I think I need to give a bit of a timeline on things to make everything clear. The Jared dates were in the middle of January. Lots of stuff happened in February, but first…I have to interrupt my Jared story to tell you about the bizarre party I went to on St. Patrick’s Day.

My former boss-Lisa, who kicks ten kinds of ass, threw the party. She and her husband, Sam, have been remodeling their house for about a year now, and it’s finally finished. It looks amazing, by the way, but that has nothing to do with the story.

At first, this party was going to be an opportunity for me to finally meet not only the friends of Lisa's that I’ve heard about for years now, but it was also supposed to be a chance for me to finally meet the guy Sam’s been wanting to set me up with for a couple of months. Schedules have conflicted and such, so we just haven’t met yet. As it turns out, Joe gets invite to a bachelor party in Vegas and can't make it. A make-up meeting is already being planned.

I get to the party and start talking to random people. Yes, there was alcohol. A lot. It was the good stuff, too. I decide that drinking is the exact right thing to do in this situation where I know no one but need to talk to people. . I start with a huge vodka tonic that Lisa made. First time I've had it. Likely the last time I'll have it. I wasn't impressed.

The drinking starts heavily about an hour or so into the party. I'm called to do shots. Jager. Ugh. I'm a good sport. I knock it back. I mingle. I do another shot. I mingle.

I end up in front of John. John is a 39 year-old chiropractor. John is also 6'4" of delicious man….and single. Interesting. We're just talking. No flirting. Yes, it's possible. I refused to stand in the corner looking like a dipshit, so I was making myself talk to these people I don't know. John and I end up talking about everything-sports, raising kids (he's helped with his very wonderful sounding nephew), different social events…anything. Our conversation trails off or gets interrupted; hell I can't remember. I somehow mingle my way away.

Someone yells my name to do a shot. It's Sam calling me; I can't very well turn down the host. I must go. As I'm standing there taking my shot of vodka, I get introduced to Alan, the neighbor.

Aaaaaaaaand whoa. Weird. Instant electricity. Tension. I'm thinking, in my now-very close to inebriated state, "this could be fun." Alan and I start talking. He's attempting to tell me a story about his house. Something about a fire. I have no idea how long we stood there talking or how we ended up separating. I'm quite certain it had to do with someone getting called to do a shot.

I find Lisa and hang out with her for a bit. Somehow I end up back talking to Alan…at least I'm pretty sure that's the sequence of events, but Lord knows I can't remember it all.

Alan has something very interesting to tell me. Apparently, for the last however many minutes, he and John (both very good drinkers and drunks, as it turns out), have been outside, on the carport, discussing who had dibs…on me.

I busted out laughing. You see, I simply do not get hit on. Ever. It just doesn't happen. So, when someone comes up and tells me that two guys are outside deciding for me who's going to get the girl, I'm shocked. Absolutely shocked, and honestly, not buying it. People do and say retarded things when they're drunk.

Then it gets interesting. Or weird. Or goofy. Or…just plain silly. The next thing I know, one of them (I have no clue who initiated it), pulls Lisa out to the carport. It wasn't a dramatic thing…just a very friendly conversation to anyone on the outside looking in. The three of them are now deciding who's going to get the girl. What…the…fuck. I am not up for any drama. I try to go outside. Lisa tells me to get inside. I make a half-hearted attempt to go out again, get shooed, and give up.

I'm back inside. Doing a shot. I start talking to Sam who tells me, "alright, we've decided that Alan is probably better for you. He's closer to your age. You two have a lot in common, and you would be a good match."

Wait wait wait wait…what? Now Sam's deciding who I'm going to go out with? Do I even have a say in this matter…at all?

The party carries on. I meet some more people.

I have lost all concept of time by now. I was hammered. Completely. It was an excellent drunk. Someone tells me that Alan, who apparently almost never drinks, is outside maybe getting sick. Awwwww…poor guy. My instinct to take care kicks in. That's what I do. It doesn't matter who or where or almost what (puke can make me queasy). I go outside to the balcony. Sure enough…he's hunched over seeing if he's going to puke or not. I talk to him. Rub his back. Trying to help a boy out. A few minutes later, John (who'd been encouraging him to drink mind you) walks out, and offers to walk Alan the two-house distance home. John comes back a few minutes later.

I volunteer to go check on Alan a short while later. John volunteers to go with me (nice, eh?). We get there, and Alan is puking up pure liquid. Just the alcohol. Nothing too gross or I would have gotten sick in the state I was in. John hangs around for a bit then leaves.

Yep. Just me and Alan. Allllllllll alone. Oh yeah, he was still getting sick. The odorless, chunkless alcohol sick (you're likely seeing why I'm trying to make this sound less gross). I help him to his bed. Get him some Listerine. Get him a cool wash cloth for his forehead. Pull the trashcan by his bed. We're hanging out. He's talking. Thanking me. Blah blah blah. YES, WE ENDED UP KISSING. I'M KISSING A GUY WHO, NOT FIVE MINUTES EARLIER, WAS PUKING. First time for everything, I suppose. Yes, I'm a touch horrified at realizing what I did.

Aaaaaaaaaaand he rolls over to puke again. It turns out to be the last time he did. We go through the motions. Listerine. Washcloth. Talk. Kiss…

And theeeeeeeeeeennnnn, we really make out. Like, whoa. Not the safe, easy, making out that happened, oh Lord, almost two months ago by now. This was h-o-t. I mean the kind of hot that just leaves you breathless. Shirts come off. I remember fleeting thoughts, "fuck what a nice chest, and fuck what nice arms." The making out continues for what I can only guess is the rest of the night. Just making out. Once again, I simply can't bring myself to seal the deal…It's been FOUR-PLUS MONTHS…whyyyyyyyyyy oh whyyy can't I bring myself to do it? Sigh. Yes, pants, both pairs, stay on all night long. I know. It's disappointing. It's unreal. It's stupid. It's…I wish I knew. I just couldn't do it. I didn't want to. Making out like it was my dying day was really working for me, so I just let it go at that.

At some point, we both simply pass out. I have no idea what time. By then, we'd been up all night, intermittently making out and talking about everything…school, work, my kids…anything. I get up early in the morning, as is my habit .He rolls over, and out of nowhere says, "you never did tell me how old your kids are." I tell him and then walk out and back to Lisa's house.

What a fun night.

I did have a non-date with Alan the very next week. I have a new friend, it seems, which is very cool since he's seems to over-think every situation. It's hard to believe a guy does that.

I also ran into Jared at the end of the week…

Archives

Posted by DR at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (10) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

... And I’ll directly tell you all about the delicious kiss and great date...next time.

Let’s see...last time I told you how I nearly vomited asking Jared out. We did end up talking for almost three hours that first night, so that was a pretty good indication that things might go well, at least as far as not having huge gaps in the conversation.

Now I’ll tell you about the date. I’ll tell you the end of the story before I tell you the beginning. We’re friends now. “Go out here and there just to get out and of course kiss on every date” friends. HIS call, not mine, so no nasty emails about me sticking a guy in the "just friends" category. I got stuck there. It’s cold in here. What do you boys do in this friends corner? Masturbate all the time?

The Date.

After some fumbling around and organizing of schedules, we go out one Friday night. We went to this Italian restaurant we both really like, so at least the food will be good even if the date sucks.

Which it didn’t.

The date goes really well. I learned quite a bit about this self-professed very religious guy. Son of a preacher. How many times do you think that song’s chorus ran through my head after learning that? Now, he’s not a zealot about his religious beliefs, so that was pretty great. He’s had problems, like anyone, and was very open about them. Honesty is big with me. I’m honest, so I expect it in return. Not too much to ask, you’d think.

We ended up at the restaurant for over three hours. Yes, it was that fun. Lots of laughing and making fun of each other. Lots of sarcasm. Very nice. Who knew young guys could actually be smart and keep up? (yes, I’m kidding…mostly).

Pop quiz…I asked him out. Who pays? ME, of course. I fully expected to. I was genuinely surprised when he took the check. We haggled for maybe a minute or two, and I debated arguing over it. However, when he said he’d feel really weird if he let me (a girl!) pay, I stopped. Never mind that for a few minutes, I felt like a shit bag because I’d asked him out, and it really was only fair if I paid. That’s how these things work, right? Well, not this time. I’m not some rabid feminist, but I know the rules and play by them. This time, though, I deferred to him since he was, in fact, bigger than me.

And I wanted to kiss him and maybe at some point later in time invade some other private spaces of his, so why insult his clearly testosterone-filled body?

The date’s officially over, as dinner has ended, and the check’s been paid. Now what? Well, I invite him back to my house, of course. He’s not set off any pervert, psycho-going-to-kill-me alarms, so for the time being, he’s on the good list.

We get here. You know what’s going to happen next, right?

You got it. The Kiss – with a capital K.

Oh my word, yes. The kiss was delectable. The kiss caused a big emptiness where the bottom of my stomach used to be. My brain quit on me. All sensation, no thinking (and that’s saying something for this over-thinker). His mouth fit perfectly. Just the right amount of pressure. I could have kissed him all night. The kiss made me a bit light-headed for a bit, as all delicious kisses should.

Oh yes, there will be more.

We get here. Watch a movie. He’s comfortable. Comfortable in a non-threatening, non-groping, very respectful way. You know how the typical progression of date movie night goes. There’s a slow sequence of moves from sitting to lying on the couch. It’s all mostly well-choreographed. Smooth (yeah right, I’m never smooth).

You’ll be happy to know there was more kissing. Very nice, delicious, alternatively soft and so very not soft kissing.

Gentle pressure in the sternum area where he just happens to brush up against.

...pause…”Sternum?” you ask. Well, I should tell you guys that instead of having a nice rack, I have a nice sternum. I have to thank a friend from another website to introducing me to that phrase. God’s truth, though. I am not blessed with ginormous tits, so I instead profess to have a killer sternum. That’s good, RIGHT?

A girl has to work what’s she got, right? Damn straight.

Now, back to the non-groping but delicious kissing….

It’s close to time for the date to be over because he has work early the next day and lives about 45 minutes away. I really don’t want to be, but I’m good. No overnight invites. Not on a first date.

“Okay, 15 more minutes,” he says.

…kissing…

Fifteen minutes later…”Five more, then I really have to go.”

…more kissing and, um, I think the movie was still playing…

Finally, I make him leave which sucked out loud.

Will there be a second date?

I’ll tell you this...next article I’ll tell you how I ended up in my skivvies and a t-shirt in bed next to a guy who never even noticed I was half-naked.

“What the fuck?” is exactly the right response to that statement. Apparently the sternum is not all that worthy of notice. Nor were the pretty black skivvies noticed…or the clean-shaven, long legs…

sigh.

Next time...

The editors of FTTW would like to remind DR that the person editing her post is younger than her and can keep up just fine.

Posted by DR at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Alright, last time I left off talking about that Very Big Game where my kid unwittingly played the role of wingman. I swear on my life, this happened completely of her daughter’s own volition. SWEAR.

It’s one of those days where the traffic gods smiled upon my lowly self and provided me with a speedy route to get home, make snacks, get uniforms, pick up the kids, feed them, and drive way out into the middle of nofuckingwhere (of which there is a lot of around here) to an elementary school for basketball games. I get there early, and lo and behold, Jared was there a little while after I got there. I couldn’t have planned it better. Like I said earlier, my youngest is on him like a fat kid on cake, so she’s following him around all over the gym while he sets up for the games. Mind you, she’s not the only kid who follows this guy around. He’s like a tyke-magnet. It’s not in a creepy, “come follow me little kid” type magnet either; he’s just good with kids and they pick up on it.

We’re sitting there watching the game before my daughter’s. I’m on one side of the court, and Jared is directly across from me on the other side of the court and surrounded by three kids. I hear them talking to him because, as you might surmise, kids are just loud little creatures. My daughter, I’ll name her Direct Child for ease of reference, is asking Jared a million questions, as is the other girl sitting there. My ears perk up, very non-chalantly, because, ya know, I don’t eavesdrop on any conversation. That’d be rude!

–ahem –

I hear this child as Jared, “do you have a girlfriend?” Of course, she puts the emphasis on the word “girlfriend” because at their age, boys and girls even playing together is a somewhat foreign notion still because girls have cooties and boys are stupid (and you really should throw rocks at them).

He answers “no” to the question. SCORE! I should have paid this kid for playing this so well. They keep talking. Then, Direct Child picks up his cell phone, and like any kid, wants to use it.

To call her mom.

On the other side of the court.

Just to say,“hi”.

I love this kid. Really.

I answer my phone, and we go through the usual silly games. My slightly admonishing her for playing with his phone. He, of course, doesn’t care and is laughing. The kids play their games. I talk to Jared a little bit more after the games-just small talk.

On my way home, I start thinking…”alright, now I have his number. Now I know he doesn’t have a girlfriend. What am I going to do with this information?”

I have to pause in the story a bit to tell you that Direct Child gets her directness from the family tree. Mom doesn’t mince words, mom will tell you how it is when it needs to be said, and mom isn’t shy about what she wants.

What do you think mom decided to do with that information? Yep, I called him later that night.

I will tell you that that phone call was one of the worst phone calls I’ve ever made simply by the sheer amount of sweat and nausea that overcame me at the thought of asking a guy out on the phone. Now, I’ve been through the online dating thing and suggested places to go. I’ve had long distance relationships I initiated by talking to the guy and suggesting getting together. No problem there. But to ask a guy out like this? Where he can say “no” right there – live – to me? Oh the horror! I now truly understand why some men never get the nerve to ask a woman out. It’s terrifying. But not being a giant pussy, I called.

I am just going to give you a transcript of the conversation that was, by far, one of the most ego-blow inducing calls ever at some points.

After the generalities that are said at the beginning of a phone call…

DR: “I was wondering if, um, you would like to go out some time.”

……..(a looooooooooong pause) I mean, long enough that I could have gone and taken a piss in the time it took him to respond

Jared, slowly, and with a bit of incredulity in his voice, “With you?”

Oh God how I wanted to run and throw up and disappear into thin air at that point. I was mortified.

DR:”Uh…um, yeah, that was kind of the plan. Yes.”

Jared: “Aren’t you married?!”

At this point, I was mildly relieved at the question if that was the reason for his hesitation and the inflection on the phrase, “with you”, which it was.

DR: “Oh God no. No. I haven’t been for three years.”

We then go through the general details of how that’s not my husband, yes it’s their dad, but ya know that girl he’s always with, well that’s his girlfriend stuff. After all that’s cleared up, then he says “I’d love to [go out].”

Then, shit for brains DR really fumbles because I honestly did not expect him to say yes. I was truly surprised and unsure of what to say next. Do I tell him that now I just need to kiss him just to see if he kisses well and is fantasy material? No? Fair enough. I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut, but I’ll be damned if I wasn’t thinking it. I knew I’d find out soon.

To hell if he’s not a first date kisser; I am so he will be this time.

See, direct.

And I’ll directly tell you all about the delicious kiss and great date…next time.

Archives

Posted by DR at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Well, I'm ready to come out of hiding. I took a hiatus because my dating life hit the shitter, and I didn't have a muse. Add to that bit of craptasticness, I was in a deep nasty funk after I injured myself while working out and only just now am able to do full workouts with no pain. Yay, me.

But I’m back. I’m not bringing sexy back just yet, but I’m working on it.

To catch you up….Back at the end of August/beginning of fall, I started dating Rob. Rob seemed really great. Single dad. Three boys. Alas, he proved himself, after three months of seeing one another regularly, that he was just not everything he seemed to be. Too bad for him, RIGHT? Immediately after a very boring, bizarre phone conversation with him the week before Thanksgiving, I sent him an email with the following text, “Rob-I’m not interested in seeing you anymore. Good luck with the boys. –DR”

Yep. Over email. Lame? Maybe. Cuts down on the stupid drama though, and I get to be done with it. I hear back from him with a “no regrets. thank you for all the fun. good luck” response. Then he contacts me on NYE with a “for what it’s worth” instant message. Whatever. Moving on.

Thennnnnnnnn, my kids started basketball. And oh what a sweet, sweet, “you sure have a purty mouth” and “holy fuck what a great, kind smile, and yes, yes you do have a delicious chest and what’s that? You love kids?” man I met. He’s the athletic director for the organization where they played. His name was Jared, and as it turns out, he was about six years younger than me.

I saw Jared at the very first basketball practice, and I had a mad instant crush. Nothing but a superficial “man, I’d like to have him for a few minutes all alone in that closet over there” type crush.

Then I started talking to him. Watching him with all the kids. After a bit of that, I got the “man, I’d like to have him for a few minutes all alone in that closet over there and want him to be my steady date guy”-type crush.

Why’s that? Mostly because my kids adored him. My son, who’s killer competitive and athletic, would challenge him to hoops, and Jared always came to play with him during the game quarters or halves or whenever there was time, if we were there, between games. My daughter, well, she had a good old fashioned starry-eyed crush on him. She’d follow him around and stuck to his side like white on rice. It was damn funny. As it turns out, she’s a pretty good wingman.

Now, a little background. My ex and I have a relatively good relationship, and when he’s not being a jerk, we hang out like really good friends. This is a good thing for our kids, but it’s a bad thing if we’re at a kids’ thing somewhere and everyone thinks we’re married. Which evidently they do. Which sucks. Never mind that his girlfriend is there most of the time. Nor do I wear a wedding ring. Apparently no one thinks it’s odd that it appears he’s married to me but has his arm and sometimes kisses the other woman standing next to him. Huh. Who knew so many people were open to open relationships that are so openly open? (now say “open” a few more times and it won’t even sound like a word anymore)

Pretty soon after the season starts, I start making a very sly (yes it was, shut up) effort to start talking to Jared. Get to the games at the Z a little bit earlier than needed, you know, so the kids can warm up a little bit, or because I’m perpetually early (which is the absolute truth). I also had the (mis?)fortune to have some very good traffic days when they should have been horrid, and I arrived at some away games an entire game early. Those days were completely unplanned and would never have happened if it were something way more important than a rec basketball game.

One of those games turns out to be an excellent game as far as my dating life goes…or so I thought at the time…

More on that…and there is more, much more, in my next article…

A hint…turns out Jared’s a very, very good kisser.

And smells delicious up close…

And okay, I’m done. Next time. Promise.

-DR

archives

Posted by DR at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Alright, so about those other dates I alluded to last week. A few months after Vegas and I call it quits romantically, I did the unthinkable-the mockable-but one of the only ways to get a date for a single mom who doesn’t get out much due to the aforementioned single mom-ness. Internet dating. I’ve heard such horror stories about it. I think I’ve been one of the lucky ones since I’ve never had a date where the guy looked nothing like his picture or was completely different from what he said he was like in his profile.

In the first few months after my divorce, this was the first avenue I tried. I had some success with it-several good dates and a good bit of no-pressure fun. I eventually met someone through a different website altogether, so that was the end of my internet dating experience for about eighteen months. Within the last couple of months, I decided to try it again. What the hell, right?

I painstakingly write a profile-which I hate doing. Even if you’ve never done this particular activity, you know the feeling. It’s the same one you get when you’re told to do a self-evaluation at work. As my former boss told me, “you might as well brag on yourself because no one else is going to do it for you.” Good point, eh? However, I don’t think I necessarily want to mention in a personals profile that I’m well-organized, have a strong attention to detail, and know a lot of math. While I’m sure something like that would draw out a whole other set of freaks, I went with something a little more basic but less boring…mostly.

The next painstaking part of setting up a personals profile involves selecting the type of person you’d like to meet. I hate this almost as the self-aggrandizing you have to do when describing yourself. For instance, height. I want to see the person who picks s/he want to only date someone 4’6” and shorter or 7’6” and taller. I’ll admit I have a height “thing” as superficial as it sounds. I’m fairly tall for a woman, and having been raised around all men who were all over 6’, I simply gravitate toward taller, bigger guys. Yes, I’ve dated guys my height or a hair shorter, and no, it didn’t bother me-I’m not that superficial. It was definitely a feature I had to acclimate myself to as it is way out of my norm. Sue me. If that’s the worst shit I’ve done, then damn it, I’m getting to the Promised Land.

Now, the only problem with picking out the different physical, social, and emotional qualities in a “match” is that MEN NEVER READ THEM. Seriously, it pisses me off because have I taken the time to painstakingly set out what my “must have” options are for a guy-ya know, cooks, cleans, does the dishes, pleasures me endlessly, and shuts the fuck up when he’s supposed to – and here comes some dumb bastard who does not
fit either those types of qualities or ANY of the physical ones (olive-skinned, nicely muscled, earns 1200 figures - same thing every girl wants, right?) Anyway, I receive more responses from guys who fit almost none of the things I not only want but must have in a dating prospect. All I ask for is to match the important ones. If I say I don’t want to date a smoker, please don’t send me a picture of you in your wife beater with your big red and white pack of Marlboros in a box. I DON’T WANT YOU, ASS MOUTH! Oh, and no offense to those folks who wear wife-beaters. I wear them often-usually to workout, but sometimes I wear them to just feel a little skanky.

I know, I know. Love comes in all shapes and sizes. I don’t fucking care. Don’t come to me if you’re a circle trying to fit in my box (yes, I see what I did there). One day I must have been in a nice-ish mood because this guy, I’ll call him Joe, sent me an email. Now, he fit a good bit of the things I was looking for except the age. I think I had it set to my preferred age no more than say 8 years older. This guy was 16 years older than me. Sixteen sounded like a lot of years to me-that made him 48 years old. Hmm…I’m 32, he’s 48. He’s probably already receiving his AARP mailings while I’m still looking at Highlights magazines. It did make me feel oddly very young thinking about it, but as I said, I was in a good mood and responded. We set up a date for a week later as I’m not one to waste a lot of time chatting on email and IM only to find out there’s no chemistry. I’ve already told you my thoughts on kissing. No chemistry is bad, bad, bad.

Joe and I meet at a bar late one Sunday night. No pressure. No agonizing dinner. Just drinks to see if there is anything “there”. We meet, talk a lot, and laugh a good bit. To be honest, a good bit of that laughing on my part can be directly attributed to the three or four screwdrivers I drank.

There’s enough physical interest for me to want to see him again. Apparently for him, dating women my age is his modus operandi. Granted, if I were an older woman, I’d want to tell him to fuck off because HEY, what’s wrong with dating women your age, buddy!” I digress…The bottom line is he doesn’t look that old, so I’m not as put off by the whole thing than I was initially. He’s very active and looks very healthy and happy. Good enough for me.

Over the course of the next several weeks, I have dinner at his house, and we went out several more times. I met his 19 year old daughter which was a surprise meeting and a little bit of a shock. I look more like someone who could have been her best friend instead of someone who’s dating her dad.

Fast forward about six weeks. Out of nowhere, I get a couple of emails from him that are pretty heavy-handed talking about having a relationship. Whoa whoa whoa. What? I’d been very upfront from day one that I wasn’t ready for anything like that anytime soon and that I’d be going out with another guy if I was asked. At the time he seemed okay. Wellllll, I guess he forgot that little bit. He was emailing me from out of town, which happened a good bit, but I really don’t care to discuss topics like this via email. Relationship decisions via email with someone who lived in my state? Uh, no.

But he kept pushing. And pushing. After one particular email, I reminded him a little more firmly that I told him I’d be seeing other people. That I’d told him I wasn’t interested in a relationship just yet, if at all. I’d been nothing if not honest. The final death email included the following statements: “I guess I could change and simply look at you or whomever I am attracted to as simply fun and a good time (note, this is exactly what I’d been telling him!). Maybe I was raised to respect women.”

What.the.fuck. How does me being honest about what I want with respect to dating translate somehow into a respect issue?

I realized then and there that we were just worlds apart in our dating mentality, and we’d never find a common ground. I ended it very soon after that email.

It’s too bad, ya know. I probably could have had some fun hitting the bars with his kids.

Or not.

DR finds lots of things funny after a few scredrivers... Even old men.

Archives

Posted by DR at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

My dating saga continues…

I left off with my current dating life two articles ago where I met M– in Vegas…as friends. From now on, I’m going to call him, “Vegas”. After that trip, Vegas and I spent tons of time on the phone, IM, email, text messages, you name it. Virtually inseparable.

Oh! Let me do tell what ended up happening with The Crush. The crush came to see me one weekend as we wanted to meet in person to see how things went and go from there. It was our first face-to-face meeting, and it failed miserably from the very beginning. No chemistry. None. Zip. Zero. I feared it would be a long, very long, weekend. At first I thought, eh, maybe I’m just nervous; maybe the chemistry will develop. Maybe I’ll feel something after I kiss him for the first time. Yeah, no. I felt really badly about it, too.

Now, I have to digress and tell you about my views on kissing. To me, kissing is probably the most connective, passionate act between two people. Yes, more so than sex to me. Any two people can have sex, and it’s usually going to give at least some pleasure. But not kissing. Sex you can work on. Sex can get better. But kissing…oh man, if you’re fundamentally flawed when it comes to kissing, I think it’s unfixable. If a guy can’t kiss and make my entire body tingle to the very fiber of my being, then he really doesn’t stand a chance past the first date. Kiss on the first date? You bet your ass. I have to know if this guy can inspire some serious heat in me or there’s no sense in moving forward. I could make out for days on end, over and over, and get worked up more than pretty much any other way. Being kissed by a guy who’s just the right amount of aggressive, who holds his hands with just the right amount of pressure in your hair, on each side of your face, around your body, hell, even on your ass…that guy who makes my heart beat outside of my chest, who can cause my breath to catch, my face to flush, the guy who causes my entire body to positively hum – that guy is a godsend to me. He’s as wonderful as an unexpected Christmas present.

Now, where I’m headed here is that there was none of that when I kissed The Crush. No heart-pounding. No breath catching. No toes tingling. Nothing. It’s so disappointing. Between the lack of chemistry and a few other character traits that I was wholly unimpressed with and fully put-ff by, The Crush went away at the end of the weekend relegated back to the friend status. No, not the friends-with-benefits status either.

Now, Vegas’ first trip to see me down south from waaaaaaaaaaaaay out west was a good trip. An excellent trip. A mind-blowing, heart-pounding, panty-wetting trip. It was after about three months of being in near-constant contact, and I was really looking forward to it. I knew we had the chemistry. I knew that when he kissed me, my toes tingled, the blood drained from nearly every part of my body and was focused in one area, my breath hitched, my heart nearly exploded from beating so quickly, my head spun, all of it. All of everything I loved feeling from a kiss, I felt every time I kissed Vegas. Story of my dating life, though, was that here I was getting hooked on someone who lived too fucking far away to do anything about it (you see, I’m not as love-lucky as Michele and turtle). The trip goes by so quickly that it’s almost as if it didn’t happen at all, but I know from the complete disarray my bed sheets are in and the spinning of my head that it did indeed happen. Well, that and the whole, “I love you” thing.

The next couple months are an interesting and sometimes sad couple of months. Vegas and I decide to not have a long distance relationship, per se. We weren’t going to commit to an exclusive relationship but wouldn’t necessarily seek out others to date. Interesting, but we’ll see. I’m a pretty possessive person when it comes to relationships, so this would be new territory for me. I’m pretty confident I failed miserably, by the way, if you want to know how it ends.

We go for a bit, and it’s a good bit. Vegas is a wonderful person, friend, confidante, supporter, and lover. Everything I could ask for from someone 2200 miles away. I was completely and madly in love with this man who started out as just a friend.

BUT…I realize at some point that Vegas has commitment issues even with the small amount of non-exclusive but not seeking out others commitment we do have (clear as mud, right?) Even the small amount of commitment we had seems to be too much for him. Too caged. Too confining. Too whatever it is that (mostly) men feel when they have commitment issues. He starts disappearing here and there on weekends, and he’s completely out of touch on at least two weekends after having told me he’d “call me tomorrow”.

After the second such weekend, I decide I simply can’t deal with this anymore. I can’t deal with feeling like I have this pseudo-commitment to someone who, in reality-or perhaps subconsciously, maybe consciously, hell who knows-doesn’t want this level of commitment despite how loosely we’re using that word. I can’t deal with having expectations blown to hell. I decide I just want to go back to not having any expectations. I tell Vegas this, that we need to just go back to being friends (yes, benefits, please), and it’s received as well as a thorny suppository. Not the benefit part but that I’m so upset and want to just end that whole other part. Long story short, we talked through everything. The bottom line was I just need to be able to be friends so I have no expectations from him.

Fast forward to now-it’s been almost eleven months since we first talked, and he’s now (and has been for a bit) one of my closest, most incredible friends I’ve ever had. He’s come to visit two more times since the first (one being as recent as about 5 weeks ago), and I was able to see him when I was out west at a client meeting back in June. He knows all about my kids, and he asks questions about their schooling and sports and just life in general. He still turns me on like no other, and yes, I still love him and he loves me. He’s become my sexual standard against which all others will be measured. Thank you for everything, Vegas.

The latest odd role he’s playing is that of the friend who asks about the other dates I’ve been on in the last couple of months.

About those other dates…

DR knows that sometimes the best friends were lovers once.

Archives

Posted by DR at 12:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Being pregnant in the heat of a southern summer is not on my list of most comfortable situations to go through in life. Yeah, yeah, should have planned the pregnancy better and all that. Well, timing of the baby is not a concern when you’re just in the mood to get it on one night with your husband. Yeah, so back to my misery….Combine being eight months pregnant with another of my least favorite things to do - shop, and in a touristy trap - and really, it’s not going to bring out the best of my southern charm (yes, it does exist, it is just deeply buried). It just so happened that I was given the pleasure of taking a day trip to a little place called Helen, Georgia where I was able to not only shop to my little heart’s content but was fortunate enough to do it, all fucking day, while being a human incubator near the end of its timer.

If you have never set foot in Helen, you really aren’t missing much if you ask me. It’s your typical little mountain town that, I’m positive, you find in damn near every state in the union that has mountains. Hell, you’ve probably been to one - too many people, too many strollers with screaming, crying, cranky kids hyped up on candy from any one (or several) of the 50,000 candy stores (with homemade fudge, of course!) in the one square mile the touristy party of town encompasses. I’m sure there is a city ordinance or something that there must be a candy store every 200 feet and every 600’ there have to be one with fudge. Ugh. I hate these places. Detest them. These are the towns that that also have a bunch of those t-shirt shops where you can get anything pressed on. Oh! And the trinkets and Christmas crap shops. Criminy. I just want to walk in and smash every little feel-good glass dragon or glass Christmas globe or Christmas bulbs. I think you’re there now, in your mind, and you’re able to envision these little towns of sugary, money goodness that pretty on you with their trinkets and t-shirts and hand-dipped ice cream and putt-putt golf and ma-and-pa pancake houses.

You might be asking yourself why the hell I would go somewhere that obviously sends me into fits of crankiness. Well, as it turns out, once upon a time I was a nice person. A girl who was a good little family member. I went with my then-husband’s family that hot, humid, asphalt-melting summer day. Again, I’m about eight months pregnant with my first child. I was not the miserable pregnant woman, mind you; I was a very happy healthy one unless you put me into my own pit of personal hell that’s a wonderland of commercialism gone country.

I’m getting to the story. I swear.

We’re all walking around-my husband, parents-in-law, brother in law, his wife and their two kids. Walking and walking and walking and walking and pausing, looking at CRAP, and walking and looking and watching fudge and buying candy for the candy monsters and walking and ohh! Look at the pretty decorations. All the while I’m being a very good sport. I swear.

I stopped at one place to get some water since it was either that or beer in this town. No, that’s not a bad thing, but it might be when you’re pregnant…and don’t want to get lit up in public like a good pregnant redneck would.

Now it’s time for the guys to get beer. It’s not hard to find good beer in these towns which, in my opinion, is their sole redeeming quality. We head to one where, bless the gods, they had a covered deck to sit on while enjoying your frosty beverage. Now, me being pregnant and carrying my water around seems pretty harmless, right? You would think. The guys and my MIL get their beers, cokes for the kids (yeah, I know), we all get some brats and kraut, and head outdoors. The patio is not crowded, so we just all sit at the first table we see. There we are, all 8½ of us, sitting peacefully, eating our food and drinking beer (a lot, by the way) or other preferred beverage.

About five minutes into our meal, a service person from the restaurant comes to our table to tell me I have to throw my water away because there are no outside beverages allowed. Wait, what? We all looked around-nope, no signs stating that. I said, “Well, uh, okay but do you sell water because I’m pregnant, don’t drink cokes, and certainly don’t drink beer.” Service person says no, so I think, oh, well maybe, since it’s 800 degrees, they’ll give me a cup of water. I ask, and get a “nope”. I a little stunned and thinking, “WHAT KIND OF FUCKING RESTAURANT WON’T GIVE OR SELL WATER…ESPECIALLY TO A PREGNANT WOMAN?” I ask that very question out loud only without the profanity and yelling.
“Sorry, ma’am. We don’t sell water and you’re going to have to throw away your water or you’ll all have to leave.”

Now wait…call me crazy (it’s been done), but they’re ready to throw out eight customers, 4 of which are drinking a good amount of beer, because a pregnant woman wants to keep her water (which they won’t sell or give to replace it)? Am I the only one who thinks this just makes no sense at all? Fine, okay, maybe we can talk to the manager who, surely, would understand the basics of making money and that letting one pregnant woman keep her water won’t exactly cause their bottom line to sink into the red because she won’t buy a coke to replace it. Surely...nope. We talk to the manager and are given the same line. By now, as you would probably guess, the guys are getting pretty pissed off at the ridiculousness of the situation, and, as men are sometimes wont to do, decide that arguing loudly is the best route to take.

Sigh.

So there I sit, Little Miss Troublemaker, while a scene is made on my pregnant behalf.

Did I pull the detestable, annoying, “but I’m pregnant!” routine? Yep.

Did they give in? Nope.

Did we leave? Yep.

Did the guys decide they aren’t leaving without their beers so the natural course of action is to walk out with the restaurant’s beer glasses? Yep.

I was a bit of a disgrace to my southern heritage that day as I became a bit belligerent and rude. I don’t think Scarlet O’Hara would be too disappointed though, since I at least kept my wits about me, looked pretty, and not once did I cuss.

DR may or may not have maintained her southern class and charm while birthin' her babies.

Archives

Posted by DR at 12:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Only cool things are supposed to happen in Vegas, right? Only fun, can’t-wait-to-tell-everyone-at-home stuff happens in Vegas, right?

Alas, with me, that was so not the case when I first got to Vegas. Something that easily qualifies as the most embarrassing, white elephant producing moment in the history of my lifetime happened in Vegas.

I was in Vegas for a friend’s wedding. I ended up inviting a guy friend of mine to meet me there since he’d been there several times, knew what to go and where, and which hookers were the best and mostly disease-free (or at least had only those ailments that could be cured by a round of strong antibiotics). There were also some potential fringe benefits that would come along with the visit, if you catch my drift. We’ll call this friend, "M–."

For a couple of months prior to befriending M–, I’d been chatting it up with a guy known as The Crush. M– knew about The Crush. The Crush lived a goodly bit away from my southern home, so we’d just been emailing, phoning, and all other manner of instant, there-but-not-there communication that happens with long distance potentials.

You might be asking yourself, "now Self, why didn’t DR invite The Crush to Vegas? Seems that’d make just as good a place as any to meet him for the first time." I didn’t invite The Crush to Vegas because I initially wanted to go all by myself, single chick in Vegas with her girlfriends, to just have fun. Do my own thing, see what I wanted to see, do whatever with whomever whenever…you get my point. Being a single mom, I don’t often get off days at a time like that, so I was going to do.it.right. I was going to be a Big Girl. Yeah, yeah, at the last minute I chickened out and invited M– who made last minute plans to meet me.

I get there on Wednesday, do the wedding bit. Fast forward to Thursday night. Wedding’s over, dinner’s getting ready to be eaten, and it’s about time to meet M–. Now, I’d never met M- in person, so I wasn’t quite sure what he looked like other than pictures we’d sent, and vice versa. We’d agreed that he’d just call when he got to the hotel, and we’d figure out who the fuck each other was – I was pretty easy to spot as I’m sorta tall, and at the time, I had a particularly obnoxious shade of red hair. Call comes, I go to meet M–. We figure out instantly who each other are, exchange pleasantries, and then something weird happens.

It was like someone put jumper cables on each of us because the sexual electricity was just POW right there. Unexpected, really, and "whoallyfuckinshitwhat’sthis?" is all that I could think of (never mind my throbbing nether regions). It was like a movie script - the two protagonists rush into the elevator, on to which 50 fucking people have to get on right then so it goes really slowly to ever fucking floor until it gets to mine, which was really pretty high up. FUCKERS. We rush out of the elevator, are practically running down the hallway. Hands everywhere. Mouths everywhere- hey, what? -it’s Vegas, no one’s even noticing because I don’t have sparkling tassels on my tits shaking all over the place. At least I’m still fully clothed - nothing unusual at all in Vegas. I’m jamming my keycard into the card hole which of course won’t work fast enough and of course I’ve put it in backwards and of course I push before I twist the handle and of course we both slam into the door and then I twist and WHOOOOOOOOOOSH we’re in the room. He pushes me up against the wall, kissing, groping, and my mind is still reeling thinking, "what in the fuck is happening here. this wasn’t planned. wait a minu-oh fuck, I don’t care SHUT UP!" We quickly rush to the bed not separating an inch. We’re kissing and....the phone rings. Somewhere in some remote region of my brain, the telephone ring registers - what the fuck? My ex knows to call my cell if there’s something wrong with the kids, so I’m thinking this is weird, and I’m just not going to answer it. M– says, "answer it."

I did, and little did I know that the next ten minutes would be the most awkward, mortifying, socially uncomfortable minutes ever for me. I’d already avoided one heart-slowing moment earlier in the day when The Crush half-heartedly talked about surprising me in Vegas by meeting me there. Nononononononono that was NOT in the plans. That would have been bad. Uncomfortable. Weird. Strange. No. No. Back to the phone…

"Uh, hello?"
"Miss DR, we have a delivery for you. May we bring it up?"
"A delivery? What? Um, yeah, sure, whatever." (I’m not so verbose when I’ve throbbing nether regions).

A couple of minutes pass, I’m wondering what in the hell is going on. Then the knock finally comes. I look through the peephole, and my next thought is just absolutely nothing. Literally, nothing. It’s like a black hole opened up in my brain and that’s all I could see. Nothing. I open the door, and there the bellman stands with a dozen red roses. I’m thinking, aw, M– is so sweet. He sent flowers but arrived later than they were supposed to. I look at him, kinda confused but ready to thank him.

The look on his face was ten times better, I guarantee.

Guess who sent this bouquet of a dozen blood-red roses? Yes, The Crush

Now guess who didn’t send them. That’s right, the guy who was by this point half-naked in my bed did not send these (of course, gorgeous) brilliant, blood-red roses. Yes, he was aware that I’d been talking to The Crush, but it was still just one of those pieces of your life when time did.not.move. Not a second. Nothing. It was frozen.

I’m standing there with my hands full of this huge vase of red roses with, of course, a card attached that I am supposed to read. I’m looking at M–, he’s looking at me, we’re both staring at the flowers. The card on the flowers is screaming READ ME at this point, but the last thing I want to do is draw anymore attention to this massive white elephant that has taken residence in the room right this minute.

I put them down without looking at the card. I’m standing there, dumbstruck, horrified, uncomfortable, unsure of what the next socially-correct course of action is. Do I read the card? Ignore it? Jump back into bed with Mr. Electricity? Read the card then jump M–‘s bones? Sit on the bed with and read the card? THERE ARE NO RULES FOR THIS THING! The synapses in my brain are firing, searching, trying to recall anything I can on what proper social graces would dictate in such a situation? What would Ann Landers do here?

M– insisted I read the card. I don’t want to. Not right then. I’d rather these (beautiful) roses be a million miles away and the card, too. I don’t want to stand there in front of the class and read it. M– says, "read it."

Fine. I read it, and yes, it was sweet. My brain processes that but please remember, I’ve still got sex running through my head like you wouldn’t believe. There’s not a lot that can completely deter me from the deed. This came very, very close, but nature’s winning.

Now what? How do we recover from that? There’s some nervous laughter. A little avoiding of eye contact on my part. A little nervous hair-twisting. Some stuttering and then shuffling off completely of any words, or at least any that make some kind of sense. A big, "soooooooooooooo, now what?"

As it turns out, M– is quite a good sport. Thankfully, a very horny good sport. We quickly commenced discussing and engaging in the fringes of our friendship, and the rest, as they say, is history. The roses sat there screaming for attention all weekend (and yes, they did get some!) I watered them, took care of them, and even carried them all the way back down south with me. Let me tell you though, with as much action in that room as those roses saw, I’m surprised they weren’t shocked white.

You didn’t know that white elephants are voyeurs, now did you?

DR is a single mom who lives and dates in Georgia. She has never once uttered the phrase "Vegas, baby, Vegas!"

Archives

Posted by DR at 12:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I'm writing this because I want to. I swear. It's not because I've been coerced into trying to find something, anything witty to write by the good people at f.t.t.w. Really, I'm here on my own accord. If that's the case, why the fuck can't I think of anything clever to write? On any given day, I’m running my mouth either to myself (it happens!) or to anyone who’ll listen. But when it comes to writing stuff down, sometimes I’m better left to coming up with clever one-line rejoinders. Write a whole page of something? For other people to read and judge me on? NEVER. This is when my wit will fail and all semblance of intelligence will leak out of my head like the wax does when it’s really hot and I’m asleep but I’m woken by what I swear is wax oozing out of my ears but turns out it’s just drool from my 6 year-old daughter who’s decided to shack up on my head for the night.

Continue reading "No matter what you do, I will win" »

Posted by DR at 5:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (21) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It