Tag Archives: relationships

“Single, Female, Mormon, Alone”

Okay, so I’m only three of the four.

This article is about a Mormon woman who ended up 35 and single (also), something not very common in the Mormon religion. Being a practicing Mormon, she did not have sex before marriage, and so ended up a 35 year old virgin. The article talks about how she felt like she was half-woman half-child, and about her “rebellion.” A very interesting, touching story.

But here’s the part that struck me:

I was just never sure what my problem was. Until one man let me know. After overhearing a friend and me comparing our weekend horror-date stories, he walked up to me and asked, “You know what your problem is?”

No, I did not know what my problem was. And I was dying to find out.

“Your problem,” he said, “is you don’t need a man.”

I thought that was a good thing — to be able to take care of oneself.

He asked if I had a job.


“A car?”


“A house?”



“Of course.”



“That’s your problem.”

“Excuse me?”

“Men in the church are raised to be providers. We are the breadwinners, the stewards of the household. If you have all the things we’re supposed to provide, we have nothing to give you.”

I’ve actually been told this by a male friend of mine. The fact that I am able to provide for myself and don’t “need” a man is exactly why I don’t have one. I don’t give the man an opportunity to provide for me, because I don’t need him to, and that’s why I’m single.

Well, duh! Of course I can take care of myself – I kind of have to! If I didn’t, who would?

It stuck with me, though. Is this really the issue? I don’t make a man feel needed? What should I do instead, call a man when I need the toilet fixed, jump on the couch and squeal when I see a mouse run across the floor? I do those things, it’s just that there’s no man around to witness it.

Most of the married women I know are extremely self-sufficient, and they don’t need a man, they are more than able to provide for themselves. So surely that’s not the issue.

Is it?

I would love to have a man around to do the things I can’t. But I also want a man around who appreciates what I can do.

The Concert that Wasn’t (Or, How I ended up here, part 1)

Summer, 2002. The Eagles were playing their farewell concert tour in smaller cities across the country, which is the only way Little Rock would have had that big of a concert. I decided to buy my parents tickets to the concert – a joint gift encompassing Mom’s Birthday (April), Mother’s Day (May), Father’s Day (June), and Dad’s Birthday (September). I wanted to go, too, but tickets were $98 a piece. I simply couldn’t afford it.

The concert was July 2. I had been kicking myself all day for not buying myself a ticket to the concert, price be damned. It was The Eagles Last Tour! I would never have a chance to see them again! Dumb, dumb, dumb. My friend “Marissa” asked me if I wanted to try rock climbing, and I agreed. We would be meeting another friend of ours, “Don”, at a nearby “mountain” on the west side of town. We hiked up the trail, and found several other people at the small wall setting up to climb. Don knew most of them, including “Luke”.

Luke was…calm. Mellow. Patient. Nice. He seemed only too happy to teach us, show us how to tie knots and belay and climb and set up ropes. He patiently went over things again and again. He was strong, competent. Patient. I know I keep repeating that word, but that’s still the overall image I have of him. He was always so patient with others, so much more than he was with himself. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

We spent several hours climbing, the Arkansas summer evening providing us with sunlight until 9pm. As dusk set, Luke and I walked up to the top of the climbing wall to take down the topropes. We stood, watching the last rays of the sun drop over the next ridge. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. And I felt so peaceful standing there, in nature, next to a kind person, and I felt the first bits of attraction.

My friend Marissa and I were hooked. On the way home, we talked about how much fun we had had, and how nice Matt was, and how much we had learned. We had already taken Luke up on his offer to meet him the next evening, to climb again. Marissa expressed her attraction to Luke in one way or another, perhaps a “He’s really cute” or some such phrase. I agreed. Being the kind of person I was then (am still?), I determined that she was interested, and she had “Dibs.” If he liked her, I would have no problem with that. He had certainly shown no preferential treatment towards either of us, and for all we knew he could have a girlfriend, but regardless, she had expressed interest, and I didn’t feel the need to fight her for him.

We started spending every night after work climbing. I lost fingernails. My hands were torn up, and I started to get calluses. I had bruises, on my knees, elbows, thighs. I loved every single moment of it. When Luke asked if we wanted to do a weekend trip to Northwest Arkansas, Marissa and I jumped at the chance. A whole weekend of climbing – we couldn’t wait. And it was great. It was the first of many weekend trips. We were both hooked.

At one point, maybe the second week of our after work climbs, a group of us decided to go grab a bite to eat and a margarita after climbing. We went to a local Mexican restaurant and sat on the patio, enjoying the warm night and the cold margaritas. We paid our tabs and went out to the parking lot. Marissa and Luke and I stood out by our cars for a long time, talking. Finally, Marissa left, leaving Luke and I by ourselves.

I don’t know when the flirting began, maybe it had been going on for a week. I don’t know who stepped closer first. But we kissed, and I had a moment of triumph that I am still not very proud of. I had beat Marissa. Luke wanted me, not her. I was a competitive female when it came to dating, evidently.

One night, we were in his apartment, having dinner, and we got into a tickling fight. When we were exhausted from laughing so hard, he said he loved me. I didn’t think he meant to, and so I was going to act like I hadn’t heard him, but I changed my mind and called him on it. I looked him in the eye. “What did you say?” He had sobered, and he repeated it. So this is what this feels like, I thought.

Luke and I were inseparable. I think my coworkers think that he beat me, because I came in every Monday covered in fresh bruises and scratches, but they were all from climbing, and hiking through heavy brush. My dad, at one point during a happy hour, remarked, “I’ve never seen you this happy before.” And I was. I was incandescent. I glowed. I walked around with a huge smile on my face and felt like I was about to burst from the happiness.

And then.

“We need to talk.”

Luke had gotten a job offer in Denver. A dream job for him. He didn’t like Little Rock, the job paid a lot more than what he was making, and he had always dreamed of living in Colorado. It was just after Christmas. He took the job.

I don’t know if he asked or I offered, but suddenly I was moving to Denver, too. We searched online for a place to live, comparing prices and reviews of apartment complexes and areas of town. We packed up a U-Haul, hooked up his truck to it, and drove to Denver.

I remember driving across Kansas, thinking how pretty the golden fields looked at sunrise, loving the single tree in the middle of a field.

Eight hours later, I was begging him to get us the hell out of Kansas.

We crossed the state line. “Welcome to Colorful Colorado!” I looked around. Colorful?

Welcome to Colorful Colorado
Image by teofilo via Flickr

“Denver – 13 miles.”

I looked around. I could barely make out the mountains on the horizon. It still looked like we were in Kansas. I didn’t understand. I had always thought Denver was in the middle of the mountains. I didn’t know that it was “the lawn chair to the Rockies.” Luke always teased that I got tears in my eyes, looking around at the brown, barren land 13 miles east of Denver. I don’t know, maybe he’s right. Maybe I knew, then, that my life would become brown, barren, desolate.

Our apartment, however, was a wonderful surprise. We were in Lakewood, almost to Golden, and we had a beautiful, unobstructed view of the foothills. My dad happened to be in town on business, so he and an associate of his helped us unload the U-Haul. We unhooked Luke’s pickup truck and drove back to Little Rock – he still had a week of work left, and I had several weeks.

“Little Rock – 13 miles.”

I was driving. It was dark, maybe 7pm, and traffic heading into town was pretty heavy. Luke was asleep in the passenger seat. I was exhausted, but we were almost home. I was in the left lane, doing 70mph in a long line of cars, passing another long line of cars in the right lane. I noticed, in the right lane up ahead, a pickup truck with a bunch of furniture in the back. More people moving. As I watched, a bookcase (or was it an entertainment center?) floated up, caught on the wind, and flew out of the truck.

It’s funny what happens in those situations – it’s like time moves really slow. Or maybe it just goes to prove how fast and unconsciously the brain can work. I assessed my exit routes in a millisecond – there were none. A grassy ditch to my left, cars to my right. There was a line of cars in front of me. If I slammed on my brakes, we’d get rear ended and cause a pileup behind us. My foot came up off the gas. I saw brake lights flicker in front of me, saw the car ahead swerve onto the narrow shoulder and back into the lane.  I watched the furniture as it slowly descended. I must have made some kind of noise, because suddenly Luke was fully alert, sitting fully upright and leaning forward, yelling, “Oh, shit!” as he saw what was happening. The furniture hit the road directly in front of the truck, maybe two feet in front, and bounced back up, hitting the underside of the front bumper, the engine block. I was finally able to brake, pull over into the grassy median, followed by several other cars, as more cars pulled off to the right. In all, about ten cars pulled over because they had been hit with debris. I came to a stop, somehow remembering to put the clutch in, put it in neutral, and put the emergency brake on.

And then I fell apart. Shaking, crying, unable to breathe. Adrenaline is funny.

It took a week to get the truck fixed. It needed a new boot, and Luke put four new tires on, at a cost of about $250/ea. He drove back to Denver by himself, while I stayed in Little Rock. I can’t remember why I had several weeks of work left, but I did.

When you get onto I-70 in Kansas, it is perhaps the longest, straightest piece of interstate you will ever find. On the west side of the state, there is a curve in the road. It comes out at Colby. At two am, Luke fell asleep at the wheel, lost control of the truck, and flipped twelve times. The large exit sign stopped him from flipping a thirteenth.

Amazingly, he walked away. He was covered in glass, and his body would secrete slivers of it for the next year. His worst injury was a torn rotator cuff. The truck was totaled. I saw pictures of it later. The entire passenger side was crushed. If I had been in it, I’d have been dead.

There is some funny to this. Included in the covered bed of the truck was my drawer of “pretty panties,” you know, the ones that really aren’t that comfy, but they’re pretty, and you wear them for special occasions? They were littered across the shoulder of the interstate. All the contents of my liquor cabinet were in the truck, prompting the responding officer to sniff, look very sternly at Luke, and ask, “You been drinkin’?” I had a beautiful full lead crystal vase in the box it came in, with absolutely no packing materials around it. It was thrown 70 feet from the truck, the box was torn to shreds, but there wasn’t a scratch on the vase. I still have it – it became a representation of me, still intact, even after going through hell.

Because of the accident, I left work early. My boss understood, and I drove into Denver at 5pm on February 14, 2003. Valentine’s Day. I was starving. We quickly unloaded my car and went to get a bite to eat. Every place we went to had a two hour wait. I was ready to gnaw my own arm off, I was so hungry. Finally, we found a Mexican place with a no wait. Evidently, Mexican food is not romantic enough for Valentine’s Day.

Luke had to have rotator cuff surgery – not a fun surgery for anyone, I know. He had no function in his shoulder for months, so rock climbing was out of the question. That’s when I learned that Luke loved climbing more than me.

He was a complete bear to live with. He was in constant pain, which made him tired and irritable. He couldn’t participate in his favorite sport, the sport he had very specifically moved to Colorado for to be closer to. I realize, now, that I put too much of my happiness on his shoulders.  He was working, and I was unemployed.  I didn’t know anyone. I spent my days cleaning – I have never had that clean of a house, ever. I pine-sol’d the shower walls daily. Yes, seriously. I cooked dinner every night, very much the housewife, and waited anxiously for Luke to come home. I literally sat at the window every afternoon, waiting to see him drive up. I was so lonely. But when he came home, I was still lonely, and I began to resent him. I had moved to Colorado for him, and he was doing nothing to make me feel like it was worth it. 

The patient man I knew was decidedly impatient about his injury. I listened to him moan about his shoulder, the pain, and I tried to be understanding, but I wanted to scream at him, “YOU’RE ALIVE! YOU WALKED AWAY! YOU COULD HAVE DIED!” Finally, one day, I did break down. “You could have died!” I said.

He said he wished he had died.

I lost it on him. All of my patience and understanding flew out the window. “Maybe you should have! What do you care that that you’re still alive? Did you even think about what it would do to me if you had died? What it would do to your parents?”

“At least then they would have the insurance money,” he said, sullen.

It’s really no big surprise that we broke up. We probably would have, anyway, but I always blame the accident. I feel like, if he hadn’t had the accident and been injured, he would have been able to climb, and he would have been happier, and then I would have been happier. And I think all that is true, but I know that, in the end, we wouldn’t have worked out. We were different people.

There’s one memory that stands out that illustrates that. We were up in the mountains, hiking a remote trail, and we got to the top and sat down, staring at the next ridgeline. “Couldn’t you just sit and stare at this all day?” he asked.

I blinked at the view. No. No, I couldn’t. Staring at that ridgeline that day, I was bored out of my mind. It’s a mountain, I said. It doesn’t do anything. There’s no change. There’s no movement, no sound. It’s just…there. Always. Doing nothing.

And I think that, in the end, what attracted me most to him is why we were such different people. His patience allowed him to sit and stare at nothing, in silence.

I’ve discovered that I need the ocean, the constant shushing of the waves, to drown out the noise in my head. I’m not a patient person.

I don’t climb anymore. Oh, I go to the climbing gym every once in a while, but I haven’t been outside since I left Colorado. There’s a level of trust and skill you need to climb with someone, and I don’t know that I’ll ever find that in a climbing partner again. Actually, what’s funny is that it’s that very trust that probably bonded us together in the first place. I literally had to trust him with my life. It’s a lot easier to love someone when you have to trust them, rely on them. It forces a bond you wouldn’t normally have when meeting someone in a social situation.

I still think back to the Luke I met that July evening, that kind, patient, competent man with the calm demeanor. Nothing frazzled him. He was the guy that, when under pressure, took charge calmly and efficiently. It soothed me. Something in me, something I still don’t really understand, responded to that. I still respond to that memory of him. I still love that man.  And I hope he’s happy.

Let it go

let it go...

Image by Norma Desmond via Flickr


I’ve been working on getting rid of a lot of clutter from my condo.  Cleaning out.  What I’ve done so far has helped me breathe easier – I wonder how I’ll feel when it’s done.

My friend loaned me a book that helped her out:  Clear Your Clutter with Feng Shui, by Karen Kingston.  I’ve been skimming it, mostly, and I’m about halfway through, and this one part jumped out at me.  I even wrote it down.

Life is constant change.  So when something comes into your life enjoy it, use it well, and when it is time, let it go.  It is that simple.  Just because you own something, it doesn’t mean that you have to keep it forever.  You are just a temporary custodian of many things as they pass through your life.

For some reason, I immediately, without thought, applied this not to my home, my material posessions, but to my personal life, to the things I’ve been holding onto mentally.  Of course, this is kind of the point – you clear out the physical clutter, it helps you clear out the mental clutter. 

But this quote literally stopped me in my tracks.  I reread it several times, thought about it, read it a few more times.     “When something comes into your life enjoy it, use it well, and when it is time, let it go.”

Enjoy it.

Use it well (or, learn from it).

Let it go.

Let it go.

Today I happened upon this article on CNN about de-cluttering.  The author suggests evaluating everything you own as if you are moving overseas – what would you take with you in the limited space available?

Again, certain things jumped out at me, because I unconsciously applied them to my mental clutter, not material possesions. 

  • “Is this thing worth hauling 6,000 miles across an ocean and in to a new home? Is it providing that much meaning and value to my life? If not, why bother having it now?”  Is this mental baggage I’m carrying worth carrying it around with me, is it adding meaning or value to my life?
  • “It’s just stuff. You think you’ll miss [it]…but once it’s gone, you really don’t. Getting rid of something isn’t just saying no, it’s saying yes to what you’re gaining — more space, more visual clarity…”  Get rid of the mental anguish, gain clarity.
  • “It’s about everything in your life having value. It’s looking at all your belongings and knowing that you’ve given that thing permission to be there, that the item is truly adding value and beauty to your life.”  It’s about looking at all of your thoughts and knowing that they are truly adding value and beauty to your life.

It’s not easy, de-cluttering your life, or your mind.  It’s really difficult to let go of some things.  But I’m working harder at it.

Can’t Find a Better Man

Waitin’, watchin’ the clock, it’s four o’clock, it’s got to stop
Tell him, take no more, she practices her speech
As he opens the door, she rolls over
Pretends to sleep as he looks her over
She lies and says she’s in love with him
Can’t find a better man
She dreams in color, she dreams in red
Can’t find a better man

I love this song. It’s one of the songs I sing along to without even thinking about it. I have for years.

I’ve also applied the song to many a boyfriend. P2. Colorado Boyfriend. A couple of great guys that I just didn’t love, despite wanting to.

I’ve always assumed the song was about an abusive relationship, although it never actually says that. Looking on the internet, I found that Vedder wrote this about his mother’s husband, his stepfather, who was evidently abusive towards his mother.

However, I think it can apply to many non-abusive relationships. Relationships in which a person isn’t happy, and yet they stay. They’re not happy with the state of the relationship, or they don’t really love the person anymore, or they’re simply worried that there’s no one else out there for them.

I want to note, none of my boyfriends were abusive, but I can relate to the other meanings.

I’ve said it before – I don’t believe in settling, not if you’re truly looking for love. I don’t think it’s fair to you, or to the person you’re settling for. If all you want is kids and a family, and that’s what the other person wants, too, and you get along well enough and you both agree that it’s more a business arrangement than a love story, then it’s not really settling at that point. Go for it. But if you want love, and romance, and you’re with someone just because you don’t think you can find anyone else…well, that just seems like a miserable existence to me.

I’ve been there in the short term. I’ve been waiting for a boyfriend to show up, thinking, “I need to end this, this isn’t what I want.” And the guy comes in and I take a breath to start “The Talk,” and I just…can’t. Because what if there is no one better out there for me? Because I don’t want to start the process all over again. Because I’m tired and I just want to be In A Relationship, so I don’t have to keep trying. Because what if I never find someone?

But in the end, I’d rather be happy with myself, the person I am. I’d rather like myself, knowing I didn’t fake it. Regardless of how unhappy I sometimes get being single, I’d rather be happy and alone then with someone and miserable.

(The picture above is an original piece by Carrie Graber.  Please check out her artwork here – she’s phenomenal.  I’ve previously posted about her here.)

This is it.

It’s not as easy as everyone thinks it is, as everyone expects it to be.  Getting over a betrayal is more brutal than the betrayal itself, if that’s possible.  At least the betrayal is only done once.  Getting over it involves going over it again and again in your head.  It’s like beating your head against a wall, or placing it under a car tire and putting the car in reverse, then back in drive, then back in reverse, then back in drive.  The entire course of the betrayal is remapped, again and again, in an attempt to figure out when things went awry, to figure out if you should have known.

There’s hurt.  Hurt that the person you loved, the person you thought loved you, could treat you so cruelly, could have so little respect for your feelings.

There’s anger.  At him.  At yourself.  The anger at yourself is actually the hardest to take.  You should have known.  You should have known. YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN. How stupid could you possibly be?  How did you not know?  The signs were everywhere!  And you know everyone else is thinking the same thing – how could she not have known, the signs were there!

You have your days.  Good days, when you’re relatively okay.  Great days, when you’re happy and you don’t even think about him or it until you realize you haven’t thought about it.

Then there are the bad days.  The days when it eats at you, and you feel like you have holes in your gums, your esophagus, your stomach.  You feel like you really might throw up.  Your salivary glands actually start producing the sourness that indicates impending upchucking.

The bad days come less and less often, because that’s the way life works.  It moves on.  They (the ubiquitous they) often say that life moves on “with or without you,” but that’s not really accurate.  It can’t actually move on without you.  Even if you don’t want to move on, Life will still pull you along, like a recalcitrant puppy on a leash.  It pulls you until you forget that you don’t want to be dragged along, until something shiny captures your attention and makes you forget, even momentarily.  It’s therapeutic, in that way.  Life doesn’t care about you or me or what we are going through. It just moves along, a tornado, ripping this house apart, then veering like a drunk college student at Oktoberfest, leaving the house next to it completely unscathed.

That’s what I imagine he is – unscathed.  Going about his life, unencumbered by the hurt and pain he has caused, unperturbed by the lies that he told.  Not a care in the world, certainly not a care about the woman he led on for a year and a half.  A charmed life, happy-go-lucky.  That is, after all, his personality, and part of what I liked so much about him, even as it drove me crazy.

There’s the self-doubt.  Was it something I did?  Was I not good enough?  Does she have something I don’t?  Why did he choose her over me?  What’s wrong with ME?

***   ***  ***

I wrote that back in April, as part of a fiction piece I was working on.  Autobiographical?  You think??

I still have bad days, days like the ones described above.  I hate to say it, but almost every day when I pull into my condo I half expect to see his car, expect him to be there, waiting for me to get home.  Waiting to explain, to apologize.  I sometimes expect the phone to ring, and it to be him.  The doorbell rings, and I think, for half a second, that it might be him.

Am I still angry?  Yes.

Am I still hurt?  Yes.

Do I still want an apology?  Yes.

Do I still want an explanation?  Yes.

Am I ready to forgive?  The answer might surprise you.

I’ve had people ask me, “What would you do if he showed up and asked you to take him back?”  I wish I knew the answer to that.  My head, my pride, says that I’d say Hell No.  But I can’t deny there’s a part of me that wants what we had back.  Or, I should say, wants what I thought we had back.  I don’t deny that it would be a hard road; forgiveness would be a long time coming, trust even longer.  I hate myself for even thinking about it, but I can’t help it.  It goes deeper than loving him – it’s more about loving me when I was with him.  Loving the happiness he brought me, the way I felt when I was with him.  I felt different.  I felt like a better, happier person.

And I’m not saying better, happier than I am today.  That’s pretty obvious.  I’m saying better, happier than I ever was in any other relationship I’ve ever been in.  Better, happier, than I was in the past.

You know how they say love is like a mirror?  I saw myself, and I liked myself.  Even more to the point, I wanted to be a better person, for him.

***   ***   ***

The good memories:

  • We’d be sitting on the couch, watching TV, and he would bend his head down and just inhale – my hair, my skin.  He said he loved the way I smelled.
  • The feeling I would get when he walked in after a trip – I felt like the sun was bursting out of me.  Even on days when I would be mad at him for being late, he would walk down the stairs and I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.
  • The intellectual discussions we would have.
  • The stupid conversations we would have.
  • The random texts that let me know he was thinking about me.
  • The way we fit together so well, curled up in bed.  I don’t mean this in any sexual way – I mean, snuggling, we fit.  And he mentioned it all the time, remarking on how rare that was.
  • The way he loved everything I cooked and truly appreciated the effort I made, even though one time I made pork and he thought it was chicken.

The bad memories:

  • His habitual tardiness.
  • His inconsistent communication.

Obviously I’m not including the lies I didn’t know about, the cheating I didn’t know about, the hurt that was to come that I couldn’t foresee.

***   ***   ***

It’s hard, coming to terms with the fact that the person you loved never loved you.  I’ve been trying so hard to move on, but it’s not really something you can rush.  It’s not something you can bend to your timetable.  I wish it was.

Yes, there’s a part of me that wants him to read this and feel bad and finally grow a set and apologize to me.  Will that ever happen?  I don’t know.  I feel like if he were sorry, he’d tell me so.  And the fact that he hasn’t tells me he’s not sorry.  And that hurts.

I’ve wondered if the reason he hasn’t contacted me is because of Her, The Other Woman.  Maybe he’s worried that if he contacts me in any way, I would blog about it, and it would mess things up with her.  I’ve considered sending him a letter, c/o his friend, but really, what good would it do?  I don’t want to involve his friend any more than he’s already been involved, and besides, can you imagine what it would do to me if he still didn’t respond?

***   ***   ***

I’m getting it all out on this one, because I’m sick of just letting bits and pieces out.  I hope that in just letting the floodgates open and purging all of this, I will be done with it.  With that in mind, a couple of random things:

I was looking back through some blog stats recently.  Through wordpress, I can see search terms used to get to my blog, how many times a specific post is viewed, and, if someone links to my page from somewhere else, I can see where they come from (for example, if someone has me listed on their webpage, and someone clicks on that listing to get to me, it will show an incoming link from that webpage).  I noticed that the most visits I’ve ever had in one day was 191, on December 29th.  I figured that was The Pilot’s girlfriend viewing each and every one of my blog posts, since it was right about the time everything went down, and the day before she emailed me.  But then I noticed an interesting incoming link.  The incoming link was from a Facebook account.  The Pilot’s mother’s Facebook account, to be specific.  So evidently she knew about all this.  Which I found interesting.

You know that Lady Antebellum song “I Need You”?  I HATED it when it first came out, couldn’t stand to even hear it.  I recently realized that I wasn’t ready to admit the truth to myself.  “I wonder if I ever cross your mind?  For me it happens all the time.”  I feel that way entirely too often.

He asked me, in December, if I would move to Dubai with him if he got a job out there.  Literally a week before the shit hit the fan, he asked me that.  I told him I would, if we were married.  He nodded, as if he were taking it into consideration.  I feel so dumb for actually thinking that was a possibility.

***   ***   ***

What it comes down to is this:  I can’t come to terms with the fact that he cared so little for me.  I feel like, if I knew he felt bad, if I knew he regretted what he did to me, it might be better.  But I can’t say that’s the case.  Everything points to the fact that he cared nothing for me, that he lied to me, told me he loved me when he didn’t, purposely led me on and then dumped me.  Dumped me like he was taking out the trash.  And all of that is so…

Demeaning.  Humiliating.  It stripped me of my self-worth, my self-esteem, and I haven’t gotten that back yet.  And it’s hard to admit that someone could do that to me, that someone could have that much of an influence on my life.  Damnit, I am a strong, independent woman, and yet this sorry excuse for a man has essentially broken me.

What does it say about ME, that someone could do that to me?

There’s nothing worse than hating yourself.  And I hate myself for still loving him.

***   ***   ***

The bottom line:  I want to be able to stop thinking about it.  I want to make it stop defining my life.

This is it.  I’m done.  I genuinely hope that I never blog about The Pilot again, that he is only mentioned in passing, in the same way Soccer Guy and my Denver boyfriend have been.  If I do feel the need to blog about him again, I will make it a private post.  I know everyone is sick to death of hearing about this, and I know I’m sick of hearing the phrases, “You’re better off without him,” and “It will all work out,” and “Everything happens for a reason,” and “”You’ll find someone better,” and every other well-meaning words of wisdom/encouragement/kindness.  I know you all mean well, I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m sure you’re all sick of saying them.  So please don’t feel like you have to.

A final note to The Pilot, should he happen to read this, or should someone he knows happen to read this and want to forward it on:  If you cared anything for me, give me the chance to forgive you so I can move on.  Give me closure – I deserve that much, at least.  I know you ran into my friend, and it was mentioned that too much time has passed.  It hasn’t.  It’s not too late.

Another Lonely Night

Had a first date tonight – another perfectly fine date in a long line of perfectly fine but not quite IT dates. 

And all these perfectly fine but not IT dates just make me sad.  They make me miss HIM.  They make me yearn to be back in a relationship.

You know what truly sucks about being single?  No matter how wonderful your friends are, how much they care for you and love you and hug you, you’re still missing that one perfect hug, that one perfect kiss, that makes everything all better. 

I miss that comfort.  The comfort of his arms around me, the comfort of his presense, even when he wasn’t there.  I miss knowing I’m not alone.  Knowing that someone is thinking about me.  That someone loves me.

You can be alone but not lonely.  And you can be lonely, but not alone.  Do you know which is worse? 

I love being alone, I love me time, I love the quiet and the lack of pressure to be social.  I hate being lonely.  HATE. 

I know my friends love me, but that doesn’t make up for the lack of love I have.  I still have no one to hold me when I’m lonely.  I still have no one to kiss me, hug me, hold me, let me know they’re there.  

And even though I know he wasn’t there, I could pretend he was.  I could pretend he was thinking about me.  I could pretend he cared.  Knowing he didn’t, knowing no one does, in that capacity, hurts.  In a soul-crushing way.

I want someone to share my innermost fears and dreams with, someone I can cry to, someone who knows me.  I have that, I know do, but there’s still a big, huge, gaping distance between a friend in that capacity, and a soul mate, a lover, a lover that is also a friend.

There’s a loneliness that exists beyond the realm a friend alone can breach. 

I miss being held in the night.  I miss the companionable silence.  I miss the sense of peace.   

I miss him. 

And I hate it.

I hate that I miss him, regardless of everything else that’s happened.

“Make Love Happen”

Well, I’ve officially been back on Match for 6 months. I have followed all their little rules and now I get the next 6 months free. Not necessarily reason to rejoice. You mean I get to do this for six more months? Yay.

Let’s look at the numbers, shall we?

I’ve been online for 6 months. In that time, my profile has been viewed 3049 times by 972 different people. I’ve had contact (winked or been winked at, emailed or been emailed) with 174 men, 23 of whom I’ve initiated contact with (and 2 of whom have responded to my initiation). I went on a total of 11 first dates, 4 second dates, and 3 third dates. I kissed 1 man.

I updated my profile a couple of times, and changed some pictures. I tried not to go longer than 3 days between logins, but occasionally I did go over that. I responded to everyone, even if it was just an automatic “no, thanks” response.

I thought this time around was slower than the last time I was on, so I decided to compare the two. In my initial 6 months of my previous time on Match, my profile was viewed 2956 times, and I had contact with 155 different men. I don’t know how many different men viewed my profile, as I didn’t track that last time. I also don’t know how many dates I went on.

So actually, I was a little more active this time around – but I still don’t think I went on as many dates as I did last time.

Now let’s go back to one of the statements above. I initiated contact with 23 men. Most of those, I emailed. Out of those 23 men, only 2 responded.

What the hell has this world come to, when a man gets an email from a woman, indicating her interest in getting to know him, and he doesn’t have the courtesy to respond? An attractive, intelligent woman, at that. It’s not like I’m some troll emailing a Brad Pitt look-alike.

Grr. Dating sucks. All of you married people who come up to me and say, “Oh, you’re so lucky that you’re single, you can do whatever you want, go on a bunch of dates, have fun,” I have one thing to say to you.

Bite me.

Friday FunDay

A compilation of a few emails I’ve had recently:


I told you I’ve been emailing that guy at work, and we’ve written some long, in depth emails. We were talking about the beach, and he said: “There’s something about being at the beach in the winter, barefoot and in blue jeans, and not seeing anyone almost as far as the eye can see in either direction. Especially when it’s a little windy. Being by the sea can make you feel so connected and so separated all at once, if that makes sense….When you’re alone at the beach, I think it feels like that part of the world is just for you – like, no one else is experiencing that part of the sea at that particular moment. Everything from one horizon to the other, and everything in between. I love that feeling.”

Damn if he didn’t hit the nail on the head. I had to write it down somewhere, because it’s perfect. “You feel so connected and so separated all at once.” Beautiful.


My lovely friends and I had another great, humorous email chain going this week. It started off with a serious discussion about kids and entitlement, and then it went somewhere else, and I said, “Email Hijack!” Someone else attached the wonderful, fabulous, hysterical picture of the bunny with a pancake on his head. I then found out (because my friends are so darn smart) that this bunny’s name is Oolong, and he is famous for balancing things on his head. Evidently there was some controversy over this bunny, with animal rights activists saying that making the bunny balance things on his head was animal cruelty. You know what that means, right? You can no longer teach your dog to sit, shake, or roll over. Because it’s animal cruelty.


The fun email week ended late in the day today with an email conversation with my friend, The Bartender. We were discussing another friend of ours who orders Philly Cheese steaks with no onions and no peppers. I mentioned that I don’t like those things either, which is why I don’t order Philly Cheese steaks, because when you take away a key ingredient, it’s no longer what it was. I gave the example of ordering spaghetti and meatballs, without the meatballs, and hold the tomato sauce. My friend: “It’s like when I order a hot woman with issues, but hold the issues.” Me: “Yes – You’ve just taken away the entire flavor of the dish.” Him: “So what flavor are you?”

My response: “I would say I’m one of those dishes that’s in the comfort food category….like Chicken & Dumplings. Only with a dash or two of cayenne, or maybe chipotle Tabasco, to (although I hate the phrase as used by Emeril) kick it up a notch. Enough to give you a good taste, but not enough to burn your taste buds off, and depending on your tolerance to spicy food, I’ll either suit you just fine or burn your a$$. But if you leave that bit of heat off, the dish is just a little too bland, so you just have to take your chances that it’s the right amount of heat.” (Of course, I also should have added that I might not be enough spice for you…you know, for those guys who just LOVE the crazy girls.)

Have I mentioned lately that I love my friends? They keep me sane at work!

Enjoy your weekend,

Delightful Eccentric

My life’s okay

Blog post in haiku:

My life’s okay,

Have Job, Home, Food, Health, Friends –

It could be worse.

Seriously. I realize that there are people far worse off than I am, and that my problems and issues don’t add up to spoonful of the heaping mess that some people deal with.

I’m employed, and have money in the bank, and can pay my bills and have some spending money. I own my own home, and don’t have to worry about where my next meal is going to come from.

I’m college educated, have reliable transportation, electricity and running water.

I am healthy, disease free, with no real physical or mental limitations.

I’ve never had a man hit me. I’ve never had to deal with date rape or unwanted pregnancy or a psycho stalker. I’ve never had to deal with divorce and custody battles and child support. I’ve never had to deal with the death of a child.

I have a loving family that I get along with quite well. I have friends who care about me, who would (and have) jump in their car in the middle of the night to rescue me from the side of the road, who would offer me a place to stay and food and clothes off their back if I needed it.

I know all this. Which is why I feel really bad when I have my “Woe is Me” moments. Oh, boohoo, I can’t afford a trip to Europe. Oh, boohoo, I can’t afford a new car. Oh, boohoo, my boyfriend cheated on me and dumped me (although, does it count as being dumped if he just disappeared?). Oh, boohoo, I don’t get to go out to eat as often as I would like. Oh, boohoo, some days I don’t like my job very much. Oh, boohoo, I can’t run 3 miles in 30 minutes.


I get it.

Doesn’t mean I don’t want things to be better.

The head can say it all day long, yell and scream and shout through a bullhorn, but the heart, the soul, the core of you doesn’t always listen, or pay attention to reason.

Sucks, don’t it?

What do you boohoo about, even though you know it could be worse?

You can get cobwebs down there, you know

Damn it, I’ve been meaning to write a blog post about this for several weeks now, and The Single Filez beat me to it! (She also wrote a post about interracial dating, which I’ve been meaning to write about…it’s like she’s reading my mind….)

I don’t know how many TV shows and movies I’ve watched where, when talking about sex, someone says they haven’t had it in a certain amount of time, and everyone else is shocked that it’s been that long.

Usually, the time period is something like 6 months.

“Oh my god, you haven’t had sex in 6 months? You can get cobwebs down there, you know!”

Really???? 6 months is a long time to go? Jeez, I’ve gone far, far longer than that before. I know I’ve gone over 2 years before, more than once, and I may have broken the three year mark in the past. Now THAT is a long time.  Might even qualify as born again.

Let’s see, it’s been right at 7 months for me this time. Do I want to “dampen the drought?” Well, of course I do. But I, like The Single Filez, have a hard time just jumping in bed with any random guy I meet. Sex means something more to me than just sex. I need an emotional connection.

That’s not to say I haven’t tried the Friends with Benefits angle before. I have. Or, at least, I’ve thought about it and gotten close to it. But when it comes down to it, I just can’t bring myself to do it. It just doesn’t feel right to me. It’s not as satisfactory as it would be with That Someone Special. Because for me, Good Sex isn’t just about (for lack of a better term) scratching that itch. It’s about the emotional release, as well, the endorphin high, and I simply can’t have that with someone I don’t at least care about in a romantic way, even if I don’t actually love that person yet.

The only exception to that, for me, is Sex with an Ex. An ex that you’re still on good terms with, you’re still friends. You know each other, “been there, done that,” but that comfort level is there, the affection. Someone you broke up with simply because you were more “friend-like,” because you loved each other, but you weren’t “in love.”

Of course, that can also backfire. If you’re so friendly you’re more like brother/sister…yeah, not so much. *shudder*

How long is your longest dry spell?

Blog post in Haiku: 

Sexual dry spell: 

When cobwebs start to grow 

in private places.