This is my first fiction post. I'm taking a few writing classes through Gotham Writers Workshop (www.writingclasses.com) (GREAT classes and instructors, btw.) Anyway, the assignment was to pick a character, setting, and situation from a given list and write a 500 word max story. I chose to write about an opera singer at a mountain resort, the situation is stolen chickens. Let me know what you think. :)

 

Elaine Dunn looked out at the crowd from behind the curtain. It was amateur night at the club, most of the acts were comedy but she had been practicing her opera. Her husband had discouraged her, he just doesn’t understand, she thought. Ever since she had her fall at the library, opera was the only passion that made her heart sing. He always complained that she never even listened to opera before the accident. She didn’t care, she felt in her gut it was a gift from God. Who would have thought that a spilled soda, on a marble floor, in the middle of the afternoon, would be a divine intervention? Certainly not her.

She had grown up on a farm in the middle of Iowa, surrounded by rows of corn. Now, look at me, she thought. I knew I was meant for greatness. She was one of the acts at the Pokolodi Lodge. Her husband noted that the lodge only had two and a half stars. Big deal, she thought, I am in Aspen, Colorado, the travel destination of the rich and famous. She was on her way.

She was act number three in the lineup. She knew it was just a matter of time before she had her own show, she had to do her due diligence. To calm her nerves, she started to massage her cheeks, then her throat, she moved her jaw from side to side just like she saw in a YouTube video. A young man holding a clipboard noticed her and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Oh. Yes. I’m warming up for my act. I’m next.”

“Phew. Things have been a little weird today. Our emotional support chickens, Kim and Kanye, have gone missing. We all suspect fowl play.” He said with a smirk.

She gave him a tight smile then resumed her focus. She let her tongue hang to her chin and shook her head aggressively. She moved on to lip trills.

When he got the signal, the man turned to her and said, “Hey, lady. You’re up!”

Elaine stepped to the center of the stage and said, “Good evening. I will be singing Non Più Mesta from La Cenerentola.”

The lights dimmed. She took a deep breath in and nodded to the MC signaling him to start her music. As she began, a table crashed in the audience. She continued to sing. The audience started to murmur. A man appeared to be chasing something in the darkened room. The audience shifted from left, then to the right. The man bumped over more tables in his chase. Elaine continued to sing nearing her crescendo. The man dove to the floor as the audience collectively gasped. As he stood, he held two chickens, one in each hand. Wide-eyed, the audience cheered in applause just as Elaine was finishing her song. She beamed and gave a dramatic bow then a curtsy for her audience and walked off the stage blowing kisses. I made it, she thought.

 

Last year was a tough one. I didn't date. At all. Why? Because I was a disaster. I had major car issues that really derailed me. It was unfortunate. I cried. A lot. I'll tell you more another day. Today, I just want to let you know that things have turned around. I'm back to dating which I haven't enjoyed this much in a long time. I'm embracing the online connections. I should have gotten into it years ago but, I still believe I'll meet my match randomly either through an acquaintance or by chance out and about. Finding dates online is much easier than it used to be, I think I'm just more open. I'm not as concerned about marriage or kids anymore.

 

So, bear with me while I get my writing sea legs under me again. It's been a long time since I've felt like writing. It's usually motivated by a love interest. I'm either in love or pining away for someone not in love with me. Can I just tell you? I'm neither but I do feel like writing. See you soon.

I went to visit Stephanie, in Pittsburgh, this weekend. This was my 3rd visit. I expected an uneventful trip. She picked me up from the airport and we went straight to a juice bar for breakfast. Stephanie is my healthiest sibling, she always takes me to "hippy" places to eat. We didn't have big plans for the day so, I suggested we get pedicures.

 

She drove to an upscale neighborhood and parked a few blocks away. We both needed a little caffeine but were too full to get something at breakfast. We decided to stop for coffee and thought it was best to walk it off and poke around the shops. Our first shop was having a jewelry trunk show. When we walked in, we were offered champagne. We put down the coffee and our plastic cups were filled to the rim with bubbly. It was the start of a lovely day.

 

The jewelry was really beautiful, exotic pieces with an edge. A lot of skulls, snakes, gold, and diamonds. I love rings. I tried on a bunch. The jeweler was there looking at me intensely. When I saw the first price tag of one of the pieces I loved, I knew I couldn't afford anything he was offering. The prices started at $995 and went up through the thousands to $55,000, actually. The owner and the jeweler were really chatty, though, and kept me in the immediate vicinity. The jeweler kept suggesting pieces to try on. He looked deep into my eyes, then boldly asked, "What happened? Why did you give up?" Of course, I was taken aback. I knew exactly what he was asking me but I could hardly believe my ears.

 

He had been reading me from the second I walked in the door. He pressed me again with the question, waiting for my answer. I told him I didn't know what he was talking about. He explained, "I can see the melancholy in your eyes. You gave up on love. Why? You're beautiful. Don't you know you're beautiful?" My armpits started to sweat, I started to move away but I was drawn in to his orbit of gravity. It was intoxicating. (Or was it the champagne I was gulping?)

 

My sister didn't help matters. She agreed with everything he was saying. Out loud! Meanwhile, she was texting the play-by-play to our other sister and our mom. She described him to them as a good looking guy from Turkey, who owns a jewelry store in Manhattan. He's covered in jewelry with his shirt opened to his navel and tufts of chest hair are poking out. Our sister's response, "LOL!" Our mom's response, "Not Stacey's type. Keep an eye on her!"

 

He had me trying on his diamond rings. They were exquisite. (And, huge!) He wanted a picture with me and asked my sister to take it with his phone, he then asked me to text the picture to my phone so he would have my contact information. Of course, I obliged. He asked me about the books I was reading because I had used the word "path" in reference to why I wasn't married. He pointed out that most people would use the word "journey." (That's why I didn't use it. Way too overdone.) Anyway, the only book I could come up with was Sick in the Head by Judd Apatow. I haven't been reading much these days, too busy with work. "Ahhh," he said, "you're married to your work." I cringed. I may be.

 

The conversation moved to dinner talk. He was having dinner with the owner of the store and her family. She was one of his first clients when he moved to the country eight years ago. His English was perfect, it was his third language. It turned out that the store owner lived down the street from my sister. He said he wanted mac and cheese for dinner with lots of wine. I asked if we were invited. He lit up, looked at his friend, and declared, "YES!" I laughed and said we'd think about it.

 

Before we left, he said he reads coffee grinds and asked if I saw the movie Serendipity. I own it. My sister asked if he was married or single. Our mom had told her to ask, although she's a good little sister, she would have asked anyway without the prompt. It turns out, he is divorced with two young children ages 7 and 11. He is single but, he smokes. I told him the coffee grind thing outweighs the smoking in my book. Our grandmother used to read them, too.

 

With that, we left and headed to the salon. I needed a pedicure and manicure stat because I had a sneaky suspicion my feet and hands may be on display that night. In the pedicure chair, we reviewed the situation. The first thing Stephanie asked was, "Why were you so nervous??? He was clearly obsessed with you!" Then, she flatly stated I needed to get out more and practice flirting with men who are interested in me. We decided we were going to go to the owner's house for dinner. She told our mom via text. Her immediate response was, "You need to take Brandt! We don't know him!" Umm, he's from Turkey, not Greece, and lives in Manhattan. Of course, we don't know him!

 

When we got home, I texted him to see what time we should be there and what kind of wine we should bring. He apologized and wrote back, "By 'we', do you mean 'you'? No offense but I'd only like to see you for dinner." "Hmm," I thought, then suggested we meet for drinks after dinner. I came to visit my sister, not go on a date with a stranger that WE don't know. Right?

 

He was anxious, he was walking toward the house and got lost. I told him to stay put and we'd pick him up. He got in the car with a cowboy hat, shirt opened to his belly button under a leather jacket, Ralph Lauren blue velvet loafers, and dripping with jewelry. I'm not gonna lie, I liked it. No joke. It was WAY beyond my type. Sort of. I've been more interested in the preppy golfer type as of late but, back in the day, this kind of thing tickled me to the core. I was fascinated with him. He did not give a shit what anyone thought, he was all him. Bold.

 

When we got out of the car, he took my hand as we walked to the bar. I liked that, too, and just went with it. We got to the bar and, apparently, it was clear to him that we wouldn't have alone time to talk. He suggested we go back to the house or a hotel. I knew we didn't have any wine at the house but he said he only wanted to drink water. Back to the house we went, to Stephanie's dismay. She was starting to feel maternal and the words, "stranger danger" were seeping into her brain.

 

We got back to their apartment and my brother-in-law mentioned their fire pit. My cowboy was all over that. They headed into the basement to gather kindling wood. My fleeting thoughts were, "he may be a murderer…" It passed quickly. Way too cold out to be thinking that kind of thing. They got the fire started, I lasted 5 minutes and went back inside. He followed. So did my sister and her husband. There we were, all four of us sitting awkwardly in their small living room. The chit chat started. Then, he turned to my sister and Brandt to ask if we could have some privacy. At this point, you'd think I'd stop the foolishness and ask him to leave. Nope.

 

They left us alone on the couch. He asked me again why I "gave up." I tried to explain that I hadn't but, the truth was, I had given up. He looked me in the eyes and told me I was too content with being single, the only way I was going to find love is if I settle down and find peace in my life. He lied his head in my lap and kicked his feet up on the couch. We continued the conversation. He told me about his "journey", the divorce, why, his children, his affair, and his heartbreak. Mid-story, Brandt walked into the room to check on me. By the look on his face, I could only imagine what he was thinking when he found his wife's sister sitting on the couch with a stranger in her lap and her hand in his shirt! We just looked up at him and smiled. He said, "Well, looks like you're all set here. Need anything?" (A condom?)

 

My cowboy/jeweler got up and turned the light off when Brandt left the room. Then, he kissed me. Passionately. Can I just tell you? I felt like I could turn on a lightbulb with the electricity surging through my body. It has been ages since I've been kissed like that! Too long. He said I have three choices, I could show him my bed, he could "make love to me" in his hotel room, or I could ask him to leave. I gave it a few seconds of thought while the kissing continued and said, "I'm sorry. I'm going to have to say good night." Not what he was expecting. Not the words I expected to leave my mouth, either. He said we could both die tonight and that I should live when I have the opportunity. I walked him to the door.

 

My sister came in the room minutes after he left. I stood there with my hair all disheveled and cheeks flushed. She asked, "What happened?" After I told her, she said, "Doesn't he know Greek people don't do that?" (She's so cute. Isn't she? I can only hope she learned that from me.)

 

I went to bed but thought about him all night. I may never see him again but his words were powerful. I felt like a flame was ignited in me. Over the weekend, I took a lot of pictures. I haven't felt like doing that in years. Of course, I felt like writing again, too. We'll see where this adventure takes me. #nevergiveup #truelove #serendipity #diamondsareforever

 

 I went to dinner with one of my teacher friends tonight. The conversation revolved around our personal lives. Her mom is terminally ill and her former husband/current boyfriend just isn't cutting it. She loves him, of course, but is no longer in love. She claims he lives too far away, it's an hour and a half commute one way. (His kids are a little younger than hers, they tried living together while the girls were teenagers. That led to the divorce. They continued to date though, with separate residences.)

 

I don't have anyone special at the moment. I had a blind date scheduled for last night but didn't end up going. He told me, via text, that he didn't think I seemed interested. Full disclosure, when my friend sent me a picture of him and asked if I'd go out with him, I said, "Yes, but give me 3 weeks, I'm crazy busy at work, I just don't have time to focus on someone new." He looks like Guy Ritchie, is 40, and never married, no kids. Looked tall, too. (Not sure about the golf, I should have asked. He looked like a golfer, though.) Anyway,  he texted the next day. She also told him to call rather than text. I can't even begin to tell you how much a phone call elevates my interest 10-fold. Seriously. Men just don't do it anymore. Such a shame. Honestly, I was a little interested in base running but he lives in Nashua. 

 

I have two who've asked to take me out for "drinks" who live in NH. I don't feel like dating someone  who lives there or in Maine. Or Vermont. Maybe Rhode Island but it's unlikely. I'm not moving to any of those places. I'd move to California, NYC or close by, Connecticut, Chicago, or somewhere close to Boston. I'd also consider Nashville.

 

I know it seems weird to not have an interest in someone because of where they live. It's more than that though. Unlike my friend, I'd drive hours to see someone with whom I had a connection. Those other New England states are just too hickville for me. I don't want to live there. I suppose sleepy Chelmsford isn't much better. I'll move closer to work, eventually. I'm happy in my apartment and with my landlord. He treats me like a daughter. The whole family has been really kind to me, I feel very safe here. Plus, I'm close to my family.

 

Speaking of family, the other thing I wasn't excited about was that he didn't have children. When I told my (divorced with two grown children) friend that I'd prefer a single dad, she said people with kids have an instant bond. She split with her husband when her two were little. She didn't like dating non-dads. That was deflating. I wonder if single dads typically feel the same? I really don't want to date someone with grown children. Most of my nieces and nephews are five and under. I am almost 15 years older than all my cousins on my step-dad's side of the family. I didn't like that growing up. Nor do I want to potentially end up with someone without them. I suppose it would make travel easier, though.

 

Can I just tell you? I anticipate a move this summer. My eight ball tells me things are going to work out great on the job front. It also told me to get back on Tinder and start dating local again. My friend and I talked about waning interest, too. She reminded me that men go after what they want, I shouldn't be daydreaming about anyone text chatty who doesn't initiate a meeting in person. At the driving range…

 

I don't feel like Tindering, yet. (Although, a base runner may be required. Stat.) I don't want to date anyone in the Lowell area. The men look too rough around the edges and worn. I don't like that. The accent doesn’t bother me. The Framingham area ones are definitely better than the Worcester ones but not a ton better than the Lowell ones. I don't know what's wrong; this time of the year has me too busy to think about sharing any of my time with a casual "someone." I'd rather go out with my sister and her kids or friends on the weekends.

 

I may need to use a Boston address and focus my time there. Who knows? According to my eight ball, I may make a move to Cambridge. #fingerscrossed

 

All good things must come to an end, I suppose. I dumped Tinder. Out of the hundreds of men on there, I swiped right 15-20 times, at the most. Of those 15-20 matches, only half made it to a first date, two made it to a second date, and only one round the bases. Slim pickings. It must be me.

 

It served it's purpose though. Most of them had been married. They all said the same thing led to divorce, communication. It was really important for me to hear that and look in the mirror. Many of my relationships fizzled, in part, because of a lack of communication.  I generally express myself fine in most situations but, oftentimes clam up when I'm with someone I really like; which is a shame because I don't have any problems communicating exactly how I feel with someone I only like so-so.  I don't get much practice, though. I hate wasting my time with those men, I'd rather make plans with my friends.

 

Since I am always trying to improve and I do truly want to settle down, I found a therapist. She asked what I wanted to get out of therapy, I told her I wanted to communicate better. I felt a little nervous and weird about going. I don't see myself as the therapy type. I can't imagine anyone in my family going. (Lord knows they could use it!)

 

I foolishly booked my first session during my lunch hour. That was a mistake. I cried my eyes out then had to lead two important work meetings with red, puffy eyes. Crazy. I started talking about dating and why I was there. Before I knew it, I was mourning the death of motherhood. Waterworks. Dramatic, I know. It was weird. I've always talked about having children. Now that I'm 43, it really is unlikely. (My 2015 birthday was difficult. My doctor told me that was the cutoff year for IVF of my eggs. If I wanted children and needed it, it would have to be with someone else's eggs. So, that's the end of that.) I was happy to get it out though and felt that I had come to terms with it.

 

I still needed to work on communication. Can I just  tell you? I saw my therapist for about 3 months, it was one of the best investments in myself I've ever made. I felt like I just let everything go, all the built-up crap of years of lousy relationships. I also started to understand my patterns and why I was making those poor choices. I'm far from perfect but certainly standing on a solid foundation. It was funny, once a few pent up feelings started to come out, they all came out in a rush. I felt lighter after each session.

 

On our last session, she asked if I felt like I needed to see her anymore. A part of me wanted to say, "yes" because it was so nice to be able to vent and not worry about being rude with the conversation being one sided but, I knew I was fine. So, I graduated, magna cum laude in communication skills. Bring it. Who knows? I may give Tinder another shot.

Damn you, Betty. I saw her recently. Thankfully, her timing is off and mine seems to be back on. I met someone on Tinder who annoyed the crap out of me. He was a little older than me and had a daughter. Betty's premonition for me, shortly after I let him go, was that I was going to meet someone "older with a little girl."

 

Had I met Annoying Guy (AG) after talking to Betty, I may have ignored all the warning bells going off in my head telling me to change direction. Quick. Instead I listened to my brain for once and let that ship sail.

 

I can't go to psychics anymore. I've always said it's a slippery slope. (Queen of cliché's, btw. Don't judge.) Over the years, I've listened to these loonies like they were spewing gospel. I am ridiculous as a whole but, my brain usually knows what's up. It's the rest of me that slows down in the hops that someone out there is of soul mate material.

 

The past monologues in my brain have gone something like this, "What's that? You have a butt plug? Hmm. Sounds like we're on different journeys. Good luck to you." The rest of me reasons, "Welllllllll, can we make that work?" No. We can't. Nor do we want to. Why? Because it's completely our of my realm of possibility or interest and I'm 100% certain I'm all set with that business. (FYI, if you're into it, I've read recently that it leads to leakage. Out the back. No good, nobody likes a Poopy Pants.)

 

I've asked it before, "When did dating get so weird?" AG was telling me, on one of our dates, about a previous date he'd had with a woman who was into fet.com. When he was explaining it, I thought he said, "fat.com." I assumed she was into fat dudes. Yum. No, he clarified it was 'fet' not 'fat' then proceeded to tell me a story she shared with him about naked dinners in dark rooms with strangers going from table to table like speed dating but sharing their fettishes.

 

Ummmm. Of course, I was horrified but at the same time intrigued. He noticed my renewed interest and continued the story. Apparently, this woman ended up at a table with a naked man, she was naked too, and he told her he wanted her to chew his food and feed it to him from her month.  Can I just tell you? You could have knocked me over with a feather. My jaw hit the bar. I honestly thought I had heard everything from Mr. Butt Plug. Nope, that was a new one. Gross. A part of me wanted to hear more… big part actually (only for the story factor) but, I told him he could stop.

 

Can you imagine? People are f'ed up. Seriously. Anyway, I went out on a few more dates with him because on one of the dates, we did make out for a while by my car. I wanted to reassess if I liked him or if my cross-eyed drunkenness had something to do with it. Plus, he was an avid golfer. (My requirements include: must golf and be able to make me laugh.) After the next sober date, I knew my answer. I really shouldn't drink on dates. My beer goggles are super thick. He wasn't even funny. I can only blame the multiple dates on golf.

 

Anyway, back to loony Betty. When I first saw her two years ago, she said my soul mate was a CEO type, dark hair, light eyes who I'd meet by the water. Prior to her, one told me he was an MLB player. She said she could see the whole thing, he was going to see me in the crowd and give me his number to call. When I questioned why he was giving me his number rather than taking mine, she explained he was in his uniform, no pen. I swooned. Didn't happen. Clearly. Now, I'm old and my angry elevens are permanent. No one is picking me out of a crowd at this point.

 

Well, during this last time with Betty, she said he was a regular guy with a manager job plus another thing he does on the side with his hands. I can't go back. I've gone from professional athlete, to CEO, to Manager with second job. Next stop will be gas attendant!

 

She could tell I was disappointed and disenchanted. She said, "I don't normally do this but, I'm going to give you a blessing." "Okay, Ghandi," I thought.  She started to chant, "Om Nimah Shivaya."  Apparently, this was a blessing from her guru, Guramin and meant to help someone find great love.

 

On my way home, I found myself chanting, "Omm Shaka Laka, Omm  Shaka Laka…" then burst into laughter. #stillsearching #goofball #matchforsomeone?

I had been practicing my golf swing like it was going to cover my rent this month. I bought clubs, I felt obligated to get up to speed on how to use them. I've been told I'm a natural and I'm not shy about letting people know. I went to the driving range, where I was supposed to be playing in my first tournament, a few weeks before the big day. I should probably tell you I haven't been sleeping well for weeks. I think it's my mattress but, I may just have a lot on my mind. I'm slightly anxious about work because I know that it's non-stop from now until June. By April, I'm usually at my wits end. I digress.

 

So, I went to the range REALLY tired. I wanted to just get through it, see the range, and maybe practice putting. I went alone. (I usually do.) I hit my longest drive ever. Over 150 yards! No witnesses. There were some high school boys kibitzing a few stations down who didn't notice. I felt like yelling, "Hey! Did you just see that???" I knew they would have looked at me like I was crazy. Jury's still out…

 

Anyway, some man with one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel parked himself right next to me. I was secretly hoping he'd start clapping if I hit it that far again. Instead, he took a look at my form (that my favorite golfer had helped me with) and suggested I make some adjustments. He also suggested I use my irons instead of my driver. His reasoning was that the irons were easier to control and master because they are shorter and more rigid. He said, "If you can get that right, you'll hit your driver better." Who am I to argue with someone that old? I assumed the guy knew what he was talking about.

 

Well, wouldn't you know it? I have the patience of a 5 year old on Christmas morning. I hit with the irons for a few shots, saw that the ball definitely wasn't ever going to get past 50 yards so, I switched back to my driver. Remember I told you how tired I was? I had slept approximately 3 hours. When I set up with my driver, I stood the same distance from the ball as I stood with the iron. I didn't readjust. I wanted to drive that ball to 200 yards. I twisted so much, my shoulders were practically facing the opposite direction. I held that driver tight then swung with all my strength.

 

Can I just tell you? I hit the side of the green mat and my club stopped there. The shooting pain that surged up my wrist and arm had me seeing stars. I honestly thought I broke my wrist. It hurt so much, I considered lying down on the cement walkway. Shockingly, I did not swear. Really. I dropped the club, grabbed my wrist, and practiced Lamaze breathing. Had I been wearing baggy clothes, my driving range neighbors would have thought I was going into labor.

 

I still had half a bucket of balls! As you know, I'm born and bred in New England. I'm a Yankee to my core. If you think I was going to let my $7 go to waste, you are sadly mistaken. I paid good money for those balls, I was going to go through them if it killed me. I tried to hit a few off the tee. It was pretty clear, immediately, that wasn't a good idea. So, I went to the putting green.

 

That was much easier. Sort of. My drive is natural, my putt is atrocious. I practiced there for about 45 minutes, using only 1 of my 25 golf balls. I had to finish that bucket of balls. I went back to the driving range. The old buck was still there. Yes, I was definitely cursing him, silently. F-er.

 

I could barely hold the clubs. I didn't dare pick up the driver and stuck with the irons. Gently and gingerly. When the last of the balls sailed out of my pen, I breathed a sigh of relief. I did it.

 

I had posted a couple pictures to Tinder. My golfer "liked" them. Of course, I had to text him the story. He told me to "enjoy the journey!" Ouch. Wouldn't you know it, the tournament was cancelled and, 3 weeks later, my wrist is STILL sore!

I've been going back and forth regarding my Tinder profile. I've gone from using all 100 characters of text to a blank slate. I've added sexy, fun photos to photos of me at my godchild's christening. (I'd like people to know I am not afraid of church.) Now, there's one full body shot, conservatively dressed at Easter this year, one cooking with my godchild, and the rest are close-up pictures of my face. I'll keep those up for a while.

 

My first description was, "I'm laid back, love live music, and all things 80s. I'm pretty active. I tried rock climbing and boxing this year and fell in love with both. So fun. I like to read. I'm reading Sick in the Head by Judd Apatow. It's really good. You should read it, we could start a book club. I moved to the suburbs from Boston. I'm finding it hard to meet fun people. That's what I'm looking for, let's hang out. Who knows where it will go? Who cares? Let's go for a beer, rock climbing, or listen to some live music together." That one got the most traction and attracted my favorite golfer.

 

Then, I transitioned to, "I'm laid back, a favorite aunt, and love live music. I moved to the suburbs from Boston. I'm finding it hard to meet fun people. That's what I'm looking for, let's hang out. Boston or 495/rte9 area. Who knows where it will go? Who cares? Let's go for a beer, hit the driving range, or listen to some live music together." That didn't get me anywhere. I added, "No naked pictures, please." but, deleted it shortly after I hit Save. I didn't want anyone to think I was a prude. I should probably put it back on there because in my advanced age, I really don't want to see any nudey shots.

 

As you can see, my Tinder profile includes the description "laid back" in my list of ways to describe me. Can I just tell you? According to my people (family and close friends), I am NOT laid back. I've described myself that way for years! Apparently, that just isn't the case. Most just said, "No." when I asked whether or not they'd describe me as "laid back." One wrote back, "I feel like you're laid back…until you're not." Hmm. I know there is a lot of love in the responses even if it seems hard to recognize…

 

So, my new profile reads: "Normal. Kinda funny. Not a cat person. Seeks same. Maxed out after 2 push-ups. I'm hoping you can do more. Let's get to know each other over a beer or at the driving range." They could all agree on that. We'll see where that gets me.

 

The first man to comment said, "I'm not sure this is going to work out if you're only kinda funny. I only drink beers with hilarious people." That got my attention. And a smile.  So far so good. #teamtinder #lookingforakeeper

I have a love/hate relationship with Tinder. On one hand, I'm super annoyed I'm not finding quality people and on the other hand, I'm loving the crazies. For the stories! Last week, I met someone really nice and handsome but, incredibly annoying. I couldn't take it anymore and had to let him go after date 4. The string of texts that followed my "good luck to you" text were shocking. First of all, he thought I was "the worst!!!!!" for "dumping" him. (Umm. Four dates, no one saw anyone naked nor was there any inappropriate touching.) I was tempted to reply but thought it best to keep that door closed. The rant continued for two more days. Including, letting me know he told his 9 year old daughter that "some people just aren't worth getting to know." Again, four dates. Why is your 9 year old asking when she's going to meet me?

 

I did feel really bad. On date 3, he informed me, as I sat down at the bar, that he was going to get a kitten. I nearly choked. "Of course you are," I thought. I hate to say it because many of my nearest and dearest friends are cat people. I am not. In fact, a man with a cat is a deal breaker. I had cats as a child, I love animals. (Love may be a strong word. I like animals. Note: the first thing I wanted to be, as a child, was a veterinarian.) There are a few cats I really like besides Garfield (I only like him because I can draw him). I love my mom's cat, Miss Kitty (that she doesn't like, must be genetic), Pearl, and Mr. Bojangles. Anyway, he was going to get a kitten for his daughter. Her mother doesn't like cats either. By the end of the date, he said he wasn't going to get the cat because I had clearly stressed that it was not something I supported. Yes, I did feel terrible then, too.

 

I am not an awful person because I don't like cats. Of course, there's a story. My dad passed away in February 2005. It was the darkest time I've ever experienced in my life. I felt like I was living in a permanent gray cloud. I resigned from teaching and sold my house. I was dating someone at the time who had two cats. He also liked to cook. He had an apartment in Brighton that I visited regularly. As you know, I'm kinda particular. I'm slightly OCD. (I've managed to tone it down over the years, thankfully. Now, I'm really good at compartmentalizing.) Anyway, I couldn't help but notice the cats walking over the kitchen table with the salt bowl on it (that he was always pinching from while cooking). At first, it didn't bother me terribly. However, in my distraught state, I started to notice the cat hair everywhere. After my dad died, every flaw, everywhere, was on a megaphone. (That hasn't gone away.)

 

On his birthday, we were supposed to visit his mom in Plymouth for lunch. I had gone over in the morning. He wanted to celebrate his birthday under the sheets. We were in his room and I glanced around. The cat hair looked like it was inches thick. Then, I remembered when one of my friends was pregnant, she didn't clean the kitty box because the fumes are potentially toxic for the fetus. My wheels started turning full speed. My dad had just died, the cat hair was everywhere, and I got it in my head that the cat hair was going to get inside my vagina and make me sterile.

 

Yes.

 

Can I just tell you? I know. It got even crazier, if you can imagine.

 

So, I'm lying there. My face was probably white from the thought of those ridiculous cats making me sterile. (Maybe they did. I'm still childless.) Plus, I knew I wasn't crazy about the guy. What did I do? Start crying, of course. He asked me what was wrong. I said, "I can't help but notice how dirty your room is." He looked around and said, "it's not dirty." Then I wailed, "You're right! It's filthy!" And burst into hysterical tears.

 

Needless to say, the ride to Plymouth was quiet and the last time I visited.

 

Anyway, I've never gotten past it. I'm just not a cat person.

 

After I "dumped" the last guy, I met someone else who looked like he was a little more fun and less annoying. As we played the texting game, he asked if we could meet for a beer but go Dutch. Against my better judgement, I said, "Sure." Then, he asked if I do the "hanky panky." My head fell into my hands after I read it. Of course, it made me laugh. But, I just shook my head and thought, "I can't win." He proceeded to tell me he can do the hanky panky with himself anytime but, would prefer a partner. Awesome. Then, he said I better not send him my number unless I'd like him to send me "a sweet pic that would pass my audition." Ummm. Why are men such creepy pants??????

 

There has to be one normal one on the site… #teamtinder

I was in Disney for a college friend's wedding. I went with two other women who left their husbands at home so we could have a girls' weekend. We all worked together scooping ice cream. Every day was a comedy show. I'm serious. If you've ever wondered, "Who would ever choose Rum Raisin ice cream?" I saw them, daily. They look exactly like you think they do. Also, you haven't seen anything if you haven't witnessed a frappe machine come to life and spew chocolate ice cream and milk over a 5' parameter. It happened to my boss who wore all white every day. His scream was glass shattering. I wasn't sure if I could continue working because I couldn't take an order without breaking down laughing every time I pictured it. I still have a scooper arm that's stronger than the other one, years later. It probably wasn't the ideal job for me given my ravenous appetite combined with zero self-control. Putting ice cream in front of me was like waving a steak to lions. May be the reason I held onto my "baby fat" 10 years into adulthood. I digress.

 

Anyway, we flew out together. I had the perfect dress for the occasion; I spent a fortune on a vintage dress from a boutique in the North End. (Me and my dresses!) It was a 1950's classic cut with gorgeous lace overlaying a rich red satin. It fit me like a glove. I always say if I could go back to anytime, it would be the 50s. I love the outfits.

 

The wedding was beautiful, Disney really knows what it's doing. Everything was perfect, including the open bar. Maybe, especially the open bar. The wedding was 10 years after we graduated college. In college, it was perfectly normal to consume alcohol like water. Ten years later, not so much. My wine glass hit empty more times than I care to admit.

 

Let me rewind a second to tell you about the bridal shower. You must know that everyone tries to set me up with their son, nephew, best friend, neighbor, business client, etc. The bridal shower was no different. My friend's favorite aunt thought I'd be a great match for her son. I heard all about him. He sounded nice but, he lived in Arizona. Not an ideal location for me. I didn't give him much thought. She said he was an Eagle Scout. That didn't persuade me…

 

Back to the bar. All the ladies hit the dance floor like it was 1976 (my new birth year.) I was a dancing queen channeling ABBA. Then, it happened. The videographer was documenting the alcohol induced and estrogen heavy dance floor. I kicked up my heels in a passionate samba and immediately landed on my face. The videographer zoomed in but my gal pals formed a ring of protective fire around me to try and save me from a lifetime of embarrassment on blooper reels. My heel had caught the beautiful lace of my very expensive dress. I'm not sure I would have been able to maintain my balance had I been sober so, I didn't feel as bad. I popped up and kept dancing like a champ.

 

The debauchery continued to a club next door. There was a 5' raised stage with barriers to let guests know the area was a no no. I remember seeing that and thinking, "Nah. I belong on that stage." So, there I was, seconds later, shaking my groove thing on stage until I was ushered off by security. Someone noticed my skillset and asked if I'd like to step outside for dance lessons. Can I just tell you? It was the Eagle Scout. I let my friends know. Their response in unison, "Dance lessons?!?!" I gave them a quick wave and headed out. Some of my favorite things to do is practice dancing and golf.

 

Apparently, he changed his mind and thought it would be better to practice making out. On a bench in front of the door. I was down with that, too. It's one of the other things I like to practice. We were there awhile. I think I was sitting on his lap when his mom walked by. I'm pretty sure I saw her husband take her arm and say, "Keep walking." Everyone left so, we hopped in a cab and headed back to my hotel.

 

If you've never been to Disney and you have a poor sense of direction, don't stay at the resort hotels. They're one giant maze. He invited me back to his room. Fortunately, I still had the good sense to decline. I think the bride's aunt would have killed me. So, like a gentleman, he dropped me off out front and asked if I knew where I was going. I said, "Yup." Then, the cab drove away. I turned around holding my heels and let my purse guide me to my room. As I zig zagged along the path, the sprinklers came on. It was refreshing. How I made it back to the right room is beyond me. I can only imagine it was by the grace of God. And, my purse. I couldn't find my way there sober.

 

I took my dress off quietly, hung it in the bathroom, and proceeded to pass out. The next morning, I got up to use the restroom and saw my dress hanging there behind the door. Immediately, I thought, "I must have been dreaming. I'm an excellent dancer. I couldn't have POSSIBLY done what I think I did." Slowly, I lifted the dress to check the back. My heart sunk. There it was, a tear about a foot long down the center of the back of my dress. I dropped my head into my hands.

 

When I walked out of the bathroom, my friends were smiling and asked about my dance lessons. We all burst out laughing and crying until we could hardly breathe. What a night! I was in rough shape though. We all were. The thought of getting on a plane in eight hours wasn't helping. I had heard an old wives tale that a lemon wedge under the armpit was supposed to alleviate a hangover. I was on a mission to find one. (No, it doesn't work. It may work if you have a mild hangover but, mine was heavy duty.)

 

Everything worked out. I didn't throw up on the plane and I never saw the aunt or my Eagle Scout again. One of my favorite aunts is a seamstress so, the dress is still wearable, thankfully. I can find the tear but no one else could. The couple is still married with an adorable daughter and my friends and I reminisce about our epic adventure. I am still looking for a dance partner, though.

So, I'm at the laundromat again. I go every week. I hate it. It really is the bane of my existence. I knew I should have bought a washer and dryer two years ago. My reasoning for not getting one was that my situation was temporary. I never thought, in a million years, that I would still be single in the suburbs. Honestly.

 

I'm not sure why I would think that? I live in a little bedroom community in a neighborhood full of happy families with young children. I drive 600 miles per week (at least) for work and I go right to the gym after work. Then, I go home, eat, shower, and go to bed. Exciting stuff. Aren't you glad you're not single?

 

People always ask me what I like to do for fun? Well, if I were making my sales person job money, I would be debt-free (Maybe. Who's kidding who?), living in the city, and eating out whenever I want. In fact, when I was living in the city, my sisters came to visit and noted my extensive spice rack. One of them asked, "What's up with all the spices? You don't cook." "All part of the façade," I sassed back.

 

Can I just tell you? You must know I'm a domestic failure. I'm pretty clean; although, I'd love to fire my cleaning lady. If I win on one of my (many) scratch tickets, her ass is out and I'm going to get someone good. I hate washing the floors. I tend to spot clean with Windex if there is a problem. I try not to wear shoes in the house so the floors only need attention quarterly. Dusting happens only when I'm expecting male company. (Like they're going to notice. Please. I am my mother.) Sometimes that goes longer than quarterly. I haven't turned on the stove in 3 months or more. In fairness, it's been hot.

 

I can cook and sometimes I get in moods when I really like it but, that's usually the winter. I don't have as many choices on where to eat as I did when I was living in the North End so, I'm forced to do it myself in the burbs. I'm getting good at soups, you just throw everything in a pot and let it boil. I do cook when I'm dating someone. So, I am trying.

 

Anyway, the cast of characters here is always unsettling. One woman who worked here always told me she was going to steal my outfits. That I was wearing. That was comforting. Her kid worked here too, she liked to sing, at the top of her lungs. That wasn't the least bit annoying. (Fingernails on a chalkboard. Who the F wants to hear that? Seriously. She wasn't even that good!) The mom took the cake, though. It got to the point where I'd ask my sister to call me so, I wouldn't have to talk to her. Occasionally, if Marya was not available, I would hold the phone up to my ear and pretend to be intently listening to someone really interesting. (Not that my sister isn't interesting, I laugh more on the phone with her.) I know that's not nice but she would confide in me and tell me about everything that was wrong with the laundromat. I already knew. I didn't need someone else to remind me why I shouldn't be there.

 

It really has continued to go downhill. I'm guessing this is an opportunity in my life for growth and a better sense of humility. Now, I color my own hair. I went from Newbury Street to an at-home self-colorist in my petite bathroom. It's expensive! I have to color it every 4 weeks, it grows like a weed. It's anywhere from $80 - $300 at the salon, depending on what I want done. I have seriously been considering letting it go gray. My sisters have emphatically said, "No! Too young." I started graying when I was a teenager. It's been an expensive upkeep. Not now. 16 bucks every few months. I don't even have to tip. Yes, I paint my own nails, too. I'm not sure I'd pay the kind of money I used to pay (if I had it!) to have someone else do it, though. (That was a little cray cray.)

 

So, I do have a tiny room in my apartment where a washer and dryer could go but, only a camp size unit would fit. Wouldn't it be just my luck to buy one then move a few months later? I suppose that wouldn't be the worst thing that could happen… I guess I should start shopping and, while I'm at it, start cooking.

The dating game has definitely changed. Apparently, right under my nose. I'm tired of it already. My friends are loving my Tinder account. It's a fun game for them, especially Alison. She's always encouraged me to participate in the online dating scene. I was on Match for a very short time because I didn't like my choices. She scoffed at that and grabbed my phone to check out who was on there. After 5 minutes, she just shook her head and agreed with my assessment. Now that I have the Tinder app, she loves to "drive" and play the game. During our last visit, she swiped right all over the place. In Rhode Island! Some of them connected and I had to tell them that was just too far. She's married and, I think, thanks her lucky stars that she doesn't have to do the Tinder, OK Cupid, or Plenty of Fish ridiculousness.

 

I hate to be alone in the search so, I encouraged 3 other single friends to join. All joined yesterday between a BC football game and a dinner party. I was feeling persuasive. All three women loved the app. (I did too when I first started. I'm a little disenchanted now.) We surfed a lot of the day, sharing phones and swiping left and right for each other. It was more fun after the 5th bottle of wine. (There were 7 of us.) The ones with significant others, felt relief, I'm sure.

 

I told my dinner crew about my gym pervert and shared the shameful picture he sent me. Well, apparently, that's a thing because one of the other women got a similar picture. Can I just tell you? Her guy showed half his penis! So she could see the girth, I'd imagine. My eyes almost popped out of my head. He then asked her if she'd let him come on her face. Can you imagine? Shame on him. The first thing that popped into my head was, "He's going to make someone go blind." What kind of parents raised someone with that kind of behavior??? My mother would kill my brother if he ever did that to someone!

 

Someone posed the question, "Are you good at sex?" to everyone. Most answered, "I don't know." My gut reaction was to answer, "no." I really have no idea. I don’t have it enough, first of all. I'm lucky if it's once a year. I thought, for sure, that cobwebs might be growing "down there." I was very concerned that it would stop working at one point. You know what they say, "use it or lose it." Anyway, the next part of the question was, "who's good at blow jobs?" I am not very good nor do I really care to give them. Part of the reason is because, who the hell knows what to do exactly? There are very few women who genuinely like to give them. Most of us do it because we care for the man. A LOT. Gentlemen, if you find a lady that's really into it, it's probably a good idea to hold onto her.

 

I bought a book titled, Passionista, recently. (Via Amazon. Who buys that stuff in person? One of my friends bought the rabbit recently and was embarrassed to show it to me. When she finally pulled it out of its discreet packaging, we both fell over in a fit of giggles.) Anyway, I thought I may need it for one of my prospects. (That quickly fizzled into zero prospects…) I zipped through the book and learned some of the secrets to what men want in the pelvic region. It was really interesting and quite an eye opener. I had been WAY off base. (Now, I just need someone to practice with!) So, I felt the need to share my new-found knowledge with the ladies, ages 38 to 61. All have had long term relationships and two have children. I told them the frenulum is the key. "The what????" they said in unison. Another said, "look for that vein that sticks out, that's the sweet spot." We had a lot of fun with the word. As we talked about it, it was the frendula, the frenulla, the frenema, the fra la la, etc. and laughed every time the word came up. I suspect men are no different. They have no idea what to do with our business, either. So, apparently, the key is pressure, friction, and hitting that sweet spot. We'll see. Who knows when I'll go there. I don't feel like doing Tinder anymore. We're starting to get into the holiday season. Nobody wants to start dating someone new now.

 

When did dating change so much? Or, has it always been this way and I hadn't noticed? I was on Tinder this morning and came across a cute guy who was looking for someone "punk, bi, adventurous, lots of tattoos, into an open relationship, and dirty." Please. My stomach tightened. Men and women are becoming more and more desensitized. Anything goes. Is that a good thing? I don't want that. Where the heck am I going to find someone who just wants someone nice? Besides church. I don't want that either. I want someone a little fresh that I'm physically attracted to that my mom would approve.

 

My eight ball tells me, wholeheartedly, that I'm going to find my soulmate on Tinder. We'll see.

I went on a date with my former flame. As you know, we hadn't seen each other in 30 years. He had some very nice things to say upon seeing me. That's always a good start. He reminded me that he used to come visit me while I was babysitting. (That was common in the 80s. He never got beyond second base. I had aspirations of being a virginal bride.) He's not exactly my type, unfortunately. He's covered with tattoos now and we're about the same height with heels (me, not him.) It was a great date, though. I'm glad I went. Very insightful.

 

He's super laid back and very much the way I remember him from the 8th grade. Very sweet. He's a former Marine with two grown children. Part of the reason we're not a match is our polarizing levels of fitness. He's cross fit in nature, I'm more couch surf in nature. I'm exaggerating about my fitness level. As you know, I go to the gym (half-heartedly) but, I also like rock climbing (been three times in 9 months), and I love speed walking (3mph). So, I'm not too bad. He said he works two jobs because he hates sitting on the couch watching TV until 11pm. Hmm. I hate that too but, I'm not at all opposed to doing it. So there's that.

 

Anyway, we talked about our experiences with online dating. He recently got out of a 2 year relationship with a woman half his age (red flag) that broke his heart. I asked if they had anything in common to talk about, he said she was his best friend. "Okay," I thought, "pink flag?" He continued to tell me about the Tinderella's (single women on Tinder looking for their Prince Charming. Appropriate. Right?) he was meeting on Tinder and Plenty of Fish then said I was a "breath of fresh air." He told me the story of one woman who was very attractive that he was really looking forward to meeting for coffee. They had plans to meet later in the afternoon. Apparently, they had been texting throughout the day and he let her know that he was going out for a run before their date. In the rain. Well, she angrily texted back something along the lines of "you're lying! I know you're meeting another woman!" Umm. They hadn't even met in person yet! It's one thing if there's some skin in the game (aka sex) but, it was the first date. For coffee!

 

I was immediately taken aback but thought about it on the way home, along with another story he shared. He met another attractive woman who started rubbing his leg provocatively within 10 minutes of meeting him at a bar. Now, he's a good looking guy but, who does that? (She should meet the naked perv from my gym. They may be a match.) He said he sees that move a lot. I was horrified. Thankfully, so was he. (I remember his mom, she raised him well.)

 

Can I just tell you? Both stories were shocking to me but the more I thought about those women, I started to understand. The more I understood, the more I started to recognize the behavior. I was mortified and immediately thought, "shame on me." I have been trying to find a match since I was sixteen years old. I've dated  a whole bunch of men of varying degrees of "off kilter." (It was funny, my stepdad commented that the last one I was dating seemed a little too straight-laced for me. Little did he know…)

 

Anyway, the older I get, the less patient I get with any sort of bologna. My reaction to things that don't go the way I want has regressed. Instead of going with the flow, I think I get a little edgy/bitchy. I hate to use the word, "bitchy." It sounds too female and derogatory. I only use it here because I think you will understand what I'm talking about. For example, I had a date scheduled on a Friday night. The string of texts associated with the cancelling of the date sounded fishy so, my texts in return were short in nature and without the help of emoticons to lighten the tone. (Have I mentioned how much I hate texting?) However, the tone in my voice may have been worse. I was disappointed but, exponentially disappointed because I had skin in the game.

 

In retrospect, it may have been an innocent, unavoidable situation or, another date. Regardless, it was a budding relationship that could have gone anywhere. It wasn't fair for me to react the way I did but, hearing about someone else doing something along the same lines (I wasn't nearly as accusatory or so I hope!) was a very helpful eye opener. I was upset because I felt like I wasn't getting a return on my investment. I had quit looking, all my eggs were in one basket and my Dow seemed to be heading south. It was a bummer, it continued to spiral through the weekend until it fizzled out. So disappointing but, probably, avoidable had I diversified.

 

I thought about the other Tinderella. What was she thinking? Was she just feeling sassy or did she think that's what she needed to do to get his attention? I suppose we're all looking for essentially the same thing, we just want to find our match so we can stop looking. So much media attention is on women giving more and more of themselves sexually. Nothing is shocking anymore. We've lost track of our moms' voices in our heads telling us to act like a lady. Is that old fashioned? I don't care. Someone I dated once told me, "If you were a little less conservative sexually, you'd be married by now." "FU," I thought. That relationship petered out pretty quickly. Phew.

 

I'm grateful to all the lessons I've learned from dating but, I'm sick of looking. I don't want to settle but, I'm tired of the fluctuating market. Where's the VC who wants to invest in me?

Online dating is cracking me up. I came across my first boyfriend. Of course, I swiped right. I haven't seen him in almost 30 years. He was only my boyfriend at school because I wasn't allowed to date. If a boy called my house, both my mom and stepdad would get on the phone and tell the young man, that I was WAY too young to date and he should never call the house again. (Nah, that wasn't too embarrassing. Every time it happened, though, I had trouble breathing.)

 

I did go on a real date with my second boyfriend, I was 14. It was a double date with his brother who was old enough to drive, we were going to play mini golf. He came to the front door to pick me up. My mom answered the door and angrily told him that the only reason she was letting me go out was because I "haunted the shit" out of her (she only swore to make a point) and I wasn't allowed to date boys yet. I stood behind her mortified but grinning ear to ear because I was going on my first real date. I'm surprised my lip didn't get caught in my braces but something else did.

 

Can I just tell you? I hate mini golf. You'd think I would love it given my affinity for the driving range. During my date, as I was blissfully smiling, a little black fly got trapped in my braces. I almost had a heart attack. There was no way I was going to make a scene. I had to fish that little sucker out with my tongue and discreetly spit it out. Gross. I hate spitting! I've said it before, I think it's grosser than farting. Especially with a fly in it! It really put a damper on my night. Had I known then that that would be a foreshadowing of the rest of my dating life, I would have surely become a nun. Unfortunately, I'm not Catholic.

 

Anyway, I wasn't allowed to date until I was 16. Then, it was STRONGLY suggested I date a Greek boy. In fact, my parents thought it would be a good idea if I dated a 21 year old Greek "boy." That lasted a couple weeks. How it lasted that long is beyond me. I was a giggly juvenile, with braces. I "blossomed" early but was a late bloomer for everything else, including my face. I had a baby face with full, chubby cheeks and dimples on my knuckles until I was in my 30s.

 

So, my first significant other and I connected online. He started texting and told me about his life. As you know, my age is fudged a little bit. He asked if I'd like to meet him. I said, "Sure!  We've already met though. I lied about my age. We went to junior high together." His response, "Get outta here." That made me laugh. It is such a New England thing to say, especially in my neck of the woods. I assured him it was true. He asked me my last name and wondered if I knew his last name. I told him my full name. His response, "I just fell over." Ha! Then, "You don't look like you! Or what I remember." Well, I was a 13 year old… With braces… And, feathered hair that was shellacked with Aqua Net. Eighties perfection. His next text, "I do remember you broke my little heart." Poor guy. I remembered that, too.

 

He hasn't changed much, other than growing up. I recognized his dad in one of his profile pictures. So funny. We're going to meet for a beer. I told one of the ladies in my office. She was excited for me; I wasn't as hopeful. I am looking forward to catching up. However, I'm not as excited about dating as I was this summer. Work is starting to get a little busier and, honestly, I'm so tired of being disappointed.

I texted that man with the love note from the gym. We went back and forth all weekend via text. (You know how much I love that.) He claims he's a lacrosse coach at UNH and proceeded to send me a picture of himself at the Wildcats gym. As soon as I saw the picture, I knew he was WAY too young. He looks like he's maybe in his late 20s. Clearly, he didn't get a good look at me at the gym. Otherwise, he would have been stopped in his tracks by my angry elevens. Oh well. I figured I'd meet him for a beer. "Maybe he was just young looking," I thought. However, my bff, Google, told me he is not, in fact, a lacrosse coach at UNH. Nor is he even an intramural coach. Red flag number one but, again, what harm is going for a beer with a fibber?

 

Well, he was texting me some questionable things today for someone whom I've never met in person or talked to on the phone. He thought it would be a good idea for us to take a nap together in this heat. I sent him the emoticon with the red cheeks and wide eyes in response. He continued texting while I was in a school meeting. (Fortunately, my phone was on silent.) I didn't see the texts until I was on my way home. He sent me an "oh well" when I didn't reply immediately to his innuendo texts.  (Umm, someone has a real job here.)

 

Anyway, I texted back that I wasn't going to the gym tonight because it was too hot. He replied that he was planning to go running and would love to go naked. Then, he thought it was okay to send me a picture. OF HIMSELF NAKED!

 

Can I just tell you? I was horrified! Who does that?? I immediately wrote back, "Not appropriate." I felt like saying, "Shame on you!" but that would have really given away my age plus 10 years. As you know, I'm a juvenile. Slightly. I forwarded the picture to two friends. They were both equally offended. Alison's text back was, "Why did you do that??? My eyes are burning!" I told her that I was so offended, I felt like another pair of eyes (or two) needed to see. I certainly couldn't send it to my mom. Although, that may temporarily stop the pressure to "find someone. Anyone!" Ugh.

 

He replied to my "that's not appropriate" comment with, "it was a joke. Lol." "Okay, well now I'm doubly offended because you're not funny either," I thought. The picture didn't show his penis. Thank God. It was of his torso from the top of his pubic hair line (WAY below the bathing suit tan lines.) to his neck. So gross.

 

Why do men think that's okay??? It's not! Ohmygod. Anyway, immediately I assessed my life. I tend to only attract what I put out there and I thought, "Oh my gosh! Have I been inappropriate in any way? Did I do or say something vulgar?" In my assessment, I thought, "Nope, I don't think so."

 

I am going to have to tone it down on my head following the other cute guy at the gym who's closer to my age. May be a little excessive in my approach. I'll try a sweet smile next time. Good thing I floss.

So. I was violated at the gym this evening. By my underwear. I don't know what I was thinking not bringing a reasonable pair. Instead, I was wearing panties that should only be worn for a close encounter of the male kind. (It's all about being prepared.) With short, baggy shorts. Not only was I violated but I also flashed the entire class every time I did a high kick or hip stretches. Oh well. I couldn't wait to get out of there, I contemplated leaving the class early.

 

When I got to my car, I noticed a folded note tucked into my driver's door handle. Immediately, I thought, "Oh no! Someone hit my car and left a note." Ugh. I threw my stuff in the car and walked around to find the damage, holding the folded note in my hand. Nothing. "Hmm," I thought. I unfolded the note.

 

Can I just tell you? Apparently, I have a secret admirer at the gym. It was a love note! Well, I'm exaggerating. It was a "I think you're cute and want you to call me" note. It couldn't have come at a better time. It preceded an invitation from a former flame who would like to help me prepare for my upcoming golf tournament. (Via text. You've read about him before.) He saw my post about it on Facebook. You know what they say, "When one golf door closes, another one opens." They do say that…

 

Did I tell you I finally bought clubs? I had to. My boss invited the whole office to play golf in an upcoming tournament for our members. I was the only female to bite, much to my 3 team members' disappointment. I'll be playing in a foursome with 3 men who golf all the time. I know they hate me. Well, not really but, they're super annoyed that I'm going to increase their score. That's inevitable. I've never played in a real game before. I've been practicing at the driving range. Thank God I had a mini lesson during a date a few weeks ago! My drive has really improved. I'm almost up to 200 yards, I nearly jumped for joy when I got the ball to where I wanted. Once.

 

Back to my admirer. I have no idea who it is. I did pass a cute guy walking into the gym and said hello. I'm assuming it was him. I'm hoping it's another guy who I've noticed recently. I've been super smooth about it. Instead of coyly following him from the heavy weights to the pull-up area with my eyes, I've been following him with my whole head. Very inconspicuous. I'm not shy. Clearly.

 

I'd be thrilled if it was that guy. Highly unlikely, though. He's witnessed my lackadaisical push-up. He seems to be really into fitness. It's unfortunate men aren't into working out with their shirts off at my conservative gym.

 

I haven't texted my admirer yet. I will. I think it's cute. Plus, his hand-writing and spelling were good. I'd meet him for a beer. Who knows?

 

As I drove home, I remembered a conversation with one of my former bosses. She didn't get why I was perpetually single. ("Have you read my blog?" I wondered. "I'm a goofball, that's why.") She asked me if my love light was on; then, explained that her mom always told her to leave her "love light" on. It's like when you're waiting for a cab in NYC, you only try to hail the ones with the light on. It's an imaginary love antenna that men sense, apparently. I've thought about it on and off for years. I guess mine hasn't been on; maybe I've been a little too independent. (I know that's not true but my mom has been saying that for YEARS. Ugh.)

 

Anyway, I think mine's finally on. Thank you, Tinder. I'm ready.

I've been hearing about a lot of breakups lately. Some of the relationships dragged on way too long and one of the partners decided they were tired of wasting their time. Essentially. One of my friends had met someone online who she dated for two years. At the beginning of the relationship, she seemed like she could take him or leave him. I wondered, "Why, on Earth, would she continue?" Slim pickings, I suppose.

 

It does freak me out a little bit because she's beautiful. She's been married, has a grown daughter, and is exceptionally fit. Yet, she's still having a tough time finding the right match for her. I have never been married, I'm without children, and I can barely squeak out two push-ups. I'm an average brunette with an okay figure. (I've kept off the 10lbs! Hallelujah! My mom tells me I looked better 10lbs ago. I really can't win with her. Greeks are supposed to be curvy. I am; but I am also half Swedish. Minus the height.)

 

It isn't working out with my golfer, unfortunately. I liked him a lot. He didn't feel the same, apparently. So, I'm back to my friend, Tinder. I changed my age again. The choices for a, now, 43 year old woman are frightening. I'm not joking. Yuck. I know it's not all about looks but, I'm average. I'd like someone, at least, average looking. I don't get the choice of photos. Some are so goofy! I have to do a double-take on many of them because, I'm like, "Whaaatttt? Wtf is that guy thinking posting that picture?" Then, I'll shake my head and swipe left. There may be an opportunity for a decent portrait photographer. These guys need someone (female) to look at their profile pictures and just say, "No. Not that one."

 

I'm back to my 1976 birth year. It's a little white lie. Some may say a lie is a lie. Which is true. However, I gave it some thought and decided if some guy lied about his age, made it through my online parameters, and I swiped right for him, then, great. I'm glad he did it because, obviously, I'm attracted to him and would talk to him at a bar. That's what this is all about. Isn't it? Find someone you are attracted to and connect. Maybe you're attracted to someone's personality first. That's what work and school relationships are for. Since I’m through school and everyone in my office is married, that isn't going to work for me. Now, it's more about first visual impressions and spark. So, we'll see. My parameters are 5 years younger to 5 years older. That's about the same age, I think. (Right???)

 

My other friend lamenting over a break-up is a cherished high school friend. Her situation is a little different, she's going through a divorce. Currently, it's a separation but, she feels strongly that her husband is done. He cheated on her. I think he's a d-bag. My God, I can't even begin to tell you how much I hate him for putting her through the hurt and pain she's been through the last year. I married them, which pisses me off even more. Clearly, he wasn't listening to my sermon about love, understanding, and forever. When she told me, I immediately felt like punching him in the face but, since we were separated by 3,000 miles, I suggested she encourage her cats to pee on his clothes. That didn't happen. We're both too nice, I may not have done it either. I would have punched him in the face, though. (As you know, I'm taking boxing classes. With the gloves. Mine are pink.)

 

Anyway, I could go on about the saga. You get the point. It's heartbreaking. She sent me an email a few days ago telling me how sad she's been feeling because it seems to be at the point of no return. My first thought was, "You're whole. You don't need him." He brought her all this sadness for the last year. She's now having so much fun working as an extra in Hollywood. (She lives in LA.) She's making all kinds of new, fun friends AND she's beautiful! Inside and out. Of course, she's still sad about the situation. She was with him for 10 years. I'd imagine it feels like a piece of your heart goes missing. (Or, wanders off with some little tramp.)

 

Can I just tell you? It really bums me out that there's this sense that we need someone else to feel whole. We are whole. We don't need anyone else to complete us. (Damn you, Jerry Maguire!) There is always opportunity for growth and I love to be with someone who challenges me to be better. I'm looking for someone else who wants to share their whole with mine but, together, we make each other better. Is Tinder the right path? We'll see.

Can I just tell you? It looks like I won't be seeing a future American Ninja Warrior naked. Oh well. I'm not sure what's happening to me in my advanced age. I have some desire but no motivation to juggle dates. I used to be a dating machine. Maybe I just like the golfer too much. That's possible. So, in all the years of attempted online dating, I've only seen one man more than once. And, of all the sites to credit, it's Tinder, the offspring of Grindr. No judgement zone.

 

It is awkward letting someone know you're just not interested. I felt bad. We had a date scheduled for tonight. I hadn't heard from my golfer but my gut told me it isn't right to string along one just because I'm not sure about what's going to happen with the one I'd prefer. I am getting old! (FYI, I did have a birthday this weekend.) I had to text him and let him know he is super nice but, just not the one for me. His response, "Ouch." I wished him good luck in his search and that was the end of that.

 

I'm not sure how far it will go with my golfer but, it's been nice not knowing. FU, Betty.

I was in California visiting Tooty MacDoogle. Tooty (not her real name. Obviously. She's just a tooter/fahta.) It's always an adventure visiting her, this time was no different. We've been friends since high school and one of my fondest memories was when we (she) got stuck in chicken wire while we were at someone's house in East Jesus for an underage drinking party. We both had to pee and neither one of us was down with peeing in the woods so, we were making the trek to the house to find a real bathroom. Anyway, half way through the dark field we stumbled across a chicken wire fence and fell. We were laughing so hard, she peed her pants right there. Thank God for my bladder of steel or I would have peed, too. That would have had a lasting effect on my love life, although, I'm still single at 40ish so, I suppose it wouldn't have made that much of a difference.

 

Truth be told, as I put pen to paper/fingers to keyboard, I could write a full chapter on the craziness with Tooty. I may do that. Not today, though.

 

As you know, I'm not opposed to traveling alone anywhere. She had to work during a lot of my visit but offered her car if I wanted to go anywhere, which I wholeheartedly and gratefully accepted. I decided to take a tour of the Sonoma and Napa region. She lived in Sonoma, there is a small mountain range that separates the two areas. Another friend I had stopped to have a beer with told me about a spa on the way to Napa that offers mud baths. He said it was awesome and I should check it out. Cassandra Salon & Spa is currently managing my retirement account, which I will never have access to. I've never met a spa I didn't like so I made a reservation. I'll tell you up front, I'm so glad I went alone rather than with Tooty.

 

When I got there, I had to pay up front. It was around $90. Not cheap and non-refundable. I planned to do the mud baths and massage. It was lava mud which is really good at removing all toxins from your body. Now, I've never smoked a cigarette in my life, I hardly drink, and rarely consume anything that has more than 3 ingredients, all of which I can recognize. So, I'm not sure what toxins I needed to get out of my body but I did it the last time I went to Colorado and I left feeling awesome. Those were salt caves but, close enough.

 

I got a tour of the facilities and was led to the locker room. The lovely woman gave me a robe and handed me keys  on a bracelet for my locker. She said to make sure I hung onto my keys. (Did she know I had a problem with forgetting keys??) I was instructed to undress, put on the robe, and wait for an attendant to come get me. I did as I was told but kept my underpants on, I saw pictures of the mud bathtubs and thought it best to leave a layer, albeit thin, between me and my privates.

 

I casually chatted with the Spanish lady who escorted me to my worst nightmare, unbeknownst to me, of course. When we stepped into the room, the scene slowly unfolded before me. It was a giant room with a line of copper tubs, some filled with mud and some with clean water. There were showers without curtains, hearty Spanish women, fully clothed, with rubber boots, and then there were naked women in the various tubs. Uh oh, I thought. This is not for the faint of heart or the modest New Englander. As my eyes got wider, my Spanish escort, in a thick accent, said, "Hand me your rrrrrrobe." Now, I'm not fresh. Especially to anyone bigger than me. I replied, "My keys?" as I reached down to my wrist and tugged at the keys. She gave me a dirty look and repeated her request. Now, role the "r" a lot when you say it to yourself again. Tell me that doesn't sound like "keys."

 

Ugh. I asked her again if she wanted my keys. She gave me a look that she meant business and put her hand out to take my robe. Good Lord. Can I just tell you? I was wearing old underwear! I certainly wasn't going to wear a good pair in that mud. I mumbled about the panties, took them off quick and shoved them in my robe pocket as I handed over my last shred of dignity. Then, I was instructed to get in the shower. Without a shower curtain! Of course, at this point, I had managed to make a scene. Clearly, I was the only New Englander in the room because THAT is definitely not our style. Everyone was looking. I was mortified. I walked to the tub casually trying to cover my crotch and boobs. Super cool, that's how I roll.

 

I climbed into the tub and they filled it with lava mud that's supposed to make you relax. My shoulders were permanently attached to my ear lobes by that point. There was no relaxation in sight for me. The whole time I was cursing out my friend (from New England!) (but, a guy. Shame on him!) for suggesting this ridiculousness. Even when the tub was completely filled with mud, I couldn't relax. I was too busy squeezing my legs together so as not to get any mud in my uterus.

 

The mud bath was finally over, the next step in purgatory was to the shower. A nice young Spanish lady had to take a garden hose and rinse the mud off me. Awesome, I thought, now we get to pretend I'm a dog that got poop on it. After that point, I just went with it. I had to get in a clean tub and relax for 15 minutes, hop in the steam room, then go get my massage. Super relaxing. Especially when I had to wonder if my shoulders would every release my neck again. It was like they had it in a choke hold.

 

You'd think I'd want to forget about my experience as soon as possible. Nope, I ended up buying a cucumber lotion as a memento of my misadventure. When I got to the car, I finally relaxed. My shoulders released and I started laughing until tears were running down my cheeks. I called the idiot friend who suggested the place and told him he should be ashamed of himself. Had Tooty been there, we would have drowned in the mud from sheer embarrassment laughter.

 

When you find yourself in a public exercise park, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, with someone singing their rendition of Olivia Newton John's  Let's Get Physical at the top of their lungs, you know you're in good company and an adventure is bound to happen. That's how the week started with Tooty. She's a keeper. Not in the mud, though.

As you know, I love golf. Sort of. I have been known to brag about my close to perfectly straight drive (that only goes 50 to 100 yards, on a good day.) However, I always like to hear a man I'm dating golfs. Why? I'm always looking to improve some aspect of my life. My golf game is one of them.

 

In fact, as I'm getting older and getting a little more particular about who I spend my time with, especially now that I know I have many choices via Tinder, I'm looking at what would make me choose one man vs. another provided they are both interested in me, of course. I was visiting with two women who I've known for 15 years or more. I was telling them about Tinder, how it works, and what is happening in my love life. They both agreed it was like shopping and wholeheartedly approved.

 

In 3 weeks, I've been on 6 dates, met 3 men in person, and one is actively texting and expressing exceptionally high interest. (Don't get me started on how much I hate men who only text. Seriously. Grow a pair. Why I keep responding I can only blame on gluttony and boredom.) It's down to 2 men, at this point. (To give you a little background, my last real date was over 7 months ago. Shameful! I know. I just didn't want to go online. It seems like the only people online are the ones who can't find a date. Cue the violin and face the mirror. Hence, Tinder.)

 

Both men are, essentially, equal. Both are tall, handsome, smart, and funny. And, more importantly, live closer to my office than I do. One is a former marine, business owner, and has aspirations of getting on to American Ninja Warrior. I can't even begin to tell you how much I would like to see him naked. Truth. Have you seen that show? Those people are ripped. Seriously. I can barely get to three push-ups and I really try (a little bit. See "work ethic" in one of my previous posts.) They both have two children, I wouldn't have to worry about not being able to have a child if that was the case. However, neither seems to want more kids. If it seems like things are going to work out, for real, with either of them, I'm going to have to do a deep dive soul searching to make sure I'm really okay with giving up. As I'm writing, I'm tearing up a tiny bit at the thought of it. That is a bummer. It's a whole other bag of worms or "can I just tell you?" I digress.

 

Anyway, one golfs. Really well. And, he's not playing fair. He sent me a picture of him and his ADORABLE two little boys. Honestly, I melted when I saw the picture. I don't want to meet them anytime soon because I know it's going to be love at first site. The other one has teenagers. I love teenagers. I taught high school forever and teens usually like me. A lot. Not like that. They just typically think I'm funny. Because I am.

 

Teenagers can be tough though, especially a girl. His oldest is a 14 year old girl. I haven't seen pictures yet so, I'm not sure if they're cute kids. I know I'm a terrible human being. If I saw a cute guy on Tinder and started to swipe through his pictures and discovered his kids are on the homely side, I won't even give him a second thought. Why? Because he a) either has lousy taste in women or b) has bad genes. I don't want any part in that.

 

Back to my decisions… I was telling my mom about both dates last night. Surprisingly, my mom agreed with me that I should keep dating both. Very progressive of her and unusual. For her. Anyway, I started to explain that one would make me better, generally speaking. The other, I would make better. She was cheering for the one I would make better. Of course. (Well documented, my mom is married to her 5th child.)

 

Can I just tell you? I know which one I'm cheering for; nothing is more endearing to me then someone who not only laughs at my jokes but also his own; because he knows he's funny, too. And golfs.