Showing posts with label men. Show all posts
Showing posts with label men. Show all posts

6.03.2025

A QUIET PLACE

The sun is lucky to shine for you
The pull of the moon is privileged too
The stars pose to catch your gaze
The night itself bends to your ways

The magic you bring has been unseen
Noble, refined, and everything between
My heart has leapt, it’s fallen, it's flown
So seen, so held, no longer alone

Your eyes see who I am and can be
Your honesty itself makes me feel free
The space you fill is both soft and strong
I have not a doubt it’s where I belong

No fire could warm me quite like your name
It deepens my breath and steadies my flame
No mask, no fear, just honesty
With you and this love is where I’m meant to be

Written by Rebecca Grace Snider

11.10.2023

WHAT I WANT

I want long hugs.
The kind I don’t have to ask for.

I want transparency.
The kind that is natural and not out of guilt.

I want forgiveness.
The kind where something isn’t hung over my head for years and years.

I want to be touched.
The kind that is because you love me and not because you’re thinking of someone else.

I want to be accepted.
The kind that makes my weirdness more charming.

I want to be heard.
The kind that makes my over-explanation of my feelings not feel like they are a nuisance.

I want to feel safe.
The kind that makes me feel comfortable being my true self.

I want communication.
The kind where I don’t get one word descriptions of your feelings.

I want to feel trust.
The kind where you don’t hold secrets.

I want to feel strong.
The kind that you love about me and not think it’s against you.

I want to be celebrated.
The kind where I feel like I can accomplish anything with you by my side.

I want respect.
The kind where you don’t complain about me to your friends behind my back.

I want quiet time.
The kind where if I need some alone time that it’s not against you, but for me to recharge.

I want something real.
The kind where our relationship is about us and not about appearances.

I want to not be judged.
The kind where my 53 year old flawed body is cherished and desired.

I want to feel balanced.
The kind where we find a way for our strengths and weaknesses to exist in harmony.

I want to breathe.
The kind where our relationship isn’t always under a microscope and a struggle, but where we can simply exist and enjoy each other for who we are.

I want to be vulnerable.
The kind where an open conversation about how we both receive love is welcomed and where our egos or wounded pasts don’t get in the way of listening.

I want to be loved.
The kind of love where not only am I receiving all of these things, but also 100% wanting to give them.

Written by Rebecca Grace Snider

8.20.2007

Dear Crazy People

You know who you are.

I know I hide behind the “Just a Crazy Woman” virtual mask, but the truth is… I’m not. Sure, I’m a little nutty, pretty complex, at times eccentric, kinda creative and incredibly insecure… but I’m not in any way mentally deranged. I’m not certifiable. I’ve never even once been held in a straight jacket. Well, maybe once, but that was for something entirely different. Kinky does not mean crazy. Unless your definition of kinky involves barnyard animals. In that case, you’re both kinky AND crazy.

If I had a dime for every time a guy has told me about his “crazy” ex-wife or ex-girlfriend, I’d be living it up in Belize right now. Lounging in a hammock and enjoying the ocean breeze while sipping some sort of tropical drink with one of those cute little paper umbrellas.

I’d have to change my name to “Just a Rich Woman.”

I don’t know what it is. These men. Calling all their ex’s crazy. Are they? I mean really… are they? What does this say about you if you find yourself dating all these crazy women? There’s only one common denominator… and that’s you, baby.

Sure, I can say that I’ve never been in a “healthy” relationship. Obviously. I’ll be 37 in two weeks and have never been married or even remotely close to it. That’s gotta say something right there. Not that all marriages are healthy. Because I realize they’re not. And, please, save all the emails saying how much better it is getting married “later in life.” This is totally not the point of this blog.

I’m writing this blog to all the crazy people.

The people who are ruining it for the rest of us. Stop it. Stop going out with guys and scaring the hell out of them by falling in love with them on the second date. Stop the stalking. Stop the crying about wanting to have a baby even though you’ve only been dating a month. Stop trying on wedding dresses behind his back. Stop trying to control his every move and every breath. Just STOP IT!

Stop freaking a guy out so bad that it makes him project all YOUR craziness onto us normal people. I have my own issues. I don’t need yours, too. My insecurities are enough to keep me busy. I don’t have time to be blamed for your infidelities, manipulation and birth-control-pill-popping forgetfulness. Do you realize how hard it is for a guy to see the essence of who I am while your back-stabbing, rumor spreading, and heel stomping energy is floating in the way?

And to all you men who find it necessary to talk about your crazy ex’s.

Don’t. The last thing you need to tell some new person is about your last trip to Crazy Town. It scares us normal people. We then want to know why you went there. Did you just drive through? Did you stay only a night or two? Did you invest in property? How long was it before you realized where you were? And once you did, how quickly did it take you to get your ass out of town?

That is unless your new person is another crazy.

Then this will scare them into hiding their craziness behind a “normal” mask. It takes about 45 days for it all to seep to the relationship surface. By then it just might be too late because they’re already picking out His & Hers monogrammed bath towels.

I can honestly say I have never called an ex “crazy.”

Sure, they’ve been controlling. Abrasive. Uninterested. Lazy. Boring. Confusing. But crazy? Nope. I save that terminology for those who truly deserve it.

Thank you for your time,

Just a Crazy Woman

5.29.2007

Deadly Sin: Lust

It was while I was standing in the check-out lane at the drugstore when he walked in.

He was about six foot and rugged with brown messy hair. Had a little GQ thing going for him. He was wearing a graphic tee that was partially tucked in at the right place. Dark jeans with worn-out areas appropriately scattered. A hip guy who was most likely running in to buy condoms. I couldn’t decide if his hot date was going to be with a girl or another guy.

I stood there in line holding one of those dorky shopping baskets. It was filled with moisturizer, toothpaste, deodorant, and clear fingernail polish. Yup, pretty boring. For a split second I thought about dumping the basket’s boring contents and replacing it with something more exciting. Maybe like a box of Trojans. Thought it’d make me look less boring. Willing. Available. But I really needed the toothpaste since I ran out just that morning. And even though moisturizer isn’t a great lure, it is a great necessity.

Walking through the automatic doors, he saw someone he knew.

Another guy. A guy who had just purchased his own basket of items. I became interested in this union. I wondered what they were talking about. How did they know each other? As much as I would love to describe how the other guy looked, I was too blinded by Guy #1’s hotness. Memory of the other guy is only a blur.

I finally advanced to the front of the check-out line. This was a good move since it allowed me to overhear the private conversation. Standing there talking, my boyfriend’s hands were casually tucked into the pockets of his stylish-way-cool jeans. He seemed friendly. He smiled a lot. He gave off a good vibe. I was hooked.

The cashier kept talking to me. She would NOT shut up. Why is it that usually I get a bitter, socially inept cashier who hates her job and her life, but this time I get Ms. Personality? Doesn’t she realize that my nosey-self is trying to get the scoop on my new lover? Doesn’t she understand that by talking to me, she’s jeopardizing my chances with my future fiancĂ©? Doesn’t she know that the father of my unborn children is only a mere five feet away from me? The nerve. How rude. Help a sista out, wont ya?

I obviously looked uninterested in Ms. Chatty’s ramblings because she soon quieted down.

Thank God. Now I can spy in peace. I have to admit I was hoping to hear “Just thought I’d stop by the drugstore in hopes of finding a girl named Becca who I will adore and cherish for the rest of our lives.” But I didn’t.

Blurry guy: So dude, whatcha been up to?

Hot guy: Dude, not much. Just got finished serving my community service.

Great. Community service. How come I always pick the bad boys? How come I intuitively seek the ones with a rap sheet or personal issues or a bad attitude? This happens over and over and over and over again. I scare myself. Really. I can pick them out of a crowd.

I would much rather him say, “I saved a lost puppy this morning, mailed my grandmother her birthday present and I think I’ll spend the evening at home watching old reruns of ‘Chico and the Man’.”

He would have had me at “lost puppy.”

This is why I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust my instinct.

Just when I start to like you, you’re going to tell me about the 12 years you spent in prison because of murder. Or embezzlement. Or robbing a bank. The tattoo on your arm I thought was cute will turn out to be some gang symbol.

Ok, maybe it’s never been that bad. At least no one’s ever told me about serving time, but I wouldn’t put it past some of them. Maybe I should consider becoming a prisoner’s pen pal. At least I’d know up front what the scoop is.

My new lover and I never made it past those five minutes.

The happy-go-lucky cashier put my purchases in a white plastic bag with the words “THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!” printed in blue on one side. I then headed over to Home Depot and bought insect-repellant yard spray and bathtub caulk.

The next morning as I ridded my yard of fleas, beetles and other nasty things, I thought about my ex-drugstore-boyfriend. I thought about how I pick out the bad boys when all I want is a good one. In an epiphany I realized that I liked the idea of someone adventuresome because I find my life incredibly boring. Here I was spraying my yard and about to caulk my tub when I really would rather be riding on the back of a Harley screaming back at the wind.

Great. Now it looks like I have two problems.

I’m sure my ex-baby-daddy has gone on with his life. I’m sure he’s not suffering from the break-up. I hope he learned something from his community service and stays out of trouble.

Who knows… maybe we’ll meet again. But he better not be wearing an orange jumpsuit.

3.23.2007

Dear Diary... I chose the gym over chocolate. And I'm not sure why.

Jogging on a treadmill can either be mentally therapeutic or self destructive.

Ok, maybe not jogging. More like a fast walk. A slow jog. Slow motion run. However you view it, you’re still trapped in some weird time capsule. Nothing but you and that synthetic road ahead. We do whatever we can to avoid the boredom: ipods, magazines, television. Because let’s be honest, no one really likes spending an hour or so with their own thoughts. Of course, maybe it’s just me.

I didn’t want to go to the gym tonight.

There were a thousand other things I would rather have been doing. I’d much rather have been at Cold Stone Creamery eating some sort of big time chocolate concoction with hot fudge drizzled on top and a brownie on the side. Not to mention a long nap afterwards. I’d take a long nap over a workout any day. But I made the wise choice. The mature decision. Took the responsible option. I put on my ugly tennis shoes, grabbed my nifty-itty-bitty ipod shuffle and headed on over to the place I dread the most: The Gym. I know, I know, once you get started you’re glad you went. Blah blah blah blah. It helped that I was meeting a friend there. Hate to disappoint him. Accountability sure does suck.

I’m in the middle of listening to an audio book. Being my third visit to hell the gym this week, I’m several chapters in. This is also an incentive to go. Somehow walking around my house listening to an audio book doesn’t do it for me. There are too many other things to do and I have a hard time multi-tasking. I even have a hard time watching TV while cleaning the house. Thank God for Tivo. So I’ve decided that audio books are one way to get my chocolate-eating-butt into the gym.

Ear buds in place and my modern day walkman playing, I mentally nestled into the idea that I would be stuck there running in place for Lord knows how long. It’s different each time. Sometimes I give up earlier than I should. Sometimes I lose track of time and run longer than anticipated. I don’t ever do that on purpose. Believe me. I would rather have a Mac Truck run over my foot a few dozen times than stay at the gym a few unnecessary minutes longer.

Listening to the book tonight, my mind kept separating from the story line. Drifting off into la-la land. I finally hit the pause button because I was tired of rewinding it every few minutes to catch up on what I missed. My brain flipped through several subjects, but it decided to land on one in particular: my blogs.

“Why do I keep writing about the same topic over and over again?” I questioned as I increased the treadmill’s incline.

It seems most of my blogs are about being single.

I’m a well rounded gal (keep your gym puns to yourself, please). I have opinions on most everything and even if I don’t, I can B.S. my way through it pretty well. I may see things backwards than most, but hey, at least I see them.

Funny things happen to me everyday. Like just yesterday when my office security pass thingy fell out of my back pocket into the toilet AFTER I was finished and BEFORE I flushed. Scrubbing it with soap under hot water I thought, “I wonder if I’m the only person in the world who has ever washed their security pass with soap and water. I hope I’m not deactivating something important inside there.”

I can also be insightful. I generally am quite accurate on what type of person someone is. Sure, sometimes I’m way off base, but those times don’t count. I’m a deep feeler. I feel love deeply which scares the hell out of me. I can tap into other’s emotions quite easily. I’m sure this would give me plenty of blog material. I’m sure my friends won’t mind if I splash my assumption of their intimate feelings across my page. Names excluded to protect the guilty, of course.

There are so many different topics that I can choose to write about, but as I increased my treadmill’s speed I convinced myself that I was hanging onto this one topic way too many times. That continually expressing my sob stories of singleness was somehow giving forth the impression that I’m not whole. That I’m half. That I’m one reason shy of taking advantage of any two-for-one deal at the grocery store. That I’m somehow not complete by missing out on romantic pasta dinners at a fancy Italian restaurant.

Sure, I have my downs. Everyone does no matter what your marital status is. It’s called life. People who are married sometimes envy people who are single. Vise versa. Not too long ago someone said to me, “Becca, marriage isn’t what it’s all cracked up to be. It really can suck.” I replied, “I’m sure a bad marriage like yours does suck. This is why I don’t want a bad marriage.”

I’ve said a billion jillion times that I’m in no hurry to get into a bad marriage.

Being single gives me the chance to work hard on my issues so that – hopefully – I don’t have to force someone else to succumb to the growing pains. That is the job of my friends whether they want to or not. They’ve already signed up for it.

While wishing I had brought a water bottle to the gym, I realized that writing about my singleness is no different than those who write about their children. Or husbands. Or hobbies. Or lifestyles. It’s what I know. Who I am. What I live. A part of me.

I came home from the gym and collapsed on my couch. Although thankful I went, I still would rather have had chocolate. Thank God there’s none in the house. Still wondering about how various my blog topics are, I grabbed my laptop and began thumbing through my entries. Turns out I was wrong. I rarely look back at old blogs. I don’t even want to know how many times I’ve contradicted myself from blog to blog. Glancing back has reminded me of some really funny, interesting and crazy things that have happened. Things that have nothing to do with being single. My findings made me happy.

And then it hit me.

This blog of mine is not for some stranger living on the other side of the world. It’s not written for their entertainment. It’s not for my personal friends who I know read it. They can call me on the phone if they’re interested in catching up on my life. They don’t have to read it here.

This blog is for me. It’s a creative outlet that I enjoy and need. It’s a way for me to sort through this jumbled up mess inside my brain. It’s a way for me to express my backwards view of life. I’ve always considered writing as free therapy. Who cares how many paragraphs it is. It’ll end when the words stop coming through. And it will be on a topic that I feel needs to be expressed. No matter how repetitive.

And that’s all I gotta say about that.

1.14.2007

You're not that good-looking, but in the dark I won't notice.

I’m not a fan of pressure.

Those who personally know me have heard me say this a million times. It’s usually brought up during an interrogation conversation about how I’m not dating anyone. About how I don’t make myself available. About how I’m “too this” or “too that.” About how I need to be more aggressive when it comes to meeting people. Everyone has their opinions on how to help the poor single gal out.

I realize that I’m desperate, but the question is how desperate.

Sometimes being a 36 year old single female makes me feel like I’m viewed as a science project. I’m examined, studied, poked, prodded and turned upside down and inside out. My “no man” status is deliberated. My flaws are dissected, placed in a petri dish and presented to an open forum.

These repeated conversations only result in me getting defensive. I wouldn’t mind it if I was offered new answers. New solutions. New view point. Somehow pointing out my insecurities for the thousandth time only makes them magnify. Making me retreat even further behind my brick wall with a big bucket of mortar for damage control purposes and an ungodly amount of chocolate that would last most people a year.

I’ve been given several solutions to my singleness.

Everywhere from solo bar hopping to online dating to the produce section of the grocery store. Can’t it be easier than this? Have my dating options dwindled down to a bag of seedless grapes? Is leaning alone against a bar trying to look sexy – when the truth is I’m incredibly self conscious – my only resort? Is uploading my photo, coming up with a clever profile as if I’m selling a product, and meeting men for 15 minute intervals at Starbucks the only way to find someone?

Meeting people was easier in my 20’s. We were all single back then. Groups of single people knew other groups of single people. Now that I’m reaching my (cough cough) late 30’s, I find it more difficult to meet men. I can’t help to think that for centuries people have managed to meet each other through less desperate measures. Boy meets girl. Girl meets boy. It’s all so complicated now.

Of course, it doesn’t help that I’m attracted to emotionally unavailable men.

I’m sure a psychotherapist would have a field day with that. I continually find myself going down a dead end road. I see the signs. They’re there. Right in my face. I even read the signs, but then I say, “Becca, you’re wrong. You need to be more optimistic.”

But I find that optimism can be another word for just being blind.

Maybe because it’s the beginning of a new year, but I’ve found myself having multiple conversations lately about dating. The last one being just this afternoon with a friend who has found himself single in his mid 40’s. He has succumbed to the social pressures and has headed down that road of online dating in full force. He’s met several lovely ladies, but no one who he would consider a good enough catch. We discussed the pro’s and con’s of this seemingly desperate act for companionship and we came to the conclusion that you must go into it with little or no expectations.

After our 1.5 hour conversation, I had an “ah ha” moment. Maybe it was more like my desperation and my analytical mind clashing together into what most people would call an epiphany. Not sure if it was something he said, but I decided that I would join him. Dive into the scary cold waters of this thing called online dating.

The truth is…. I’ve done it before.

It’s been several years, and it wasn’t through the “respectable” services which are now available. I met three or four guys and they were… well… freaky. These pathetic experiences aided in my anxiety for meeting people through the computer.

But no matter how unnatural or uneasy it feels, I decided that my desperation was high enough to give one of the popular dating sites a trial run. Put all my inhibitions aside. Look past my experiences and pretend that I never met those freaky people. I answered all the appropriate questions. I offered my personal stats. I said what I was looking for in a man. I was completely realistic and honest. I even wrote up a witty profile description. Then I hit “submit” and crossed my fingers. And do you know what it said?

“Sorry! We have not identified any matches for your review. Consider expanding your preferences to include a wider range of potential matches.”

What??? No WAY am I going to expand my preferences! You have GOT to be kidding me. Wondering if I somehow messed up, I reviewed my preferences. Nope. They’re all good. Everything I want in a man. Submit. Same crappy response.

What’s so sad is I feel like I wasn’t being picky. I was being realistic. I thought I was pretty liberal in my choices. Apparently not. I’m sure if it had asked, “Does your match need to be emotionally unavailable?” then I would have hit the dating jackpot.

As I sit here eating my comfort food of choice – chocolate – I’ve continually hit the “refresh” button, but it still says no. Notta. In fact, I could swear it said,

“You will never find a man. You are hopeless. There is no one in central Arkansas that meets your requirements. You are better off settling for freaky people in chat rooms.”

Great. Maybe I’ll go hit the produce section. I hear there’s a sale on seedless grapes.

1.10.2007

Not even if you were the last man on earth and I was out of batteries.

He was being subtlety obvious.

I’ve now seen him three times in the chiropractor’s office. It seems our similar work schedule allows us to both have only 5pm appointments… on the same day. He’s a talkative guy. I know all about his job, children, and the car accident he had in December. He is also very open telling me how he’s looking for a woman. He has no problem blinding my eyes with his lit up vacancy sign.

“I’m tired of seasonal women. You know the kind that’s only around for a while? I’m looking for someone who will stay for the long run.”

He’s told me this three time now.

I assume by my lack of response he feels I haven’t heard him. That I haven’t picked up on his underlining meaning. But the truth is I’ve picked up on it and I’m not interested.

“Oh look, you showed up for our date,” he says every time I walk in. Although he thinks he’s being cute, I find it annoying. I pleasantly smile back with a polite “Oh yes, here I am.”

The juicy part of our “date” occurs when we are conveniently sitting next to each other in the massage room. While we are both hooked up to the electro muscle massager thing-a-ma-jigs, he fills me in on his lonely life and gives me updates on his aches and pains. I humor him by injecting a “yes” or “no” or “oh, I’m sorry” into the one sided conversation.

Today he told me how big his house is. I guess I looked like I cared. Maybe he thought if I knew this tidbit of real estate information, I would realize what a great guy he is. That somehow I would see him differently. That I would feel that having a big house would over-rule the fact that I’m totally physically uninterested.

“I have this huge two story house that is just too big for me. Since it’s just me, most of the house is unused. It sure would be nice to have someone to share it with.”

Not me, mister.

I remained hooked up to the mechanical back massager thingy while he gathered his belongings. Standing there in the doorway, he continued a loooong story about one of his friends. Since I wasn’t paying attention, I can’t even remember what the story was. Thankfully my new lover soon said his goodbyes and headed off to that big lonesome house on the hill.

I’m flattered by my new Casanova’s complimentary comments.

It’s sad that I have absolutely no interest in him. Not even his big two story house is enough to convert my feelings. I have no doubt that he would be a good provider and cook me breakfast in bed, but there’s something about physical attraction that I cannot avoid. It’s a shame really. I think I’ll break up with him when I see him on our next date.

What can I say… I’m a seasonal woman.

11.20.2006

Drunk Therapy ALWAYS Ends Badly

I went to a birthday party Saturday night at a friend’s house.

Great music. Good food. Since I only had a few beers, I remained in a sober state. A state that allowed me to view my friends as they… well… got drunk. Which is always such a joy and a prime opportunity for future black mailing.

It’s hilarious the things people will say or admit after a few cocktails. The truth always seems to surface. The bold questions somehow don’t seem so bold. And the answers seem to spill out so easily. Wives openly discuss how their husbands fall short of their expectations and husbands complain how they don’t have sex anymore. And then just a few minutes later, they’re dirty dancing together on the back deck.

I had an interesting conversation with two friends.

A conversation that was sprinkled throughout the night. One friend is a female and the other, a male. Both drunk and both of which I’ve known for 20 years. The conversation was about my lack of a man in my life. As I sat there in the hot seat, they darted questions towards me in hopes to solve my “problem” before the night’s end.

I soon began shooting back. Defending myself against statements like “You need to figure out what you’re doing wrong” and clichĂ©s like “It’ll happen when it’s supposed to.” For the record, these are not the best things to say. It’s like saying after someone dies: “At least they’re in a better place.” True or not, it just doesn’t help.

At some point during this therapy session with my two intoxicated friends, the bold questions started to emerge. My female friend stumbles towards my ear and whispers the slurred words, “Are you sure you’re not in love with him after all these years?” The “him” was referring to the third person in this conversation. One of my closest friends. A 20 year platonic friendship.

I take a step back…

“Are you serious?”

“It’s a logical question.”

“No. Nooooo. Noooooo.”

This then takes another comical turn. He, not knowing what she asked me, says…

“Did she ask you if you’re gay?”

“WHAT?”

“Is that what she asked you?”

”Are you now suggesting that not having a man means I’m gay???”

As humorous and waaaay off mark as this was, I quickly shut this therapy session down. Short of humping the next guy who walked by, I didn’t feel I could properly defend myself. I was backed into a corner and so I began waving my white flag.

I like drunk people.

If I never take another sip of an alcoholic beverage, I’m still hanging out with those who do. They provide humor to my life in a way that is impossible without tequila.

I must say the wobbly birthday girl held her ground very well. As I told her that night, she is the most graceful drunk I’ve ever seen. Who knows how many apple martinis she had, but she swaggered with eloquence and remained poised throughout the evening.

And I told her exactly how truly envious I am.

5.26.2006

Motive

I had lunch with a long time friend the other day. We met about 18 years ago in the gift wrapping department of Dillard's where we worked. We instantly became friends. We were both teenagers, full of life, in love with all the boys and even had plans of being roommates. We spent time searching for an apartment and went shopping for "like way cool stuff" to decorate it with. We each had that teenage-girl-sparkle in our eye that reflected the big huge dreams we had for ourselves.

We never moved in together, but our friendship grew as we got older. We shared our poetry with each other and even collaborated on a few pieces. She showed me her artwork which I always thought was brilliant. We partied - hard - and survived all those boys who we thought were sent from heaven who turned out to be from hell. I won't tell you all our stories. I'm not sure if you would find them funny or pathetic. Nevertheless, we have experienced a great deal together and I wouldn't trade her or those memories for all the chocolate in the world.

She's been married, divorced, remarried. She has a house full of kids - two of which are her's biologically. She still paints brilliantly and stays connected to her creative mind. I don't know if she writes anymore... I hope she does. She knows that she can tell me anything - and she does. I'm not a counselor, but sometimes a friend is even better.

So we had lunch the other day at Lenny’s. My favorite sandwich shop. The lady who is normally at the register wasn’t there this day. I wonder if she’s okay. Maybe she just had the day off. It was pouring rain. Pouring. We left our umbrellas leaned against the front window creating a puddle of water on the floor. We silently chuckled every time one of the umbrellas would slip to the floor when someone opened the door.

We sat there with our hot sandwiches and updated each other on our lives – all within the 60 minutes that we were alowed away from work. We talked about her husband’s traveling and how difficult it is being the only parent in the house for days at a time. How your brain gets scrambled and you tend to lose yourself in between all the after-school activities, homework and a full time job. How a maid would be nice, but it costs money. She talked about how tiring it is when it’s 9pm at night and you’ve just sat down and breathed for the first time. She’s a good mom. I see the sacrifice. I see her doing her best with her young children and a horrible ex-husband who doesn’t seem to understand how to parent. Who causes her grief in ways that I can’t go into. I see it all and wish there was something I can do. But maybe listening is the best thing she needs.

She listens to me as well. While our 60 minutes was ticking away too fast, we talked about my single life and how it sucked. I talked about how difficult it is dating in my mid 30’s. Finding someone with real passion and a good heart. I told her “it’s just never going to happen.” But inside I was thinking that it’s just got to.

She said something very interesting to me. I told her that I didn’t want to be one of those people who were always looking. I said that I’m not the type to go to the grocery store in hopes to find a man. I’m not the type to hang out in a certain establishment with the motive of finding forever love. “Motive” was apparently my word for the day because I used it several times in those 60 minutes. Over and over with different colorful words before and after. Motive. I didn’t want my motive to be to find someone to love me.

I don’t remember word for word her response. Mainly because it didn’t sink into my thick skull until much later. It’s times like this when I wish we could Tivo conversations and play it back later for more accuracy. She probably had no clue that she was saying something profound. She didn’t know that I was going to feel her words way deeper than they were given. She looked at me. She said that she understood what I was saying, but that sometimes when we concentrate too much on what our motives are NOT, it block us from seeing what things could be. If we focus heavily on what we DON’T want to be, that it causes us to avoid what we do.

Wow. Like I said, I don’t remember her exact words that I’m sure just flew from her mouth without any thought. However, that’s what I heard. That was my interpretation long after our 60 minutes were up. That’s what I’m reflecting on. And you know what?

She’s right.

5.21.2006

Innocent Until Proven Guilty

Ok, it’s time to get real here.

The vast majority of us have ex’s. Wives. Husbands. Girlfriends. Boyfriends. Lovers. They’ve burned us. They’ve left us for dead. They haven’t called. They’ve caused wounds so deep that have driven us into years of therapy.

So as a general rule, we don’t like our ex’s. There’s a reason why we’re not still with them. They’re psycho, not responsible, noncommittal, psycho, uncaring and psycho. Occasionally you’ll find that rare person who remains close friends with them, but like I said… it’s rare. And kudos to you if you’re one of them. You’ve managed to accomplish something that by social law shouldn’t be.

The issue of the day:

Why is it that we let these horrid people from our past… these lousy examples of love… these Psycho People From Hell… ruin our outlook on life, on love, on happiness?

Why do women take that immature, narcissistic, jackass and make him ruler of all men? Why do men make that psychotic, complaining hag taint his views on how women really are? These are people who waste our oxygen, but yet we give them so much emotional control over us. Because of them, we become men haters. We become bitter and doubtful that there is any woman alive that is normal.

Why do we generalize all humankind because of “them”? I’ve been guilty of it myself. However, I do feel that I’ve gotten mucho better. I don’t think all men are evil anymore. Just some of them.

This has become my current thought bubble because of a conversation I just had with a friend who has an ex-wife. I don’t know all the gruesome details of their wedded bliss, but according to him, she’s crazy and not emotionally stable. I’ve gathered that she always has these blown-out-of-proportion issues in her life that somehow seem to affect him because of their shared offspring. The thought of his impressionable children living and being cared for on such wobbly grounds, drives him up the all-women-are-freakin-crazy wall.

He’s made comments… bundling up all us women together and giving us all the same label. He’s a funny guy, so I know a certain percentage of it is in jest… but you know there is truth to his half-comedic accusations. We do this. All of us do. But whyyyyy?

I tell you, the last thing I want is to go out with a man who has pre-judged me as a carbon copy of his ex. I’m not her. I am my own self. I even have my own thumbprint to prove it. Granted, there are a lot crazy people in this world. We’ve dated or married some of them, and there are several more left we can still go through. But there are also just as much of the normal, nice, witty, sane, caring people in this world.

Why have we chosen the nutty people to invest ourselves? What is it about us that attracts the crazies, the emotionally unattached, the cheaters, the abusers, the nerds, the flakes, the stalkers… the certifiables? One right after the other, causing this imaginary proof that all women/men are the same.

When I was younger – late teens, early 20’s – it seemed like the guys that I didn’t want were the ones approaching me. My friends called me the geek magnet. One friend, who was the group’s appointed psychologist and advice guru, told me that it was because I oozed acceptance and trustworthiness. That the geeks, who normally were too afraid to approach any woman, felt like I would give them a shot because I seemed to root for the underdog. Looking back, I think she was right. I didn’t realize that was the energy I was putting out. This lasted for most of my 20’s. I think at some point I slowly changed my energy into what it is today. Of course, it’s not working for me either. Now I’m told that I’m unapproachable and aloof. Oie vey.

Shocking to no one, I digress. I began writing in defense of the normal people getting equal rights. I appointed myself Norma Rae of this particular Dating Ethics Movement and then I strayed from the picket line.

But wait…

In all the failed relationships you’ve had, there’s only one common denominator… YOU. I have a friend who is on his sixth marriage. No joke. A few weeks before the sixth “I’ll love you forever” ceremony was to take place, he told me that this one just had to work. That this one needed to be the one that would bring him life long happiness. In my best Oprah, I said that there was a reason why he’s been through six marriages and that it might be a grand idea for him to figure out what that reason is. Especially before he dumps six and moves to number seven.

Maybe we should all learn a lesson from my serial-marriage friend. The truth is that he’s only looking for love. Isn’t that what we’re all doing? Maybe we should all look at our own relationship projections. Coming to terms with what might be wrong with what we expect out of people who are not perfect. Seeing what in our past is ours to blame and what can be tossed aside as just a bad match. Maybe realizing that they actually aren’t bad people, it’s just a simple matter of clashing personalities.

Whatever.

There’s always the HIGH possibility that we’ve chosen some freakin’ losers: That ex-boyfriend who might have been tolerable if he had been on a very strong dosage of medication six times a day. That ex-wife who might not be so bad if she had a lobotomy. It’s not you, it’s them. I’m totally on your side. Remember, I’m back in the picket line and it’s going strong.

We’ve dated the losers. Even married some of them. We’ve broken up or divorced them. It’s a sad fact. But the next potential relationship that knocks on our door, let’s not look for the internal psycho just yet. Let’s not make them unknowingly carry the burden of all our bad experiences. Let’s not assume that they are needy. Believe me, their weird-not-normal attachment to their mother will surface soon enough.

And when it does, let’s just go on to the next one… because we just might pleasantly find a pretty cool person.

5.17.2006

The Perfect Man

I read an article recently titled “Shopping for a Spouse”. The author wrote about how most of us create a “list” when shopping for a companion. I’m guilty. I have a list. It seems that the older I get, the longer my list gets, too. It’s not like I have it actually written down. It’s a virtual list. Somehow that seems less pathetic. I guess, for most of us, we begin writing our list when we are teenagers. When I was in high school I didn’t realize that I was forming a list, but I was. It probably didn’t actually take on the list form until I was in my early 20’s.

Teeth.

I’ve been described as picky. Although I deny it, I guess there’s probably some truth to it. There are those times when not being picky has seemed to backfire. Once I found myself on a date with the eternal college student. You know the type: it’s been 20 years since they graduated from college, yet, they still party and carry on as if they are still part of the fraternity. Another time I was on a first date with a guy who felt the need to tell me all of his medical problems . . . and that was just during the appetizer. Bad situations like these send me into the edit list mode. In fact, the list has seemed to now fork into two different lists: the “gotta have” list and the “no way” list. Thankfully the content of the list has changed since I was a teenager. I no longer require my man to like Duran Duran or to take me to Taco Kid once a week.

My list has matured along with my age. I require that he have good hygiene, a good sense of humor, financial stability, and, above all, the ability to put up with me. I guess he also has to have teeth. Can’t forget the teeth . . . which reminds me of story that I won’t share with you. My list is obviously quite a bit more detailed than the five examples before mentioned. But just in case my future husband is reading this article, I'll refrain from going into much detail since I don’t want to scare him off.

SWM ISO

Do guys make lists like women do? It makes me wonder what’s on it. I hope the next poor sap that I date doesn’t show me his list. I have no doubt that I will never be able to live up to it. Not that I’m putting myself down, it’s just that if everyone wore their list on the back of their shirt, would anyone get a date?

There are the general polite terms that we apply to our future mates: compassionate, funny, gentle, goal oriented, funny, good job, assertive, funny, etc. If a guy had his list displayed on the back of his shirt, I’m pretty confident that I would be able to check off several of them. However, I would definitely have to take myself out of the running if his shirt said he was looking for someone who is 5’8”, 24, a red head and wealthy. But you know, I guess it would be nice to know that up front before I waste my time, huh?

It's raining men.

I don’t know if you know much about this E-Harmony Internet thing, but I have a couple of friends that are members. They seem to be happy with their cyber success so far. My friend, Bubba (name has changed to protect the guilty), joined the site a couple of months ago. He’s been chatting it up with several women and has narrowed his focus down to five. The reason I bring this whole thing up is because when you register for the site, they ask you a jillion questions about who you are, what you like, what you’re looking for and what you’re not looking for.

I have no intentions on becoming a member of the E-Harmony family, however, I did fill out the questionnaire. It was really interesting to sort through my “kind of man I want” mental filing cabinet and transferring the data into the computer. I went as far as I could without paying for anything. And, believe me, the questionnaire is pretty detailed. It took me about an hour to fill it all out. They’ve matched me up with more men in the central Arkansas area than I would know what to do with. So, if you’re matched up with someone named Becca in Little Rock, chances are you’ll never hear from me because I ain’t payin’. I’m just too much of a traditional girl to go that route. I wish Bubba all the harmony luck in the world.

Great expectations.

So, you’re asking yourself, “What’s this babbling blog all about?” Frankly, I’m not sure. It’s a mixture of things really. For one, I feel it’s okay to have a list - just as long as you don’t shut out all of us nice gals because we’re vertically challenged. I can always change the color of my hair, but I can’t make myself grow taller. Not even for you. Secondly, make sure your list is healthy. I’m pretty sure that mine is, although I’m sure I have friends that would disagree. There are things on my list that I will not budge on, but generally I feel that it’s a guideline.

On E-Harmony you answer specific questions about what type of person you’re looking for. The problem is this: The more specific you are, the less likely it is that you’ll get a lot of matches.

This is the problem in real life as well. There should be a give and take on some stuff. I won’t be able to live up to someone’s list (a.k.a. expectations) 100% and neither will he on mine. But isn’t that okay? Do we want someone perfect or do we want someone perfect for us?

4.04.2006

Trash = Love

The trash needs to be taken out.

I've been doing some "spring cleaning" and I've got two big trash bags sitting on the floor in the kitchen waiting to be taken out to the already-over-flowing trash can. Why is it that I can do all the work of spring cleaning, but taking two trash bags out is out of the question? What is it about this chore that makes me not wanna do it?

I'm not married. Never have been. And since I'm not psychic, I don't know if I ever will be. I've survived all these years doing everything myself. I take out the trash, take care of the car, lawn, cleaning, cooking, laundry, bills... you name it. However, I don't do all of these things well. I don't need a roommate. Don't want one. But if I found ONE guy... just ONE guy who would do some of this crap, I'd marry him in a New York heartbeat. A freakin New York heartbeat.

SWF ISO CMM (chore-minded-man)

Ok, maybe I exaggerate. Maybe I wouldn't marry him. That's pretty extreme. Maybe I would just keep him around long enough to make it look like I'm highly considering it. He's got a good sporting chance to convince me. I really don't even care if he does these things himself or if he hires someone to do it. Honestly. Let's take the lawn... higher someone. Fine. I don't care. Really. I'm all about it. All I want out of life is to come home and realize the Lawn Fairy had come to see me while I was gone. Or the changed-the-oil-in-the-car Fairy. I really don't ask for much.

I'm a reasonable woman.

Don't think that I'm just this completely selfish woman here. I'm willing to put my own sweat into this relationship. Give me a list. Just go ahead and give it to me and let's see what the demands are. I guarantee that most of them are do-able. I'll trade you car maintenance/bills for cleaning/laundry. I'll give you lawn work for absolutely any sexual favor you want. See? It'll work out just fine. Everyone's happy.

Ok, fine.

As much as this relationship of convenience sounds good, I know that I want more... like love, connection, respect, laughter... someone with emotional integrity. But I tell ya, if he's all that AND pays the bills on time, I'll make sure he's one very happy man.

Ok, gotta go take out the trash now.