Posts Tagged ‘online dating’

Sometimes I Wonder

March 4, 2016

About that blog of yours.

A friend of mine said today after I explained why I wanted to vomit and had been crying all morning.

Nobody wants to wake up to an alarm.

But I would have happily.

Except nope.

My internal alarm went off five minutes before my alarm went off.

I had a hard time falling asleep and I used a little vibrating help to put me down, then slept all the way through until 8:25 a.m.

I looked at my phone to check the time.

I saw a few texts.

I rubbed my eyes.

I stared at the little tiny letters.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh fuck my life.

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCFUCKFUCK.

Aw.

Man.

“Did you now your IG account links to your blog?”

“Glad you ‘gave it the old college try’.”

Oh fuck me people.

He read the blog.

He found the blog.

I am an asshole.

ASSHOLE.

Cue why I should never date.

No wait.

Cue to why I should never write about other people when I am mad at myself.

I wasn’t nice to dude and dude found out.

Dude did I feel awful, I’m not excusing my actions, I’m just going to write about what’s been on my mind all day, because that’s what I do.

“You really put it all out there,” a friend of mine said once, “that’s what makes it so good to read, but you know, I get worried about you sometimes,” he said with a look.

“I mean, I can’t write about the stuff you put out there, I just can’t,” he paused, “I’m glad you do, but you sure as shit put your heart on your sleeve.”

Yeah.

I do.

And I was sad and mad at myself this morning, I took out my frustrations about myself and my inability to ask for what I need or to say, hey, this isn’t working for me, thanks for coming out, I’m glad to have met.”

Because part of it was a lot of fun, the texting, the flirting, it inured my little heart for a while.

My starving, foolish, idiotic heart that doesn’t want to feel all the feels, so yeah, let’s check out with a little text flirtation.

Harmless, right?

Except then I poured some gasoline on the bonfire of my vanity.

I have absolutely no leg to stand on.

I hurt someone’s feelings and I was told.

Ugh.

How do I get myself in scrapes like this?

I wasn’t honest.

I wasn’t up front right away.

Instead of a moment of discomfort, instead of saying, hey, you know, maybe not the best match after all, I just played along like nothing was happening, like it was all good, all fine.

I basically fucking lied.

“Oh my God, you look great,” she said to me as I bumped into her on the street heading down to the scene of the crime last night.

“I’m heading to a first date,” I said, “I’m nervous.”

“You look great! He’s not good enough for you,” she laughed, “it’s an interview, not a date! Have fun!”

Turns out I wasn’t good enough for him.

I did, however, make amends.

Oh humility, isn’t there a better way to get to thee?

I mean, yeah, there is, you’re honest right from the get go, instead of stifling it, you address it, by “you” I mean of course, “me.”

I have to change, I have to become better, I hate that I was awful to this man.

I really thought I was a better person, nope, just another asshole on a dating app.

App, if you didn’t already read yesterday’s missive, has been deleted.

I shouldn’t online date, I probably shouldn’t date at all, I keep fucking it up.

Focus on myself, focus on yoga, focus on work, recovery, my job, school.

Or.

I could also say, hey, chalk it up, you made a mistake, yes, you hurt someone, but you don’t have to do it again and I won’t.

That’s the thing, this will not happen again.

I immediately made phone calls, I checked in with my people, I wrote two separate inventories and made those phone calls.

I got one immediate answer, “you absolutely owe him an amends, you hurt his feelings, I’ll call you back in a few.”

Ugh.

Fuck.

More tears.

And a sick stomach.

I wanted to throw up.

Note to self, trust your body, if it doesn’t feel right, that’s your barometer, use it.

I drank some water, put on my kettle, made some coffee, I started to boil an egg, but I actually felt sick thinking about eating it.

I confirmed my yoga class and sat down and really wrote.

I had a great phone call back from a girl friend and she helped me hash it out.

I went to yoga and I did not die.

But fuck, I cried on the mat.

I let it go, I got into the poses, I dashed to the bathroom and honked my nose hard and cleared it and got back on the mat.

By the time the class was over I felt better.

I saw some light in the day.

I got home, intercepted a text from one of my people, took a hot shower, threw laundry in the wash, and made breakfast.

I dressed, got my scooter ready, and went to work.

I worked.

I showed up.

I cleaned and laundered and stripped beds and made food and I sat in the knowledge of what I had done and how it had affected me and this other person and what I could have done different, what I should have done instead.

I got the call back right before I was sitting down to have dinner with my instructions to the amends.

I got off the phone, but on an audio story for the boys, made sure they were set up with their dinners, kissed them both and walked into the front room to make the call.

He answered on the first ring.

Oh holy fuck.

“Hey, _____________,  I just wanted to call and let you know I realize that my actions hurt you and I apologize, it was not my intention to do so, I am sorry.”

He said thanks for calling, he accepted my apology.

I asked if there was anything else I could do, he said no, I said, again, my apologies, please take good care. And hung up.

I think that’s called “adulting.”

Fuck.

I didn’t want to write about it, but there it is, I don’t know how to write about anything but my fucking self, I’m my best, worst material, I am my worst enemy.

I love my little blog, but I will not use it as a mass weapon of destruction.

So.

I got to keep it clean.

I have to keep my side of the street clean.

That’s the best I got today.

I still feel a bit rotten about it, but I also know that not forgiving myself, and oh, the insights I have gotten to see in myself today, better days come around, get better, get better, better days come around get better.

Sun, sun, sun, will come up now.

My insights, too much to put down right now because I do not want to misconstrue anyone with the idea that there was anything wrong with the other person, this shit all falls right in my lap.

I didn’t like going through it, but I have seen what I needed to see and I will be better.

I will.

I promise.

I can’t go through that again.

I just can’t.

Grateful that tomorrow is a new day for me to be a better woman.

I am going to do better.

I just am.

 

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You Need To Hit Something

February 10, 2016

And hit it.

He laughed.

Oh my god I love that my person basically told me to go hit something, ie, go take a kick boxing class or a boxing class and hit a bag.

As well as.

Girl, go get laid.

Of course as soon as the permission is given I’m all like, who, who, who, I took down my Okstupid profile, how am I going to meet people, guys, I’m into guys, thank you, and ick, I didn’t like Tinder and…

“Face to face,” he said, “it’s called ‘adulting’ not texting, not online dating, face to face.”

Oh goodness.

Then I thought, well hell.

I’m busy as fuck when am I going to meet a fuckable fellow?

There’s a few places I could look and to tell the truth, I’m not going to loo too hard, when the time is right, the right man will present.

I am so horny it’s retarded.

I know exactly how un-PC that is.

That’s how it is.

In my pants.

Heh.

Oh and I so don’t give a serious fuck what anyone is thinking about this blog.

Family members, dear friends, those of tender mercies.

Stop reading.

The thrust, pun intended, of this blog is not going to be pretty.

But it might be sexy.

What I also love about being with my person is that I was able to be open about something that I have noticed myself doing and I don’t want to be doing.

It’s a form of self-sabotage that has it’s roots in a lot of family of origin crap that I have processed a lot about, but occasionally another layer is peeled off.

Here it the gist of it.

I like to dress up.

I like to wear dresses.

I love makeup.

I love frills and glitter and frippery.

Frippery is a word.

Although it does sound like something I might make up.

Anyway.

I have a tendency to get myself a pretty outfit, then not wear it.

I get excited about an event or a place or a thing that I am going to and then, last minute, change my mind, take off my heels, put back the dress, or worse, I don’t put it on in the first place, and I go back to my standard black leggings, jean shorts, tank top and t-shirt.

Sure.

It’s got its own sexy appeal.

More over it’s a handy work outfit.

I can bust it on my bicycle and I am cool.

I usually choose to adorn my hair with something floral and feathered, and I put some make up on.

Today.

I wore that exact outfit.

Exact.

Then I did my hair up into two big poofs, stuck two black and glitter flowers in it with black feathers and two different star shaped sequined hair clips.

(“Carmen!  I love your hair,” she said to me has I exited the gate and was unlocking my bicycle.  “I wish I could get away with stuff like that, it looks amazing!)

Plus.

I was wearing long should grazing silver star earrings with chains.

The affect was electric.

And I had fun.

But I will talk myself, self-sabotage, out of wearing the really fabulous shit in my wardrobe.

So.

I told on my self.

I told my person, who incidentally has me speaking for him this Sunday, and who also, is extraordinarily well put together himself (only one of the many reasons I work with him), that my head has been trying to tell me to not be so fabulous.

But that I want to be.

I mean.

I do.

I want to wear some polka dots.

Which is good since I got a red dress white polka dots to go with my new Fluevog shoes.

Mwahahahaaha.

And I want to wear a crinoline and I want to twirl in my dress in pretty shoes.

I am going to do just that, because my autonomy is attractive and my authenticity is important and because, damn it, I am allowed to get dressed up.

I am also allowed to get laid.

It’s about damn time.

I am not sure who I was trying to convince, but I’m over it.

I laugh at myself, “me thinks the lady dost protest too much.”

Sure.

The woman has needs and I am allowed to meet them.

Stop asking for permission and get it.

I also love that idea of hitting something, a body bag, a BOB, doing some target practice, doing some hitting drills, kicking drills.  I am going to explore that during my time off.

I have done some investigating into swimming, yoga, and now I am thinking boxing, possibly kick boxing, and dance class.

Mostly what I am concerned with is my schedule and what is going to be compatible with my work and school and recovery schedule.

And you think I’m too busy to get laid.

Ha.

I’ll show you.

Speaking of which.

Show yourself man.

I know you’re out there.

If I’m going to meet you, I need an approach.

I know that part is up to me.

If I want to meet someone I’m going to have to be out there in the world.

I’m doing better.

Getting out.

Getting out of my head.

Lightening the fuck up.

But you know, I’ll take your suggestions.

I’ve always done well with suggestions.

I’m not going to do the online dance though, I realize that really has never worked.

I could manifest like I did at Burning Man.

My friend was so funny and perfect when she suggested I write it out in my notebook, “You need the Universe to manifest a guy that will fuck you like a man and feed you steak.”

It was manifested.

I could use that right about now.

Yes.

I am busy.

But let me look at this as self-care.

I am charging the vibrator as I blog.

I told you I was not holding any punches with this blog.

You’re squeamish?

Fuck if I care, take it elsewhere.

I’m sure that there’s a rainbow, fairy tale, princess pants blog out there wishing you well with kitten whiskers and such shit.

And you know.

Great.

That’s great.

This is great.

Getting to be all things.

I get to be this mix.

A fabulous, crazy (at least I know I’m crazy, let’s be real, the ones to be wary of are the ones that say they’re fine), wicked sexy, fun, funny, sweet, kind woman.

I get to be it all.

I get to be spiritual.

And.

Sexual.

I mean.

Maybe this weekend isn’t the right one, Valentines and all.

Then again.

Heh.

I got six days off coming up.

I said it would be a “staycation.”

Maybe I should have a sexcation.

Ha!

Oh I amuse myself.

I don’t know what’s going to happen.

But hey, Universe, I have been given some instructions.

Help a girl out.

Thanks!

Your account has been deleted

January 20, 2016

And goodnight.

No.

Obviously I am not deleting my blog.

I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I did that.

Although I am beginning to think that I may supplement my blog.

I know.

In what fucking time?

But.

It’s been suggested a few times, by quite disparate people, that perhaps I want to start a podcast.

I apparently have the voice for it.

That could be fun and I do like to listen to myself talk…

Anyway.

I digress.

The account I deleted was my OkCupid account.

I realized after last nights blog and a little pity party after the fact, which quickly turned to anger, then a gentle, soft reminder, hey, kid, be nice to you, you’re doing the best you can.

The fact is that I know what I want and I can’t have it.

Yet.

And.

Further.

That being on this online dating site was not fulfilling me, it does me no justice, it does me no truth, it does me no love, it’s a flat representation of me.

I decided somewhere mid day to stop trying to date.

That was the realization.

That was it.

I know what I want.

I know where my heart lies.

So stop betraying my heart and stop trying to date on line.

It never worked.

Has never worked and yet I have had that damn account for years, I have disabled it twice and deleted once.

Now, officially deleted again.

I had a moment of realization that trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results was just as debilitating as beating myself up for wanting to have some different kind of romantic experience.

The fact is.

I know love.

And I don’t have to be searching for it.

I have love.

I can look inside.

I can feel it flush on my face, the sound of drums rolling through my blood.

The fire of carnations, the salt rose and topaz.

I almost didn’t delete it though.

As if hanging onto it would prove something, change something, make it different, make how I feel different.

I disabled it.

Then I re-read the last e-mail I got from a perspective suitor, which was probably one of the cutest requests for a date that I have actually gotten from the site, and I balked.

Come on, Martines.

This is fantasy.

Because it really is, it’s just another way to check out, to not be present, to not focus on what is going on with me, to deflect from the feelings I am having and get lost in the clicking through profiles.

Just another rat in the maze.

I will pass.

I went back and deleted the account.

A few minutes before a friend texted me to see if I was around.

Ha.

Yes.

And free to be present since I’m not trolling for some imaginary internet ego fulfillment.

Rather.

A good talk.

A connection.

Human relationships.

Right here.

Right now.

In the moment.

Just for today.

“Oh, you take it easy, you let the day unfold, I think you are going to be really happy today, you’re going to have something happens that is going to really surprise you, I guarantee it.”

Man.

She was right.

And it was good.

My heart feels in a place of resting that I don’t believe has been available for me for awhile.

I am not unhappy that it took what it has taken to get here, it’s been work unlike any I have ever known.

And the results?

Holy shit.

A deepening of understanding.

A threshold of love I don’t know that I have ever experienced.

A transparency of my self.

So good.

I feel blown open.

Like sugar crystals in a cave of dark velvet splashed with light and lit up.

Incandescent.

Alive.

I also gave myself the thumbs up to be a poet.

I mean.

Ha.

I have been a poet all my life, I was a poet before I had the words to express, but I can recall the images from my child hood, the smells, the press of my senses and that outlet that was always there for me, more true than history, poetry.

Which in its best, done well, is always about this moment.

This one.

Right here.

I have a class in school that I have to come up with a proposal that will help me expand my spiritual experience.

It’s called “Applied Spirituality” and I have had a bit of a resentment about it.

Damn it.

I am a spiritual person.

I don’t want to expand my experience.

I sound like a petulant child.

When it was pointed out I still stomped my feet a little, but I thought, ok, how can I be flexible, what could I change, can I actually add something more to my already rather busy and packed schedule?

My first response was fuck you and fuck no.

But when I react that strongly to something I know that is where the work is.

Then again, there it was, that idea presented to me, again last night, Sunday night and Sunday during the day at school, that I should be doing some vocal work.

“You should have a podcast!”

As I mentioned, I have no idea what that means.

I mean.

I really don’t.

Some exploration there would be needed to figure it out.

But how hard could it be?

The thought that came to me, the first thought, it morphed as I was talking to my friend, it bloomed, it expanded, and got bigger, but the first thoughts was.

Well.

Hmmm.

Maybe start a podcast and do spiritual readings.

Then I had another thought, a quiet thought, a soft voice that was shy at first, but then excited and lit up and exuberant.

Wait!

It should be my own work.

And.

Yes!

I will read poems on my podcast.

And.

Yes!

Here it is.

I will write a sonnet a day.

That will be my spiritual practice.

And if you don’t believe that writing is a spiritual practice, you bring yourself over to my house and I will show you my stacks and stacks and boxes and bins of notebooks that I have written through in my writing practice.

Poetry will be my practice.

Despite feeling overwhelmed at times by the amount of work I was doing in my first semester, I made the time to write the sonnet sequence for my friend I met a Burning Man.

And I can feel it.

I can feel that this is the right thing.

Write a sonnet in the morning, or free verse, or maybe find another lyrical form that resonates, like, hey on Saturdays I’ll write a sestina instead, then in the evening, edit and post it to my cohort and record it as a podcast.

I believe that poetry also needs to be read out loud.

The voice and the inflection, the words of the poet.

That is my proposal.

I am super excited.

And so grateful for this experience.

For this love, love.

This life, this joy, these threads of words and lines of poesie that sing inside my heart, this voice that is not mine.

You know, it is not.

It is God’s.

That I believe more fervently than I can express.

When the words come, even these, they are not mine.

I am a conduit.

I am a channel.

And that.

That.

Oh, that.

Is a mighty.

Mighty.

Fine thing.

Flotsam And Jetsam

January 19, 2016

I don’t have an idea about what I am going to write.

Just a bunch of disjointed things floating around my head.

I have a flat tire on my bike, which is annoying and I am super lucky I made it back to the house before it went all the way.

I thought it was soft this morning, pumped it up, broke the pin on the valve and sort of went the whole ride wondering if it was going to go.

Then promptly forgot about it as I had an early day at work and the minute, I mean the second I brought my bike over from my descending place–I usually land a few minutes early and stretch (this did not happen, I did not realize, only in hindsight, that my tire’s low inflation point probably spelled out a slower ride in, I was a little surprised to see I didn’t have as much time as normal to get into work mode)–it was go time.

But I also was surprised by an old friend driving past in his car who stopped and chit chatted me for a few minutes.

I could feel the boys watching and as soon as I wheeled my bike over and opened the garage I could hear them banging on the windows and doors and chanting my name.

Now.

That’s the way to come to work.

Can you imagine?

Going into work and all your co-workers are banging on the doors and walls because they are so excited to see you?

It’s rather amusing.

As were some ridiculously cute bon mots from the boys today.

“Carmen, do you know what’s always in season?”  In response to a question asking for berries that are out of season.  “Ice cream,” the five year old said and wrapped his arms around me.

I got lots of I love you’s and I missed you’s and loads of hugs and snuggles.

I read them a lot of stories this morning and then we went out and did the park and also Crepehouse for lunch.

Today was a holiday at school so I was there much earlier then normal.

I’ll be going in at 9:30a.m. tomorrow and working until 6p.m.

I did 10a.m.-6p.m. today.

Extra hours on the week and some extra cash in the pocket.

I’ll probably grab a car in tomorrow, it’s supposed to rain as well, so it wouldn’t have been the most optimum day for a bicycle ride in anyway, but it is annoying to deal with the tire.

It’ll work it’s way out.

The day is long, but it did go by quick, for which I am grateful.

Glad that I can help the family by coming in early, but I do like my routine, although having just come from a school weekend I am used to getting up a little earlier than normal.

Anyhow.

It is what it is.

It’s a full week too.

Lots of work, doing the deal, meeting up with ladies, old and new, and then getting a new hair do this weekend.

Although last night my hair looked so good I almost thought about canceling the appointment.

Almost.

I haven’t had my hair done in a bit and it will be fun.

Things feel like they need shaking up for me and a hair geographic usually does the deal.

I also inevitably get asked out on a date.

Jesus.

Why the hell haven’t I done my hair sooner?

Heh.

Ah.

Dating.

Okstupid is still a disappointment.

I do wonder why I keep the profile up.

I don’t have any other profiles anywhere so I suppose that’s why.

But it is inevitably disappointing when ever I check it out.

I got lots of sweet comments yesterday on the new tattoo on my social media spots and that was some nice ego massage, but no dates arose from it.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Freud, psychoanalytic theory and my own patterns.

I was told a few weeks ago by my person that I get to continue to be powerless and also that I get to stop romanticizing what I can’t have.

The old unrequited love trope.

Been there.

Done that.

But it continues to resurface.

When I look at the last two men I had romantic dates with they were both coming out of divorces with two girls.

And the guy prior to that.

Another recent divorcee with a kid.

I wonder sometimes if I am not trying, in some desperate way, to rectify the past, to somehow make wrong that right (oh holy shit is that a Freudian slip!), er, make right that wrong, of my parents relationship.

“Believe someone when they tell you who they are,” I was told.

“I’m just coming through a divorce and we have a kid and I still live at the house,” bachelor number one.

“I’m not available for dating, I’m not over my ex-wife,” bachelor number two.

“You are magic!  But I should tell you I’m in the process of getting a divorce and my wife and I haven’t told the girls yet,” bachelor number three.

Ugh.

Martines.

The repetition compulsion, according to Freud, the insanity, according to people I trust and who tell me like it is, it to continue like this–repeating the same thing expecting different results.

Now.

Granted.

All of these men are good men.

And one of them became an extraordinary friend.

I have no complaints about these experiences.

I have, in fact, prayed and practice forgiveness of self all over the damn place.

But as a friend spoke with me tonight and reminded me, gently, this is about me.

Funny thing too, we weren’t exactly talking about dating, but it was about relationships.

So.

This is about learning, even if it feels like something I keep having to learn, about letting go, surrendering, and trying something new.

I have been trying to get back out there.

Even with school.

Even with my heart still on my sleeve.

Even with my head in the clouds about how to do any of it.

With kindness and compassion for myself.

I watch people all over the place date and commit and do the deal and I think, hey,  I can do that too.

So.

I may fall down.

And it may only be practice.

And.

Ugh.

As much as I want to say something else.

Here goes.

I’m single and available for dating.

And.

I’m taking suggestions.

Double ugh.

Haha.

They will probably be the same ones I have already tried.

But fuck it.

I only I have this one life.

And it’s too sexy to waste.

Don’t Give Up On Men

April 15, 2015

Who says I have?

“Don’t give up,” another friend said to me in person last night after seeing my post about being done with Ok Cupid and online dating.

I haven’t given up on anything.

Well.

I have given up on shame.

Shame–a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior.

I have believed for so long that the longing to be in a relationship was wrong and foolish.

That I have to be somehow above this basic human craving, that I don’t deserve it, that I am mistaken or stupid or that, I like how Wikipedia puts it: to have shame, means to maintain a sense of restraint against offending others.

That’s it in a nutshell.

I have to restrain myself from offending others.

I can’t tell you what I want, I don’t want to offend.

Well fuck you and fuck off and I’m fucking done with that.

I haven’t given up on the capital “M” men in my life.

I love men.

Men are awesome.

So are women, fyi, I don’t want to become a man, I just want to hang out with one and have a relationship.

I love the way men smell and look and swagger, and talk and guffaw, and they way they open doors or give preference, I like having my bags carried and having the man walk on the outside, the one closest to the road, I know that’s old-fashioned, but I like that when  man does it.

I like ginger men and blond men and dark-haired men, brown-eyed, blue-eyed, green-eyed, hazel eyed, I like how a man sometimes cannot mask when he is struck by my beauty.

THere’s a man I know, a friend who is happily married and I know and adore his wife, they are really an amazing package and I admire the relationship they have.

At one point I was attracted to him (years before he met his wife) and wondered about pursuing something, but there was never really a spark or indication of attraction from him.

Then one night I was up in Noe Valley heading into the basement at St. Phillips and he turned and saw me walk in and did a double take, it was like he was seeing me for the first time, or as it were, seeing a different side of me.

Instead of jeans and a baseball jersey, which I think I lived in for the first year I was sober, I mean I wore that baseball jersey the fuck out, I was in a long A-line vintage swing coat in forest green with a silver fox fur collar and my hair was up and I was in makeup, I don’t know where I was heading, but I will always remember his reaction.

I could hear him intake his breath and I saw his eyes widen before he could drop the neutrality mask back into place.

I have an affect.

It was one of the nicest unspoken compliments I have ever received.

I’m not looking for adulation, adoration, or admiration from the male of the species either.

It almost has nothing to do with men, even though ostentatiously I am looking to date a man.

It has more to do with the act of desire, the want, the eros of something.

The Greek word eros denotes “want,” “lack,” “desire for that which is missing.”

I recall when I learned that in my Comparative Literature class in college.

I remember thinking, Jesus, that’s it, I don’t have it and I want and want and want and am in shame for the wanting.

I want to cover myself from this most basic of human needs, because to want like this must be wrong.

And of course, patterning, predilection, the art of taking on without realizing it, those desires of those that I was closet to and repeating their acts and actions as my own.

I kept chasing after those who were unavailable, completely beholden to the man who wouldn’t have me and aloof from the men who were available.

I don’t give up on men.

I give up on the idea of needing to be ashamed.

I cannot even express the freedom.

I have felt lighter, happier, more settled in my person.

I have felt more love.

For myself, for my circumstances, for the relationships that I am in, with family, friends, my fellowship, my employers, the little guys I take care of, for community, for San Francisco, for the world.

An easing of lightness in my limbs and a firmer ground underneath me.

It reminds me of the promises I have heard so much over these past ten years and often don’t pay attention to anymore, they’ve come true, then I forget, then I have to do some more work, and then, lo, they come true again.

….and economic insecurity will leave us.

It does not say that I won’t be economically insecure, I have been,  may be again, but the fear of being economically insecure has left me.

With the shame leaving me, flying off into the wind on the backs of wild geese, I can feel that same sense of promise and change in perspective.

I don’t expect that because I have a new-found attitude and awareness that my situation, being single, is going to change.

I just feel so much more comfortable for it.

“We’re experiential learners, and we can be told how it feels or feel it for ourselves,” he said to me tonight over a cup of tea at the Church Street Cafe, “I wish sometimes it were different, but that’s just how it is.”

I get it.

I want the experience of being in a couple or yes, being married (I don’t necessarily need the experience of having children, I have gotten to work with some amazing children, and I suspect that will continue), although I don’t expect either experience to fulfill me or make me a better person.

They will just make me a person with that experience.

That’s all.

And I am an experience junkie.

I want to feel all the feels.

I want to see all the sights.

I want to go to Paris with my boyfriend and hold hands in the Tuileries and go for a ride on the ferris wheel and kiss on the top of the orbit, the gondola swaying the Paris dusk in summer.

Yup.

I wrote that.

I want that.

And I am not fucking ashamed of it anymore.

It doesn’t mean it’s going to happen or has to happen.

I just get to let go of my own idea that I have to please you by denying myself this human experience.

I’m done denying myself for you.

I am my own woman.

Who needs a man?

hahaha.

Ah.

I kill myself.

The Art Of Being

April 13, 2015

Still.

Staying put.

Not going anywhere.

Well, maybe for a walk on the beach.

But not with a blind date, I cancelled the date.

Just me.

The sea.

My white dress blowing in the wind, my red-painted toenails awash in the tide flowing up onto the beach.

“You look like an angel,” she said, giving me a hug.

I ran into a lady from the Outer Mission who had done the long, hour-long, probably longer, commute via MUNI to come out to the beach today.

I recognized her from a way off, standing facing out to the sea, the sunlight playing over the planes of her proud face.

Beautiful.

We chatted for a moment, then she went her way and I went mine, walking further down the beach toward Sloat.

I reflected on the day, the weekend, the dating over the weekend and the decision to delete my OkCupid account.

“You’re gorgeous! I’m sure you’re going to be drowning in dates, you’re totally going to be taken care of!”  She exclaimed in my little kitchenette as I was plying her with experiences I have had recently over the past few months of online dating and the like, while she was sharing some inventory.

“It’s not about being gorgeous,” he said, “it’s not about that, you and I know that, that’s an ego feeding proposition and it does nothing for you.”

“I agree,” I replied.

It’s, cliché, but it’s what’s inside that counts.

I realize that I get a distorted idea of who a person is online, just as I assume, they do of me.

I want to be seen.

“Oh you’re noticed,” my ex-boyfriend said, “I feel like I need to constantly mark my territory.”

Interesting.

Not that I notice.

I only seem to notice when it’s not appropriate to what I want.

Which is also telling.

“It’s about acceptance,” my friend said as the date from yesterday disappeared down Judah toward the Starbucks on the corner.

“You know you can always reach out to me,” she continued, “now that I am retired, I really like seeing women in the fellowship and talking recovery, you know I’m on Facebook, just reach out.”

We hugged and I got on the N-Judah.

Sometimes I tend toward creating drama when there is no need for drama.

I don’t need to be dating.

“Oh, I get it,” he said today on the phone as I was walking up the dune at the end of Judah and Great Highway, “you want to be coupled up.”

“Yes,” I said, sheepish, embarrassed, “but,” I added, “I don’t need to be, I get that, I’m not looking for something to complete me or someone to fix me, or…”  I drifted off, the view of the ocean taking my breath once again.

“I know you understand that, it’s natural, we’re experience junkies, being in a relationship, being a couple, is an experience and you want to have as many experiences as possible in your life time.”

He paused as I caught my breath, I almost started to cry with relief, “every relationship is God’s, every one of them, what ever one you are in, friend, sister, daughter, employee, it’s God’s.”

Of course.

I know this.

Yet I needed to be reminded.

And.

Good gravy man.

It was a comfort to hear that it’s natural to want to be in a relationship with a lover, to be a couple, to be dating someone, committed to a person.

I have this idea, which I realized only while talking to my person, that I have shame around this desire.

That I somehow don’t deserve this very basic human experience.

Well.

Damn it.

Let’s change that right now.

What action can I take?

Let me fucking do it.

Oh.

Wait.

Pause.

Breathe.

Be still.

Know that there is a God.

And I am not it and be quiet.

Let the moment seep into your skin.

Let the smell of the ocean wash over you and carry your salty tears off onto the wind.

Turn your face to the sun like a flower, float down the beach like an angel, gorgeous in forgiveness.

For therein lies the true beauty.

Forgive myself.

Grieve and let go.

That of course, is the hardest thing for me, the letting go, the soft, yielding surrender.

I don’t have to be forced to it.

I don’t have to be beaten into it.

I can accept, kind and gracious the gift of not being ashamed of my life, my experiences, my heart, the way it beats when a Jim Croce song comes on the stereo and I am transported to a soft summer night rife with the smell of chicken on the grill, the barbecue searing the air with smoke and charcoal, the smell of cut grass, being a little girl in a sundress and running around the yard.

Or I can struggle some more.

I choose not to struggle.

The yielding to the better life, the actual goodness that I know and have in my life is so abundant and prosperous with love and sunshine and oh, god, glory.

I live a glorious life.

I do not need to create drama.

I do not have to do anything.

I can be still.

Thus I sat when I got back from the Ocean Beach walk.

I meditated.

I sat in the sun in the Adirondack chair in the back yard.

Then I ate some dinner on the back porch sitting at my housemates wrought iron table and chairs, curled up basking in the sunshine falling from the sky and lighting every crooked passage of my heart.

Sear out the shame in sunshine.

It’s ok to be human, child, girl, woman, this is how you get to live.

Not how you have to live.

But get.

This graced gift, my life.

Listen to some music that fills your heart, sit in some sunshine, sip some spicy ginger tea, read a book, watch the raven’s fly over the back yard, delete the things in your life that don’t work and surrender to the breath that draws your beating heart forward into the golden land of the sunset.

Or

At least the Outer Sunset.

Fear Of The Apple People

April 12, 2015

Part Deux (The original Fear of the Apple People was one of my first blogs on this site about five and a half years ago–maybe I should call this a “reprise” instead).

The fear is not as bad as it used to be, once upon a time, but the fear is still there.

God forbid I look stupid.

I can’t call a help desk.

What if they find out I am an idiot?

What are they going to do, Martines, take away your laptop?

REALLY?

Fear of not knowing what I am doing will stop me in my tracks all the time.

Every time.

But, what I have learned, and I have learned so much since I first became a proud owner of my first, slightly used, refurbished MacBook, is that I may be stopped momentarily with fear, it does not get the best of me.

“Men of faith have courage.”

Courage is walking through fear.

It is not the lack of fear, I’m always going to have fear.

Fear is a part of the human experience, it just is.

However, I have a disease of perception and of over blown fears.

My fears are irrational and unconstituted in fact.

They are baseless, groundless, little mindless animals, voles, shrews, grommets.

I know, a grommet is not an animal.

However, doesn’t that sound like what a little fear animal is–small brown tatty fur, sharp little teeth, scrappy claws, yellowish beady eyes, nocturnal–a grommet.

“Sorry honey, I didn’t mean to snap at you, too many grommets attacking my brain today.”

I have had my new laptop for about a week and I am thrilled.

Thrilled.

The battery last like forever and the receptivity from the key board really does make it feel like I am thinking the words and they are just popping up on the screen.

Lovely.

It’s light, easily a quarter of the weight my old laptop is, that old brick.

But, for what ever reason.

Well, I suspect the not so hot internet connection I have in my little studio by the sea has something to do with it.

The migration of my files on the old laptop to the new MacBook Air took over 24 hours and when it finally happened, something glitchy happened.

The MacBook Air and the old laptop both tell me the same thing–that the files have transferred, but I can’t seem to locate them.

I would like to locate them.

All my music files.

10,000 plus photographs.

Who knew I was so prolific?

Well, you might.

Considering I have been writing this blog on a fair daily basis for the last five years and each blog is on average 1,000 words.

Prolific is not an issue for me.

It has taken me a week, however, to acknowledge that I can’t figure it out.

“Figure it out is not a slogan,” he would say to me brusquely on the phone, and depending on where I was I would burst into tears.

But I want to figure it out!

Damn it man.

God forbid, I repeat, that you find out that I don’t know what I am doing.

I have no clue what I am doing, in case you had any thoughts to the contrary.

I’m following the fault line down the mountain, the path of least resistance, to my heart, to my knees, to my soul.

“If you’re falling down the hill, you’re in God’s will,” she told me at a cafe in Paris, it might have been the Lizard Lounge in the Marais when she first imparted this wisdom upon me.

She then told me about how a snow ball rolling down the mountain takes the path of least resistance, equating it to, if it’s simple it’s the choice, if it’s convoluted and means double back tracking and going around that tree and uprooting that other one, and moving the snow fences, then maybe it’s not meant to be.

I try to figure it out all the time.

Then I remember.

I can’t.

I don’t need to.

And.

Yes.

I can ask for help.

So, I finally got my butt on the Apple site and booked a phone call help session for tomorrow a half hour before my first lady bug of the day flits her way to my doorstep for tea and singleness of purpose.

I can’t imagine it will take more than a half hour to resolve the situation.

If not fifteen minutes.

Probably only five.

That’s the thing.

I often will be given the solution in a nice tidy compact package, but I have to fret for a while.

It’s not as bad as it used to be and I count that as progress.

And bravery.

I am a brave person.

I showed up for a blind date today and I have another tomorrow.

I’m not thrilled to be doing this.

“Geez you sound so excited,” she giggled at me last night when I described going on a date in Golden Gate Park for a picnic on the lawn somewhere.

Yeah.

Not excited.

Not because I didn’t have some rapport with the man, I obviously wouldn’t have accepted the date if there was nothing to talk about.

Which there was nothing to talk about with another guy that tried to contact me today.

Dude.

Did you even read the profile?

And please, I can’t promise I won’t break your heart, no one is responsible for breaking your heart, you break your own heart, so don’t even bother to ask me that.

There are no victims, only volunteers.

I did not volunteer myself to go on a date with said man.

Let some other woman break his heart, I’m too busy breaking my own.

“I’m so over internet dating I told my friend,” my date was running late and I was hungry and boohoo’ing in my coffee.

“Honey, have a snack, I’m sure there’s good reason and he’s making an effort and a MUNI is MUNI, and don’t delete your profile until after you have eaten,” she admonished me.

Yup.

So I’ll be off to try another tomorrow.

Coffee at Java Beach and a walk on said beach, Ocean Beach, with his dog.

I can be afraid of not being enough.

Pretty enough.

Young enough.

Smart enough.

Blah, blah, blah.

Or I can walk through these silly fears too and keep on going.

Every time I take a little leap forward the fear is dispelled a tiny bit and the faith grows larger and larger.

One day this will all be laughable and I won’t worry about calling the help desk and asking them to fax me over a ream of paper and I’ll be ok with looking silly and I’ll keep wearing flowers in my hair and glitter on my face, turning it toward the sun, the blue skies, and the birds flying over head in the park.

“Look, there,” I stopped him, the picnic in the park date, and the story he was telling, “red tail hawk.”

I watched it silently as it circled lazy on the wind and sun, the music of a guitar drifting from the bandshell by the DeYoung, a little boy on roller skates tumble bumbling by, the grass green under my bare feet, I breathed in and closed my eyes to the sun, soaking it up and relishing being exactly who I am in the exact place I am supposed to be.

I think that’s called acceptance.

Face it.

I live in San Francisco.

By the beach.

With a MacBook Air under my fingers, Cat Stevens on my stereo, and nice food in my fridge.

I have nothing to fear.

But yes.

Fear itself.

And even I know that there really is nothing behind that too.

Just another opportunity to grow.

Graceful.

Beautiful.

Loved.

Get Out With Your Girls

February 7, 2015

Ok then.

I did it.

I went and hung out with some ladies.

Jesus fuck.

I had no idea how much I needed to just hang out with some ladies and kick it at Burger Meister.

I didn’t even eat, I had gotten to do that already tonight at work, work, which was intense, long day, two sick boys, extra hours, thank god I made it through the week.

And let myself take a Uber into work this morning.

The gale winds did not speak well for traveling by bicycle and I knew the rain was close behind, I could smell it this morning when I opened the back door to my studio and heard the surf crashing on the beach.

I took a car.

That feels all luxurious and shit, which, let me tell you was not, despite it being Uber which I like a little more than Lyft, I tried the new Uber service, Pool, which was ok, although, the driver did the cardinal sin of waiting too long for the second passenger, they are only supposed to wait two minutes when picking up a shared ride, I came rather close to being late for work.

And I couldn’t tell if it was the passenger that was already in the car, or the driver, but the bad breath was foul.

Bad, bad, bad.

I got good and grateful though, to not be riding my bicycle in the weather and though it meant being trapped inside for the majority of the day, I got through.

And although I found myself meandering through the Mission in weird weather after work killing time, I took care of myself by doing a lot of contrary actions.

I had some thoughts about where I would go this evening after work, I had some choices, I could have flagged another car and headed toward the Inner Sunset, seen some folks over at 7th and Irving, but I had a feeling the ex would be there, and that was the allure to going there.

Oh.

No reason to engage, you know, just cause myself, some unnecessary pain, feel uncomfortable, and rub some salt in a  wound that is rapidly healing.

Don’t pick at it.

It’s still a relatively new tattoo, but I have found my hand drifting toward it, stroking the edges where the skin is still rough and pulling, healing.

Leave it be.

I reprimand myself.

But a few times I have found myself doing it without even thinking.

And that was what was tonight.

Sneaky, slithery, slippery thoughts, sniping their way into my brain, little ear worms of irritation, I knew better than to entertain them and I knew to take the opposite action of what I wanted to do.

So I ended up wandering around the Mission for about an hour before I needed to be where I knew I needed to be.

I window shopped.

I grabbed a tea at Church St. Cafe.

I read my book for a little while.

The desire to pick at the scab left me.

I went where I was supposed to be.

I saw who I was supposed to see.

And I was invited to hang out with a trio of lovely ladies at ye olde Burger Meister.

I took my own suggestion and fellowshipped.

I also talked up dancing next Saturday.

It’s going to be a long week-end for me, I’ll have Monday off for the holiday, so I thought, to hell with it being Valentines Day, I am my own best date, let me take me dancing.

I’ll have an extra day of recuperation if I blow out my knees.

Or my ankle.

Let me not dance too hard, now that I am thinking about it, I don’t want to do either and I can.

I just want to have some fun and work  it out.

And there it is.

I just wrote that and realized, what the hell is holding me back, go buy a ticket.

Good thing I did, the event is about to sell out.

All the early bird tickets are gone, so I had to shell out another five, but it’s worth it, the Basement Jaxx are one of my favorites, I’ve never seen them live and David Harness is also playing–I’ve seen David plenty and like his stuff–I’m going to dance myself out.

Public Works, next Saturday, Valentine’s Day, I’ll be giving myself the gift that I always want a gentleman to give me, the gift of going dancing.

“I’ll learn to dance, I’ll take lessons, I swear, really, this time, I will,” my ex of five years pleading with me on bended knee in the house on Gilman Street in Madison, the late afternoon sunlight fading into the gloom of a grey dusk in January, the frost patterns on the window catching the last glints of light on his face.

I gave into being in that relationship another week, maybe ten days, I don’t remember, but he didn’t go out dancing with me.

I learned to do it on my own.

I’m not the worlds best dancer, but I like to cut a rug and though I sincerely wish my body was in better shape, my feet are flat, my knees are creaky, I apparently have weak ass ankles, I can still get out there and let the music wash over me and get carried away and dance like there’s no tomorrow.

The music is love for me and I intend to drown myself in it.

I’ll be my own best date.

Speaking of dating.

That was something discussed by the quartet of females in Burger Meister this evening.

And yes.

I have been convinced to hop back into the online dating weirdness.

Although I didn’t care for the slightly smug message from OkStupid, “welcoming me back.”

I uploaded a new photo, checked my stats, scrolled through the matches, looks about the same, and said, ok, here’s to taking an action and letting go the results.

I also was given the suggestion, which I have had before and think I did, but I honestly don’t remember, of making a list of ten guys I would ask out and then, well, actually going and asking them out.

I’m ready and willing to give it another go.

The break up is done.

Three weeks ago tonight.

The relationship was short, intense, but short, and three weeks feels right.

This lady is back on the market.

You can check out my profile, or just get back to me here, or facecrack.

Or maybe, you might see me, smiling my head off, next Saturday at Public Works.

Doing that thing that I do so well, getting lost in the music.

Being utterly in my body and present.

Dancing.

Come on, you know you want to.

Call A Girl

October 13, 2014

Hottie enough and you might get her attention.

I may have just asked a guy out that I know on OKStupid.

We were bantering back and forth about the dismal dating world online and also about Tinder and whether or not I would have any success on it and I sort of said, why don’t we go on a date?

I mean.

Why not.

I am giving all things a new try.

If it’s getting suggested to me that I need to go on dates and that I should date a bunch of guys, this was suggested to me as well a while back by John Ater too, then, perhaps I should start going on some dates.

I probably back assward asked this guy out and honestly, I have no idea whether or not we’re compatible.  We run in the same circles, although haven’t really done any socializing outside of them.

So.

Again.

Why not.

I got to jump-start this thing some how.

And I also gave my number to a guy that I met at  Decompression today.

He also kissed me.

I saw it coming and was ok with it, then the taste of beer in my mouth like a cold dead aluminum can made me pull back.

“Uh, sorry, I don’t drink, and you’ve got a beer on you,” I said stepping back, and sure as shit, Tecate.

Yuck.

“Excuse me a second,” I said and dug into my messenger bag and got my water bottle.

I took a pull of water, swished it around my mouth and spat.

It wasn’t that bad, but the last thing I want with 9 1/2 years sober is even the faint taste of beer in my mouth.  Bad enough when I have to walk through a cloud of pot smoke or worse, a haze of crack smoke, but beer taste in my mouth, no, no, no thank you.

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry, you told me you don’t drink earlier,” he said apologizing profusely.

I had met him earlier in the afternoon and I am not even sure how, we were standing in the same general area?  I just looked up and there was this very tall man staring at me with a big smile on his face.

“Do I know you?” I asked smiling.

“You certainly look familiar, your smile is gorgeous, I don’t think I would forget having met you,” he smiled and stepped a little closer.

He offered me a sip of his beer.

“No thanks, I don’t drink,” I said.

We chatted for a few minutes, then I meandered on down the street.

I ran into all sorts of lovely folks.

And I saw my little guy from the previous nanny share I did before my current job.

He was so adorable and cute and delicious.

We danced to a marching band drum corp and had a splendid reunion.

I missed seeing all the folks I thought I was going to see, there were a lot of folks there and eventually people sort of blur together and its hard to find folks, but I figured, just like at Burning Man, I would see the people I was supposed to see.

Juno and her aunt.

Photographer Sidney Erthel, who bestowed upon me the magical words, “I have some great shots of you and Juni from the event, I’ll be sending them too you.”

Oh yay!

Bettie June and Zack.

Frog.

Big Daddy.

Odwally.

Kat and Kepi and Pnut.

PQ and Playa Martha who I used to nanny for, I missed their daughter and the new baby, they had gone home with grandma for naps, but I got to catch up with the folks and get hugs and photos and that was super sweet.

I walked around a bit more trying to locate people and just kind of gave up on it.

I was slowly turning into a pumpkin.

“There she is!”

I turned and there was the tall gentleman from earlier in the day beaming at me.

“Hello again,” I said and smiled.

“I really feel like I know you,” he said, “there’s just something about you, are you in recovery?”

“I am,” I said and wondered where this line of conversation was going since he had a can of beer in his hand.

“Do you ever go to ecstatic dance?” He asked.

I told him I had gone once to the one in the Mission and he told me about Wednesdays and Sundays in Oakland.

I told him, I have been invited there many times, but that it’s just a haul for me to get to, especially living out at Ocean Beach.

“Wait!” I said, “you must know my friend B____.”

I described me friend.

“I do!” He said.

I smiled.

He smiled.

He leaned in towards me, “I can’t help myself, I really want to kiss you, may I kiss you?”

“Sure,” I smiled again, it certainly is nice to be asked.

And yuck.

Beer kiss.

Oh well.

“I am really sorry,” he said again, “I know this is probably awkward, but I would like to see you again, may I have your phone number?”

I said yes and gave him my number.

“Let’s just make it a coffee date, though, ok,” I said.

We hugged.

I wandered off in search of more friends.

I did not run into anyone else, and as the sun was setting and thoughts of my early start at work tomorrow looming, I hopped on my bicycle and rode off into the Sunset.

The Outer Sunset, that is.

I got home and had a little dinner.

I did not cook today, I went to Decompression and had some fun.

But I did go to the grocery store, so there were plenty of fresh veggies and humus awaiting me when I got home.

I had forgotten about asking my acquaintance friend on OKStupid on a date.

But then I got his message.

“Did you just ask me on a date?”

Maybe.

Heh.

I’m trying new things.

I am.

I’m up for it.

Nothing changes unless I change.

I asked someone out and I got asked out all in the same day.

I guess I am changing.

Awesome.

 

 

Nice Guy

February 9, 2014

Not for me.

Dirty fingernails.

I noted as he sat down from me at Samovar.

That’s a bit off-putting, then I recalled, well, he is a mechanic and I do like guys that work with their hands, there’s something sexy about that.

Then he smiled.

Dude.

None of the photos on your profile had you with missing teeth.

I tried to recall if he was smiling in any of the photos that he had put up.

I could not remember.

“One of the guys at the garage left the wrench on top of the engine,” he gestured, “and, well, uh, yeah, I had to make an emergency trip to the dentist.”

I just about felt like I had been gut punched.

I cannot imagine what losing your front row of teeth must feel like, but it could not have been pleasant.

So, that explains the bottom teeth, but the snaggley teeth up top, not so much.

British.

Ok, that explains the crooked, yellow, and gaped upper teeth, but still.

Then I though, well,  there can be a sexy kind of allure to an English accent.

But there was so little chemistry for me (I was trying to not practice contempt prior to investigation) that it was rather like sitting there and having a spot of tea with an English mum who wanted to show me photos of her grandkids over a nice steaming mug.

Except that the photos I was shown were of the kids, the house, the cars he’s been working on.

I could actually tell you an awful lot about this man, Mister Nice-Guy-But-Not-For-Me, I sat and listened to him talk for nearly two hours about himself.

I mean there’s the getting to know a person, then there’s the being told about your wife’s naked naughty pictures with her spiritual guru/guide, that led to your divorce, losing the house, getting shared custody of the kids, two, what happened when the dog died (I was suddenly no longer on a blind date, but in a country western song), how expensive rents are (mental note to self, might be paying for my share of the tea-pot) and the number of restored cars that you have worked on, a lot.

I also have a new understanding of all things restored, classic, metal molds, welding, paint, primer, 2500 Horsepower engines, chrome, dents, wide rims, the trouble of parking a large 1965 Chevy pick up in the Castro, and pinstriping.

I could be wrong, but I don’t think he asked me one thing about myself.

I asked him a few things then just sat back nodding and putting in the appropriate mmhhhmmm and unhuh, and sipping my tea, then my water, then signalling for more water, and serepitiously checking my watch.

Mister Nice-Guy-But-Not-For-Me was really on a roll about quitting caffeine, when I made the first interjection about my time line.

I moved it up an hour to cut short the date.

I mean I had put in two hours, I had done well and practised not having contempt prior to investigation, I showed up, and I was nice, and there were some flickers, I did find him interesting in a sweet way, just, well, not for me, and there was no chemistry.

I mean none.

I did not find him attractive at all.

Despite the allure of the 1965 Chevy pick up truck, I had no desire to kiss him, or spend more time finding out about him.

Shit.

I know lots.

All the tea, water, and refills led to me making a break to the bathroom, getting centered and asking to be shown how to nicely end the date and be on my way.

I had grocery shopping to do.

Yes, that’s right, I wanted to spend my Saturday night going to Whole Foods rather than spend any more time on the date.

I also was hungry and wanted salad bar and I did have a commitment to get to and some tea to drink with a ladybug, so, it wasn’t like I was really being dishonest, it was more like, I need to not spend any more time with this, I would really, rather go grocery shopping.

Now, if there had been chemistry, and I have had that with men before, so I know what it looks like, I would have pushed my time out as far as possible and taken a cab up to my commitment in Noe Valley.

But I found it far easier to leave, give him a hug, thank him for taking the time to come into the city and buying me the cup of tea.

“It was really nice to spend time with you,” he said, then, “I would like to get together again real soon.”

I may be busy that weekend.

Trying to put myself out there and date another guy.

Whomever he is.

I don’t know.

I do know that I  am just taking suggestions and trying to turn willingly toward the man I am supposed to be with.

Like I don’t know exactly what keeps me sober, but I have some ideas, however, I don’t know the exact mix of what needs to happen.

Like could I do less here, more there?

I don’t know, I just take all the suggestions given and go from there.

“Have you tried online dating,” she asked me at Tart to Tart.

I have, a little tiny bit, but mostly the men who have responded to my profile I have not wanted to go out with.

I wasn’t sure about this guy, he looked ok, and he sounded nice, and he asked me out in a way I found sweet, so I thought, hey, just do it.

Because you never know when you are going to meet that person or who may pop up on the way to or from a bad date.

And this was not a bad date.

It was a nice date, just a not for me kind of person.

I am sure some lady is going to be really happy with him.

It’s just not me.

One more down.

Who’s next?

I mean Valentine’s Day is in just six days!

 

Just kidding.


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