.  "I think we're done here."  And then, Prince Charning got up and left.  Leaving me laughing.  Alone.  And stuck with the bill.  I did get to take his food home, so at least I didn't have to cook for the rest of the weekend.

I just need to know:  What the hell is wrong with these guys?