Odd Inspiration

Every morning I scramble up three egg whites as a part of my healthy breakfast. Sometimes I add a little goat cheese. Occasionally a handful or two of arugula. Or, if I’m feeling particularly adventurous at 5:35 in the morning—once every five years or so—I’ll sautee some mushrooms and onions and make a sort of egg-white-goat-cheese-scrambled-omlette-goodness. And, although I still sometimes freak out that they are actually unborn chicken babies, I have to say, man, are they delicious. These little incredibly edible eggs stabilize me for the morning, giving me stamina to remain calm in the face of my classroom full of pre-teens, stabilizing my blood-sugar to avoid any unpredictable spikes in my frustration levels.

Recently, I have discovered that more inspiration lies in these perfectly-packaged little gems than I first thought. In fact, they have recently taught me two very valuable life-lessons.

As I told you in my last post, I had been walking around in a new pair of shoes, purchased from online, for the past six weeks. A sort of Birkenstock-y pair—comfortable but not quite in style; sensible, but not quite inspiring. And I also told you that that pair had felt a little off on our last date. A little hard to wear. A little snug on the swollen feet of my swollen hope.

Well, dammit all, if my intuition wasn’t right. As an aside, I really hate it when my intuition is right. I really wish that I could tell you that every time I’ve felt that something’s-just-not-right-here lump in my belly that it was the worry-wart in me just over-reacting. Just being overly cautious before my jump out of the Just-in-the-Liking-Phase plane and into the stomach-spinning, death-defying Tumble of Love. But, alas, every time in my dating life—every single time—it has been right. That little voice. Whispering at me from within my gut. “He’s distant, Heather. He’s changed. Too bad you already jumped,” it sniggers. “I told you to keep your parachute on. I told you to count to ten, stupid girl. Time to prepare for the crash-landing.”

My phone has not displayed his name in over a week. He left me last Saturday night with an “I had fun; I’ll call you” and an uncomfortable feeling in my belly.

I think it was Albert Einstein who once said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. As a physicist, I’m not really sure what expertise Einstein had in the mental health field, but, to a certain degree, I agree with him. And the only part of my life that feels insane is my love life. I feel like I am constantly butting my head up against a brick wall, only to find that my head, although strong and heavy with a beautifully sharp—if I do say so myself—brain, is not in fact strong enough to shatter mortared block. Instead, my beautiful brain gets bruised. Bruised by the confusion of having one expectation only to find that the actuality is vastly different than what I had assumed.

These men are not falling for me as I am falling for them. And, even though they are casting out nets of affection and catching me in them, those nets are not nets with which they are looking for ever-lasting companionship; they are holey nets with which they are catching temporary food. Silly little tuna me swims willingly into the trap. My brain now made pea-sized by the school of other woman with whom I swim. All of us, a mass huddled together, seeking the same ending.

Back to Einstein. This disappearance of the latest in a line of six-to-eight-weekers has forced me to stop and think. Stop dead in my dating tracks. I have stopped to think about the patterns I have either created or allowed myself to be part of. And so my egg-inspired realization hit me. At various points in these dating relationships, mostly when I sense the pulling back, the retreat into the distance cave, I find myself scrambling. I scramble to get their attention back. This scrambling can take the form of one too many text messages or a too-soon-after-a-date phone call or an extra kiss on the cheek or a home-cooked salmon dinner or a “hey, let me get the bill this time”… oh, how embarrassing it is to unearth my list of scramblings. My list of doing too much to prove I am worth it. How pathetic I must appear to these fishermen as I flit my fins in their nets! Now, before you call me and tell me that I am not at all pathetic, that I am a wonderful person, and those stupid dating games are just stupid games, save your cell minutes. I know all of this. Truly, I do know that I am a lovely, smart, successful woman. But I also know that something is amiss. This pattern of my scrambling stymies any chance at love because it does not allow me to be me—the beautiful, sassy, confident me—the me who looks as smooth and miraculous as a not-yet-cracked egg. What they are left to see instead is the slimy scramble. The muddied me, no longer pure white and marigold yellow.

And, so, I salute you, eggs. I salute you for teaching me valuable life-lesson number one. No longer will I scramble after these men. Scrambling is for eggs, not for women. I am better than that. Heck, it’s about time they do some scrambling for me.

The second, and perhaps more important and maybe even more embarrassing lesson that I’ve learned about eggs comes not from the eggs we eat, but the eggs that make new ones of us—the eggs that live in women’s ovaries and threaten to dry up before those of us who are still single in our mid-to-late thirties find love. I think I speak for all of us who thought we would be moms by now—who would have laughed at you if, ten years ago, you would have told us we wouldn’t have kids yet—when I say this sucks. It sometimes feels like I, like we, the non-moms who want to be moms, are stuck on a carousel. We ride this carousel around and around and around. Meanwhile, the other women in our lives move forward, not in circles. They bear children; they raise them; they love them. Yes, they struggle and they envy the ease of my life. But the truth is that they have done it. They have been part of a miracle. I can honestly say that I do not begrudge them their happiness. I would not wish for any of them to have any different situation. And I truly feel great joy for them. I really do. But here I am. Strapped to my stationary but spinning horse. Circus music playing. But I am not giggling like I did as a girl…

…until I think of Peggy Bundy. Yes, the Peggy Bundy from “”Married with Children”. Well, not really Peggy but the woman who played her, Katy Segal. Much to my mother’s chagrin, I loved that show when I was in middle and high school. Although compared to today’s television where people can say the word “bitch” without the suited-censors even batting a wrinkled eye, that show was raunchy. And I loved it. I loved its pushing of the envelope. What does this have to do with eggs and babies, you ask?

Well, for those of you who know me, you know that I have Muscular Dystrophy. And, although it is a mild form and I am stronger than anyone expected me to be, and many who first meet me have no idea, it still makes being pregnant after thirty-five dangerous. And so you can imagine the hammering of my biological clock. It pounds in my ears. In the background, something ghoulish laughs. It taunts.

And yet, I don’t want to get married just to have babies. Married life and motherhood are hard enough as it is.

I want to get married for love. And I want to have babies for the same reason. So, I’ve kind of thought that maybe it’s time to retire the dream of having a family of my own. Maybe it’s just not meant to be. Maybe the over sixteen hundred, and counting, students that I’ve taught are enough youth for me to influence…

But Peggy Bundy begs to differ. I recently watched an interview with her on “Chelsea Lately”. In the interview, she revealed that she recently had a baby via surrogacy. And she’s fifty-three. Fifty-three. And the egg was hers!!

And so, I salute you, eggs and Peg Bundy, for giving me the inspiration to sit back and relax. For telling me to hold my horses already. And even for inspiring in me the realization that perhaps motherhood is not in my cards, but that I am worth far too much waste my time with worry. Far too much to scramble myself into something that even I don’t recognize.

Goodbye, most recent pair of shoes. And even though you were the one who stopped contact, I have deftly maneuvered from your emotional straps and am off in search of new adventure, in search of a new pair of shoes without so many dang uncertainties.

The Joys and Headaches of Shoe Shopping

I, like most women, love to shop. Especially for shoes. What I love most about shoe shopping is that feeling of possibility. You know, that moment when you have in your hand a brand new pair. The shoes. The ones that will finally bring you happiness. The ones that will make you feel eternally sexy. The ones that will bring endless compliments. The ones that will hug your darling feet and make them feel like they are the most special, safe feet in the world.

Sometimes they really do fulfill the hope. They really do go above and beyond normal shoe duties and give that extra bounce in the step, that extra inch in the posture of one’s pride.

More often than not, though, I realize that those magical slippers don’t really exist. Instead, they gnaw at my heels and give me blisters. They get all scuffed up and stretched out. They slop around on my feet and lose their style. I see them out with other people, happily hugging their feet, making them look lovelier than they do mine. And I am left disappointed. Feeling like I made the wrong choice. Like I should have chosen the other pair. And so I go back to the shoe department and look out at the mass of possibilities. All auditioning to be mine. To be my perfect next pair. And sometimes, at the belly of my belly, I feel a wrenching. What if I choose wrong again? What if I choose the wrong leading pair? And I’m hurt and disappointed again. Maybe it’s just safer to stare at all of the pairs. Just stare and not choose.

And so it goes in online dating. I swear, it’s like keeping a bottle of whiskey next to your gas stove. Filled with beautiful possibilities—whiskey-flavored BBQ sauce, a pre-dinner belly-warmer, a splash of a little somethin’-somethin’ in the mushroom cream sauce—and yet inherently so dangerous. Too keep such a flammable substance so close to the flame.

For those of you who have never perused an online dating site like the popular one that promises you find someone in six months or you get your money back (I’ve got my eye on you, Match), it’s quite a sight. After logging on, all of the faces of those with whom you’ve communicated pop up on the screen. There they are—smiling faces inviting trust, catch phrases that so desperately try to avoid the cheese-factor that they are even more cheesy than if they’d just owned it already, and the time frame during which the person was last active. Oh, yes. You can spy. You’re almost encouraged to do it. To see if the pairs of shoes you’ve tried on, in fact, aren’t quite sure if you’re the right feet for them yet. To know whether or not they’ve returned to the store to see if perhaps there’s a prettier, sexier, more comfortable set. And, Dios mio, there are so many beautiful ones. Every time I log on, I wonder at the plethora of beautiful faces. All so sunshine-y and filled with hope and promise.

Dear readers, I have been trying out a new pair of shoes lately. They’ve been auditioning for six weeks now. By no means are they glamorous. But they are comfy. They are dependable. And simple. And they are, for the most part, far more loving and affectionate than any shoes I’ve owned lately. They felt instantly broken-in.

And yet, I’m afraid they are breaking-in in reverse. And they are setting my nerves a-flutter. I am not used to shoes getting less comfortable. That is anti-shoe behavior.

You see, this new pair and I had a date last night. And they just felt different. Not quite so easy to slip on. My heel snagged just a little and I found myself manipulating the toes to try to get them to stretch out and let me in. And, even though I squeezed my foot in and they relaxed around it, they were different. I didn’t want them to be. And yet, there it was, that knowledge that perhaps these oh-so-comfy shoes no longer wanted to be my pair. Perhaps they wanted to go back to the auditioning room. Because of the online set up of how I met these shoes, I know that they are still looking. Seemingly, they are active every day. Naturally, this nagging knowledge wedges itself into my actions and I’m left to wonder: is it the shoes that shift or is it my knowledge of their continued auditions that make me change around them?

And so, here is the curse of online dating. There are so many possibilities that I think it’s hard, especially for men, to settle on just one woman. And the double curse is that you can find out if they’re still looking. And it’s hard to stay confident when you know that their feelers are still out, sizing you up against all the others.

I guess my gut says to stick it out with this one. Every couple’s story is different, after all. Who knows—maybe it’s better this way. In all honesty, I have been on a couple of dates within these past six weeks and it kind of reminds me of the reverse fading of that favorite pair of black shoes. You know, how you never realize how faded your old black shoes are until you buy brand new ones? And, next to the new ones, the old ones look all scratched up and faded. Quite the opposite has happened with me recently. These brand new ones have only been making my original, six-week-old pair shinier. More authentic. More right.

I guess I can only hope that he’s experiencing the same thing. And I guess it’s in this process that I have to hope that for me and whomever I end up with, that we will find out through trying others on that we are the pair that might not make all of each other’s dreams come true, might not erase all of the pains of real life, but will certainly make each other feel supported as we journey along.

Can of Worms

So, anyone who knows me knows that I love me a Can of Worms. The tighter the seal on the can, the better. I love to dig my nails in there and pierce the metal and let the botulism-filled contents ooze through the holes. Although the ooze is poisonous, I like to pretend it’s more like Botox—the type of botulism that is socially acceptable, the kind that freezes time and makes one look as if her feathers could never be ruffled —and inject straight into my heart, into my dreams of what should-have-been.

On a side note, I remember having these amazing male friends during and right after college. These were the type of men I tried so hard to muster up attraction for—tried to ignite those fireworks. But, despite my last post, sometimes that match can never light that fuse. For whatever reason, even though most of them had every lady’s top three-looks, humor, kindness—the connection just wasn’t there. I remember thinking that I should host a “What a Waste” party. This would be a room filled with mingling men and women, brought to the party by someone they know, someone who thought they would be an amazing mate, but just didn’t feel that spark. I’ve heard there are now dating sites devoted to this idea—although, from what I understand, they are exes recommending exes. What has this world come to? They are stronger women than I.

Hmmm…how do these two ideas meld together?, you ask. Botox and a “What a Waste” party? Such a strange mix—unless you live in the heart of the Hollywood acting scene, where every party is automatically filled with exes with frozen-in-time faces.

Here goes some honesty. I’m owning it. Sunday was the Heartbreaker’s (who, by the soothing hands of time, has been demoted to Heartnicker) birthday. I hemmed and hawed about whether or not to send him a—ahem, ahem—harmless Happy Birthday text. Being the lover of worms that I am, I opted, as you’ve probably guessed, on the hawing side—and sent him a text. I simply sent: HAPPY BIRTHDAY. HOPE ALL IS WELL. Simple and safe enough.

I can honestly tell you that I have no idea what I expected out of this. I think I knew that I had learned enough over the past four months to know that he is no longer the type of man that I want for my future. I’m no longer looking for the thirty-seven-going-on-eighteen-raised-truck-driving man. So, when a few minutes later my phone rang and I saw his number on the screen, my heart did do a little flip but my hands didn’t quickly reach for it. Instead, they moved to cradle my forehead. And I actually thought to myself, Oh no…What have I done? Oh, that’s another thing about me—I love to open the Can of Worms, but I never know what to do with the worms once they’re wriggling around in the daily ins-and-outs of my life. They squiggle around in my belly, arousing nausea.

On the last note of the song that plays for my ringer, I grabbed the phone and said—very casually, of course—“Hey.”

“Wassup?” He asked. I immediately rolled my eyes at Higgins. Some things never change.

“Not much. Happy birthday,” I sighed.

What ensued was an unemotional, five-minute conversation—sharing details of the past four months. He still wasn’t working. Is now dating a younger girl—about whom he said: “I don’t want to say she’s nosey, but she’s definitely inquisitive.” And do you know that I actually defended the girl, saying that her curiosity was because of her age. Why did I defend her? Simply because, now that his voice had moved out of my imagination and into my ear, I realized that I had no emotion left for him. It was one of those moments like the one in “When Harry Met Sally”, where Sally’s ex calls her and she tells Harry that all she kept thinking during their conversation was that she had no idea how she had ever found anything about him remotely interesting. You know, same-old, same-old is only good when the ‘old’ was good to begin with.

Oh, and get this, dear readers, by doctor’s orders, Mr. Heartnicker’s Harley Davidson is now off limits and currently resides in his parents’ driveway. Poor little baby.

So, on about the sixth minute of our conversation, he says: “I hope this isn’t too weird, but I have a buddy that I think would be a good match for you.” Screeeeeeeech!

“Oh, really?” I asked, trying to sound as disinterested as possible. I leaned my head on the back of the couch and looked up at the ceiling.

“Yeah. He’s a good-looking kid. Nice,” he continued. I listened, eyebrows furrowed, mouth agape. “We go to church together, actually. I already mentioned you to him. I told him, ‘I think you and my friend Heather would be a good couple.’”

Yes. He did. He called me ‘friend’. More than once, actually. I guess, according to him, when he asked his new girl-toy for permission to call me, he told her I was his ‘friend Heather’. Whatever. There was nothing platonic about our months of dating…Anyhow…

I breathed, “Huh.”

“Yeah, I was gonna call you in a couple of days anyway to see if you wanted to go on a double date.” He said it like it really made perfect sense. Of course Heather will want to go on a double date with me and my new girlfriend. I mean, she’s one really cool chick. She’ll totally be down for that, dude.

“Huh.” I breathed again.

He continued, “Is that something you’re up for?”

So, here’s where I had an internal dialogue on fast-forward. Here’s what I thought, Holden Caufield style: Wow this guy really thinks that this wouldn’t bother me that going out with him and his new younger girl would be the most natural thing in the world. That kills me. That really does. He really thinks that I would be okay hearing myself being called the word ‘friend’ over and over again and not be bothered wow he’s more clueless than I ever thought he was thank the good Lord above that we’re no longer together. He’s a helluva guy. So now what do I go out with this other guy I mean Heartnicker is a good looking guy so this guy probably is cute and he goes to church and that’s a plus and you know life works in funny ways and maybe this could be God’s way of making sense of something that made no sense at all this. Shit.

“Sure. If you can figure out a way to connect us without it being weird, I’m game.” I did it. I accepted. Because, you know, you never really do know. Stranger things have happened. Maybe this Mr. J. Vaughn is my person. Maybe the oozing of this Can of Worms will lead not to poison but to magic. Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Heartnicker has a better grasp on what I need than even I do—which maybe is why he ended things with me in the first place—he already knew. Maybe he realizes, though, that despite the fact that he is not my person, I am worthy of someone special. Maybe I am his “What a Waste”. And, in that, this whole, strange thing is actually kind of flattering. And maybe, this time, the wriggling worms released by my action will aerate my heart rather than hurt it. And maybe I will see why life’s funny coincidences really aren’t coincidences at all. Just maybe.

The Joy (or not so much) of the First Kiss (Mom—you might not want to read this one)

Now, I am by no means an “easy” girl. I do not believe in one-night stands. Nor do I believe in giving my body away to someone who hasn’t earned it. I guess you might say that in some ways, I’m a prude. Having prefaced this and advocated for my pride, I must now admit to you that I have kissed a shameful number of men…many of them whose names I cannot remember, and I wouldn’t be able to pick some of their faces out of the crowd even if I were offered a million dollars to do so—I guess I’m in trouble if I’m ever the victim of a crime where I have to identify the crook in a police-arranged line-up. Let’s just say the number is easily somewhere between thirty and three hundred. Oh, Gin and Tonic, how you loosen my tongue and demolish my guard.

I think I told you that I’m a late bloomer when it comes to having a love life. I actually didn’t even have my first kiss until my senior year in COLLEGE. Yes, you read that right—COLLEGE. Those games of spin-the-bottle that dotted the parties I attended in middle and high school made me so nervous I wanted to puke. Rather than play, for fear of being found out that I had no idea what a kiss entailed and certainly NO idea what to do when the word French was placed before it—Eek—I would feign disinterest and opt to busy myself cleaning up the kitchen (Yes, even in middle school).

My first kiss arrived with a trampling of nerves. How embarrassing for my secret to be revealed.

We stood in the hallway of the house I shared with roommates.

It was dark.

I knew it was coming.

He leaned in.

I held my breath.

And he kissed me.

And it was strange.

And awkward.

And there’s just so much to a kiss.

And there’s just so much of a person’s personality saturated in this act. This lovely, kernel of intimacy.

My first kiss came from a man who was over-the-top. People loved this guy. I loved this guy. His smile came easier than any person I’ve ever known—even to this day, I think of his smile and can’t help but feel a little lighter in the heart. He filled a room. His laughter. His jokes. His warmth. And he kissed this way. Almost selfishly. Almost as if he deserved all of me. He kissed so hard that the little string of flesh that attaches your tongue to the bottom of your mouth was ripped from its base. No joke. But what did I know? He was my first. I thought that’s just the way it was supposed to be.

I, like many of you thirty-somethings, spent many a childhood day watching The Brady Bunch. I remember an episode where Marcia shares a clandestine smooch with a boy from school, and she sees fireworks. The screen fills with them. And later in the show, Mrs. Brady kisses Mr. Brady and she sees fireworks. And so that’s what I expected. You know, the melting in the knees, the fluttering in the belly, the Disney music fading in, maybe a couple of birds singing.

I’ve only had two of these: my first kiss with Recurring Nacho man and my first kiss with The Cantaloupe Man.

There’s irony here, of course.

I guess a blog is a place for honesty, so here goes. As if Recurring Nacho man weren’t bad enough already, here’s more ammunition for you: Recurring Nacho man never kissed me during our second go-around. Not once. Well, I take that back—he did kiss me the day he moved. He claimed he didn’t like it. Now, there’s an insight into this man’s comfort-level with intimacy. I’m not sure why I put up with it, I really don’t. But I did. Mystery. Once again, thank the Lord that that door is closed.

And The Cantaloupe Man, well, I’m sure that when the 80’s are once again out of style (oh, dear Lord, please fast forward to that time), The Cantaloupe Man will no longer have the confidence to perform.

Recently, I’ve been thinking a lot about this. And I’ve been asking friends. And, man, are the opinions divided. Here’s the question: If mediocre fills in the spot where the Firework Feeling should be, does that doom a relationship into the realm of never-meant-to-be? Or is the Firework Feeling just some elusive mistress that can never truly be tied down to commitment?

What I’ve realized recently is that it makes perfect sense for the first few kisses to be just a little off-kilter, just a little elbows-akimbo. After all, if kissing is an expression of personality, an expression of intimacy, isn’t it understandable that as the awkward dance of getting-to-know-you jilts along into a smooth tango, that kissing should do the same?

Up until now, I’ve straddled the fence on this issue. Well, let me be honest, I actually haven’t straddled the fence, I’ve been on the Instant Firework side, along with all of the teenage girls and adult women who live in Romantic Comedy Land. But, the stilts of maturity and experience have been strapped to my feet by the hands of Time. And I’ve used them to clamber over the fence and land solidly on the ground of Fireworks Can Grow. And, do you know what? They can. I’ve felt it. And they’re just as good. Even better, actually, because isn’t it the man attached to that kiss that really matters?

Recurring Nacho Man and Cantaloupe Man, in the words of Flo from the 80’s TV show, Mel’s Diner, “Kiss my grits!”

The Teacups

When I was a kid, I both loved and hated the teacup ride at Disneyland. As we stood in line, my stomach would flip-flop with nerves and excitement, unsure it had the strength to hold onto the lunch digesting inside of it. My palms would sweat as I scanned for just the right teacup for me—the prettiest one in pink. When the employee motioned us onto the floor, I would race to my chosen teacup, heart-pounding, elbows ready to jab at anyone who had her eyes on my chosen cup. Once snuggled in, my dad would pull and pull and pull at the steering wheel while my sister and I, hair in braided pig-tails flying, giggled with a mixture of happiness and terror. Spin spin spin. Giggle giggle giggle. Our out-of-control teacup would whirlwind itself so close to the other teacups in the dance that I often imagined a crash, teacups spilling their human contents, still giggling, onto the Fantasy Land dance floor. Yet, time and time again, ride after ride, our little teacup obeyed its orbit and eventually slowed to a solo standstill.

Lately, I’ve been riding the teacup ride of online dating. I stand in an imaginary line, sifting through teacups of all shapes and sizes, unsure of exactly what color best suits me, unsure of the rate of their spin, the pliancy of their steering wheels. The only difference here is that I am both the chooser of the cup as well as the employee who motions myself onto the floor. What power there is in that choice. What safety and what danger. I must admit that sometimes I am so tempted to stay behind the gate of the line. It’s much safer there, there where it is only me with my nerves and my expectations. And, yet, I realize it would be such a shame to miss out on the ride. The dizzying-almost-crashing- pig-tail- flying joy of the spin.

The most recent teacup and I began our communication with emails pages long—laughter-tears inducing emails that were also filled with honest insights into our lives. For about two weeks, we settled into a rhythm—he emailed early in the morning, I emailed him back later at night—back and forth, back and forth. Finally came the phone number exchange. Sweetly, he texted a “good luck” early the morning of my first day back to my teaching job after a long and relaxing summer. I felt no disappointment that instead of a phone-calling, voice-to-voice “relationship”, ours moved from words on a computer screen to words on my telephone screen. Remember my old post about the permissiveness of texting? How it allows us just enough curtain? Well, this teacup was what I would coin a Mad Texter. Text after text after text. All hilarious. All promising. All inching my expectations higher and higher.

Three weeks in, we finally settled on a night for our first date. For the first time in a long time, nerves joined me at the mirror as I made my way through my makeup routine. I felt like this could be something special. Something comfortable. And I couldn’t wait to laugh the whole night away. After all, most of the “conversations” we had held up to that point ended with me dabbing tears from the corners of my eyes, clucking in some old-lady-like laughter at his incredible humor.

When I pulled up to the restaurant, he was sitting on a bench, waiting for me. And, although a little different than he appeared in his pictures and in my imagination, very handsome. As I walked up to him, I already had my first joke waiting in the wings. But for some reason stage fright struck down my joke. Or maybe it wasn’t stage fright? Maybe it was connection—or lack thereof. We sat at a table. We ordered. The conversation stumbled along. Crickets chirped through a few silences. After a little while, the conversation picked itself up off the ground and found a nice rhythm, a nice spin. Slow. Safe. Without the thrill. Not a single giggle escaped either of our lips. The few sarcastic quips I attempted fell flat on their faces. And, do you know that he didn’t even make one joke? I almost felt like I was suddenly living in that movie—what was it called? You know, the one where the witty, not-so-glamorous Janine Garafalow does all the talking for the airheaded but beautiful Uma Thurman and wins over the hottie with a flurry of false identity. Where was my jokester? Where was the man whose words made my stomach muscles sore with fatigue from laughing?

Afterwards, we stood by my car, wrapping up loose ends of conversation. It was there that banter began. Just a tad. Just enough to make me open to seeing him again.

And although we haven’t seen each other again, we’re still in texting contact and his texts still bring plenty a chuckle. Maybe we both realize that we’re better this way—scripted.

What I’ve learned through The Mad Texter is that sometimes the teacup looks so pretty from behind the safety of the gate. From behind the gate, one’s imagination can fulfill every fantasy about the upcoming ride. It can edit the scene—get just the right spin, just the right proximity to danger, just the right thrill. Somewhere inside of us, we know that that little teacup could actually disappoint us. Could actually hurt us somehow. Could maybe even crash. And so watching them from the sides is much safer. Oh, how they sparkle from there! But life with only sparkle and no spin poses just as much danger. And we know this. So we—those of us who are brave enough, optimistic enough—charge onto the ride’s floor, elbows ready to jab, and dive into our chosen teacup. And hunker down and hold on to what will hopefully bring us incredible joy. And when a teacup’s fit isn’t quite right—when the thrill is just a little off—we find a way to straighten out our pig-tails, soothe our nausea, and make our way back to the line where we look forward to the next mysterious ride.

Recurring Nacho Man

So you’re sitting at a Mexican restaurant with a group of your best girlfriends and you can feel the devil-may-care energy buzzing through the air. Well, that and the buzzing of the margaritas. Your friend, who is the skinniest girl you know, orders a plate of nachos. Now, usually you, being the disciplined, responsible girl that you are, don’t dare indulge in something like that, but then it comes. A tower of crispychips. Cheese oozes from its crevices. In its center, a heap of guacomole. On top of that, a generous dollop of sour cream and a sprinkling of chopped black olives. A few jalapenos peek out from the heavenly layers. You really do try to resist, allowing the other girls to polish off a quarter of the pile. Finally, you give in. You take your first chip; it is piled high with cheddar and jalapenos. You think, I really shouldn’t be doing this. But you just can’t stop. Suddenly you are a nacho-noshing ninny. Your hand moves furiously, stuffing in the chips. In the back of your mind, you hear a nagging voice: “This is going to hurt later,” it says. “Maybe you should stop now.” But you can’t. You have been unleashed. All of that control you live so tightly under has crumbled like a rubber band left out in the sun too long.

Later that night, after hours of laughing and flirting and indulging, you finally lay down to sleep. Suddenly, your eyes burst open. Something is wrong, you think. You look at the clock. 3:30a.m. Slowly you realize what has woken you. Well, it reminds you. Your stomach wrenches, twisting angrily, a land under siege of digesting nachos. Your body is pummeled by waves of nausea and relieves itself in a rapid-fire session of spicy belches. After an hour at war, all is at peace…until the next day when you are repeatedly reminded of your indulgence every time you burp. Some foods just love to repeat themselves.

And so do some men. I’m not proud of this, but there is one man whom I’ve allowed to be in my life for way too long. I guess we all have them. You know, those men who, when you’re with them, you’re telling your gut to stop its instincts. Telling it to shut up already. Most girls are lucky enough to get these men out of their systems when they’re still in high school, but I didn’t have my first boyfriend until after college and my man of shame occurred when I should have already been smart enough. I was thirty when we met. I was, ironically, at a Mexican restaurant on Cinco de Mayo to celebrate one of my best friend’s birthdays. After a round of nachos and a couple of tacos, we got up from our tables and made our way to the bar. Gringos and gringas filled the room, showing their love of diversity by drinking beer and margaritas to celebrate Mexico’s independence day. One of the gringos was a man I’d known for a few months. With him, was the man who was to become my Recurring Nacho Man. Tall. Disheveled mop of dark hair. Scruffy beard dappling his face. Sideways smile. Dark, deep eyes. And a shirt that said “Mega Missile” across a cartoon picture of a rocket. I should have known by the shirt. Red flag #1.

From the get-go he was mysterious. This was a man who could answer “How are you?” with an answer so vague that it would create a cat-and-mouse game lasting fifteen minutes. And at the end of those fifteen minutes, you still wouldn’t know how he was doing. And the worst part of it was that I loved being the cat. I loved chasing down the answers in his dark soul.

Recurring Nacho Man and I began dating after that Cinco de Mayo night. We dated steadily for three months and then he told over a bowl of Moose Tracks ice cream that we’d be better off as friends. “You’re too nice,” he said. That was his reason. Jerk. You know, there are those girls who know how to play the bitch. And there are those of us who can’t. We are not screamers. We are not good at pulling other girl’s hair. Or giving stink eye. And no matter how hard we try to pout seductively, our attempts just make us look like we’ve just sucked on a lemon.

Speaking of sucking on lemons, Recurring Nacho Man and I didn’t see each other for about three months, during which time he was dating another girl. When she broke up with him, he called me and claimed that he was lonely and missed me. He asked if he could come over. (I see you all shaking your heads—I would be too if I hadn’t lived through it myself). And I said yes. And so, for two more years, Recurring Nacho Man and I danced on the border of a committed relationship. Well, I danced on the border. He knew which side he was on. The one I so desperately wanted him to leave and spent my waking hours hoping he would take the leap. Two years. Two years of mind games and manipulation and glimpses of hope and glimpses of love. And, do you know what? The only reason it really ended is because he moved. I would like to hope that the tiger who sleeps in my belly would have awoken, clawed her way into my logic, and told him where to shove it.

After he moved, a sort of relief washed over me. It was no longer up to me to make the decision. Fate had done that. Our only contact came in the form of sporadic flirty texts and a yearly “Happy Nude Year” text from him every January 1st. I know, I know, how can one person be so horribly cheesy?

Last December, I got what I’d always wanted from him: validation. He sent me a text message that read: You are the most special woman I’ve ever known. If I had not been sitting on my couch when I read it, I would have fallen to the ground.

Many silent months have passed since then. I do think about him sometimes, but mostly with anger and disgust (thank God). Well, this past Tuesday night I had gone to bed early. Summer is over, so the alarm clock has reassumed its 5:30 post. I was woken from a deep sleep by the dinging of my phone. A text message. From Recurring Nacho Man. It read: I HAVE GOOD NEWS AND BAD NEWS.

I think that if he had texted me in the middle of the day, I would have had the wherewithal to ignore him, but you know what waking-in-the-middle-of-sleep does to a person. I’m sure there are people who would give away their first-born if awoken at the right moment. I texted him back and said: WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

To which he responded: I’M MOVING BACK.

Collective intake of breath.

Shit.

WHEN AND WHY?, I responded.

Soon.

Double shit.

I didn’t respond and I couldn’t sleep. Was I strong enough now? Would I be able to resist his egotistical charms? What happens if I run into him?

The next day, I decided that ignorance in this situation would not be bliss. I needed to know how close he was going to be. What grocery stores I should avoid. Where I should never go on a Cinco de Mayo again. So I texted him and asked where he would be living.

To which he responded: WELL, YOU HAVEN’T HEARD THE BAD NEWS YET. THERE WILL BE NO MORE NIGHTS TOGETHER. GIRLFRIEND.
Phew.

To which I responded: GOOD FOR YOU. BY THE WAY, I HAD NO INTENTIONS OF ANY NIGHTS TOGETHER.

To which he responded (do you feel like you’re at a tennis match?): WHY? ARE YOU MARRIED?

NO, BUT I’M NO LONGER LOOKING FOR NO STRINGS ATTACHED. And I meant it. I meant all of it. Finally. Good for him. Good for me.

I remember when he moved he said, “When you get married, you’ll thank me for being such an ass.” And, do you know what? In a weird way, he’s right. I am thankful. Sometimes it takes a run-in with a heaping plate of nachos to realize that no matter how delicious they taste, they will poison the life right out of you. And the man whom I finally marry might have a little nacho in him, but he won’t burn or twist my belly. He won’t rear up the brilliant head of my instincts. And he won’t want me to be anything other than the “too nice” girl that I am.

Lessons on Marriage from Mr. Higgins

So, you know how there’s that theory that people look like their dogs? Well, this really worries me. And what worries me most is that I can kind of see it. You see, I own a Boston Terrier named Higgins. If you’re unfamiliar with these little gems of a dog, they are not the cutest dogs in the world. They’re a little like a cross between Yoda and a Gremlin and would fall easily into the “they’re-so-ugly-they’re-cute” category. They have squished-up faces, bulging eyes, and ears as big as the state of Texas. They are also known to continue to pee inside the house well past puppyhood—until the day they die, actually—and snort like pigs. I, ladies and gentleman, don’t really have a squished-up face, but I do have sort of bigger-than-normal eyes and I have one ear that’s pointier than the other. I’ve been known to occasionally snort when I laugh and the peeing in the house, well, there was that one time….

When I first got Higgins, he was three pounds of pure cute. His ears flopped over and he would stare up at me with his bulging eyes like he believed I would save the world. I would race home after work to see my little man and look forward to nights cuddling on the couch with him. He made my heart go pitter-pat. He did what I told him to do—except for the occasional pee in the house (but, who’re we fooling? What man doesn’t sometimes pee where he’s not supposed to?)--and gave me unconditional love. Oh, and how my friends loved him! I used to believe that some of them came over more to hang out with him than to hang out with me. His energy was contagious.

Fast forward (or slow forward, if you will) twelve-almost-thirteen years and picture this: A bulgy-eyed, squishy-faced, grey-muzzled little beast whose tail hair has been rubbed away by the hands of Time and whose smell, despite fairly regular baths, singes the nose hairs of all who enter my house. And I think he’s the perfect little lesson in marriage. I can hear some of your eyebrows furrowing—crinkle—but let me explain…

I know some of you who read this blog are in marriages that maybe aren’t as happy as you wish they were. And some of you probably wonder why I’m so longing to rush into something that proves to be more difficult than Hollywood ever told us. I get it. I assure you that I understand that marriage is one of the hardest journeys to travel and that I, in my singlehood, have freedoms that some married women would hock their engagement rings and knock their husbands over the head with their crystal candlesticks for. I also know that these difficult marriages are marriages between people who are right for each other. Don’t even get me started on the marriages between those who are unmatching puzzle pieces. Despite this, I still want it.

Back to Higgins. The pitter-pat is gone. He used to sleep with me, but now we sleep in separate rooms because he constantly pushes me to the edge of the bed and snores a snore that rumbles the house like an earthquake. He is no longer welcome on the couch without putting a sheet down because his smell rubs off on everything he touches. I am constantly picking up after him—cleaning up his urine, wiping the drool off his face, making him wipe his paws before he drags mud onto my just-cleaned floor. He gets fat (and is called Piggins by some who know him best) and then loses weight so fast that I am filled with envy at the efficiency of his metabolism. And, on most days, I fantasize about trading him in for a younger, cuter model. And, despite this, I am committed. I will see him through to his final day. I will pay his medical bills. I will put dinner on his plate. I will give him an occasional cuddle. And I will cry when he dies.

Sound like any marriages you know? Have I made my point?

These are just some little lessons on marriage from Mr. Higgins…

What Was That Guy's Name Again? A Little Moment on my Soapbox

Ambiguity seems to be the addiction of the moment. So afraid are we of offending one another that we’ve fallen into this pattern of modifying our words and even our personalities so that we are liked. I’m semi-ashamed to admit this, but one of my favorite guilty pleasures is watching Spongebob Squarepants. Oftentimes, I come home from work, make myself an early dinner—imagining all of the blue-haireds who are doing the same thing at 5:00 in the evening and raising my glass in a silent toast to them—and sit down for an hour of cartoon comedy. What I love so much about this little escape of mine is that it inspires me. Before you think me pathetic, hear me out for a sec. Each character on this little pearl of a show is unapologetically himself. Spongebob never apologizes for being overly optimistic, never blushes at his unabashed enthusiasm for life. Likewise, Patrick never apologizes for being as dumb as the rock he lives under; nor does Squidword flinch at his own unencumbered negativity; and Mr. Krabbs would never be caught mumbling regret over chasing down a penny that escaped his pinched claws. Each one of these fictitious little men hold themselves to their own standards and rarely do they ask one another to be anything but.

Not true in our every day. In today’s world, people like Spongebob are put on Prozac to calm them down. The Patricks are enrolled in a Special Education class and told they’ll never amount to much. Squidwords write novels from some secluded hermitage, ranting and raving Salinger-style about the troubles of this world—oh, wait, is that what I’m doing now? And, people like Mr. Krabbs are owners of a thousand copies of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol, all gifted to them by people who found their love of money morally concerning.

These people on the fringes suffer.

Because of this, the majority of us, myself included, have become an oatmeal-washed people. Afraid to speak up. Afraid to rock the boat. Afraid to be rejected.

And we’ve become boring.

And we are boring to date.

So, as I mentioned in my first post, I’ve been dating a lot. In July, I actually beat my own record and went on eight dates with eight different people in the span of ten days. Let me tell you, I can now get ready for a date within fifteen minutes. Lickety-split. And I don’t look too shabby either. And those nerves that should flutter in my belly before meeting someone new have been sent a-slumber by experience.

Out of those eight dates, only two were Spongebob-types—full of personality and funk, piss and vinegar, as grannies the world-round would say. The other six men sat politely across from me, asked the right questions, nodded at the right moments, chuckled at appropriate times, as if they were audience members at the taping of some sitcom and laughed only when the “Laugh” light flashed. They paid for the dates. Hugged me when the dates ended. And said “we should do this again”, both of us knowing full-well that the “again” would never come.

These polished frogs had gone to charm school where they surely had their warts filed off and their skin de-slimed.

And what I’ve learned about myself during the past few months of dating is that I’m really not seeking a frog that turns into a prince at all. I’m seeking a frog that owns his froghood. Who loves his warts and slime and knows that it is those that make him a more interesting, loveable person. After all, aren’t we all really wart-riddled, slimy souls who just want to be loved for exactly who we are?

I Now Pronounce You Mr. and Mrs. Harley Davidson

When I went into his bathroom, I nearly screamed. Not because it crawled with filth—which it did—or because a cockroach scurried across the floor—which one did…no, I lie, no cockroach. It was his showerhead. Ever since my parents let me watch the movie Poltergeist at too young an age, I have been terrified of clowns. That summer, when they first let me watch the movie, I had just moved out of the bedroom I had shared with my older sister and braved having my own. The night I watched Poltergeist, I snapped on my nightlight and dove into my bed without letting my feet hit the floor, not wanting anything to grab at my ankles from that dark place underneath, and pulled the covers just below my chin. Eyes open wide, scanning for shadows. Thump. Thump. Thump. It came from underneath my mattress. I sat up. Thump. Thump. Thump. I felt it. Literally, I did. The clown that lived under the little girl’s bed in the movie had slithered its way underneath mine. I screamed and my mom came to my rescue, turning on the light and telling me about the power of imagination. I hate to admit it, but this little chicken moved back in with my sister for another couple of years. So, you’ve made a guess about the showerhead. If you pictured a Ronald McDonald-type clown, although creepy in itself, you’re wrong. If you pictured Krusty the Klown from The Simpsons, lucky you—you’ve got a sense of humor. But, you’re wrong too. It was the Joker. From Batman. And when the shower was turned on, the water spewed from its mouth like a torrent of projectile vomit.

And, as if that weren’t disturbing enough, he had painstakingly painted the walls of his humble abode in a black and white checkerboard pattern—a pattern that was made easier by the schoolhouse-style bricks that made up his walls. But, dear Heartbreaker had gone one step further and continued the pattern, a little crookedly, on the door of his bedroom, so that when the door was closed, you wanted to put suction cups on the bottoms of your shoes and play a game of hopscotch.

And, as if that weren’t disturbing enough, my little Heartbreaker’s leather couch had seen so many better days that he had it covered with a black sheet. Sexy, huh? When you sat on it, there were certain spots where you could feel stuffing oozing out of gaping holes.

And, as if this weren’t disturbing enough, he wore wife-beater tank tops out of the house as if they put him in the annals of modern fashion, pairing them proudly with a flat-brimmed baseball cap emblazoned with the name of some skateboarding or surfing company.

And, as if all that weren’t disturbing enough, he drove a raised truck. One so high, that I couldn’t climb into it and hope to hold onto any shred of dignity.

And, as if all of this weren’t disturbing enough, this place, these things, belonged to a thirty-seven-year-old man. His dingy little shoebox of an apartment had been his for fifteen glorious years of bachelorhood.

And, as if all of this weren’t disturbing enough, I liked him. I really, really liked him. Because, behind the Joker showerhead, the patterned walls, the scarred couch, the ghetto fashion, and the monster truck, was a man who saw the world through such simple lenses that he tempered the jaded side of me. His ability to live in the moment softened my need to strive for tomorrow. And, maybe even above these things, he made me feel like the wittiest woman in the world. It came easily with him, the wit. With some men, I find myself squelching my sarcasm because they so crave the limelight. With the heartbreaker, I was me. Completely me. And he thought that me was hysterical.

His appreciation of my humor was a mixed blessing. You see, he laughed just like a dolphin. The first time I heard his laugh we were talking on the phone, and I had to check the name on the screen of my cell phone to make sure I hadn’t accidentally called Flipper. But, I came to love that laugh the way Pavlov’s dogs loved the sound of a bell. It was my reward—the validation that I was funny.

He was out of work on disability, my little Heartbreaker, so he spent his days trouble-seeking on the beach boardwalk and many of his evenings with me. About two months into dating, he invited me to a barbeque at his aunt’s house. His whole family, with whom he was extremely close, was slated to be there. After the invite, I held his cheeks in my hands, looked deeply into his eyes and said, “Are you sure? Meeting the family is a big deal to me.”

To which, he held eye contact and said: “I wouldn’t have opened the door if I didn’t want you to walk through it.” My heart nearly suffocated in its happiness.

I loved his family. I mean, I really loved them. Sweet, warm, old-fashioned people who loved being together and loved to laugh. At one point in the afternoon, Heartbreaker’s uncle asked me what I do for a living. To which I responded, “I teach 7^th grade.”

He lifted his beer to his lips, smothered a chuckle, and, with a twinkle in his eye, pointed to Heartbreaker and me and said, “Ah, now I see why this is working.”

About a week after the barbeque, another woman entered the picture. She was sleek, taut, and powerful. Her voice, loud. Her curves, bodacious. She lived life as fast as she could. She was my opposite…She was his brand new Harley Davidson.

Our relationship shifted the second she entered his life. His phone calls dwindled and suddenly he started flaking on dates. He spent his days with her and she began seeping into his night hours, too.

One Friday night, Heartbreaker and I went to see a movie. After the movie, he claimed he was tired and wanted to go home rather than continue the date somewhere else…my heart sank…but he asked if he could see me Saturday night…my heart soared.

Saturday night came and he called exactly at the time he said he would. He was out with the boys and his new woman. We chatted for a few minutes, and then he said, “It’s getting dark. I better get on the road before the sun goes all the way down. Can I call you when I get there and we can figure out what we’re doing tonight?”

“Of course,” I assured him and hung up, looking at the clock and estimating how long it should take for him to get home. Twenty minutes. I began beautifying myself—the make up, the hair, the choosing of the outfit.

Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. Forty. Two hours later, I gave up and went to Blockbuster, vacillating between fury and sadness. Wondering if he’d been in an accident, almost hoping that that was the truth rather than the possibility that this was rejection.

Do you know that he never called that night? And, yes, I could have called him, but I was afraid of my anger—or worse, my sadness—dominating the conversation and revealing too much of my weakness. How did I know he was still alive, you ask? Since I’d met him on a dating site, I checked his profile. And, sure enough, he’d been active within the 24 hours during which he went missing. I’m not sure this voyeuristic world we live in really does anyone any good—but that’s a whole other blog in itself.

We've only spoken once since and that was to retrieve things we'd left at each other's places...and he gave no explanation for his disappearance or his sudden change of heart.

Nowadays, to make myself feel better about the Heartbreaker, I like to picture him riding off into the sunset on his new motorcycle. In my head, the wedding march plays as they disappear over the horizon, and in my heart I know she’s the only woman who will ever truly make him happy. And knowing that I never have to see the Joker showerhead again, well, that certainly helps the healing process…

The Cantaloupe Man

2009 began with a bang of hope. On December 31^st, I received a text message from a man whom I’d been emailing for a week or so. The message wished me a happy New Year and held a promise to be in touch on New Year’s Day. Sure enough, on the eve of New Year’s Day, I received a text asking me how my New Year’s celebration had been. We texted back and forth for two hours. I know, I know, we could have said the same things in about a thirty-minute voice-to-ear conversation. But today people are not only allowed, but are encouraged, to communicate passive-aggressively. By texting rather than calling, one can retain the right to read whatever meaning into the little words on the screen that he or she chooses. If I want a man to be in love with me, and he texts: Hey. What’s up?, I can project a ton of meaning onto those three words. For example, I could convince myself that he chose the word “Hey” rather than “Hi” because he wants to come across causal, even though he is so madly in love with he can hardly contain himself. And the “What’s up?” clearly is man-speak for “I can’t live without you!”

Anyhow, towards the end of my first texting session with The Cantaloupe Man, he asked if I would like to go to a ten o’clock movie. I checked the clock—9:40. Now, I had just finished reading yet another book that educates women on “The Rules” of dating—you know: never sleep with a man on the first date; pretend like you really aren’t interested so that he’ll feel the need to chase you; and never, never, NEVER accept a last minute invitation.

So, I, emboldened by my recent women-power read, texted him: Maybe another time? I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.

To which he responded: I like pumpkins.

And, I hate to admit it, dear readers, but that was all it took. That little, corny comment convinced me to agree to the movie… A movie that was, by the way, magical. Not the movie itself (it was actually pretty horrible), but the experience—it was just The Cantaloupe Man and I in the theater. The two of us and That Feeling. That Feeling is an elusive frenemy of mine. It makes me quiver in my flip flops and want to jump over arm rests to sit in a man’s lap and encourages me to giggle at his jokes and long for his next phone call. But it also makes me put up with too much B.S. from men who, quite frankly, aren’t worth the shoveling of their proverbial manure.

Anyway, That Feeling was there, wedging itself between us and whispering in my ear: “He’s just great, isn’t he?” and reaching into my stomach and churning it in a flutter of pleasure.

After the movie, we kissed…yet another “rule” broken…and it was one of those knee-melting kisses where you feel like it just wouldn’t matter if you never got the opportunity to kiss another man in your entire lifetime if this was the kiss that said goodbye to and greeted you everyday. He felt it too. In fact, he didn’t even say goodnight. He just looked at me, said “huh” as a statement not a question, and got in his car.

He called the next morning and we saw each other the next night. Within a week, we had seen each other five times and I had even met his parents. You know those girls I mentioned in my first post whom I love so fiercely? The ones who are married to amazing men and gloriously raising their beautiful children? They always tell stories of how easy it was when they finally met their person. How there wasn’t any of that second guessing about what they said or wondering when he was going to call or if it was okay to reach for his hand first rather than waiting for him to reach first. I thought this was finally it. My easy. My natural fit. My person.

Alas, such Disney fantasy was not in my cards. Suddenly, the phone calls stopped. Literally. We moved from two or three interactions per day to zero. Just like that. Poof. I picked up my book of rules, mustered up my feminine pride, and waited for him to contact me. He didn’t. Realizing I couldn’t NOT try, I called him. He answered and even asked me to meet him out. I did and he was doting and affectionate and I raised a mental fist and shook it at the authors of all those books I’d read and smirked: “See, rules people? See???? There’s no such thing as rules anymore!”

After that night, the silence returned.

For four months.

Out of the clear blue, he texted me to say that he missed me. I, dating someone else at this time, bravely responded: “That’s funny. How could you miss me when you haven’t even tried to see me?”

To which he replied: “I miss my Transformers, too, but I haven’t gone out to buy any new ones.”

Huh? (note the question mark).

From here, we started a sporadic texting friendship and I even saw him one night—and, you know what? He still gave me That Feeling. Months later and stupidity waving like a flag from his forehead.

Fast forward another month. I’m at a party. And this man comes onto the patio where I’m standing with a group of friends. My friend knows him. She introduces him to me, first and last name. His last name is the same as The Cantaloupe Man. I ask him, “Oh, are you the brother of The Cantaloupe Man?”

He says, “Yeah, he’s in the kitchen.”

My stomach somersaults and I go find him. There he stood. Picture this: a cantaloupe-colored T-shirt—something resembling the color of those hypercolor T-shirts that were popular in the late 80’s (for those of us who are old enough to remember), two diamond-studded earrings, a gold chain around his neck, gold-rimmed untrendy Ray Bans perched on top of his head, and on his arm, a tiny brown-haired girl with the shoulders ripped out of her T-shirt. Clearly, they hadn’t gotten the memo that this wasn’t an 80’s party.

And, do you know what? Even in the hindsight that this blessed life gives us, gives me, and in the present sight of him all guido-ed out, I still wished he were mine. Maybe if I’d only cut some shoulders out of some of my shirts, it would have been love…

The Man Who Cried “Unhhnnnhh”

Will Ferrell is a man whom people either love or hate. For some, he’s too overgrown-kid; for others, that’s exactly why he’s loveable. I happen to love him. He can sit wordlessly and get certain looks on his face that make me want to pee my pants. One of my favorite movies of his is Anchorman, in which he plays an overly confident news anchor, Ron Burgundy, searching for fame in San Diego. Inadvertently, he falls in love with his new female coworker. In one of the most pee-in-your-pants moments of the movie, Ferrell takes his coworker out to a nightclub where a musician plays jazz flute. After a particularly “jazzy” set, Burgundy does a little white-man’s-overbite dance and gutturally moans: “Unhhhnnhh, Unhhhnhhh—that’s baby-making music, that’s what that is.”

Oh goodness, have I already given away this post’s punchline?

Ohmygod, he was cute. He walked toward me—hair: a dark sea of waves; eyes: sparkling, with just the right measure of mischief; clothes: stylishly casual—jeans, white button-down shirt, flip-flops—and I prayed a quick prayer of thanks. Someone upstairs got it right this time.

“Heather?” he crooked smiled at me. I nodded, one hand outstretched, the other grasping my purse. He took my hand and squeezed. Momma always said that a man’s handshake tells a person a lot. His handshake spoke promises of hand-holding at the Sunday farmer’s market, after-work backrubs, finely chopped onions in the nightly gourmet meals he was sure to cook. “I’m Chris.”

He opened the door to the sushi restaurant he had chosen, pulled out my chair, and asked if it were okay if he did the ordering. Now, I’m a girl who tends to get a bit bristled up when someone tries to help me too much or take too much control, but on this night, I dove, head-first, eyes wide open, into his chivalry. How nice to hand over the reins for a bit. A little rest for this weary I-can-take-care-of-myself warrior.

The agreement was that we would have sushi and then go see a movie. Pretty standard, Southern Californian date. After a quick round of banter-boxing, during which we took turns wittily jabbing at one another in typical kindergarten love fashion, he suggested an alternative plan: “Since we’re getting along so well, why don’t we skip the movie? We can have a sort of progressive dinner—eat a bit here, walk down the street and eat a bit there… Sound good?” I lifted my sake glass in a toast of agreement. Could this get any better?

After the sushi session, which was filled with sake toasts and a shared large bottle of Sapporo beer, we walked down the street to a sportsbar where we shared an order of fish tacos and had a couple more drinks, both of our eyes crinkled with laughter. My insides melting at the comfort in our connection. At this point, I stood outside of myself and made a decision: it was time to stop drinking. I was feeling a bit too comfortable—too loose. Remember, I’m a girl who likes to have control—over my choices and my self—and my thirty-five years of experience have taught me that alcohol is a quick death for the control freak. So, I stopped. He, however, did not. He tumbled forward on the road to drunkenness. I stumbled, and then walked, back into sobriety, happy to discover that the connection remained even in our differing states of coherence.

We ended the date at a dive bar. I know, I know, bad news, right? A Beatles cover band played in the corner. By this time, we were holding hands. The night had been dotted by an occasional kiss. He had continued to drink and, by this time, was becoming a bit sloppy. He kept dabbing at his sweaty brow. And he began to grunt along with the music. “Unhhnnnhh! Unhhnnnhh! Unhhnnnhh!” I waited for the Will Ferrell reference to make me laugh…but none came. He was drop-dead serious with the grunting. I stared at him; hair: disheveled and droopy; eyes: glazed over; clothes: underarms seeped sweat through his once crisp white shirt.

Out of the blue, he turned to me and glared: “I saw you looking over my shoulder. Is there someone over there you’d rather be with?”

At that, I clambered out, head first and eyes wide-open, of his control-disguised-as-chivalry presence and the dream of what-could-have-been.

The Fumigator

So, when grapes from South America come into port, before they are shipped to your grocery store, they must undergo fumigation to ensure that you and I don't end up with the unpleasant experience of biting into a grape only to realize we have just bitten a worm in two. Sometimes the world of the fumigator becomes very stressful because grapes come into two ports at once, San Diego and Los Angeles, for example. Imagine the whirlwind of competition and paper-signing that ensues in the fumigating world during these bountiful times. It's cutthroat, I assure you. The stress overwhelming. The fumigators' brows bead with sweat as they work to defend us all from those terrible little bugs munching on their very natural food source.

I know what you're thinking. You're about to click out of this little blog of mine, thinking: Oh no, not another blog by some hippie, earth-kisser, no-deodorant-wearing, braided-armpit-hair-sporting chick who's trying to make me feel guilty about eating non-organic in a world where I am barely scrimping enough money together to buy a meal at the fast food joint down the street, knowing full-well that I'm not doing my body good and, quite honestly, not really giving a rat's tail about it. Okay, so maybe that's not exactly what you're thinking, but I'd bet I'm pretty close. This, I assure you, is not a blog about vegan cooking or undermining corporate America. It's a blog about dating. Yes, dating--I know, I know, so original.

Here's the thing: I am a 35-year-old woman, attractive by most accounts, giving, successful, blah blah blah blah and I am, like most single women my age, looking for love. Around me, most of my friends have fallen into varying degrees of marital bliss; most have birthed and loved babies; many spend their days play-dating with other moms, sharing their mothering secrets with others in their club. I love these women fiercely. They are glorious and golden. But somehow we are different. You know, the 'haves' and 'have nots'? I digress...

So, I've been dating. A lot. I've been using two of those more well-known, a-hem, online dating sites. Some of these dates have been pleasant, others painful, all entertaining. I thought I would create this little space where you could grab a pillow, hunker-down for a few, and I could share my war wounds with you ladies (and gents, if you should choose) in my club...and those outside my club who just want a bit of a giggle.

"What does all of this have to do with fumigating?", you ask. Not much. I'll be honest. That little tidbit of vital grape-safety information I learned from one of my recent frogs.

Picture this: A photograph of a well-muscled man in his late 30's. Hair dark. Eyes dark (just my type). He holds his little boy, grins sunshining on both of their faces. He and I email, set up a date for a Tuesday night. 7:30. In typical me fashion, I arrive early. I would rather get there before my dates so that I'm not the one walking in and looking stupid as I search for some man I've never met. I think this fear is a remnant of middle-school moments when I would call to my friends across the quad and they wouldn't turn around and I would just look like I was shouting to the wind.

So, I arrive. I sit. I wait. A dark-haired man walks in. He's cute, I think to myself. He looks at me, full eye-contact, I start to stand, heart pitter-pattering. He keeps walking. Wrong guy. Disappointed.

Moments later, the door opens and another dark-haired man enters and walks towards me. Recognition beaming on his face. Whatever muscles he had in the picture had melted like wax to settle just below his belt. A pear shape. Speaking of his belt, it was shiny brown leather and cut him in two like a string wrapped around a pork roast, little tires settling above and below it. He smiles, his glasses rising on his crinkling nose, and walks toward me. Here we go, I think to myself and stand, hand outstretched to shake his. He hugs me, of course. I know, I know, he seems really nice, right? I'm all for a sweet, pudgy man. I often like them, actually, but he was different. You know that moment when you realize the spark will never arrive--you will never want to tussle in a bed with this person.

You must be thinking I'm a judgmental hussy. I guess I am. But I do give it a chance. I always give it a chance.

So, we proceed to our table. We order. He begins to talk. He talks and talks and talks and talks and talks. For forty-five minutes. About fumigating. I could have been a fork on the table for all of the interaction we had. On second thought, I should have used the fork on the table to gouge my heart out and stop the pain. At one point, misery must have plastered itself so plainly on my on my face that the group of ladies sitting at the table across from us gave me a poor-you look of sympathy.

After the fumigating lesson, we start sharing growing-up stories--where? siblings? parents? family pets?--and he reveals that he grew up in the same town as the last guy who broke my heart.

"Oh, really?" I ask. "I know a couple of families who are from there."

"Yeah?" he smiles. We've made a connection--he can feel it. "What are their names?"

"The Smiths (non-Heartbreaker's family) and the Turners (Heartbreaker's family)," I venture.

"I don't know the Smiths, but I know the Turners." He's nodding now, teeth a-blazing.

I don't want to ask, but, being a glutton for punishment, I do. "Really? So you know Daniel (Heartbreaker)?"

"Oh, yeah! He was my best friend in high school. How do you know him?" He leans in. The overhead lights sparkle on his glasses.

Did I mention there was a fork on the table and that I should have used it to put myself out of my misery which I should have done before this topic even entered the conversation?

I put in an hour-and-a-half of time. During which I said maybe, oh, twelve words. Nodded politely. Watched him eat dessert--which I had claimed not to want only in hopes that our date would stumble to its end but he had ordered it anyway. Hugged him at the end. And prayed that he wouldn't call.

He did, of course. It's always The Fumigators who do....