Monday, February 22, 2016

The Trials and Tribulations of a newly single 42 year old.

Lord have mercy y'all... I'm on Tinder.

I have currently been on two whole dates.

The first one I took him to the restaurant where D used to work.  The reasons are twofold.
One: it's close to home.
Two: it's safe - it's where everybody knows my name (which is not Norm fyi)

okay maybe three and four fold..

Three: I still get my friends and family discount (although a: I didn't pay and b: that may only be because nobody there actually even knows that D and I broke up.  He's not incredibly forthcoming with that information).

Four:  and this one is buried at the bottom of the list and in the tiniest smallest recesses of my broken heart... maybe somebody will tell D I was there ... and he'll snap out of it and realize I am the only woman in the world for him and he must slay all dragons to have me back.

So four will never happen.... there's always that....


First date went well.

We're going to call him Chachi (as in Joanie and Chachi)....

Chachi made sure to mention his custom made suits at least three times, the sports ring he wears for winning some hockey thing - cup? pendant? series? (which depending on which circles one tends to inhabit is either indicative of huge braggadocio or is testament to the effort and energy expended to win said ring), and the multiple cars he owned.

Well, I have enough savings in the bank to last about 2 weeks if I get laid off... so we're even?

But his confidence (potentially verging on cockiness or arrogance... or maybe just overcompensation - who can tell after only one date) was refreshing and lovely.

It was refreshing because it appeared to be well earned.

He's not a drug addict, he's not a sex fiend (well as far as I know so far anyway), he enjoys more activities than just drinking and gaming, and he apparently can hold down a job... legally.

By all accounts this screams "right to confidence" to me.
(woah did you just hear the "lowered expectations" jingle from mad tv in your head as well?)

I had fun.  I spilled red wine. He was wearing a white shirt... (don't worry his personal tailor just had some new shirts made up for him) and he's still game for another date... so by all accounts this could go somewhere fun (albeit probably temporary).

kinda hoping that the bragging is first date jitters and overcompensation...


Second date went...

We're going to call him Nocon.   Short for No Confidence... whatsoever.

...well lets just say it was an enjoyable movie?

He seems like a perfectly fine human being... and awkward, and socially inept... with an amazing ability to shove an entire mitt full of popcorn into his mouth (almost as if he's motor-boating the popped kernels in his hand)... leaving little white popcorn fluffs around his cheeks and mouth.

At first I was going to say "oh hey Nocon, you have some popcorn on your upper lip... then I realized that with each mound shmooshed into his face it would remove the first offending piece and leave a new offending piece somewhere else on his face... like upper right cheek... I mean really motor-boating those handfuls....

Our next conversation will probably go something like this:
"I'm so sorry Nocon, I don't think I'm really over my ex yet... I don't think I can do this..."

Because now I understand what WIB was talking about when she said she hates online dating because she doesn't want to be mean.
Rejection is mean... no matter how well worded...

I don't want to tell him that I find his lack of comfort in his own skin alarming - far too reminiscent of my own shortcomings and failings in the self-esteem department...
I don't want to tell him that I find his gusto and appreciation for food (popcorn in particular) alarming - far too reminiscent of Big Bounce  (I'm medium bounce now... or saggy skin bounce... we'll have to blog about those concerns another day).

I used to say that although Mr Neighbour was the lovingest, most wonderful nicest human being on the planet, it was hard to get past his social ineptitude (direct correlation to low self esteem)... um ... yeah this guy made Mr Neighbour look like George Clooney and Cary Grant rolled into one... soooooooooooooooooooo... there's that.

We saw Deadpool.

Am I the only person in the theatre who cried over the love story aspect?  Because I was thinking about D?
Shoot me now.


I have a date booked with someone else for Tuesday night, a tentative with Chachi on Wednesday night, and a pub date with a Bajan half marathoner on Wednesday, and a coffee date with Appearances Rob on Friday.

Appearances Rob was very quick to inform me of his height, his weight, that all his pics were recent and that his pictures were indeed indicative of his current appearance....
I informed him of my height, told him to suck it when it comes to knowing my weight -(which is currently in the 160lb range now internets) and told him my pics were recent and he could suck it if he didn't like what he saw... so yeah... super pumped about meeting Appearances Rob... can you tell?

Stay tuned ... I plan to regale you with the awesomeness that is my foray into single life post 40...

Thursday, December 10, 2015

... and another one...

I'm driving through the intersection, the light is green.
And then my tongue hurts from where I bit it.  I bit it because my airbag hit my face with ferocity and in a surprise attack.  And once I am cognizant of the fact that my airbag has hit my face I hear my mind say, "here we go again". 
Some silly young girl has gone through her red light and hit my car - I am spun through two lanes of tracking into the road traversing mine.
My car is written off.
I am in a daze, I am shaking but I am alive and for all intents and purposes pretty good save multiple bruises, a few minor lacerations/contusions and whiplash.
My first call is to him.
It always is.

The next few days he is solicitous and will not leave my side.

And then it all becomes too much for him and he says he is going to spend a few days at home.

And then he avoids me.

And now what hurts is not my neck, or my hip, or my head or my legs; it's my heart that hurts - again.

But I do it to myself every time.

How many Internet platitudes have I read in the last month that remind me that I cannot make someone love me, That I need to set him free and if it was meant to be, he'll come back to me?

I think I've read them all.  I'm sure I've re-posted many of them on Facebook myself.

I try to insinuate myself into his life again.

I remind him that Christmas is an open invitation.  He tells me he is not sure he would want to commit to that.

He wants to move into a rooming house again or find a room to rent somewhere.

He would rather take a million steps back and live in the squalor and filth where he was living when I first met him rather than be with me.

Squalor and filth are better than me.

This accident really hurt my heart.

Tuesday, November 03, 2015

Void Cheque

Today I sent sexy flirty emails to the guy that always seems to step in whenever you step away.  I wanted the ego boost.  I wanted to feel attractive and desired.

After you and I talked last night about the kids and what I could do to facilitate a better relationship between them and you I realized that my primary role in your life is just facilitator.  I am here to make things easier for you in the realms you struggle to navigate (like teenage daughters, rides, etc).
Turns out facilitator is not a sexy job for a life partner.

I've read the literature (and even the last page of the internet), all of which states I must find my validation internally.
Well guess what - old habits die hard.
I'm seeking it externally.

You refuse to give it to me.
He will.

I'm sad and lonely.
He will fill the void (ahhh innuendo how I've missed thee).

Monday, November 02, 2015

Shhh... it's a secret... but I think I might be back.

                Since you left, I lie a lot.  I tell everyone I’m fine.  I tell everyone that I’m working out to keep me busy and not think of you.  That’s not true.  I work out twice a week and pretend that I’m working out every day.  I hide at home the rest of the time downloading television shows to keep me occupied.  I’m not really planning on running a half marathon, even though I told you that too.
                When you asked me if my weight loss was due to not eating, you were right.  I don’t eat properly anymore.  But if I tell everyone my weight loss is due to exercise I don’t get the flak I know I probably deserve.

                I know things weren’t right between us.  I know that we can’t go back.  I want things to be right between us and I want to go back.  I don’t want the change.  Even if, as they say (that nebulous they that constitutes the friends who want their input recognized) the change will be for the better, I don’t want that change.  I want the life I had with you.  I’m paralyzed without you.

                Here’s the main problem, I know I was paralyzed with you too.  I could not go out and enjoy myself at events without you; because that meant that we weren't together.  That meant that you could be somewhere having fun without me.  I wanted you to want to be with me as much as I always wanted to be with you.  Apparently that’s not healthy.  Why can’t wanting to spend 24 hours a day with the person you love be healthy? Why can’t an unhealthy obsession with the person you love be the most magical beautiful thing in the world instead of a symptom of something far more insidious?

                My relationship with you both as your life partner and now your ex can only be summed up in one word – paralysis.  And I don’t want to move.  I don’t want to change.  I was comfortable in that paralysis.  This is the most honest analysis I've ever put out there of our relationship.  I wish it were not true.  I wish this were instead, one of the lies I've told since we broke up.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009


Write bitch write. Those are the only words of advice I have for myself. It’s been over a year since I quit writing altogether. No more online journal entries, no more stories on napkins not even mini notebooks. Nothing.

I quit altogether. Other than two cathartic poems that haunt me, I have nothing to show for an entire year of my life. It is the first time in 15 years that I have no record of my life, my emotions, or the stories in my head.

Today I read that writer Dominick Dunne died. When I read his novel “The Two Mrs. Grenvilles” I was captivated. It was a novel that I could not put down, and yet, I did not like the style of writing. The juxtaposition of fascination and boredom was my first foray into the knowledge that an ability to write well (or at least to tell a story well) supersedes my passion for specific styles of writing. I just read that despite the murder of his daughter, he completed work on the very novel I could not put down; this, despite the mourning and emotional turmoil in which he was engaged.

If, Mr. Dunne could write despite the most debilitating of all events (the death of a child), why would I allow myself to stop writing? It is foolhardy and egotistical to assume that my problems and pains are of greater store than his.


I’ll be taking my advice.
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