Relationship Time Of Death

It was a warm spring day and I sat in the back of the the church on the bride's side. Besides the obvious issues of attending mass for a long lapsed Catholic, the groom was my ex-husband.

Eight years earlier we had stood outside and exchanged vows. Six short months later, on a much sunnier day, we were divorced. And I really didn't think of it much after that.

A year before this day I had returned from Tennessee to boring Tim's house. I had met my ex's girlfriend almost by mistake and we had oddly become friends. I was the one she came to with odd questions about her perspective in-laws, odd questions about what happened during the first marriage and weird shots she couldn't stomach drinking.

She had specifically requested that I be there. So on a bright sunny Friday (as opposed to our foreshadowing, rainy, record setting cold wedding day) there I was in church sitting next to Tim.

Most people can tell you when they knew they loved someone. This is not one of those stories. Quite the opposite. This one of those stories where you know it's over.

We were half way through the mass the the pastor's homily got to me. He said in their pre-martial counseling he has asked the couple to list three reasons why they loved each other. His list included how good he felt being around her, her clearly defined goals and her excellent communication (he's my ex and I think he has selective hearing on this communication thing). She included how happy he always is to see her, that he always does the right thing and that he keeps his temper in check when they argue (this last one made me laugh because I found it to be one of his more irritating qualities).

And that's when it hit me. I had no reasons why I loved Tim. Because quite frankly I didn't. We had dated 5 months on the first go around. And 13 months on this try. Way longer than my standard rule of "if you don't know in a year you're never going to know."

And I had not one reason left. I used to think he was a hard worker and that we wanted similar things out of life. But now not so much. Way not so much.

Most women will tell you going to a wedding with a date is usually a romantic thing. My ex took me to his sister's wedding one month after we met, introduced me to his entire family and then sometime late in the night told me he loved me for the first time. This was not like that at all. Even though Tim had to know I was nervous beyond reason (see the old in-laws after 8 years? good times) he never once told me I looked nice, or held my hand or really anything. And as the priest kept talking I followed his gaze across the aisle to another woman's low cut dress. And rather than being upset I silently chuckled to myself, "More power to you buddy. If you think you have a chance with her by all means do."

Later in the night as the DJ announce the last dance he asked me to dance. And as the new bride exclaimed, "Holy crap. Tim and Jennifer dancing? This has to be a first."

And a last.

I Want to Sleep on a Twin-sized Bed

I want to sleep on a twin-sized bed. A strange wish for a woman of 36 I know. And I just don't want to sleep on a twin-sized bed alone. I want company. As with most things in my life the universe had to tell me twice (well maybe three times). And it all started almost twenty years ago.

I've told the story to two different men ( I guess one could say too different men also because they are like day and night) and gotten two different responses.

But it's about a third man at least in the beginning. Almost twenty years ago I started seeing my college boyfriend Doug. But I still lived in the dorm and he had entirely too many weird roommates (apologies to John, Greg and Eddie). So there was a choice to be made. And for some odd reason a guy well over six feet tall choose to sleep with me on a twin-sized bed. And not just now and then. All the time, every night for an entire semester. I'm not sure how it really worked but it did.

And then I moved to Nashville to be with him and our furnished studio had a full-sized bed. And the following year we bought a house and a queen-sized bed arrived. And three years after that we returned to Michigan and a huge king-sized bed arrived.

And then we were done.

Doug and I didn't make it as a couple but we're still great friends. I've known him half my life and no matter what happens we always want the best for each other. A few years ago we were out catching up over dinner. And he said to me, "Remember sleeping on that tiny bed together? It should have been miserable but I don't think we were ever happier. And as the bed got bigger I think our relationship got worse." And I thought about sleeping on the far edge of the king-sized bed for the last few weeks, so far away that I couldn't even touch him. He was right. The bed was a metaphor for our entire relationship. "What you need," he said, "was someone you really would sleep with on a tiny bed."

A few years later I was enjoying the post sex afterglow, snuggled under someone's arm. "This is really nice," he said. "What's really nice?" And to my surprise it wasn't the view or the decorating. "The bed." And that's when I started with the squinty look. "This is a queen size right? It's nice; you're not so far away. We had a king and I spent the whole night trying not to touch her." And then I told him my bed size theory.

What I really want is someone to sleep on a tiny bed with again.

Happy Belated Birthday

I meant to write this weeks ago but my life got in the way.

The last time I would talk to Rick he made it very clear that we would not be getting back together. Ever. And while I chewed on that idea (and it took me a long time because I didn't care for it) he decided to try to make me feel better. He chose the topic of the top things he would always cherish about our relationship. This struck me as odd for a lot of reasons. First: the last and perhaps only time anyone had used the word cherish in reference to me since my wedding. And we all know how that ended.

His list was surprising. It involved a trip to the local bookstore. I really should have let him buy me something in hindsight. And I still think of him when I go there.

The second thing was the smell of my hair on his pillow. By this point I was crying. I don't remember what the third thing was.

I never told him the things I would never forget. I turned the conversation to something else. He had a lot going on in his life and I was worried about him in a strange role reversal.

But two weeks ago, on his birthday, I called. Got his voicemail and left my usual message.

And then it hit me. There were two or three slightly smaller things that I had always adored about him. And one huge thing that we didn't ever say or do but probably affects every relationship I've been in since him.

First the smaller things. And if anyone ever tells you the little things don't matter I call BS. The devil is in the details as they say.

I've never been much of a morning person and apparently my boss had told Rick this in no uncertain terms. But every morning we spent together was a good morning for me. He would get up and take a shower and then for some unknown reason put on a robe and get back into bed to cuddle with me. Just to ask if I had slept well. What was I going to do that day. He would tease me that I didn't seem tooo crabby in the morning. Ten minutes just for me.

For years I wouldn't have been caught dead in my glasses. Most people don't even know I wear glasses even though I've had a rather thick pair since the late 80's. He always wanted to see them and I always said no. Until we went to the bookstore.

And this ties in with item two. No matter where we went or what I had on he always said, "you look beautiful." And I always squirmed at the idea. I'm not great with compliments. But he always told me. Time and time again. I never believed him until the very last time. We were over; he had been very clear. I had stopped by to check on him because I was worried. And right before I walked out the door there it was again. I always thought he told me I was beautiful because he wanted something from me. But that day it occurred to me that he really meant it.

But the biggest thing I took away from our relationship was to never hold back. I had been halfway "in" with him and I had lost. And while he sometimes questioned the seeming reckless abandon with which I threw myself into my subsequent relationships I did not. It seemed illogical to him that I would risk so much of myself so often. But I had lost him because I had held back. And I have honestly never done that since. I don't question if I tried hard enough or what I could have done either.

He's a big poker player and I hope he understands that now when I play this game I play all in.

Early 90's Flashback

It was a hot day in July and as usual we were hanging outside in the garage having an impromptu party. Barbeque, music, some cult classic movie we had seen a hunrded times on mute, cigarettes and assorted other vices. I was, as usual, told I was overdressed.

The iPod was set on random and with more than 10,000 songs perhaps random was an understatement. And then there it was. The song that would make me 18 all over again. I threatened the life of Jay who was just about to press the skip button and ruin my moment. He knew what the song was but did not know its personal significance. Probably because he had been 13 at the time.

I had my four minutes uninterrupted with the volume on high and managed to not break out dancing when Melissa looked at me with that, "I know what this is about," look. And all I had to say in reply was, "Mix tape."

"Oh my God. I know exactly what you mean. I LOVE mix tapes. I swear I've kept every mix tape any guy has ever made me. Even my stupid ex. There's nothing like a good mix tape." And this is when the men started looking at us strangely. I don't usually engage in girl talk but this was an exception; I had flipped into full girlie mode and it appeared I had at least one girlfriend going with me.

The mix tape was becoming a long lost art in some ways. "I don't see what the big deal is," said Jay,"you can burn a whole CD in like 3 minutes now. It used to be hard picking out the songs to make the tape sides come out even. Now it's just too easy."

Melissa and I exchanged looks. "I would kill for a good mix tape right now." "Yep."

The closest thing to a mix tape I've gotten lately was when Paul gave me all his music to load on my iPod. Close but still no mix tape.

Downstairs in a battered box that traveled with me on both 700 mile moves is a cassette tape with a yellow cover. The first song is Alive by Love and Rockets.

Just because it was easy didn't mean it wasn't worthwhile.

Tell Me Something Good

"Tell me something good," was the request. So a happy story for Turkey Day.

I'm not sure how the topic came up. I do remember where we were however. It must have been January. We were in the throes of winter and I was in the middle of that warm, fuzzy in love phase with Paul. I was laying on the bed, smiling at the ceiling.

And out of nowhere, "Do you make wishes at fountains?" I turned to face him with that scrunched up face that was universally undersood to mean, "Huh?"

"Do you throw coins in fountains and make a wish?"

"Well for a while I didn't. Didn't seem to be working so I stopped. Amusing question though."

"So when did you stop?" He might as well have asked, "When did you become so cynical and jaded?" But he's a nice guy.

"I don't know. Maybe when I was 25 or so. Right around the time the insomnia started I guess."

"And when did you give it another go? What made you start wishing again?" he was clearly on an inquisitive mission and I was going along to see where it took me.

"It was Wes. On our first date we walked past a fountain. It seemed like we passed them a lot for a while. He always gave me a coin and told me to make a wish. But apparently, since my wish never came true, it doesn't work for me."

"You think? Maybe you've been doing it wrong."

More scrunched up face on my part.

"You need to find someone who will wish your wish with you." he said simply.

And as I looked at him and smiled he continued, "I would wish your wish with you."

It was things like things like that, things that could make your day. Little things and everytime I saw a fountain I would remember. And I would wish for his wish instead.

My favorite fountain was closed, Michigan winters are rough on wishing I guess, so I drove past it to an indoor wishing spot. Threw my coins in the fountain and made my usual wish.

G(u)ilt Gifts

It was the time of year I dreaded for multiple reasons: freezing rain, crowds, holiday hell and as a final topper another year older for me.

But that's not the only reason, the guilt gifts either appear or are spurred on by this time of year.

Upstairs, spread out in small jewelry boxes randomly placed around the room, are several pieces of very nice jewelry. And to the casual observer it would be just that. But if one takes a closer look and really pays attention; it's clear that these are not the gifts of any one giver. Some are white gold, some are yellow, some are my birthstone, some are merely pretty. But all are guilt gifts.

The first guilt gift came from Rob. I have a terrible habit of starting to date someone right around the holidays and we had agreed christmas presents would not be exchanged. But three weeks later is my birthday. And here's where the foot met the banana peel that time.

He would call on his way home from work and announce that he was at the mall, a dreaded location for most men. "I'm at the mall. What do you want?" The question was alarming on every level to me. It put the onus on me to determine both the tone of the gift (romantic, practical, silly) and the price (how much of a gift did I deserve). And you know the anxiety that comes when you know that nothing you can say will affect a good outcome for you? Well put that here. "What do you want? There's Williams Sonoma, Parisian, Banana Republic. What do you want?" The obvious answer was that I didn't want to be having this conversation but I had already started it and was floundering to get out of it.

"I'm sure whatever you get me will be fine."

"No, really. What do you want. I have no idea." Which was heard by me as, "What do you want? I have no idea and I don't want to even try to think about it. I'm not even going to attempt to put any thought into buying you a birthday present."

"Well whatever. I'm sure you'll find something I'll like."

"If you don't tell me what you'd like I won't buy you anything." Which I thought was some sort of crazy bluff. Laugh with me not at me please.

And nothing was exactly what I got.

I remember at one point during the ensuing argument saying, "And you thought nothing was a good idea?" "Well, that's what you said. I didn't think it was a big deal."

Newsflash: it's always a big deal. Even bigger when it's going to hurt my feelings. Assume it will always hurt my feelings just to be on the safe side. My thinking that you give a crap will always be a big deal. And when I finally decide that you definitely don't give a crap it will be an even bigger deal.

I think I got my point accross.

On Valentine's Day an overly gradiose present appeared; a ruby and diamond pendant. "I screwed up your birthday so I thought I should get you something nice." Mixed feelings on that one for me. It was lovely. But he only bought it for me because he felt guilty.

We barely made it until the end of the month. I tried to give the guilty present back but he refused. "I bought it for you because you deserve nice things. Keep it. Wear it."

A day late but not a dollar short.

The next guilt gift would come the following year on my birthday. Because he had pulled up lame on Christmas I got a pair of amethyst earrings. "I hate buying you jewelry but I really felt like a jerk because you went to so much trouble on Christmas for me." Somehow not the sentiment I was looking for. But hey, earlier in the evening I had been bawling my eyes out at a 5 star restaurant in downtown Detroit so go figure. We didn't make it to Valentine's Day.

The third and final guilt gift came from someone who I thought would never set foot in a jewelry store. Come to find out, he has an account there. Perhaps he has lots of guilt. Once again someone forgot my birthday. Nothing. Unless you count a Rueben at a dive bar. and no, I don't.

On Valentine's Day he sat a box in front of me and then sheepishly walked away. A tiny box. any woman knows that box. The really small one that rings come in. And for a moment I had a panic. Please not THAT ring. No, not ready for that one. But it wasn't. It was my birthsone in a setting eerily similiar to my wedding ring that his best friend had repossessed when I asked for a divorce. "I hope you like it. I feel like an ass because you do so much for me."

Well three points for honesty.

Iwanted to yell and scream. Wouldn't it be easier to stop on your way home and buy some flowers every once in a while? Stop and buy a card, there are stores full of them. Something small just because. Something that you saw that you thought would make me smile. Write me a letter.

And then maybe you wouldn't have to dig yourself out of some huge hole.

By the end of the next month he was done too.

I have mixed feelings on those pieces. And almost every time I wear one someone notices and compliments me on them. "Oh, that's so nice." And in my mind I think of the spirit in which it was given. Somehow takes off some of the shine. But on every first date I wear one of them. Both to remind me that someone once loved me and of my failures.

Do you really think

Late in March I had had enough. It was so bad I could see it coming and was desperately looking for an excuse to rid myself of another Mr. Boring, aka Tim. We were five months into dating and I had actually gotten out pen and paper to make a surprisingly long list of things I was missing out on by staying with him. The top five included going anywhere that required me to be more dressed up than jeans and a clean sweater, the symphony (or anything with any amouint of culture including yogurt which he detested), romance, stimulating conversation of any kind and toe curling sex. And I was really in the mood for claasical music.

Eventually he said that taking me to a friend's birthday party was "too much trouble" because my ex-husband was planning on attending and he had asked Tim not to bring me. Needless to say I was not amused. But I was dressed up for a night at the bar ( I couldn't let the ex and his new victim see me looking anything less than stellar). So I was all dressed up and free. Free to go to the nearest bar and drink my way out of my funk.

Typically after a break-up I speed dial through my Blackberry and dredge up men from the past for recycling. But I really wasn' that upset about Tim. I was more upset that my ex thought he was going to tell me I couldn't go somewhere.

I walked into the bar and ordered my usual drink; in the midst of taking out my aggressions on the poor lime there was Rick. And as usual he honed right in, "You're here alone aren't you?" Sometimes I just wanted to smack him. This was one of those times. And it was about to get worse.

I should have walked away. I was was in no shape to deal with him. But I didn't. Nope. Sat down to have my arse handed to me.

He wasn't up for polite conversation. Really, let's talk about politics, baseball, the economy. Anything. But no we were going to talk about my reason for being at the bar. Alone. On a Friday night.

So I quickly outlined the last five months of my life with Tim. Ran into him at a bar. Really had wanted to leave that night too- before Tim saw me. But I was sitting between him and the mens room and He was between me and the door. I was doomed. At first I had hoped he would ignore me. He was my ex's best friend after all. He stood up in our wedding. But he walked right up and started chatting and several rounds later he admitted that he had always been jealous of my ex for talking to me first the night we met. Tim, my ex and another friend had all been sitting at the bar that ill fated night I met my future ex-husband. And as the saing goes, flattery will get you everywhere. Fast forward- we had settled into a comfortable boring. I t was a relationship I could deal with but I was bored to tears. If it was like this in five months what would it be like in 30 years?

"And you thought this would make you happy?" he asked with a perplexed look. "What possessed you to think this was a good idea in the first place?"

"Well, some parts of it were a lot easier. I didn't have to explain the whole get married and get divorced in the same year deal. He knew the baggage (well most of it) and still liked me." To me this seemed logical.

"Your ex-husband's best friend seemed like your best choice?? Really? That was a recipe for disaster. When did you become so desperate??? What the hell were you thinking?"

For me a lot of people's opinions have very little weight. But this was Rick. I considered him a friend, at times I had considered him to be a lot more. His opinion had weight. His comments hurt.

My feelings were hurt. My answers were brushed aside.

"Sometimes I think you don't want to be happy Jennifer. The choices you make, the things you do. You're a smart girl but you don't choose things that will make you happy."

At first I was indignant. "WHAT? How could you say that?" I was upset but I would try to hide it for a few minutes more.

"You make dumb choices. You fall in love with people who clearly cannot work out, who can never give you what you're looking for. You can't possibly beleive that these guys are going to make you happy."

And I had two points; 1) I know that I'm responsible for my own happiness and 2) I really didn'yt see it that way. Sub-point 3 which remained unsaid- I fell in love with you once- what does that say?

And at this point I was upset. Visibly upset to those who were looking, unfortunately he was staring accross the bar. And before he realized it I was pissed off trying to hide the hurt.

But he didn't get it.

"When was the last time someone kissed you and made your knees shake?" he asked. I thought for a minute without answering. And then I lied, "I don't remember." In truth it was with Rick but that wasn't something I was willing to admit. "You need someone who can sweep you off your feet," he replied to my lie.

"Easier said than done. Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I like this?" I was still upset and he was finally getting it.

"Well what makes this so hard? Explain to me what the problem is here."

I quickly cataloged my current list of faults. Some of them were huge life issues; others were just things I didn't like.

"So you think that all those things are going to matter when you meet the one? Do you really think that your problems are going to be that big of a deal if he's really the one for you? Do you think he's not going to love you if he knows you're broke, you've been disowned by most of your family, that you have bad problems with anxiety?

Yep. That's exactly what I thought.

So Where Has She Been?

I haven't been blogging because I don't feel like I can form a cohesive thought. Usually I blog when I'm finished with an issue-when it's over. I put it down for you to read and it's over. Checked off the list. Done with. Finished.

But nothing seems to be complete or finished in any way lately.

And when I think something is finished; just when I reach the end; I can see that the beginning has started to unravel.

"Unravel" you say? It begs the question, I know. But before I can explain the how this thing called my life comes apart you'll have to know how I judge it when it's together. (I told you I wasn't making much sense lately).

Recently someone asked me if I wrote these things down on paper. And looked incredulous when I said no. All in my head. Scrubbing showers gives one a lot of time to think. My best friend claims I spend more time thinking than any other one person he knows- I cannot tell if that's an insult or a compliment but anyways.

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The three area theory.

It's exactly what it says it is. In my life there are three main areas: money, health and relationships. Money includes work, bills, and all things related to or governed by money (or lack thereof). Health includes my physical and mental being. And relationships includes all interactions with other- be it friendship or romantic. Some of these overlap at times. Yes, I've had the ill-fated office romance. And also a job that was so stressful it made me physically sick. You get the idea.

Each area has the same relative weight for me.

So asking me how I'm doing really only involves a quick glance at these three. If you know me well enough, you'll find that two areas going okay is generally enough for me to consider it as "things going well." Somehow all three never seem to be going well at any one given time but if I can get two out of three I figure that's not so bad. If one area is well then I hang my hat on that for a while. However when nothing seems to go right its more of a three strikes and you're out kind of thing.

Unfortunately things in my life tend to snowball.

Dave Friendly- Part III

I got a really angry comment about this blog and I don't know who sent it. Before I really thought about it, I got upset and deleted it. It stuck in my head for a few days however.

Because it was true.

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I took a shower, took out my infernal contact lenses and put on my favorite college sweatshirt (which I guess is now my favorite, tattered college rag). Dave was getting dress to leave. I sat there crosslegged finishing my third beer-if you know me , you know that the third one makes me officially drunk.

"It's hard to believe you're thirty." he said. (A completely unnecessary compliment as I've already stated he's getting ready to leave.) "I'm not 30; I'm 34, closer to 35 if we're going to be fair."

"Really? well I guess we have known each other for three years. But you were 31 then?" And from out of nowhere a crazy memory runs through my brain.

"Yeah, I was 31 when we met."

And then, "What ever happened to that guy?"

I know full well what guy Dave is referring to but I don't want to go there. "You know that guy. What was his name? The one we ran into on our first date." And I have nowhere to go but there. "Rick."

Yes, on my first date with Dave, we ran into Rick. And I almost knew it was going to happen and couldn't do anything to stop it. The irony of my life.

It was near Rick's 40th birthday. we were sort of in between dating. I thought we were done- I was out trying to meet new people- and I had no idea that we would date again. and break up again. More than once.

But he had called me to see if I wanted to join him and his friends for his birthday. And I had set-up a date with Dave already. But I did ask where he and his friends were going-and it happened to be the same not very large town where I was supposed to meet Dave. and Dave had already left. I crossed my fingers and hoped they would be at another bar.

Things were going well. Dave and I were sitting at the bar talking. As first dates go it was good. And then from behind us we heard a big, loud group of people come in. "I wonder what that ruckus is all about," Dave said. And I turned just a hair to see Rick walk in the door. This can't be happening I thought. No, it can't. So in typical fashion, I ignored it.

Until I felt a hand around my shoulder and heard the voice, "Jennifer." I was trapped. There was one arm behind me and my date next to me. I had no where to go. And someone was enjoying my discomfort. And them introduced himself.

"So how long have you and Jen been going out?" At this point I just want to die.

"She's a really great girl." A double whammy since I can't take a compliment to save my life and he's being way over the top on the really great part.

After what seems like an eternity and a couple more intonations of "she's really great" there is a god and he returns to his group. I breath a giant sigh and then return my attentions to my stunned date. "I'm really sorry about that," I say trying to begin the repair. "You slept with him didn't you?" And for a moment I sit there, wishing I was anywhere but there. And Dave starts to laugh at my squirming, "It's kind of obvious," he says now nearly laughing. So I admit, we used to date. And he continues to the next logical, albeit unsettling, question. "What happened."

"I don't know."

Three years later and I think I know.

Anyways. Back to, "What ever happened to that guy?"

I think about it for a minute and answer with, "I farked up." And then the entire story of earlier in February.

"You should call him," Dave says. "He really likes you. In fact in a few more minutes I would have left you there with him at the bar that first night we went out. You could see it. Really. I've never seen that type of thing."

Dave Friendly- Part II

Since all sense of what was proper and what was not proper to discuss with one's friend with benefits had flown out the window, I threw a big idea out. Big. So big Dave looked at me like I had suggested ritualistic human sacrifice.

"I think I want to have a baby."

And he nearly choked to death on his beer. "Should I be worried? I mean about what we just did?" And he's quite possibly the only guy I know who wouldn't be offended by, "No, no, no. I'd never want to have a baby with you."

He lit another one and opened another beer. Closed his eyes and stretched across the bed. "I love how you just mention big topics like this off handedly. Remember when you told me you were starting a business? Just one day, out of the blue. And you had it all figured out already in your mind. And then you went and did it. So tell me about this proposed baby."

He didn't know the background- the fear of babies, the problems I might have trying to have a baby (mostly not being able to). But the explanation was pretty clear in my head. "So, go do it."And then a little further explanation from me until we got to the really odd part. "If I don't find someone in the next few years, I'm considering doing it by myself."

"Really? You think it will come to that?" he asked, now staring at me. " I can't imagine you not being able to find someone." And then my answer," It's not that I can't find someone- it's finding the right someone, you goof." "So you're really going to try that by yourself?" and a crazy questioning look. "Well maybe. I'd have a lot to work out first."

The 80 % rule

A friend e-mailed me a few days ago to say that he thinks my life is interesting. I had no idea of what to say. I don't think my life is all that exciting. Strange; yes. Interesting; not so much. I ended up telling him I would ponder his remark as I scrubbed the next few bathtubs. But so far I've got nothing. There's a big topic rolling around in my mind but its not coming out coherently. In the mean time this story seems suitably interesting.

After Rick I met Dave Friendly. Don't confuse this Dave with my friend Dave-follow closely. Dave and I went on a few dates before it became obvious that he was not "the one." This didn't bother him in the least and he quickly became "the friend with benefits."
He was the one I used when I was trying to forget. Or when there was no one to forget but loneliness. He's a great guy but made two things very clear from the beginning: he was incapable of monogamy and not interested in anything serious. Somedays this made him perfect and other days this made him the anti-Christ depending on my mood. But if I called, he showed up. And if he called and I wasn't dating anyone great-well he showed up then too.
Dave didn't know that I was trying to forget and didn't care. Our first date was eventful (another day) but remained clothed. Our second date involved some dinner somewhere and a rented movie. I think he developed a clear picture of my intent when he let me pick the movie at the rental place. "It's good. I've already seen it."

Most people would have called it a doomed relationship but we weren't even trying to have a relationship. I was trying to erase someone and Dave was busy being Dave.
And this arrangement worked well for three years. He was the second person I called after any major break-up (or even any minor break-up sometimes). When I just wanted to forget Dave was the guy.

Sometimes he would call when my relationships were going well and he always took it in stride, "I hope this works out for you-but if it doesn't you know how to reach me." And it never did work out. He knows all the "reasons" and all the rejection of the past few years. But he only has an idea of what happened before he and I met.

The last time Dave came over (and as the story will tell I mean last time as in final) things went pretty much as usual. Except I had changed. Something was different. It was me.
Six months before Dave had been over and afterward asked me a strange question. "Do you think I should marry Susan?" I questioned why I, of all people, would be the one to come to for advice on this. He and Susan had been dating for close to 3 years- she was the girlfriend who came after me. And that time I didn't give an answer. I had another thing or two to learn before I would really change.

But the second time he asked me was different. Naked, in bed with another woman, drunk and definitely stoned-he thought to ask me if he should marry her. The sheer ridiculousness of the question made me laugh out loud. But he was serious, "I value your advice- out of all the women I know you are the most grounded. I know you'll give me good advice." I was flattered. And I thought about the question. And in my usual irritating fashion answered a question with a question- "Well why do you think you should marry her?" His reasoning was pretty sound. She had put up with him for three years, neither of them wanted children (which up until then I had not known), he was getting older and had no desire to start over with dating. I followed with a girly question, "Do you love her?" I really had no idea if he did or not. It wasn't really the sort of thing we generally discussed. He told me that he guessed he did- that he really wasn't sure of what love was or if it even existed. He said they had had a similar conversation before and that she had said she wasn't sure true love existed either. And while I had been lucky enough to experience it I was unable to describe it. And I was lying in my bed thinking of how to explain love when I knew we were through. "Yes Dave, this is twice you've brought this up. It's been more than six months and you're still thinking about it. Go ask her."

There were too many things going on in my head to explain. Too many ideas and too many memories I would be unable to erase.

In the end I went with humor. "You know-as far as I can tell about 80% of the guys I date marry whoever they date after me." "Really?" he questioned. "Yeah- I guess I should have warned you to choose carefully."

Fear of Babies

In my catalog of problems with Rick next on the hit parade comes babies.

Rummaging through the junk drawer that is my life last week I stumbled upon the my one and only Rick momento- a ticket to a Tiger's home game. Friday August 6, 2004 up in the bleachers. It was an awesome date (awesomeness discussed later).
It was a work event-his work- which I thought odd for a third date that we almost didn't have (also a topic for another day).
So we're at a big work function and I think I'm doing well. And then the real story comes into play. Someone is there with their newborn baby. Like two weeks old. It's this baby's first trip out into the social scene it appears. And Rick loves babies (he will be a great dad and somewhere in this mess I start rating dates on their dad-ability). So there we are- he's holding an infant. It appears that everyone wants to hold the baby and nearly everyone does. And then I hear, "Do you want to hold him?" And it's coming from Rick and its directed toward me.
Unbeknownst to the general public- a few eeks before my divorce was final I made a trip to my doctor with the idea of using my ex-husbands insurance one last time. I had no intention of hearing bad news. Or the need for even more doctors and more tests. And it was a surprise to hear what they said lastly, "You may have some difficulties having children and we won't really know until you try."
And with those words fresh in my mind there he was asking if I'd like to hold an infant. Somewhere Freud and Jung were laughing-laughing that phony laugh you make when someone's joke bombs.
I guess the look on my face told the story. The look on his face was puzzled and his co-workers were quickly assigning me either fling or trophy status.
While the rest of the night was truly great- that issue would never really go away for us.
Late one night on the phone- "Are you ever going to tell me why you're afraid of babies?"He was the first I would try to explain my situation to, the first of many. I'd like to think that in the three years since my explanation has improved. This response was one of the best I've heard-clearly, he wanted to be a father no matter what.
In time my reaction to the whole baby thing would change and I would face that fear too. If it happens, it happens- worrying over it isn't going to change the facts or the outcome. I'm not sure how to end this- it's just one of the things I had to work on. There wasn't anyone who could help me. There were no magic words. Just time.

A Catalog of Problems

A few days ago a friend called me to vent about his girlfriend, seems she's emotionally unavailable-you see she's still hung up on her ex. I was about to say that the worst part is that she fully admits to this but then I remembered. I had been that girl too.
Rick and I had our first dating go-around a little more than three years ago. For those of you trying to complete an accurate time-line it was really just months after the judge stamped the divorce papers. During the divorce proceedings I would waste more time with an idiot I had dated before. I lost that one to the "other woman". She was tall, blond and always smiling. You probably know her, it seems everyone does. But I was no match for St. Pauli Girl sadly and he chose to continue drinking them into profitablity. In a great forecast of the future- my parting shot to that drunken loser was, "My relationships don't fail because I don't try. You farked this one up." To which he nodded and stumbled off.
But for the next one I really wouldn't try. In fact I would sabotage secretly. It wasn't that I wasn't over my ex or the drunk, I just hadn't had enough time to heal. What I really needed has to be alone for a bit but I didn't see that then. So I decided to go right back to dating but this time I was going to be as "involved." It seemed like a a simple plan.
Rick and I had our first date shortly(and by shortly-I mean hours) after I finished with the drunk. No time to waste, I was on a mission. It was a fairly normal first date; drinks, conversation.
The following day I was feeling good about it still. And this is where my plan came into effect. My friends kept telling me that I always got too involved with these losers. I only heard the"too involved" portion. So the following day I went out to a local spot to see what else was out there- I was not going to become too involved again. And that's how I met Pete. He probably wasn't someone I would have normally dated but I was out looking for something new.
And here's where the first of many mistakes I made with Rick would begin. At first it was easy to juggle them. But as the summer progressed it became more and more difficult. Eventually I would come clean with Pete. "There's someone else." His reaction was not what I had anticipated, he cried. Driving home that night I thought about telling Rick but their (Rick and Pete) personalities were so different I couldn't imagine what Rick's reaction would be. So I didn't. And the problem just grew. The phone calls and the voicemails-"I've gone straight to your voicemail; I hope this means you're getting some sleep. Talk to you in the morning." The lies I told to cover myself.
And then one late night on the phone,"It's like you're not all there for me. Like you keep a part hidden. I really like you, or at least what I've seen of you so far, but I need to see the whole picture." I didn't have much of a reply. There wasn't a whole lot I could say. But it did seem as if there was something I could do; I could be more involved.
The next time I saw Pete would be the last. It was a terrible night. On the way home, in the pouring rain, there was only one person I wanted to talk to- to tell him that I was ready. Ready to be more involved. And I got the voicemail.
My call was not returned, not for several months. I guess I had decided too late and he had moved on. Later on we would talk about it-he would say that I just wasn't all there. I would confess to seeing someone else.
Later on I would realize that the someone else really didn't matter. Even if there had been no Pete I still would have held on to some small part of myself to avoid being hurt. Time would heal that part of me however, and one day I would be well enough to show someone all of me again.

Lather, rinse, repeat

I've said it before and I'll say it again; when the message is really important sometimes the universe has to tell you twice. Such was the case with "some things just don't work out." A friend of mine is going through a similar problem so I'm going to tell the precursor to things that don't work out and maybe that will get through their thick skull (kidding-sort of).

It was two years ago, Superbowl weekend. I secretly believe he left that night because he knew the Seahawks would lose and he didn't want to pay up on our bet. But anyways, we were at home supposedly relaxing. But we hadn't really been able to relax together for weeks.

It really started on my birthday a few weeks earlier. Where we were going was a surprise. The real surprise would be the dead end we would reach by the end of the evening. I felt rushed getting ready, although I can't remember why. And when I came downstairs I got my favorite, "You're going to wear that?" I argued that since I had no idea where we were headed it was hard to select an outfit and if I was really that far off the mark why didn't he march his rear upstairs and pick out something different from the 10 x 10 closet we both shared. He knew my clothes nearly as well as I did after all. This argument continued into the car and most of the way there. I was moments from tears (my lowest quality according to him) and he knew it.

We arrived at The Whitney still smoldering. It was a disagreement with no winner but it was my day and I clearly thought he should lay off this line of reasoning. The last thing I remember him saying as we walked to the door was, "Is a nice dinner without theatrics too much to ask for?" I gave him the look. We sat down and the waiter gave his spiel. He had no idea that table ten was on the verge of a melt down. I thought a drink would make me feel better. So I had two. But the irritation would continue as I was instructed on how to order and what utensil was correct. "I'm not five you know. I don't need to you to tell me these things." "Well I'll stop treating you like a child when you stop acting like one." And then a course of silence; I think it was soup.

I have to give him half credit at this point. Half credit for trying to entertain me in conversation; a big red mark for topic chosen however. "So, you're 32 years old. What are you going to do with the rest of your life?" My mind raced through various, sarcastic remarks, the truth and how badly I did not want to have this conversation. So I said nothing. But, undaunted, he continued, "Well it's not like you can go on like this forever. When are you going to actually do something?"

We had not been together very long but in our short time we had looked at more than 50 homes for sale, talked about the possibility of children, he had met my family. "What did I want to do with the rest of my life?" What any 32 year old woman would want want; to get married again and try to start my own family-perhaps our family. But the words wouldn't come. The tears did however. And as we all know once they start there's no stopping them. The look on his face was so dreadful. There was no apology or quarter given and the questions just got worse. Eventually I would leave the table and pass the waiter who would give me a pained look.

There would be no apology when I returned in fact few words were said. And as I opened my birthday present he would look at me and say, "I hope you realize this will be that last jewelry I buy you." And recognizing his Freudian slip tack on, "for a long time."

Two weeks later he would pick a fight with me over something so non-consequential it now seems funny. we no longer went out because as he put it, "You could break down in tears at any moment and I just can't take that risk; everyone staring at me thinking I've done something to you." So we were home. What would start the fight doesn't even matter. He would turn to me and declare he was done with me and that he was leaving and then get up from his chair. And feeling a mix of emotions I would offer to help him pack.

I held it together for the first few hours well. But my grip was slipping. As he passed me with another box n the way to his car he would tell me that he didn't think all of his stuff would fit in one trip and that he would probably have to come back. And at that moment I had my usual amount of backbone for the first time in weeks. "Then you had better decide what you really want to take with you and prioritize accordingly. You've already ruined enough of my life and I will not let you have another day. You're not coming back." He looked stunned as the whole "you're not coming back" thing was actually his sentiment. He always said that once he broke off a relationship he never came back. Truer words had not been spoken.

Everything did fit in his car. And at 3am in a blinding, wet snowstorm I put the last box in his car and stood there on the sidewalk. That's when the tears would start. He grabbed me in what would be our last hug and kissed me on the forehead like a small child. And I would manage to eeck out that I was sorry I had farked things up.

Standing next to the open driver's door he would turn to me and say, "You didn't ever mess this up. It just wasn't meant to be."

iPod

The worst thing following a break-up is music. You hear a song that makes you think of them. You hear a sad, depressing song and want to gouge your eyes out. And the fine folks at Apple have added to our misery. Yep, 80 GB of songs to torment yourself with. I had put the iPod in a drawer and shut it. Most of the music were downloads from Paul and I really didn't need that right then.

If you believe in God (or gods or whatever) I must say they have a twisted sense of humor. I don't remember exactly when it was but I was on the phone with Rick. The topic of mp3 players came up. He thought it would be a great thing for me to listen to while I worked but was surprised to hear I had already bought one. For those who don't know: I'm technolocically impaired. If it's an electronic gadget I have an IQ of 75 or so. I had been influenced by someone who has not one but two of these crazy things.

Anyways, I'm on the phone with Rick. And in his quest to see something of the "hidden me" he harmlessly asks what the top 10 played songs are on my iPod. I stutter and stammer and try to avoid the question at all costs. He has no clue what is causing my distress. Is the playlist a federal secret? No, it's not and I'm not sure what the song will be but I'm afraid to look. I waffle, vacillate and eventually he gives up this line of questioning. I should have just said something by the Scorpions or some other 80's hairband. My not answering raised suspicion.

And I didn't look for several months. and then the query popped into my head. I had an idea of what the most played song was. It was sent to me in a link one night along with the lyrics. It was the epitome of a romantic gesture. The first time I heard it I cried.

It was also a big neon flashing sign.

The most played song? Question by The Old 97's.

And for those of you who don't know:

Some day somebody's gonna ask you
a question that you should say yes to
once in your life

Aftermath

So there I am. And the one person I really want to talk to most is Rick. But this is a break-up where I haven't checked my self esteem at the door. I've been set down on my feet this time.

In the next few days I realize that this, if you believe in karma, is my payback. A few months ago I squashed someone's telling me and now I've been squashed. I call Rick to apologize and my calls go unreturned.

I lean on my friends and try to stay busy. Waste countless hours on the internet. I'm not sure what I'm more sorry about; what I had done or what had happened to me. But I realize that in the end I am okay.

Excessive iron in your diet can cause a medical condition call hemochromatosis. Excessive irony in your life is just a pain in the ass.

Some things just don't work out

Almost everything in my life has some sort of foreshadowing. I never see it until later. sometimes I have to be told twice. This is another one of those fine instances.

Paul and I make it to around the 5 month mark. Which is pretty much par for me. I'm not totally sure what happens; although I have an inkling. I think this is the point at which I either decide to go all in or decide to cash out my chips and go home. I think you pretty much know how its going to go at this point in most relationships. However on this particular day I had no clue.

Paul was stressing and I was feeling like there should be something I could "fix". But try as I might he was pretty resistant to any and all of my attempts. I was a fish out of water as they say. Late in the night, desperate to make things "better," I did something pretty uncharacteristic of me. I said the three word phrase.

As soon as I said it I strangely felt much better. For about 10 seconds. Paul did not respond with anything near the response one would hope for. In fact he said it worried him. It would be a long drawn out conversation, lasting well into the morning. He didn't have the time, energy or desire to be serious about any relationship right now. And wouldn't for more than two years. And I couldn't wait around for two years.

There really was nothing I could do or say. Some things just don't work out.

Someone to fix me

Well I've been chewing over how to best tell this portion for a few days. I can't think of how best to explain it. This could be because this is one of the few cases of someone fixing me (rather than the reverse). It's subtle and it snuck up on me.

Paul and I start talking after the Alan debacle. After drinks with Rick, and the subsequent sleepover, Rick does his usual disappearing act. Paul and rick are so not alike it's nearly funny. Paul has high ideals for the relationship and lays out clear ground rules before we meet in person. He not looking for a casual fling and it's unacceptable for me to date other people while seeing him-even though due to distance and circumstances its clear we won't be able to get together very often by my standards.

When we finally do meet in person I'm torn. But only for the first five minutes. He's not really my type looks wise and he's dressed in a style so much younger than mine I fear the people around us think I'm his mother. But after the first five minutes everything just clicks. Life is good.

Our second date turns into some sort of dating marathon. And I have him over to my house. Which is strictly forbidden-usually having people over to my place freaks me out-especially people that I don't know very well. It's going well, for once I'm getting to know someone before they see me naked.

On the third date we are at his place. Somehow the topic gets onto old relationships. Specifically mine, which we all know don't always go so well. "Every relationship I've ever been in was a failure." I say actually quoting Rick. When Rick and I first dated I was feeling bad about my six month marriage failing and these were his words of consolation. Like I said-not romantic- but the thought was there. Anyways this declarations stops Paul dead in his tracks. He turns and looks at me," That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. And if that's really the way you think then NO relationship is ever going to work for you and I don't even know why you're here."

Reality check please.

He then explains that my attitude is predetermining the outcome. That nearly every relationship teaches you something, makes you smarter or improves you choosing skills for the next relationship.

And that if you tried your best in a relationship and really gave it your all; that even if things didn't work out you shouldn't consider it to be a failure of yours. Somethings just don't work out.

Fixer uppers

I'm standing in the middle of my friend Dave's kitchen.

Dave is technically a client but not really. He stays home to talk to me while I clean his place; I'm not sure if I should charge him extra for voyeurism or not charge him at all in exchange for the amateur psychiatry.

So I'm standing in the kitchen and we're pondering my dating status. "Well, what are your prospects?"

"Really none," I answer. " There are a few strays from the last go around but nothing that looks super attractive. Maybe one I could recycle."

"Recycle? Who?"

"Well Rick, but I'm not to sure about that."

"Why not?"

"We've been talking some so I think he might be interested. But I have a bad feeling." Insert Dave's raised eyebrow here. "Well I've told him about all of the crap that been going on lately with my parents, and the car, and health insurance and work and everything and he's really been a great listener. But I kind of feel like he just wants to "fix" me. And I'm not real comfortable with that idea. I'm a grown woman; I don't need fixing or anybody to do it for me."

Dave is twice divorced so he knows better that to dispute whether I do indeed need fixing or not. Instead he goes for the obvious, "Fix all those things yourself. Then go see about him."

As with everything in my life the advice and learning experiences are non sequitur. Sometimes I even need to be told twice. Things can break or be fixed without my knowledge.

Do you check your self-esteem at the door?

Alan Baker also ran an ad in the dating cesspool. He simply stated that he was a big goofball who really hated dating. So I answered in late August.

There was only one thing wrong with him "as far as I could tell"-he was merely separated from his wife. A detail I usually try to avoid. Notice I say "usually." But he does expand on the idea-separated as in another state.

It's slow moving at first. It takes a week of e-mailing back and forth and then he suggests chat. I secretly have to install an instant messenger- the things we'll do for a date. The chat is good but come on here; not looking for a pen pal either. He appears to be one of the most timid, shy men ever. And his soon to be ex-wife has clearly broken him.

Sometimes I think my entire purpose in life is to fix things. Even my business involves fixing things to some extent. Men are no different. Sadly once I've screwed their heads back on straight, they leave me. They don't need me anymore. Nearly all of my fixer-uppers marry the woman they date after me. There are few exceptions to this rule-one is on the suspicion list and one I'm trying to get back.

Anyways back to Alan. After typing my finger to little nubs I realize that if we're going to ever meet face to face I'm going to have to take charge. So I take a shower and then get on IM. The conversation goes as usual; a lot of flirting and silly banter but he's still not asking me out. While chatting I quickly compose an e-mail. Simple and to the point. Meet me at the Starbucks in 30 minutes or we're not chatting anymore.

In thirty minutes I see him loitering outside. He's much taller and much goofier than I had pictured. He's 36 going on about 14 and he's so self conscious he's got me looking at my shoes too. We get our coffee and begin an aimless walk through downtown. He's smart and really charming once the shyness wears off. He was married for 15 years and she wrecked him. Eventually we sit down on a bench under the guise of people watching. A quick meeting turns into a few hours and I realize while I'm sitting there that I do really like this geek. "What are you thinking about?" he questions, "you've got a funny look on your face." I smile and say nothing but turn myself so that my feet are between his and our knees touch. This is Rick's advice- for I was told that on our first few dates my body language was not good. It didn't appear that I was interested he said because my feet pointed away from him. Alan smiles a goofy smile. It would be the beginning of what I thought would be something.

A few weeks forward- I'm on my way to Alan's when Rick calls. We chat our usual chat work, family, seeing anyone? The tale of Alan begins. This is one of the few times Rick properly identifies me as happy. "You love him don't you?" And I try to lie. "You do. In fact you've already told him. How does this work?" Don't be silly I say, that would be insane. And mumble but true under my breath. We talk so long I actually arrive at Alan's while still talking to Rick. "Do I need to let you go?" No, Alan's cool and you're my friend. We chat for a few more minutes but I can tell he's uncomfortable with the idea. "It's good to hear you're happy," he says as he ends the conversation.

I look up and Alan is there watching me, "It's good to see that you do have a few friends to talk to."

Alan and I have dinner and he returns to his computer to finish his never ending work that he continually brings home. I crash on the couch-still in his line of sight- to read. I love to read but the book just isn't holding my interest. Soon I'm lost in my own thoughts of blue eyes and a gorgeous smile and what he would have said if I had ever told him that I loved him. "what are you thinking about?" Alan says "because you've got that funny look on your face again."

Alan and I would last only 6 weeks. we would never have a fight and I wouldn't see the end coming. The last thing I ever said to him in person was I love you.

It would come in the form of a short, terse email. My things are in a box on the porch. He's leaving the country for a while and doesn't know when he'll return. He has some things to fix for himself. Don't wait.

And as happy as I was the previous week now I am sad. I make the 30 minute drive to retrieve the dreaded cardboard box. There's no note inside, no reason, no apology just a big box of broken heart.

There's really only one person I really want to be with when this happens (as it all too frequently does). He knows that I've been crying, as he always does. And probably know the exact nature of my distress before he says he'll meet me at the local bar.

I never cry in front of him. That's one of our problems I think; he needs to see me vulnerable and I've just never been able to give into that. So we drink and he listens. And when my story comes to an end with my usual, "Why do I always have to fix them so that they can leave me?"

And the answer is brutal. "What do you do with these men? Check your self esteem at the door? I don't understand how you keep letting this happen."