The First Stirrings

After a completely indulgent weekend including beer, wine and a veritable carb festival, I got on my scale to find that I was down nearly two pounds.

So let me get this straight.

I limit my carbohydrate intake to sniffing the air at the local bakery, workout until I vomit my spleen and I get to gain a pound OR I eat and drink like a toga clad Roman and I lose weight. Yes, that makes perfect sense....if you live on Fantasy Island.

The only conclusion that I can reach is that my scale is possessed by a lithium-popping, filthy, lying, whore named Cybil.

Anyway, the weekend was fantastic. Dallas and I spent it doing mundane things like an ordinary couple and it was the best time I've had in months. We cooked, shopped and went out with friends. The definitive high point of the weekend was meeting Brandon and his wife, Erin. Wow. They have got to be two of the smartest people on the planet. Several times during the evening, the four of us were howling with laughter.

Besides the fact that Brandon could pass for a Canadian in his mannerisms and his dress, he further endeared himself to me because he married Erin. She is warm, sharp and she makes no apologies for her opinions. After years as a designer in the theatre business, Erin elected to go back to school to complete her degree in architecture. She can spell and she's got a great eye for all things creative. NOT FAIR. Best part is that Erin has agreed to join us on "Girls' Night Out: The Road Trip". And the mix just keeps improving...

They were just awesome and I look forward to getting to know them.

Late Sunday afternoon, Dallas dropped me back at my house and as I watched him pull out of my drive, I realized that my defenses had disappeared. I think the scientific term is smitten.

After four years of self-imposed exile from the dating pool, a girl can become remarkably comfortable with the idea of spending the rest of her life alone. She tells herself that it isn't so bad because after all, the kids need her and that floor really could use a good washing. She doesn't have to consult the TV guide to know which shows are on and she spends hours on the phone with family and friends catching up on the minutiae of their lives. She tells herself that she owes it to her children to remain free from entanglements because the stain of her failed marriage is still vivid. But there is a difference between being alone and being lonesome. Eventually the day comes when that line gets crossed and she will open up her mind to the possibility of being involved with a man again.

Thank God for eHarmony. Dallas and I joke that we'll be making a commercial for them one day. Nobody knows what the future will bring but today, I'm liking our odds.

It Ain't Your Mama's Dating Experience

When exactly do two people move from the generic term, "dating" to something more substantial? What the hell is dating?

I have this apparently antiquated notion of dating as something Richie, Potsy and Ralph did. You know what I 'm talking about. Week after week they saw several different girls and had these apple pie adventures at the drive in. It was all very innocent. There was hand holding and some kissing but nobody ever talked about a commitment. When one of them really, really liked a girl, he gave her his class ring or his letterman sweater and voilà, they were going steady.

Fast forward to today. Everyone uses the term dating to describe everything from a one night hook up to a serious relationship. One of the women at work has been seeing the same man exclusively for over a year. She says they're dating. Well...

I guess I'm dating, too. And surprisingly, I like it this way. I will admit that the course of this relationship doesn't fall within my normal pattern. In the past, I have allowed myself to be swept up in the promise of what could be rather than what was. With Dallas, our lives have dictated that we take things slowly. Both of us are single parents. We both have demanding jobs. We have very full lives steeped with obligations exclusive of our relationship. Yet somehow, we have managed in the last week and a half to make room for "us". And I'm grateful that after four months, we finally have landed here. There is commitment that doesn't need to be discussed or labeled. We have made plans that are better than a month in the future but I don't find myself needing to put my head between my legs to stave off hyperventilation. The unspoken rule is one day at a time.

Last night Dallas said, "Let's see what develops naturally" in reference to something unrelated to the status of our relationship. After he left, I realized that as a couple, we are doing just that and so far, I don't feel the need to run away.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go find some salt and some wood.

Who You Calling Player?

I couldn't have asked for a better weekend. The weather was ideal, the fall colours were at their peak and my children called Daddy's house home for two days. It was a delicious little bonus that daylight savings ended this weekend because Sundays are my favourite day of the week and to get that extra hour tickled me to no end.

I rode like a crazy woman all day Sunday. In the morning, I went out to visit Tim and his class, which was fun. It was interesting to watch them because they struggled with the same exercises my group did and now, after a few months of riding, I know that those same drills would be a cake walk for me. (I think)

Tim and I also had a bit of time to catch up on a personal level and it was during this discussion that he referred to me as a "player". What? Player? PLAYER!! Ouch. But really, player? C'mon. That term usually refers to hot men who date several women at once, sleep with them all and manipulate them into believing that each one of their relationships is exclusive.

First of all, I don't think I qualify as hot. Cute? Well maybe. But I'm going to be a grandmother...automatic hot disqualification. Yes, I have dated several people, often within the same week but going to dinner or taking in a movie is not the same as a shag fest. If things progress to a relationship, I adhere to the rules. I cannot help it that I feel like a noose is tightening around my neck after a few weeks of the serious stuff. I am not ready for serious but you see, therein lies the dilemma because I am equally unable to have casual sex. I wish I was like Samantha from Sex in the City because she went out there and took what she wanted and made no apologies. But that just isn't real life.

Not to be all Lady MacBeth who doth protest too much but player?

Puhleez.

Go Ahead and Call Me A Dinosaur

Online dating has its perks but something is missing. Perhaps it is that intangible, breathless rush that happens when you find yourself physically attracted to the stranger across the room. Maybe it's the natural, easy flirtation that occurs when two people meet by chance. I don't know. It just feels like there is a forced quality to e-dating.

The first date is always the most anxiety-filled. You have already corresponded through email and since profiles are standard procedure, you probably have a pretty solid feel for who the person is (insert maniacal laugh here). Yeah. Sure. The written word lacks the unscripted responses that tend to reveal the essence of somebody's character.

Mother issues? Well, you won't see those in any profile but when a man tells you that his mother was the only one who could iron his shirts correctly, you might want to check the trunk of his car for blood stains.

Then, there is the guy who thinks that the dating sites are really just legal fronts for prostitution operations. This is the man who tries to ply you with alcohol and causes you to feel apprehensive leaving any beverage unattended for fear that he'll slip you a little something. He makes a show of spending gobs of money on dinner and he tells the server, up front, that he is a big tipper. At the end of the evening, he expects the horizontal boogie because in his mind, spending $300 on dinner constitutes an implied agreement. This dude is always a bit shocked when he crashes and burns and as he peels out of the parking lot in his Corvette/Mustang/Lotus/Porsche, you just know that he's saying, "She must be a dyke." Whatever helps you sleep at night, freak.

I found that the pictures that are posted never really capture the person. In fact, I have been surprised once or twice. There is this popular romantic notion that physical attraction should take a back seat to cerebral connection but this is neither realistic nor particularly honest. I understand that positive emotional and intellectual stimulation can intensify physical feelings but no matter how much someone's brain might appeal to me, I need him to register on the shag radar.

Like everything else, dating has evolved with increased technology but I still think that there will be those of us who prefer to meet and fall in love the old fashioned way.

Could It Be The Pheromones?

I have known for quite some time that I am really not girlfriend material. I just can't seem to get too excited about the prospect of being committed, except perhaps to an asylum.

You see, the trouble begins with my inability to pick appropriate men. I look back on the serious romantic relationships in my life and they look like something out of a poorly acted soap opera.

The first boy I ever loved with a heart old enough to purchase alcohol was this tall, dark, wild child from Indiana. He had moved up to Canada for the summer to play AAA baseball. He was a year younger than me, drove a Mustang and he could throw a 91 mile an hour fastball. We met by accident when he fell through the evergreen hedges into my back yard. We had the best summer as only two young twenty-somethings can but we always knew that he would go home to Indiana. We tried to do the long distance thing for a while and he was so decent about answering his phone even though I called like a total lunatic a bazillion times a day. However, on some level, I knew that I would never have to commit to this man because he LIVED IN ANOTHER COUNTRY! We are still good friends and I have already purchased the most insulting 40th birthday card I could find for him.

Then came the Honda CBR boy. He dropped into my life at a party. He was 6'5", dark haired and brooding. I mistook the quiet, unsmiling persona as mysterious and Marlon Brando-like. Wrong. He was just plain miserable. And gay. Not that there is anything wrong with that.....except that he asked me to marry him and I DID. Call me crazy but when a man asks a woman to walk down the aisle, the woman doesn't think to inquire if he might bat for the other team. Looking back, it was clear that on some level, I had to have known. After all, if it waddles, quacks and accessorizes better than me, it's a duck.

After that kick to my fragile feminine ego, I went out and found the biggest, most masculine, most Neanderthal-like man on the planet. If you looked sideways at him when he wasn't watching, you might have been able to catch his knuckles brushing the ground. Everything was a-ok as long as I was content playing cave woman. I fell hard and it was so easy because he was married to someone else at the time. We were still great friends, though. We'd have lunch and talk about everything under the sun using very. simple. words. He'd complain about his wife (red flag) and I commiserated because EVERYONE knows that the wife is the problem, right? I thought he was the second coming and I pined for him from afar.

Then, he did the unthinkable and left his wife. To compound the horror, he confessed that he was in love with me and wanted to pursue a relationship (danger sign, danger sign). I felt tremendous guilt along the lines of "be careful what you ask for...", so I married him, of course. Because nothing screams validation like being the new, much younger wife of a man in the throes of mid-life crisis. He is the father of my children.

I lasted a decade with him until one morning, I woke up and seriously contemplated the physics that would be necessary to smother him to death. You think that I am kidding...

Dallas is sweet and I have no regrets but he's still licking some pretty serious wounds. We have arrived at a comfortable place, though. I have a friend in another town who I dated for a few weeks and who treated me like a queen so naturally, I sprinted away from him. We're still friends, too. Something has changed, though because I have been asked out more often in the last two months than the last four years. Grocery store, line at the dry cleaners, Harley dealership, neighbour, etc. have all resulted in perfect strangers asking to exchange digits.

For instance, the other day I was at the hand car wash cleaning my vehicle to get it ready for trade in. I had my iPod on and I walked over to the vending machine to get some Turtle wax wipes (I like wipes-all kinds of wipes). I turned around and this guy started to make small talk about the bill changer and did I have any left over coins I might want to sell him. When I told him I had used my debit card, that launched a whole other discussion which ended with, "Gee. Your boyfriend? (pause while he waited for a confirm or deny which never came) is a lucky guy to be able to stay at home watching football while you're out washing the car." Big, bad, obvious fish for info but I just didn't feel like pursuing it so I smiled and went back to my car.

Well, I'm back out there again. I still do not trust my judgment because my track record is beyond pathetic. While I'm confident that my gaydar is now finely tuned, I'm not so sure about my ability to discern any other characteristic. One thing I do know for certain is that men must find commitment-phobes to be irresistible because my dance card is full.

Can Men and Women Be Friends?

Can men and women truly be friends? Umm....maybe?

If you had asked me this question a couple of months ago, my answer would have been a definitive, unequivocal, NO. Nada. No way. You're kidding, right?

But now, I've changed my mind. I think that we can commune with the opposite sex under very controlled circumstances.

First, there are work friends. For instance, there is this man who toils out of one of our satellite offices and we work together on several projects. There are times that I talk with him and I laugh until I have tears streaming down my face. I can't discuss the hilarity with another soul (except Steph the Magnificent) because often, it involves politics and the two of us are the only blue in a company teaming with red. I have been known to call him for a fix and he never lets me down. However, I wouldn't never call him up, like one of my girlfriends and gush about a date (unless it was crappy). That would just be all kinds of weird for both of us.

Second, there are the friends by proxy: other people's husbands. Now, I know that all you have to do is open up a Hustler magazine and read all about how this husband was making house calls to that neighbour or how the BFF of some poor, unsuspecting wife was shagging the groom but really, does that happen that often? To real people? (Fingers in my ears...la la la, I can't hear you) In my world, I can talk with my married male friends without worry. However, as these men age and shed the twenty year old's machismo, they are a surprisingly tender bunch. As I got ready to start dating again, they were a welcomed source of information like, "Don't cut your hair. Men love long hair". Turns out to be true. "At least offer to pay. Don't fight him to the death over the cheque but at least offer. It's respectful." True, again.

Third, there are our gay male friends. I live in the south so the gay men in my town are communicating through sonar from their closets. Rainbow decals are not a popular bumper sticker choice. Nope. Down here, any suggestion of an "alternative" lifestyle is tucked neatly under a ready-to-wear suit. There is one exception. Retail. And this is why I love, love , love to shop. Even in a place where there are more livestock than people, I can drive 2.6 miles and have the prettiest men in the world give me straight up, sage fashion advice. They know shoes and accessories and they have a sixth sense for the "break up" vibe. Two of these men have become real friends to me. We talk regularly and sometimes more openly than I do with my girlfriends.

The final category is the most dangerous. In this one, the man and woman have explored a relationship, ended it and the sexual tension that normally exists between members of the opposite sex has been somewhat diffused. This is the scenario where hearts can be blown to smithereens. There is always genuine affection here. Sometimes there is love.

The relationship may not have worked out but people vow to be "friends" because the heart hasn't let go and the brain isn't firing correctly. The heart might convince you that if you just hang in there, time will take care of the issues. Maybe. But it's like betting the farm on the million to one horse or holding your breath for a really, really long time.

The other version of this is when two people decide to be friends with benefits. Tightrope. Over shark infested waters. With no safety net. In hurricane force winds.

For the rare few, the relationship is more important than the details and the heart and brain are content to assume the friendship role and shift from lover to cheerleader. They are sincere in their desire to see the other succeed in life..and love. Think Jerry and Elaine. Now try to think of ONE more example. See...I'm stumped, too. Rare, I tell you.

So, yes. I guess men and women can be friends but it is not a natural state. It's those pictures you see of a kitten sleeping in the crook of a dog's arm. Delicate balance. Sometimes there is harmony but I suspect that most of the time, there's a rabbit boiling on the stove.

Dating Is Not For The Weak

Dating in your forties is a minefield. I entered into this process with twenty year old rules firmly planted in my brain and like our education system, it became evident that my assumptions were hopelessly outdated.

Assumption #1: Men only want one thing. Wrong. They certainly are interested in THAT but they're also looking for intelligence, humor, self-sufficiency and (gasp) conversation.

Assumption#2: If he has a tattoo, he's a bad boy with a checkered past and not someone you could bring home to mother. First of all, there aren't many I'd bring home to Mum because it would be like being put under a magnifying glass in the blazing sun. Second, the term "bad boy" is a completely subjective pronouncement and these men have more layers than an onion. Tattoos have received a bad rap.

Assumption#3: Razor blade. Tweezers. Pumice stone. Period. Apparently not. I would like to find the little porn star who took advanced waxing and electrolysis from the daring few and made it mainstream. Then, I would like to beat her until she was unable to say Brazilian.

Assumption#4: People my age waited longer to have their kids. Again, this would not be correct. Seemingly, while I was taking classes and changing majors, my male counterparts were taking vows and changing diapers.

Assumption#5: Chivalry is dead. Oh no, not by a long shot. Principle: bravery-any person who elects to jump into the dating pool after divorce, alimony, division of assets, step-parenting, custody battles and lengthy settlements is either a loon or very courageous. Principle: Gallantry and generousity- men now remember details like the fact that dark chocolate is manna from heaven. They come with little gifts casually mentioned in conversation and bouquets of the most exquisite flowers. They pick up the tab even when they know that you are perfectly able. They use words like "beautiful" and they mean it. Chivalry is alive, kicking and the rule, not the exception.

Perhaps the most erroneous assumption that I have made is that time means the same as it did fifteen years ago. This was such a miscalculation on my part. When you factor your work day, time for the kids, time for normal life chores, time for sleep, time for exercise and time for your extended family and friends, there is precious little left to give to a relationship. So what happens is that the few moments that are spent together are very intense because there is this underlying current that so much ground needs to be covered, quickly.

Wrong there, too.

I suppose exploring relationships at my age is kind of like giving birth. You are encouraged to give a little push to start things off, so you do what you're told and then all of the sudden, the situation is much further along than you had anticipated and holy crap! Someone had better be there to catch that baby before he's dropped on his head!

Pant, pant, pant, pant, EXHALE.

Check- Matey

The last couple of days have been so strange.

Besides the fabulous drug haze, Dallas and I reluctantly admitted that our timing was all wrong and thus, we have stepped things down to friends but not in that fake, "let's do lunch" way. I am very fond of him and I know he feels the same tenderness for me.

Sometimes, raw emotional pain will drive a person to seek out intimacy in an effort to surface, to take in a lungful of air, to heal. Unfortunately, it is that same pain that inhibits true communion because it acts like a gatekeeper, guarding against naked vulnerability. It takes the first responsive ripples of genuine affection and chokes that energy with fear, doubt and apathy. It is heartbreaking to witness but the journey is intensely personal....and solitary.

There is nothing yucky or tsk-worthy in this ending. I consider myself to be very fortunate. My first venture back into the Mars/Venus party was with a sweet, kind and respectful man who redefines nice and makes me believe that perhaps all the good ones aren't taken. He might not be thrilled with the idea of me dating other people but Harley would be genuinely happy for me if I found love. And this is why I'm honoured to be his friend

Easy Riding Mama

Harley's name is Dallas. I should have just used his real name right off the bat because nobody would have believed it. I asked him how it was that a kid from New Zealand gets named after an American city. He shrugged and said it was popular at the time. Simple. The good thing is that I have never dated another Dallas and thus, I do not have any negative name associations. Anyway, we spent a fair chunk of time this past Sunday cruising on his Harley and I feel like I've been bitten by a stange, exotic bug.

We began the morning on the golf course trying to squeeze in nine holes before the heat became unbearable. Unfortunately, Dallas's clubs were forged during the bronze age so he struggled a bit and I got to see another side of him. I had a friend tell me that I should conduct at least one date on the golf course because performance anxiety in front of a new friend combined with the inherent frustrations of golf would allow me to get an immediate look at the anger management capabilities of any suitor. Well, in spite of the fact that Dallas and his clubs weren't on speaking terms, the worst epithet of the morning didn't come from his lips. I won that contest. Shocking, I know. He merely became quiet. His friend, Brandon, says that Dallas isn't coy and doesn't do subtle well because he was tragically deprived of American spy movies in his formulative years. I agree that Dallas is easily read but he's so even tempered that this comes off more like strong and silent than bleeding heart.

We ended up leaving early because the heat was suffocating and every time I drove the ball, my hand felt like I had stuck my fingers into a light socket. I had lightly mentioned to Dallas that perhaps a good Christmas gift for him might be a new set of clubs, which he took in stride at the time but later, at Starbucks, he couldn't keep his true thoughts to himself. As he was handing me my latte, he begged me not to spend a penny on golf equipment for him.

He was clearly tortured.

Instead, he suggested that I might want to peruse the local Harley Davidson shop in December......for something he might actually use. Oh well, he did agree to suffer through the occasional round of golf when the weather cooled.

So back to the ride. Dallas had changed into motorcycle gear and the whole look (jeans, shirt and boots) captured my attention. I had tried to dress appropriately but I couldn't bear the thought of jeans in 200 degree weather and I do not have one article of clothing that is authentic HD. For shame. I did make an effort by switching purses to a black leather with silver studs Prada and Dallas inexplicably, found this highly amusing. The point is that the Harley Davidson store is emitting this siren call and my resistance is wearing. There is this whole slightly naughty sub culture that appeals to me on a level worthy of psychoanalysis but the bottom line is that I want to learn how to ride and I am eager to shop for some cool new gear.

I have also been flirting with the idea of getting a tattoo.

I know that I now appear to be a neon, blinking, poster child for mid life crisis but I've been thinking about this for a bit and I may just go and do it if I can find a doctor who will prescribe a morphine drip. I have to face the truth. There is a leather-clad, do rag-wearing, tattoo-sporting biker chick inside of me who is trying to claw her way out.

I casually mentioned to my ten year old son that I was thinking about getting a tat and he looked at me, snapped his fingers in my face and said,

"Who are you and what have you done with my mother?"

Taking the Plunge

When you are twenty something and Mr. Right for Right Now presents himself, the first blooms of lust and infatuation can be enjoyed without the burden of emotional intelligence because the purpose of your third decade on this planet is largely to get your groove on.

In your thirties, the focus becomes career and the raising of a young family. Mr. Right for Right Now has turned into Mr.You Had Better Be Right Because We Have a Mortgage, Kids and a Minivan. Some couples survive this decade and watching them is like witnessing the ebb and flow of the tides. They have either learned the dance of compromise or someone in the relationship is heavily medicated.

Other couples do not survive (ahem) and thus, parts of their thirties are spent getting their heads around the concept of single parenthood which is akin to being pecked to death by a sparrow. Divorce is painful and afterward, it sometimes takes years to dip one's toe into the dating pool again because relationships can be like licking a metal pole in the dead of a Canadian winter. Your tongue will get stuck and the only way to be freed is to rip yourself to pieces or allow someone to pee on your head. Neither option is terribly appealing.

Then the forties arrive and as part of a married couple, I can only assume that the main goal is for both people to withstand each other's midlife crisis. For those of us who are single, our life has come full circle and we are once more thrust back to the circumstances of our twenties. Again, Mr. Right For Right Now may present himself but in the fifteen or twenty years that have passed, he has changed. He is mature, somewhat battle weary and he is looking for a partner, not a conquest.

The trouble is that the incident with the steel pole, while firmly in the past, is still fairly vivid. Lust and infatuation are most definitely present but they are now tempered with experience and just a speck of common sense. Then one day, you are surprised to find that your breath unexpectedly catches in your throat at the sight of him. Belatedly, you realize that your heart has taken the plunge and you find yourself hoping that he knows how to dance.

Online Dating: The New Drug

I am kicking myself HARD for not getting into the online dating scene earlier. I'm even more hacked off that I didn't think up the whole concept myself. Can you imagine? I'd be Trump without the bad comb over.

There were a few things that surprised me. First of all, I was floored at the sheer number of people registered with these services. The dating company I used made you complete a personality quiz that rivaled the phone book in its volume and however skeptical I may have been at the start, there was no denying that the profile that was created based upon my answers nailed me. Every single neurotic trait that I possess was clearly identified. The day that I signed up, within a radius of 100 miles, I had 28 men whose personalities were flagged as being compatible with my own. Keep in mind that my parameters were quite narrow, too. I had specific age, smoking and religious preferences and still, twenty eight people out there were looking for someone like me. Two of them happened to live in the same town which is astonishing considering my city boasts about 33,000 people. Three days later, I received another ten suitors.

Next, I was surprised that so many twenty somethings were trying it out, too. What has happened to the bar scene? Some of my deepest, darkest secrets fondest memories of university involved pool tables, cheap draught and loud music. What is wrong with kids these days?

Finally, I was kind of amused with how many different dating sites are out there. Even Dr. Phil is dishing advice on one. And then there are the umm...alternative sites. It doesn't matter if you want a relationship, extramarital affair, swinging good evening, twink or no strings attached company for one night..there is a dating dot com for that. I don't think of myself as especially naive but I surfed some sites that made me blush. Nothing says confident like snapping a picture of your assets and posting them for the world wide web to view.

And then it occurs to me. It's no wonder the world is in its current state. With most everyone being either a busy single or part of a married couple, nobody is getting laid with any frequency. Forget Prozac and psychotherapy, make everyone date.

Good Date Part Two

Alright, alright. I get it. You want to hear about the second date.

At the end of first date, we knew that we wanted to see each other again and Harley suggested the next day. Sure. Call me in the morning and we can arrange something.

As soon as I got home, I went to bed and slept like a stone. Gratefully, the panic did not set in until I opened my eyes the next morning. My knee jerk reaction was to somehow find a way to bow out of it gracefully and find something else to do like laundry or ironing. I had the most insane conversation running through my head.

"What is your problem? It was a perfectly pleasant night".

"Yes, but he wants to go out again on a date."

"What else are you going to do? The kids are gone, the Nazi has left you with a clean house and the lawn guy has mowed, weed wacked, trimmed and edged."

**quiet realization that I am a lazy heifer**

"What am I going to wear?"

Just then, the first text message arrived and Harley offered several choices for our entertainment.

-Ride on his motorcycle (I can't go into how many ways this appealed to me without embarrassing myself)

-go to the lake (possibility that swim suit might be required and haven't been using cellulite cream lately so this is not a real option)

-dinner (food is always good and I knew that his idea of dinner would not involve anyone asking, "Would you like fries with that?")

-nine holes of golf (appreciated the golf suggestion but having to velcro the club to my hand to hold on to it was not terribly appealing. Besides, I'm a bit competitive and I'm not at my best with two numb fingers. If I were to be completely honest, numb fingers are only the tip of the iceberg when looking at what is wrong with my golf game.)

We settled on the ride and dinner. In my panic, I did what any girl would have done. I went shopping. There is nothing like retail therapy and on Saturday morning, it came to me in the form of a shoe store in our new mall. Nine pairs of shoes and a set of boots later, I felt much better. Excessive? Maybe but better than drinking myself catatonic.

So I showed up to the date in the perfect motorcycle outfit: black capris, blousy, ultra fem, lower cut top, accessories (Steph would be proud) and the most adorable, impractical black sandals with a two inch heel. Hoochie, goochie, mama.

So we spend a a few hours on the bike winding all through the countryside and we end up at my favourite wine shop in another county because mine is dry (means no alcohol can be purchased. Welcome to the south where you can't drink but you might be able to marry your cousin. Gah!) Anyway, we go inside and he purchases a nice bottle of a pinot noir that is made in his native country and he gives it to me. I'm floored. My ex husband's idea of romance was to give me a pair of shiny, red polyester panties and a leer.

After dinner, we go back to my vehicle and decide that we aren't quite ready for the date to be over. So, we went to the movies. First, we dropped his motorcycle at his house and I made a frantic, high-pitched squealing call to Stephanie while he was parking his ride. I was in full on whack-a do mode. The date was going well and I needed to talk to her to make sure that this wasn't just another vivid Chantix dream. I kept saying, over and over, like a mantra, "He's normal. He's really, really normal. And nice. Sweet even." All of this was said in tones high enough that only a dog would have been able to hear me.

So there you have it. The movie ended, I dropped him off and called it a night. This date was my reward for suffering through Bad Date.

Oh, and we may have snogged a bit at the end of the night.

Date update

Well, it's good thing that my children were with their father this weekend.

I met my date (we'll call him Harley) on Friday evening and we hit it off immediately. For over two hours, we chatted about everything from exes to expectations and I am happy to report that he is articulate, funny and he has loads of hair. Then, I invited him back to my place to see my etchings. He left on Sunday just before the kids got back home.

I need to give my family a minute to digest that information. Could someone please get to my mum and see if she might like a glass of water and help getting the lid off of the Xanax.

Okay, better?

KIDDING!!! I didn't invite him back but if I was Madonna, I would have.

Harley appears to be normal. He is straight, has an ordinary relationship with his mum and I'm not getting a Ted Bundy vibe from him at all. He was born and raised in a different country and thus, he possesses this accent which made me want to run to Victoria's Secret for provisions.

Our coffee meeting was quite good except for the fact that we were so obviously on a first date and I picked the WORST seat in the place. Instead of being nestled away in a corner with a bit of privacy, I plunked down at a table in the dead center and thus, as other people seated themselves, our conversation became the entertainment.

After a couple of hours, we decided to part ways and walked outside where we continued to talk for another 30 minutes. We exchanged numbers and this turned out to be a tense moment of the night. I gave him my cell number and he said, "Let me call the number to make sure that I put it into my phone correctly."

Well, he dialed it and my phone did nothing.

It lay in the palm of my hands like a dead fish and I was positively dying because I knew he was thinking that I had given him a false number. I could feel little beads of perspiration break out at my hairline and suddenly, I looked like someone who is hooked up to a lie detector being asked if they masturbate. Talk about awkward. I stared at the phone in utter disbelief, willing the damn thing to ring. I was chewing on the panic when all of the sudden, we figured out the problem and my phone starts to vibrate and belt out the blues.

Then came time for the goodbye and we looked like we might have been directing traffic. I stuck out my hand at the same time that he might have been going for a hug and we both sort of take a step back and then he sticks out his hand and I go in for the hug and then I'm thinking, "ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS!"

I had parked my car on the far side of the building in case I needed to make an emergency exit which was good planning for a bad date but not so smart for a good date because I found myself having to turn my back on him to walk to my car. I gave him the view of my broad shoulders that, while useful for laying an opponent out on the boards in hockey are not my most flattering asset. And then there is my Grandmother's bum which has afflicted several women in my family, deserves it's own post and has somehow firmly planted itself on the top of my legs. Let it just suffice to say that IT'S NOT MY GOOD SIDE!

Apparently, it didn't bother Harley. We went out again on Saturday....

Coffee and a Chat

Tonight, I'm throwing caution to the wind and going out on a date. Actually, it's coffee and a chat. I think there is a difference.

I am hoping that this feeling in the pit of my stomach is just the flutterings of nervous anticipation and not some intestinal disorder because my luck seems to run along those lines.

I met this man online through a popular dating service. Look, I know what you are thinking because I've already been down that road and there shall big no big "L" branded on my forehead tomorrow. Apparently, online dating has come into its own and I am hip.

So there.

Okay. The truth is that the whole process feels so unnatural and forced but how else does the late thirty/forty something crowd meet new people. Bars? Not a chance. Besides the risk of being referred to as a coug, I feel a little sad watching my generation dance enthusiastically to the strains of "YMCA" (with the accompanying arm gestures) and "You Shook Me All Night Long". It was one thing to be young, a little tipsy and looking for nothing more than a shag. It's quite another to witness my tribe shaking their ample behinds, a little tipsy and looking for a SPOUSE.

IN A BAR.

So we resort to the world wide web, which has some significant pluses. They make you spend hours filling out questionnaires and personality profiles and from this lunacy, certain facts are discernable.

Is he a smoker or not? I can't have a smoker because I am still too new at the non-smoker thing.

Is he deluded a Republican? I can't relate to Republicans. I look at George "terrah" Bush and Michael "I feel it in my gut" Chertoff and I find myself wondering if they would appear less bizzare if they conducted their press conferences sporting big doobies and dreadlocks. Mon.

Has he ever been married? Any man who reaches the age of 40 something without walking down the aisle at least once has issues:

a)gay
b)unnatural relationship with Mom (close or conflicted)
c)serial killer

In any case, I think it's wise to steer clear.

Besides this pertinent info, a big plus is that the dating profiles come with pictures. People can talk all they want about getting to know a person's soul through meaningful dialogue...blah, blah, blah (and I bet they read these)but there is no polite way to say, "You're fugly". Click on a profile and don't like the shot? Delete. Clean, simple and nobody spends time on a shrink's couch.

I have to admit that I was totally freaked at trying this method. But, since I've clearly established that trolling the local pub is not an option and finding my true love in the produce section of the Piggly Wiggly is soap opera fodder, I'm going to give it a shot.

My son has asked me to find a boyfriend who likes to do guy stuff and who has a ten year old son. My daughter has put her request in for a boyfriend who will buy her a pony.

I'm just happy to meet with someone who wants absolutely nothing from me except coffee and a chat.

Really Bad Date Part 1

I have recently begun exploring my dating options again. My marriage has been over for nearly four years and woman cannot exist on golf, TIVO and kids alone. My South African cousin tells me to go to a bar, pick someone up and take care of business. Guys are so practical like that.

But the truth is, I've never been a terribly good judge of character where men are concerned so me and some nameless stranger would probably end up more like the shower scene from Psycho than the tub scene in Pretty Woman.

Knowing this, I have welcomed the opportunity to have friends set me up on blind dates. I figured that if I went missing, they'd be able to point the police in the right direction.

A few years ago, a friend of mine asked me if I would entertain going out with a newly divorced guy that her sister knew. Did he have all of his teeth? Yes. Was he employed? Yes. Collecting social security? No. Well sign me up!

I was very careful in the pre-date preparation. I won't go into detail because every woman out there knows exactly what this entails. Let it suffice to say that razors, tweezers, exfoliants, lotions, expensive hair products, tricky panties and valium were involved.

We agreed to meet at a local restaurant after an email exchange of pictures.
So he shows up in this dingy windbreaker that at one time may have been white but had clearly seen better days. It was gray, dirty and fraying at the cuffs. His jeans had a faded grass stain on the left knee and a dried rim of mud circling the hems. Which brings me to his moon boots. They were quite possibly the largest, ugliest hiking boots I'd ever seen. I am talking KISS in the late 70's with their platforms big.
I will reserve judgement. I will reserve judgement. Oh Christ! Is that an afro comb sticking out of his back pocket?

So we sit and get a bit of the small talk out of the way. Actually he talked, I listened. I heard about the ex-wife and how she cheated on him and how she could NEVER be satisfied. Oh yes, and he hoped that she had finally found what she was looking for because he'd never take her back.

"Oh. Has she tried to reconcile?"

"No. I'm just saying that if she ever did...." Uh huh. Did she see your afro comb?

So, we get to the business of ordering and he starts talking about money as in, "She took half of all MY money". He then announces that he is only going to have a salad (in a fusion Mexican place) to try to keep the costs of the meal in line because HAVE I SEEN THE PRICES AT THIS JOINT? I silently wonder if I would be in less pain if I pulled my eyelids up over my head.

The conversation somehow works its way around to hobbies and I take the time to mention the aforementioned boots. Like I said, they were enormous and I asked him if they were heavy.

"Huh?"

"Your boots. They're huge. I don't think I have ever seen hiking boots with soles that big. Is there a special purpose for them?"

"Well, you know what they say about the size of a man's boot...." said with a distinctly creepy smile and an exaggerated wink of someone who has spent entirely too much time in front of a mirror practicing faces.

I did my best to appear as though I had no idea what he was talking about. It was easy. I had had ten years of experiencing the real thing with my ex husband.

Awkward silence...on to the next topic:

Alex, I'll take museums and art for $500.

So he tells me about a friend of his who is a curator for a museum and had recently hosted an Egyptian show. He says his favourite part was looking at the esophagus of a mummy because it was carved and painted with great detail. Wow. How exactly is that done?

"Oh really? Was each one of the mummies accompanied by its own sarcophagus?" (Steady, steady)

"I don't remember if each one had an esophagus but it was a really important show." Yes, I'm sure it was a fucking anatomical wonder.

The food comes and I pray that he either orders another bottle of wine (unlikely) or I wake up. He had saved the very best part of the date for dinner. Being a sharing kind of guy and completely emotionally available (his words, not mine), he offered up a view of his partially chewed food every few seconds. I had to turn away as the gaps in his teeth filled with green goober. He then suggested that we might like to end the evening with nightcap at his place and perhaps, a movie. Then he winked, AGAIN. The slurp, smack and sucking saliva through his teeth sound (probably to dislodge some of that green charm) became deafening.

I politely excused myself to the ladies' room which was parked next to the double doors that led into the kitchen. I spied a busboy at one of those decorated coffee stations and sidled in beside him.

"Is there a way out of here except through the front door?"

"No. Except for the kitchen door, ma'am."

"I need you to show me that door."

"I can't. We aren't allowed to have customers in the back."

"Please. You see that guy over there picking his teeth with his fingernails?"

The busboy nods and I am not kidding when I tell you that even he cringed a bit at the dental mining going on at the table.

"That is my blind date. I am in hell. YOU MUST HELP ME!!!"

After clearing it with the manager, I was wisked through the kitchen and out to the back lot. It was like highschool all over again. All of the cool kids were out there having a smoke. The manager explained my situation. We all laughed, I lit a cigarette and then I walked to the side of the wall and stared at my vehicle. Bad date would be able to see me if he was looking out the window. Not good. So, one of the cooks volunteers to drive my car around back and the problem was solved.

I called my friend and told her that her sister must be on drugs because that was the worst date I had ever had. What in the world did the little matchmaker think we had in common?

"Well, you were both single." Oh that's rich.

So, three weeks later, I am doing my expenses and see this cell number that I don't recognize. I call it. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Bad date answers and obviously has caller ID.

"So, I lost you that night."

"Um..sorry to bother you. I didn't recognize the number. Doing expenses. Have.To.Go."

"Well, if you'd ever like to go out again, feel free to give me a call."


Yeah, I'll be sure to do that right after I have my brain sucked out through my nose.