One-Eyed Men

In a land full of blind men the one-eyed man is king, isn't that how the saying goes? People, this sorry State is a land full of blind men, and it's looking more and more like I am going to have to settle for someone with one eye.

I am on match.com. Yes I know it's stupid. But what the hell. There is no one I want to date at work, and I don't do anything BUT work, so how am I supposed to meet anyone? But the pool of men even on this online site is pathetic. I keep getting "winked" at by men in their 50's, or boys under 26, or guys with missing teeth and all over body tattoos. Or nice looking guys with a high school education and a job in construction. Or even slightly compatible guys, except for the fact that reading their profile is like chewing cardboard it's soooo boring.

I'm good looking, I have an interesting job, I'm smart, well-educated, well-traveled, and well-rounded. Am I not a catch? Is there no similarly interesting man out there for me?

I decided to go out with this guy who seemed alright. We went out for a beer at a local pub, and from the instant he walked in the door I was certain the night would end with a handshake. Thank God for the Beer.

And the thing is, it's not like there was anything specific that was wrong with him. I mean apart from the fact that he didn't make eye contact, didn't seem to like his job or know what he really wanted out of life, and he hadn't had a serious relationship in five years. We made small talk, but it was uncomfortable. He just wasn't my type AT ALL. I really hope I don't have my standards up to high. But then again what's the point of divorcing your husband if you are just going to lower the bar?

A few weeks ago I had two dates with a cute and rather successful guy, who frankly wasn't really up to my level intellectually (And that is not a snotty comment - he saw the books on my bookshelf and said "have you actually READ all of those?" I mean, come on.). But the deal breaker was not a lack of enthusiasm for books, it was his lack of finesse in the romance department. What good is a cute one if he can't kiss?

I was talking to a friend the other day who also got divorced. She lives in Las Vegas now, where she is a lawyer. Funny huh? Law in that lawless place? Anyway, she told me that she is incredibly happy, but that she has seriously lowered her standards. And I just wanted to scream. In what way should I lower my standards? Should I shoot for older, less attractive, less intelligent, or less considerate first? If I lower the bar in one category significantly can I keep the other ones high? Ugg.

I am starting to think I would be better off investing the same amount of time in a marriage counselor a psychotherapist and a box of nicorette (my husband smokes which is a disgusting filthy habit that absolutely turns me off). Or maybe a sex therapist is all we need. Hmmmmm.

Diary of the Anti-Mommy

I don't think it would be fair to say that I never wanted to have children, but I definitely resisted and rejected the mommy label for most of my adult life. I always found all the swooning of my female friends over new babies to be nauseating. It seemed to me that feminism had amounted to nothing, if the only thing bright, and over-achieving women really wanted was to do was watch baby Einstein videos and subject all their friends to unrelenting descriptions of their child's perfection and brilliance. While everyone else was goo-gooing and gah-gahing, I have been rolling my eyes.

I like kids, but isn't it possible to have an identity that is more than just a future wife and mother? Isn't it possible to have a child eventually, and still be true to who you were before you and hubby made a mini version of yourselves?

This attitude has generally earned me the reputation of the anti-mommy. Baby hater. Nanny-Nazi. Whatever. My mother and everyone else decided long ago that just because I refused to start buying baby clothes and toys and furniture in my 20's for a child I had not yet conceived, or planned to conceive, that there was something fundamentally wrong with me, and that I would inevitably be one of those pathetic and lonely career women who never become fully-fledged females through the miracle of conception.

Little do they know that I have conceived not once, but twice, with two different men.

The first time I was 25. My husband and I weren't yet married, but we had been living together for several years. I had been on the pill since the first time I had sex at age 18 – but my Aunt had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer, and I suddenly became very worried about what all those years of hormones might be doing to my body, and I decided to go off the pill. I figured we could use condoms. That did not go over well.

This is something that I really do not understand. Some men have absolutely no problem using a condom. It's the most natural thing in the world. They keep a few on hand, they know how to put them on and take them off without a big to-do. An then there are other men who would rather forgo sex altogether than allow a micro-thin layer of latex (or whatever they are made of these days) to separate you. All I want to say is, REALLY, is it that bad? Can it possibly feel that different? And if it desensitizes you enough that it lasts a little longer, is that such a bad thing??? I think not!!

Anyway, the man who would eventually become my husband fell into the latter category. He wouldn't even buy the damn things because he said it was too embarrassing. So I went and bought them, and reminded him, that it must have looked far worse for me, a single girl, to be buying the jumbo pack of condoms at CVS than him. Still he resisted. Putting it on was a process. He didn't like the interruption. I insisted a few times and then they sat in the drawer unused. Our de-facto birth control became the withdrawal method.

Now if there is anyone out there reading this who is under the slightest misconception that you can successfully use the withdrawal method for any real length of time to avoid getting pregnant, let me clear things up: It absolutely does not work. Little sperm leak out before the big moment and find their way to your eggs. It might not happen the first few times, but eventually, it will. It happened to me.

I remember wondering what the hell was wrong with me. My breasts were incredibly sore, and I suddenly had the worst heartburn I have ever felt in my life -- all the time. I wasn't nauseous, but my whole body felt sore. My skin hurt all over, like I had the flu, and then suddenly I realized I was late. I home pregnancy test later left no doubt.

I cried at first. I had all these big plans. I was in graduate school. This was not the way I wanted to begin a family. I had always been a little self conscious about my origins – so many of my friends from high school already had children, many out of wedlock. I thought I was better than that. I didn't want to conceive the white-trash way. I wanted a wedding, and a family I planned.

But at the same time, I wanted my future husband to want it. I wanted him to tell me he would love to have me have his babies. I wanted him to encourage me to keep it. I know that sounds crazy and stupid, but if there was one person I wanted to have tell me that this was not the end of the world, it was him.

However, he felt differently. He had just started a new job. He had plenty of ideas about how he wanted to use our new financial resources, and raising a baby wasn't one of them. Terminating the pregnancy was actually his idea.

It's not like he really twisted my arm or anything. I knew this wasn't the right time. I knew I wasn't ready to be a mother and we weren't ready to be parents. But I think I felt like he should have been ready to shoulder the burden, since this "mistake" was his fault. He pressured me into being careless. He took no responsibility for preventing this child from being conceived, and now he wasn't ready for the consequences of his actions. I felt hung out to dry, and I suddenly realized how when it comes to a woman's body and her fertility, there is no one looking out for it but her. That in the end, even the most well-meaning and loving men can't think farther then the tip of their penises. And now I had to have an abortion. All because HE refused to wear a condom.

There was not that much to the procedure itself. He came with me. He held my hand. I was sedated, it was over quickly, and there was some bleeding and cramping for the next few days. I didn't have any complications. I didn't have any horrible and lasting guilt over what I had done.

But what did leave a lasting impression on me, was the shame and the secrecy of the whole thing. I always imagined that women who had abortions could just go to their doctor. That the procedure would be treated with integrity and respect. That it was a choice every woman had a right to make, and would be treated that way. I was in for a very rude awakening. The clinic I had to go to was only open for a few hours on certain days, and the protesters knew the schedule. They greeted you with guilt at the door. The waiting room was cold and sterile, and the doctors tried not to smile. I remember trying to lighten the mood a little and joking to the doctor I said "Well I guess this isn't the happiest thing you get to do." He looked at me very seriously and said, "Well someone has to." He was right. A lot of doctors won't do it. It was nearly a new millennium, and yet when it came to getting an abortion it was clear we weren't that far away from coat hangers and illicit midwives in back alleys. It's a knowledge that has haunted me ever since, and I am grateful that I still had the power to control my own fertility.

It's fair to say that that experience put the first kink in our relationship. I went back on the pill and less than a year later we got married. There would me no more babies for us, and perhaps it was a good thing. From that point forward the relationship began to unravel. And then ne day I realized I wasn't 25 anymore. I am nearing 35, and the window of opportunity was closing.

Now perhaps it's nothing more than age and the ticking of the proverbial biological clock, but lately, an affinity for Desitin, pastels, and talcum powder has begun to assuage my aversion to childbearing. I am suddenly looking at rocking chairs and wondering where they would fit in my apartment. I find myself admiring vintage highchairs in antique stores. I wonder what it would be like to feel a baby summersault in my belly, or to have an infant instead of a man suckle at my breast. I look at women with infants and toddlers and find myself longing for one of my own.

The irony of the fact that I now have no one to have this would-be child with has not escaped me.

The transformation didn't happen overnight, but a pivotal moment occurred when I discovered I was pregnant with Berlin's baby. That conception was the result of complete and utter carelessness on our part. I had stopped the pill again altogether years ago when my husband and I stopped having sex. When I sought affection outside our marriage, I used a combination of a diaphragm and condoms (without fail). But Berlin and I were careless from the start. That first night we didn't use any contraception – not even the faulty withdrawal method. I had started my period that afternoon and when things got heated that night I had to tell him maybe the timing wasn't the best for a first encounter. But we were both rather keen on each other, and it sure felt right. When I disclosed the reason for my hesitancy his exact words were "we can work with that." I guess we both knew that chances of babies were very low given the timing and so we took the risk. After that I insisted we be more careful, but then, one night, exactly 11 days later, in the throws of passion we threw caution to the wind once again.

It was nothing short of idiotic. It was exactly what we would have done if we were trying to get pregnant. And the next day I just knew. The timing was too perfect. The night was too perfect. I knew I was going to get pregnant.

Now here's where I have to admit, that there was a part of me that did not think this was entirely a bad idea. There was a part of me that had already decided, perhaps even in the heat of the moment, that having a baby with Berlin would not be the end of the world. It might even be nice. Yes, so I had known him 11 days. So what? The sex was great. He was great. I really liked him. And you know what? I was ready to have a baby, even on my own.

But I also knew that this was insane. And I felt like maybe this would be unfair to Berlin, who while an equal and enthusiastic partner in this irresponsible sex, might not want to have a child as much as I did, and he would not be around to be a father to it, seeing as he was moving to Germany to chase after Marion – who I still believed to be more of a casual infatuation than an actual girlfriend. I reluctantly suggested I get a prescription for "Plan B" – otherwise known as the "morning after pill," which is basically a big dose of birth control hormones. Supposed to be something like 60% effective if you take it within 3 days, it seemed like the prudent thing to do. But getting it proved more difficult than I anticipated, and I when I finally took it on the third day I looked at the pills and thought, "I don't really want to do this." I sort of wish I would have listened to my instinct instead of the rational part of my brain that said to be responsible. I took the pills and waited.

The next several week were torture. I immediately developed sore breasts, and some nausea and heartburn. I was pretty sure it hadn't worked. But I took three home tests and they all came back negative. And then I got my period. Or what I thought was my period. I figured it must have been the hormones making me think I was pregnant. Phew. Crisis averted. It wasn't meant to be.

But a week later after the initial bleeding had stopped, it started again. I knew something was wrong. I took another pregnancy test, and this time it was positive. Shit. What was going on? Berlin was gone to Boston. I decided to wait and be sure before I said anything. I made an appointment to see my doctor.

A few days later I had the pregnancy officially confirmed. But because of the bleeding, she had me go in for an ultrasound. It was really at this moment when I realized I was happy about the possibility of bringing a child into the world. I was lying there with the ultrasound wand inside me, about to hear the heartbeat of the 6 week old fetus. How cool is that? The heartbeat of your unborn baby? I smiled at the thought of the little jumping bean. But the ultrasound remained quiet. The technician was quiet and didn't look at me. Finally she said, "OK we're all done. I'm sorry dear, but I don't see a baby in there. It could be that you are miscarrying. I'll let you talk to the doctor and she'll go over the results with you"

I felt a wave of sadness come over me. No heartbeat. No baby. I'm having a miscarriage? But that would have been easier than what was to come. In an exam room down the hall, the doctor told me the ultrasound was inconclusive – first we had to get some blood tests – test my pregnancy hormone levels over the course of a few days and see what was going on. If the hormones rose, we could rule out a miscarriage – but it they rose too slowly it would indicate the pregnancy was lodged in my fallopian tubes, not in my uterus where it was supposed to be. I went downstairs to have my blood drawn. I had hope. Perhaps this baby was conceived after the initial scare. Maybe this was really early. Too early to see on an ultrasound. The first results showed really low hCG levels. Consistent with a very early pregnancy. Maybe it was all Ok after all.

In two days I came back and had it drawn again. I was hopeful. If the levels doubled, it was a healthy pregnancy.

I was at work when I got the bad news. The levels barely climbed. This was an ectopic. Still I was skeptical. Couldn't there be some mistake? Why didn't they see it in the tubes on the ultrasound? I had read that sometimes the levels are unreliable in the very early stages. "No," the nurse assured me. I should make arrangements to get a shot of methotrexate to terminate the pregnancy.

I hesitated. I decided to get a second opinion. But he confirmed the earlier diagnosis, and even insisted that this was a matter of life or death, not to be toyed with . Many women he said waited too long and nearly died from a ruptured fallopian tube. I cried. I had already decided I wanted this baby. I had already made up my mind that being a single mother was OK. I had already imagined the ultrasound pictures and the birth, and the little tiny fists gripping my pinky.

Berlin was still in Boston. Did I tell him? I decided not to. Maybe later. When it was over. I still couldn't bring myself to admit it was over. I cried the whole way to the hospital. I cried waiting for the shot. It hurt like hell, and I cried some more. I could tell the nurses felt sorry for me. They asked me if I wanted a counselor. I told them no thank-you, and practically ran out of the room, limping from the pain where the shot was still burning and throbbing in the muscle of my right butt cheek. When I reached the parking lot I broke down completely. I couldn't drive. I just sat there in the car sobbing. Sobbing for this lost life inside me. Sobbing for the end of a marriage, the end of my dreams of a family. The idea of a pregnancy – even an accidental one had given me a hope that I could make a family on my own. It might have been unconventional, ill-timed, and perhaps even unwise, but I would have loved this child. I would have loved it and cared for it, and I would have been a good mother. Now who knows when I'll ever be a mother. If I'll ever be a mother. Maybe this was my only chance. I cried.

Eventually I did tell Berlin. I told him in the letter I wrote him. The letter he didn't respond to until I became a nasty unreasonable bitch. But how could he not understand? How could he not want to comfort me? How could he be so dense as to not understand what a profound effect this experience has on a woman? Oh wait, I forgot – even my own husband had been incapable of looking past the tip of his own penis. Men did not get it. They simply do not understand. And the truth was, until that moment in the ultrasound, and in the parking lot neither had I. I had not realized how I could discover I was pregnant and instantly fall in love with a ball of cells. How that, which was not yet a baby, could still be a baby in my mind, and I could already love the potential of it. No man was going to understand that sort of logic. The sort of logic even I had rolled my eyes at all my life.

Feeding the Passion

Last night my husband came over with the dogs, a routine that is becoming more and more common. We hung out and watched TV. I made dinner. Duck with orange glaze and homemade cranberry passion fruit sauce, roasted purple potatoes, saffron rice and black beans. Yum.

One of the things I particularly hate about living by myself is cooking for one. I love to cook. I love food. In my family food is an important sign of love, and I always envisioned I'd have a big family with rowdy Sunday dinners, and a house full of friends and neighbors who would feel welcome in my kitchen and my home – to visit or to stay.

Even though many a conversation in my family was centered around planning the next meal, I never quite had that house full of guests I dreamed about growing up. My life was always a little chaotic on account of my parents divorce and my mom's downward decent into a sort of self-centered narcissistic despair. As a result we didn't really have the sort of home one entertains in.

To be frank, our house was a mess. And I don't mean a little cluttered. I mean filthy. The shower tiles were ancient, a number were missing, and the rest were covered with mildew. The glass on the shower door had been broken – probably in a fight between me and one of my brothers, and was held together with masking tape. There were holes in the doors from fists or other objects being punched through them. The 1970's blue speckled linoleum and baby blue walls were stained and dirty, and almost never washed. The walls were covered with hand-prints and paw-prints, remnants of spills, and childhood artistic exploration with felt pens. The carpets were threadbare – likewise the couches and drapes, which had been purchased before I was born, were tattered showing their stuffing. The furniture had rings.

The refrigerator was always stuffed with a mixture of fresh and rotting food, and the kitchen floor was rarely if ever mopped- perhaps because it was covered with bags and boxes. Every cupboard and closet and countertop was overflowing. Our house was literally filled floor to ceiling with stuff – most of it we didn't need, and if we did we couldn't find it. My mom would go grocery shopping and have nowhere to put the food, so she would leave it (the non-perishables) in the paper bags on the kitchen floor, or in the garage. We had mice.

The biggest problem was that my mom refused to throw anything away. You know that story by Shell Silverstein, the one about Sarah Sylvia Cynthia Stout? She would not take the garbage out? It was one of my favorites, and I can still see the towering piles of garbage overflowing from her house in the illustrations of that book. That was pretty much my life.

My mother hoards. Pathologically. She saved my baby clothes, my dolls, and all our old toys. She saved piles of children's books we had long since out grown. After all she said, one day, we might want them, perhaps for our own children. The closets were overflowing with threadbare towels and sheets. She would buy new ones, but keep the old ones too. She saved every photograph, and school art project, all the broken and mismatched dishes. She saved old shoes, mismatched socks and mittens, broken alarm clocks and Tupperware without lids. She saved popsicle sticks and baby food jars for future art projects we never did. It didn't matter what it was, it could somehow, someday, be repurposed and therefore was not going to be thrown away. She saved and saved until every space in our hose was filled with crap.

All this saving and mess had a profound effect on me when I was growing up. I rarely brought friends home. I was embarrassed to have my boyfriends pick me up at my house, and usually met them on the front porch.

To make matters worse, my mother was constantly blaming my brothers and I for the mess. She would say how tired she was from work and how if we would just help her out – take out the garbage, empty the dishwasher, vacuum the carpets once in a while, the place wouldn't be such a mess. And we bought it – all of us – hook, line and sinker. We believed that none of it was her fault, and that if we just tried harder, kept our rooms cleaner, helped out more, we might one day live like normal people.

I tried to clean up after myself, but the task was too overwhelming. On the occasions when I did a major cleaning, there was always an enormous fight, as a result of the things that inevitably were thrown away. I remember once I spent an entire day cleaning and scrubbing the kitchen. I wiped out all the cupboards and re-organized them, got all the clutter off the counters. Scrubbed the sink and stove until it shined, and cleaned out the refrigerator. For the first time the kitchen didn't make me lose my appetite.

But the first thing she did when she saw it was go through all the drawers and look for things I threw away. Then she went through the trash and retrieved it all. Then she took everything out of the cupboards I had so carefully organized and made it a big jumbled mess again. She couldn't find anything she told me, and who did I think I was afterall, reorganizing HER kitchen? It was perfectly fine the way it was, and I was one arrogant child if I thought I knew better. That was the last time I ever cleaned the kitchen. In fact I wouldn't even empty the dishwasher after that. I pretty much just gave up and accepted that this mess was my life.

She didn't seem to think the way we lived was abnormal. She still invited out friends in. She suggested we have parties. It was a constant source of shame and humiliation, and she simply didn't get it. As an example of how deluded she was, my senior year in high school, the minister of my church youth group thought it would be funny joke to take a video camera into the bedrooms of different kids when they weren't home and see how neat and tidy they were. Though I was generally fairly organized, my mom let him into my room on a day when it was a disaster. I learned of this little prank when he played his video at baccalaureate in front of the entire class and their families – and used me as the butt of the joke. In contrast to the straight-laced boy with a perfect family whose socks were neatly folded at the foot of his bed, were the piles of clothes on the floor of my closet, the unmade bed, and the desk overflowing with papers. I was, needless to say, mortified, and I have never forgiven this minister, or my mother.

I suppose that makes her sound rather evil. My dad used to tell me that she was sick, and at the time, as a teenager I would get incredibly angry at him for saying that. But he was right. She used clutter (and still does) as a way to remain a victim and avoid having to confront the difficult parts of a normal life. By surrounding herself and us with chaos, she had an excuse not to date again, not to make new friends, not to face the pain of the divorce. The clutter and mess were a distraction that she found comforting – but it also kept her so preoccupied with her own self-pity that she rarely had time to consider how her four children were faring.

Don't get me wrong, she did her best to make sure we were fed and clothed, but beyond that, I don't think she spent much time worrying about my emotional development – and frankly she missed a lot. She missed my having what I now can only describe as a complete nervous breakdown at the age of 10 and beat my 6 year old brother and my dog with my fists in a screaming hysterical fit of rage. She missed it when after a spat over a boy, a girl in my eighth grade class single-handedly managed to turn all my friends against me. No one spoke to me for weeks, and I remember really and truly wishing I could die, and figuring that no one would even notice. She missed it when later that year I become so distraught that I couldn't to my schoolwork and I dropped out of the honors class because I couldn't finish a report on how Alaska and Hawaii became a state. She missed a lot.

Eventually I stopped looking for someone to notice my teenage anguish. I pulled myself together and learned how to take care of myself – since it was apparent that there was no one who would come to my rescue. But admittedly, one of the things I always hoped for was the adult life I never had as a child: A loving family, a warm and cozy home where people would always be welcome, food would always be offered. A place that is clean, comfortable and inviting. I don't have the big house anymore with the guest room, or the happy family, but I still can cook a nice meal.

Still, it's pretty hard to cook anything interesting if you are the only one eating, unless of course you don't mind eating it at very meal for a week straight. And since my husband is still the best friend I have, I like to have him over and cook for him. It's something I know he appreciates, since I am acutely aware that he eats spaghetti almost every night now that I'm gone. It also seems that he is a bit lonely too. He works from home, so he can go days without human contact unless he seeks it out. Over the last several years of our marriage he really began to isolate himself – and it was one of the behaviors that lead to our undoing. He stopped calling his friends and family, and often didn't return their emails or calls. I was always making up excuses for his rudeness to other people. He still has friends, but in terms of day-to-day interactions, I am pretty much it.

So from time to time he comes over and we have dinner. On occasion I will stay at his place or he will stay at mine. Mostly this is platonic, but last night he stayed and well – it wasn't so platonic.

I wish I could say that it was good. It wasn't terrible. But something was missing. There was no passion. No moment of wanting each other so badly we couldn't help ourselves. It felt forced. And the truth is that I just sort of went along with it because I wanted to see what I might feel. I wanted to see if being with him physically could help reignite the emotional fire. Because the truth is I do love him, and if I thought I could make this work, I would. I want him to be happy. I enjoy hanging out with him – and lately he has been more fun. At least I can see he is trying, and that's a start. But what do you do when you love someone, and you are no longer attracted to them? Does attraction come back?

I mean, the whole time he was on top of me I was thinking about Berlin, or William, or anybody else I have been with who absolutely made me lose my head. I was thinking about how I felt something with them that is completely absent from what I feel for my husband now. But I still feel such tenderness toward him, and I at least want to feel passion for him. I want to have all that again – but I don't know if it's possible. And it worries me, if I ever choose to go back to him, will I be giving up passion and good sex forever? Can I do that?

And how is it that sex can be so good with someone you don't love, or who doesn't love you, and so mundane with someone you care about deeply? What the hell is wrong with this picture?

Tonight he made me dinner. He went to some trouble to make eggplant parmesan, which was surprisingly delicious. This is something he hasn't done in a long time, and I know required some planning on his part. I was touched. Really. But when he asked me to stay, I decided to go home. I don't think I'm ready for this yet. I still need the passion.

A funny thing happened...

I got a mysterious facebook email yesterday. It was a name I didn't recognize: Laiali Singh. There was no picture, and virtually no information. The person wanted to be my friend. I started wondering if Berlin had caught on to my little stalking ploy, and was playing the same game. I was determined to outsmart him.

I emailed back.
"I apologize for being so rude but can you remind me where we know each other from? Was it through work? Sometimes people I have met through work contact me on facebook, but its something I prefer to keep personal."

A little later I got this response:

"Actually we did meet through work, but I understand you wanting to keep your Facebook personal, take care."

Now I am absolutely certain that I never met any Laiali Singh. Something is definitely up. And I didn't feel like letting it drop that quickly.

"Gosh, I really feel terrible, but I simply don't remember meeting you. And your name is so unusual I feel certain it would have stuck. Where do you work?"

To which Laiali replied:

"Oh this is so embarassing, but I think I must have mixed you up with another writefromtheheart. Take Care."

AHA!! Trying to back out of this aren't you?

"Oh no worries. I guess I like to think that I am the only writefromtheheart out there! I do have a friend named Belinda Singh in Berlin though - but I guess that's not you. Good luck!"

Now you might not know my *real name* but let's just say it's fairly unique. I can count on one hand the number of other women I have met face-to-face who share my name. I NEVER get mixed up with someone else. EVER. I also do not know anybody named Belinda Singh. I made that up. The point was it sounded a lot like the female version of Berlin's name, who is - as you know- living in Berlin. I figured if it was him he would realize that I had caught him.

The final reply:

"LOL. Take care!"

Ohhh. I so caught him. What else could he say to get out of this gracefully? Every word was digging him a bigger hole.

Now just for fun (and because I cannot let this go), I decided to send him an email from another fake email address that he doesn't associate with me. His email is just his initials followed by a number, so if he really had nothing to do with this, it would be easy to apologize, say I mistyped, and the email was meant for someone else. BUT I made sure, that if he really was the face behind Laiali, he would know it was me.

Belinda-
It was great to reconnect with you. Please tell Laiali I said hello! Hope all is fabulous in Berlin!
Solana


CHECKMATE. Do you think he'll ask for another game or throw the board at me?

Single Momma

Today I have custody of the kids. My husband has finally entrusted me to watch the girls. Yes. Nunu and Aggie are spending the night! Of course Imus is far to attached to Dad, and trotted off behind him back to his place. But my girls were more than happy to stay snuggled up on the couch with me.

You have no idea what a big step this was for my husband. He is unnaturally attached to these dogs. He worries about when they eat, how much they eat, when they, poop, how much they poop, if they have slept enough, played enough, if they look lonely, or sad, or depressed. He takes anthropomorphism to an new extreme.

It's touching really - his devotion is adorable. But it also borders on insane. After he left, he called me on the phone.

"I just wanted to remind you to take their coats off, they don't need to sleep in them."

"No, really?"

"And Aggie didn't want to eat today, so she is probably hungry, so make sure you pick up the cat food so she can't eat it. It gives her diarrhea. "

"Don't worry. They'll be fine."

"I know. I just wanted to remind you."

"Thanks for thinking about us."

"I'll be back at 7:15 to get them."

"OK."

So now we are snuggled on the couch watching the comedy channel. And my kitty Marrian is snuggling with us. She get jealous of the dogs and want to be nearby. Normally she would be off licking herself in the corner and ignoring me, but when the dogs are around she suddenly desires nothing more than my undivided attention.

Life is good.

And it all becomes clear....

SO IT WORKED!!! Marion added me as a friend. The irony. I can't believe how easy that was.

Of course, the first thing I did was check out her birthday. September 1979. 1979!!! I was right. She is 29. Not even 30 yet. A Child.

Can I just say -- WTF!!!???

What's even more hilarious here, and really very deceptive on the part of Berlin, was the fact that on our first meeting, in an offhand remark, I told Berlin that I couldn't even imagine dating someone under 30. He laughed and nodded in agreement.

It went like this: Somehow the discussion came around to children - I don't really remember how, but it may have been that he asked me about my marriage, and I said that one of the reasons I finally decided to leave was that I realized that I couldn't imagine starting a family with him.

"Do you think you will ever want to have children?" I asked.
"One day," he nodded, "eventually."
"Well I guess you'd better get to it, or start thinking about dating someone a lot younger." I laughed.

Remember, at this point I thought he was 38, just four years older than me, not 41. If I had only known.

"The thing is, I can't even imagine dating anyone under 30," I said. "I mean really, what on earth do I have in common with someone in their 20's?

He sort of gave a chuckle. A snort of sorts. He nodded his head and made a noise which I took to mean that he AGREED with me, that he also wanted a partner somewhat closer to his own age. I guess it wasn't an agreement. It was a smirk. It was him laughing to himself and thinking "if she only knew that I am really 41, and dating a 29-year-old."

He NEVER ONCE, in two whole months, mentioned that she was nearly 13 years younger. Because of that first reaction, I always assumed that she was in her 30's. I simply assumed that she had her Ph.D. and was here on some sort of post-doc or sabbatical or research grant. Jesus. When I found out that he was 41, I even wondered if that was too old FOR ME. My husband is 44, and I always thought that the 10 year age difference was perhaps a part of our troubles. That maybe he hit the milestones of his life at points that were out of synch with mine. That perhaps I would be better of with someone whose musical influences were Michael Jackson, The Bangles and Madonna - instead of Pink Floyd, The Who and Queen. Someone who grew up in the 80's, and not the 70's.

But Marion doesn't even remember the 80's. She is a child of the 90's. What am I saying, she is a child.

From what I could tell, it looks like she has her medical degree from Germany, and is doing her residency in Berlin. Interesting. Berlin (the person, not the city) is planning on going to medical school there. He barely speaks German, and yet he knew an awful lot about the German medical school system, and seemed oddly confident that it would not be a challenge to get accepted to this fairly prestigious European medical school.

I mistook this confidence for arrogance. I didn't know he was sleeping with one of that schools doctors. A man sleeping his way into medical school. Hurray for the feminist movement. Europe really is much more progressive than America.

The making of a stalker and a mid-life crisis

Perhaps its because I am an investigator of sorts, but once I set my sights on finding out a piece of information, I don't give up.

So the other day I got to thinking about Berlin again, and I was sort of curious about this woman he is so gah-gah over. I wonted to know more about her - and let's just say I began using my investigatory skills.

I only really know what he has told me, which isn't a whole lot. I know she is a scientist and had come to the University where he worked as part of her research in Germany. He told me they met in an elevator.

He was living with his girlfriend, Stephanie, of eight years - a woman from Spain (I think he has a thing for foreigners), and he said the relationship was disintegrating. He didn't actually use the word "smothered", but he described her as "very controlling", and said she "told him how to feel."

This conversation came about one night as we were having dinner together at his house and I asked him how he met Marion. I don't know the details of what happened in that elevator, or how it managed to spark a full-blown affair, but I do know that it was his way of sabotaging a relationship he didn't have the guts to end properly.

"So what happened?" I asked him. "How did she find out about Marion?"
"I told her."
"And what did she say?" I asked.
"She was really upset, but she said it was OK. She said 'let's just move on and forget about it.' But I told her I couldn't forget about it. I didn't want to forget about it."
"Do you think you did it on purpose? To have an excuse to walk away?"
He shrugged.
"It's been suggested to me by other people that that was my real motivation. That I just wanted to blow things up."
"Sounds like a pretty fair assessment of the situation. What do you think?"
"I think they're probably right." He paused. "But sometimes cheating is justified."
"Like when?"
"When the marriage contract is broken. In you're case, you didn't really cheat on him."
"Of course I did. I was married. I'm still married. I slept with other men. How is that not cheating?"
"He broke the marriage contract. He stopped having sex with you. You can't go on in a marriage like that - it's not a marriage. The contract was broken - and he broke it first. You didn't really do anything wrong."

I thought about this logic for a minute. It was true. He had severed our physical relationship, and as a result, our emotional ties began to wither in the dry, parched, sexless desert. I felt shut out, abandoned and alone, and I sought out an oasis in someone else's touch. But my actions weren't entirely excusable -- Even my logic wasn't that warped.

"No. I did do something wrong. I didn't tell him. I tried to talk to him about it, about our problems. But I didn't tell him it had gone that far. I didn't tell him that I was so desperate that I wanted to be with another man. I could have gone to him and told hem enough was enough. I could have said that I couldn't take it any more and that I was leaving him. I could have asked for a divorce before I ever cheated. That's what I should have done. That would have been the honorable thing. That would have been the right thing. I could have given him a chance to make it right, by impressing on him the gravity of the situation. But I didn't do that. He did a lot of things wrong too - but that doesn't make what I did right."

He was quiet. I continued.

"I mean, you obviously weren't happy in your relationship with Stephanie. You felt smothered and controlled. But why didn't you just end it? Why didn't you just go to her and say,'this isn't working.' Why did you chose to cheat on her with someone else - and then - even worse - tell her about it -- so that she would leave you? That was cruel. The fact that you were unhappy enough to cheat should have been enough reason to walk away, and the right thing to do would have been to break it off before you got involved with someone else."

Berlin didn't say anything, but there was a pained expression on his face that made me think he knew I was right, and that, this was the first time he had ever really thought of that. I sensed I had pushed a little too far, and so let the subject drop.

But later I was replaying the conversation in my mind and I began to wonder if I wasn't just his next affair. He was unhappy with the way Marion treated him, but instead of just walking away, instead of confronting her about it and making a clean break, he was cheating on her with me. This would turn out to be more true than I realized, because back then I still was under the impression that their relationship was less serious than it actually was - I didn't really see them as a committed couple - -and so I didn't really fee like he was "cheating" as much as he was just taking the easy way out, or possibly using me as revenge.

You see, when we first met and he said he was chasing a woman in Germany, he left a few things out. For starters, he neglected to mention that they would be sharing an apartment in Berlin. I discovered that over some pillow talk one night when I asked him if he had found an apartment yet. First he described the place and told me the neighborhood where it was located. Which naurally led me to ask how he found it.

"We found it on the internet."
"We?"
"Maria and I"
"Wait, are you going to live there with her?"
"Of course. I don't have a job. I can't afford a place on my own. At least in the beginning I have to live with her."

He acted like that was the most obvious and natural thing in the world. Of course he was going to live with her! Did I somehow think that he was going to move to Germany for a woman who he didn't even know wanted to be with him? A woman who was living on her own and not necessarily inviting him into her life and her home?

Um. yeah. I sorta did.

Maybe it was the "at least in the beginning" part that kept me from collecting my clothes and my naked self and going home. But the concept was unsettling, and it was my first clue that he had misrepresented their relationship to me.

Other clues came later.

Like when I was helping him pack up his house to move and I discovered books that belonged to her, a woman's scarf, a piece of art she brought him back from Africa, and I started to wonder if she had been living there with him.

And when he told me that he bought a car so that she would have something safe to drive, I KNEW she had been living with him. This was not a relationship he was trying to pursue - this was a relationship he was IN. She was his girlfriend - and he just wasn't certain whether or not he should blow the whole thing up. He wasn't sure if he wanted to stay with her, so he was testing out the waters with me. MOTHERFUCKER.

Since he's been gone, I have wondered a lot about him and what was really going through his head - and in retrospect it seems an awful lot like man having a middle-aged crisis. He was 41. When he met, he told me he was 38. I discovered the lie when we became facebook friends and I noticed he had his birthday listed. May 10, 1967. I brought it up one day when we were walking his dog Maddie around the neighborhood.

"So I was checking out your facebook page and I discovered something interesting."
"Oh yeah?"
"Your birthday."
He sort of smiled. He knew he'd been busted.
"1968 ... let me see ... my calculus may be a bit rusty, but my arithmetic is pretty solid. I think that makes you 41 not 38."
"Your math skills are solid."
"So why did you lie? Who cares?"
"I don't know, but there was something sort of thrilling about it."

His face lit up when he said it and I could tell that the whole secret identity thing gave him a total rush. This was a guy who yearned to be somebody else. Someone who thought the idea of sowing his wild oats with a stranger he met on the internet, and shaving a few years off his age was thrilling.

Mid life crisis... CHECK!

This was a man who spinelessly ended a long-term relationship over an ill-thought out affair with a woman who wouldn't commit to him.

CHECK!

This was a man who had failed to thrive in his career - who had floundered in a lab as a post-doc for years without ever finding a faculty position, and felt he missed his calling as a doctor. Consequently he was quitting his job and moving to a foreign country - at age 41 - to start over and go to medical school

BIG, BIG, check.

And then I wondered how OLD Marion was. I googled her name. There was almost nothing. If you google Berlin's name, there are tons of links to his work, to papers he has written - to seminars and talks he has given. This is normal. By the time a scientist reaches the post doctoral level, as most do by the time they are in their late twenties or early thirties, you have already written a number of papers. you can be found on the internet, but outside of a seminar she gave at a conference in Austria just a few months ago, she was MIA. Curious.

But maybe it was because she was foreign, and google wasn't catching the German websites. So I went to PubMed - a comprehensive database of all papers in the biological sciences, including plenty of foreign journals. If she had published anything,ever, it would be there.

NOTHING.

It appeared that this woman - or perhaps a girl - did not even have her Ph.D. She might be 25. OMG. This is a 41 year old man who is having a mid-life crisis. He is giving up his career and chasing a flitty young foreign student, probably 15 years his junior, to a foreign country where he is going to go back to school and live like he did WHEN HE WAS 25. Maybe I should be glad this did not work out.

So what about the stalking? Well I really, really wanted to know how old she is, and the easiest way to find out is to look on HER facebook page. But I can't because we're not friends. But here's the thing. ANYONE can join facebook. Even, say, a fake person, who doesn't really exist. And people will add you as a friend, even if they don't really know you very well - or as I have discovered - even if they don't know you at all.

So I created a fake persona, with an email address, a photo, and a facebook page. then I asked a lot of random people to be my friends. Most of them said yes. Then I asked Marion and Berlin to be my friends. Berlin said yes. I'm waiting on Marion. so now I can spy on his facebook page whenever I want ... and maybe soon I'll know for sure if he is dating a child instead of a woman his own age.

I'll keep you posted.

Heart on Sleeve

It's late. I'm up staring at the door. Should be working. Should be thinking about something else but you surround my head, my heart, my soul my core.
Without your touch I feel inside out. I'm lost. Alone. A fool for sure.

I bide my time. Calm my restless heart. Wondering if we were fools to even start,
along this path that has no happy end. I'm stranded. Stuck. The truth like leather that binds our battered, yearning need together.

It's crazy thinking, but this melancholy rain has lit the fire that burns you in my brain.
There's no way out; my lungs, the fire, they breathe the same.
Glad it was you, that's what you said.
Glad it was you, like there could be someone else instead.

How did you know? To touch my hand, my face, that way? How did you know? Yes was the only word I dared to say. Could you see me, the way he can't? Will you see me, will you find me, in the darkness, reach out your hand?

How did you know? The eyes I longed for. How did you know? Your kiss would feed my empty soul. Sweet fate, that let you pass unharmed, out of the shadow into the shelter of my arms. Will you fight it? Will you run? Surrender is always much more fun.

It's crazy thinking, but this melancholy rain has lit the fire that burns you in my brain.
There's no way out, I am drowning in a sea of lustful shame.
Glad it was you, that's what you said.
Glad it was you, like there could be someone else instead.

Will you touch me, will you help me to forget? Will you love me? Will you want me in your head? Or will you find an easier path to tread?

It's never wise to fall so hard, to give so much, play all your cards. But tangled in our private reverie, stripped bare of all our senses, abandoning the life we knew. Here. alone. In this moment, there's no one else for me, but you.

-----------------------------------------

I wrote this song in New York City, on a rainy night after I met William. I'd been living there a few months on my own, having gone back to school for my master's degree. I left Nick behind at home (that's the husband from whom I am currently separated). It was just a 10 month program - we had just bought a house, and it didn't seem feasible that he could move to New York with me at the time.

Of course, looking back, that's perhaps exactly what he should have done. By the time I left he hated his job. He hated the city where we lived. He was depressed and unhappy with all the choices he had made in his life thus far - so if we had been thinking clearly, one of us might have noticed a change could have been good. Maybe he could have found a job in New York.

But the truth was, one of the things he wasn't happy with was me. We hadn't had sex in months. Maybe a year. I simply can't remember now. Just before I went to New York I got a fellowship to Germany for a couple of weeks and I talked him into coming with me. I thought maybe a vacation would do us both a world of good. But while he enjoyed the trip, he was still nervous the whole time. He never really let go, and he never touched me once. I was devastated. I tried to talk to him about it but he shut me down. He said sex just wasn't important to him. That he was depressed and I just needed to back off and let him get through this on his own. I sort of felt I had backed off long enough.

It's sad to admit this, but by the time I got on the plane to New York, I had already decided that if I met someone else who I had chemistry with I would cheat on him. In fact, I was sort of hoping I would. I was hoping that in my graduate program there would be some smart, cute, interesting guy who was wild about me, and that he would ignite the dead embers of my heart. Something inside me just snapped. I had been faithful to this one man for 12 years. Only once - before we were married - did I let another man kiss me. Aside from that, I was a picture of fidelity. But I was starved for affection. I was desperate. I wanted to be touched. I wanted to make love. I wanted all the hot passionate sex that a married woman in her early thirties was entitled too and I was going to get it.

I was disappointed however in the pool of available men in my class. They were all either too young, too arrogant, too unattractive or too unavailable. It looked like a torrid love affair was not going to just fall into my lap.

That's when the idea of posting an ad on craigslist first percolated into reality. At first I just flirted with the idea in my head. Then I started browsing around. his was prety new to me. I had sold furniture on craigslist. I had used it to find an apartment. But I absolutely never thought about using it to look for a date -- much less a sexual encounter. I used to work with some girls who were obsessed with the craigslist personals. During our lunch breaks at work we used to play the New York Times crossword puzzle online and read craigslist. We would read them outloud and laugh - some of them were so ridiculous. For example here are a few recent posts from my local listings:

Crossdresser STILL searching for friendly female - 35
HI, I am a 35 year old male to female cross dresser looking for a friendly understanding woman for friendship maybe more. I would like to find someone who would enjoy this and can help with makeup and shopping as well. She would not be afraid to be seen in public with me dressed as a woman. I have been told by many that when dressed I am very cute and passable. I am very safe and very sane, drug, alcohol and disease free. I own my home and have a steady job. If you are such a woman I would love to hear from you. I must ad, though I am open and accepting of others lifestyles and choices I am straight so please NO MEN!!! Unless you are also a cd or t-girl and passable. Thanks

He even put his picture, and I hate to tell him, he is not passable. He looks very much like a man dressed as a woman.

A lot of the posters can't spell much less string a sentence together, and sadly you can sort of see why they are still single. Like this guy:

Man looking for a Womans company
Here I go again.After 11 weeks of thinking that I found someone to start a relationship in hopes of getting married again,she F'n dumped me for her X.

WTF do I have to do to find someone again? Here are my dont's.

Its very easy---dont let your family control your personal life,nor have them invite your X to stay over while your in a relationship.And dont f__k with my head.

I have kids,so if you do,dont thats fine.
I have never smoked and would consider someone that does,only if its not around me.
Please have a personality,humor,job

.

Sounds like a real winner. I'll be calling him right up! There are a lot of sad and lonely people out there. That's the truth. But every once in a while there is a genuinely interesting post, something creative, and honest and reading a few of those got the wheels turning in my head. Well, that and the fact that I was incredibly horny and ready to do just about anything to get laid.

So I set up a fake email address and replied o a few posts. The results where, well - meh... so I decided to be a little more daring and try and write a post of my own. I don't remember exactly what it said but it was something to the effect of "Married woman living alone seeks intelligent attractive man for discreet affair. Send photo" With more of my usual literary flair of course. I was nervous as hell. what if I ever wanted to become a politician? My opponent could dig this stuff up! What if one of these guys later wrote a tell-all book about me? But sepite al reason, I decided to take the plunge anyway - and thus began my decent into the tawdry world of Craigslist - one that would eventually lead to my relationship with Berlin.

Now if you are shocked by my behavior (and probably thinking you would never do anything so stupid), believe me, you are not half as shocked as I was at myself. I mean, what on earth was I doing, pimping myself out on the internet like that? But I was SO curious! I really wanted to know who these people were. Were they all nut jobs, losers, and freaks? Or were some of them just normal people, single, married and unhappy, or divorced and trying to start over? I had to know. I just had to know that I was not the only one in this position. And what could it hurt right? It was all anonymous and I didn't have to reply to any of them.

But of course I did. Within hours the inbox of my new Craigslist alias was filled with hundreds of replies. Some of them were too old, not my type, or filled with stupid one liners. Delete, delete, delete. But eventually there were a few worthy emails, some intriguing exchanges, and a few dates. A handful of which ended in two tipsy, naked people in my apartment.

It was liberating, and I felt absolutely no guilt whatsoever. The sex was great. But none of it really lead anywhere, and I didn't really click with anybody I met. And then just about when I had begun to decide the experiment was over I met William.

He was adorable, a musician, and just about my age, and he wrote a response to my post that would make any woman stop dead in her tracks. It was so good I saved it.

I can imagine you've probably received a thousand emails in the last 20 plus hours. And you've probably stopped because I have a pretty good idea what most of them said. I hope you've managed to hang in long enough to read this one.

I thought your post was beautiful and just about exactly summed-up where I am right now. I'm a good looking, professional, married, 33 year old who has always identified as an artist and musician at heart. I'm a sensualist, not in the strict sexual sense but in that I endeavor to experience life richly in all ways. I seek beauty and I find it everywhere. I love knowing people in small ways others don't see. I love spontaneity and I don't really have much fear when it comes to doing things that are out of my comfort zone.

The problem is about opportunity. Work is enveloping, friends and family surround, the life routine becomes a groove that can be hard to slip out of. Your right, I do seek understanding and real connection and deep intimacy. I want a Lover. Not a sex partner or even a friend really. I want close-ness and someone with whom to quietly reveal to each other our secret selves.

I love my wife very much. We have just grown in different directions with age. If anything my appetite for color and beauty and passion has grown where as hers has been largely replaced by the desire for security and ease of a very well defined universe. I need more and I understand very well that I'm not a bad person for seeking it out. I respect her deeply and it's a gesture of that respect that I could never let know. I've never cheated. Not because my conception of a healthy relationship is much influenced by societal norms but because I've not been able to find the right one. The one who understands what it is... and what it isn't.

And that's really why I responded to your post. I NEVER respond to posts. I'm sure 'all the guys say that' but it's true for me. It just really looks so discouraging. But your post was special. You're clearly smart and emotionally secure and that can be rare on Craigslist or anywhere else.

I do live with my wife though I'm often out late for work related things and with friends. I'd love to have dinner one night if you'd like. We might find that have no chemistry. We might find something very beautiful. Judging by your post, I'd very much like to find out.

Do me one favor though. If you've read this, even if you're completely uninterested in meeting with me, just drop an email to let me know. Having just spent a bit of time writing I care to find out if you actually ever read it.

-William

We decided to meet at my favorite Cuban place on Prince St. When he walked up I liked him instantly. Laid back, down to earth, interesting. And did I mention totally hot? I am not kidding. Blond hair, blue eyes, well-built physique. We hit it off.

After dinner we snuck into a little bar and found a quiet corner to talk and have drinks. We got in at just the right time for New Yorkers - because within a half hour the place was flooded with people and we were literally walled into our little private corner by mingling bodies.

He told me about his wife and his little girl. And the fact that the passion had died in their marriage. He said she had been in a relationship with a woman before she met him, and he thought perhaps she was really more interested in women than men. In real life this might have seemed like too personal a detail to share- and too taboo a subject to discuss in public - but this was New York, we were strangers who had met on Craigslist and the honesty of this anonymity came naturally.
At some point he reached over and took my hand and I felt electricity ran through my whole body. We had some serious chemistry.

When we decided it was time to get out of there he offered me a ride home. This was an unusual turn of events. With the exception of cabs, I hadn't even been in a car since I'd moved to New York City. But he lived in Jersey and had driven over to meet me. I accepted this novel opportunity - and a chance to spend a few moments alone with him. We walked a few blocks to his back jeep. Neither of us mentioned the car seat in the back.

It was about 3 in the morning and the streets of lower Manhattan were completely empty. He pulled up to a red light and all of the sudden he leaned over and kissed me. It was, hands down, the BEST kiss I have ever gotten. It was tender and passionate, and restrained and full of desire all at once. He cupped his hand behind my head in just the right way and his fingers just barely massaged the hair at the nape of my neck and then slid gently along my throat. I caught my breath. I will remember that kiss until I close my eyes for the last time, honest to God.

"You are a really good kisser," I blurted out. I couldn't help it. I was so surprised, I just said the first thing that came into my head out loud.

"Right back at ya babe," he smiled wryly and reached over to the passenger seat and put his hand on my thigh.

This was going very well.

Two sweaty, tangled naked bodies later I decried the evening a success - and after he left, as I pondered this person who had sort of amazingly come into my life, and what it all meant, I wrote that song - for my new musician lover. He has never read it, though we continued seeing each other for the rest of my time in New York, and even once after I moved away when I came back to the big City for a visit.

He still loves his wife, had another kid, and seems to be satisfied with the concept of loving one woman and lusting after another. At the time I met him, I thought perhaps he might be right - that sometimes you find a partner in life that works for you in all ways but one, and so what's wrong with stepping outside the marriage to fulfill that one missing part? But later I came to realize that that sort of fractured relationship was not what I really wanted. I wanted it all: Sex and love. Family, fidelity, breathtaking kisses, and hot,sweaty sex.

William wasn't offering me that. Even my husband wasn't offering me that - but when my year in New York was over, I decided to go back to him and see if I could get it. See if a fresh start, and a happy ending wasn't in the cards.

It wasn't - but I couldn't have known that then. So heart on sleeve I went back to try.

P.S. The photo is from a website where a bunch of kids drew pictures of English idioms. I thought this one was aorable.

A Song for the Weathered and Weary

Sometimes life just gets the better of you. But you just wake up every day and keep going. You just know that day after day, one foot after after the other, you'll move forward, you'll move on, and eventually you'll find your way.

Paul Simon, said it best: Tomorrow's gonna be another day, and I'm just trying to get some rest.

The Long Road Home

This weekend didn't exactly go as planned. Earlier in the week I took my new beau Alfonso to the vet to get his balls trimmed and got some bad news.

I'm a bit low on stray-cat funds, and seeing as the Fonz was a week away from living outdoors in the snow I decided to take him to a cash-only low-cost spay and neuter clinic called "A snip in Time." Cute huh? Its this tiny, cramped, smelly two room clinic - which could be somewhat off-putting if you are used to the bright, cheery and sterile, environment of vets who cater to more pampered pets. But I decided to have a look and at least talk to the doc. The vet was a husky bearded fellow who looks a bit like Grizzly Adams, and as it turns out, is no less committed to saving the broken and discarded domestic cats of our city than would be St. Francis of Asisi himself.

He took one look at Alfonso and broke the bad news.

" I don't think we should do the surgery today."
"What's wrong?"
"Have you had him tested for FeLV and FIV?"
"No, he has seemed really healthy - hea eats, uses the litter box - is active ... do you think he is sick?"
He lifted Fonz's upper lip.
"Do you see how pale his gums are?" I nodded - they were really quite white. I had never looked at them before.
"That's a sign of Feline Leukemia." He shook his head. "I'll do the surgery if you want, but I'm out of test kits - and I don't think it's a good idea to do it until you know whether or not he's positive."

I looked down at the brave little fonz sadly. "If you're positive buddy I can't keep you - you'll infect my other cats." I was disappointed this might be the case, but until this point he had seemed normal and healthy, and I new some FeLV positive cats live long happy lives - there might still be a home for him where Leukemia was OK. I took him home and agreed that I would take him to another vet and have him tested.

And then, as if the vet had predicted it, everything changed. That night Fonz ate very little. The next day it was freezing cold outside and I felt bad putting him out all day while I was at work so I left him inside. He didn't eat all day. When I came home, he was lying in my closet, where it's cool and he didn't want to come out. I tried to feed him, but he wouldn't take any food or water. Eventually he used the litter box and-- unsteady on his feet-- wobbled to a comfy spot under my bed and wouldn't come out. He was still in the same spot friday morning, and Friday night when I got home from work. I knew something was very wrong.

So first thing Saturday morning I took him to the other vet for a test. This time it was the clean, bright cheery vet filled with cats and dogs, and new puppies there for their shots. I wrapped Fonzie in a blue towel and held him in my arms - he let me drive him the 20 blocks to the clinic with him in my arms like that while he looked out the window -- resting his little chin on my upper arm. His only real protest was a hiss and claw in my chest when he saw the dogs in the waiting room, but he looked up at me, eyes full of trust that I would make him better, and gave in without any real struggle. He knew I wouldn't let him fend for himself against the dogs. It's amazing how much a sick animal will trust you. It almost broke my heart.

Especially since even though I had hoped for the best, I already knew what the result would be - I could see it in the vet's eyes when she examined him. She had seen this before. When she came back and gave me the bad news I started to cry. She told me he wouldn't get better and this was the end for him - it happens fast she said. She recommended I put him down and, reluctantly, I agreed. I knew he was suffering and I wanted to ease his pain- but the idea that this was it, that we were going to say goodbye - well it was hard to accept. I hadn't realized how quickly I had gotten attached.

I had just gotten used to having the little guy around. He used to hang out on the neighbors porch and wait for me to come home. When he saw me pull up outside, he would come running and meowing. Begging to come inside and eat and snuggle. One time he even tried to climb inside my car when I was leaving - as if to ask me to take him with me - wherever it was I was going. I suppose it had to be better than being cold and hungry on the street right? I got a kick out of his devotion to me and had begun to enjoy seeing him. On nights when he didn't show up I found myself peeking out the window after him, wondering if he had found shelter elsewhere, or another sugar momma to fill his belly and scratch his ears. I really liked the little devil and sorta figured we were gonna be buddies for some time to come.

But there he was, with those big frightened eyes, looking up at me hoping I was going to make it all right, and I knew it was far from all right.

We had a few minutes alone together in the hallway while the doctor readied the room. I stroked his back and told him he had been a good cat, and that I was sorry it didn't work out. I cried and hugged his little body to my chest while he rested his tired head in the crook of my arm. I think he knew he wasn't going home to his spot under the bed.

I rubbed the back of his neck as the doctor gave the injection, and in seconds his little life was over. One minute he was giving a meow of protest at the pinch of the needle and the next the spark in his eyes had disappeared. Such a sweet, affectionate cat. The tears were rolling down my cheeks - life was really unfair. I only hope his last few weeks were filled with enough warm places to nap, meals of good food, petting and chin scratches to offset what must have been a hard early life. I take some comfort that instead of dying alone in the cold, he could look up at me and know that someone had cared for him. I hope he knew that he has been loved - even if it was for a brief time.

I paid and drove over to to see my husband. He had met Alfonso a few times and liked him too. - when I told him what happened tears welled up in his eyes and began rolling down his cheeks too. I knew he was thinking of our dogs and how he would feel if one day we have to put them down.

"I had really started to get used to him," he said. "Me too," I sniffed.

He was just that sort of cat. He just made himself right at home in your life and before you knew it you were in love with him. One more man who made me fall in love with him and left me in tears.

This really has to stop.

The things I miss

I went over to my old house the day before yesterday. My husband is moving out and he still has a bunch of my stuff that I figured I would have time to sort through eventually - but I never got to it. The place is full of boxes (some of them with my unsorted stuff), and I found myself wandering from room to room, opening up empty closets, looking inside all the cupboards and drawers. I told myself I just wanted to make sure he wasn't leaving anything behind, but in reality I was wandering around the rooms of that house - our house - and saying goodbye.

I was upstairs in the second floor bathroom looking at the empty linen closet when I suddenly burst into tears and began sobbing uncontrollably. I had spent an entire afternoon organizing that closet. Giving the extra soap, shampoo and towels a proper place. Arranging makeup and vitamins, and talcum powder. Taking a space and making it mine. Making it ours. Making a house into a home. Now that home was being packed up and it was just a house again. A house for someone else to make theirs.

I know its silly to hold onto a "place". It's just a house. But when we moved there it was supposed to be a fresh start - a new beginning - a chance to be happy. I pictured us grilling in the backyard, planting a garden in the spring, lying in the hammock I bought in Key West and taking mid-afternoon naps. I created a guest room on the third floor where I envisioned friends and family would come and stay - an office where I could write -and a space that might one day become a nursery. That house was a symbol of a dream I had for my life, and now that dream was being stripped bare, disassembled and packed into boxes.

I insisted on taking a few things right then and there- things I didn't really have to have at 10pm on a weeknight. Stuff like the printer, and a paper shredder and an ergonomic stool from Relax The Back store that I bought when I threw my back out and couldn't sit in any normal chair without pain. My husband helped me put them in the car, even though I could tell he was iritated that I suddenly felt I had to do this "right now." I think he knew I was cracking.

The whole thing made me realize how incredibly lonely I am, and how the hardest part of this is letting my dreams die. Letting go of the plans I had made for us and for our lives. There would be no happy afternoons lounging in that backyard hammock. No repainting the spare room for a new baby. No thanksgiving dinner gathered around the dining room table followed by a walk in the park with the dogs.

"This isn't how I wanted my life to be" I once sobbed to my be best friend Stephanie in Boston over the phone. My husband and I had just returned from the neighborhood block party, and hours before I had signed the lease on my new apartment. It was official, we were going our separate ways. But we decided to put in an appearance at the party anyway, and midway through I had to leave. I simply couldn't take it. The group was filled with young married couples who were all pregnant or chasing after young toddlers. The fathers played with the kids and the dogs and the moms chatted about this or that. And I watched the parents interact - working as a team - taking turns being on parental duty. Asking one another for another plate of potato salad or a beer, or could he please get little Michael's binky from the diaper bag? I sat watching these normal, happy interactions thinking "this will never be us."

My husaband was never happy. He didn't ever want to socialize or hang out with the neighbors, or have a beer with friends. Simple everyday chit chat was something he considered an imposition. He had become a loner, and he shut out even me. I could't even begin to imagine us laughing and playing with a child - me asking him for another diaper or toy and having him hoist the kid onto his shoulders to see the fire engine up close. I couldn't picture a happy family.

"I know," stephanie consoled me. "But you are moving on so that you can have those things. If you stay with him you know you never will, but by leaving, even though you'll be alone, even though it's hard, ther's a chance one day you might."

She is right of course. I knew it then. I know it now. But each time I am confronted with the broken dream I can't help but wish things could have somehow been different - and I ache with the need to make them so.

Do I miss my husband? Every day. But what I really miss is the way we used to be, long ago when we fell in love and decided to get married. I miss the person who used to be excited about hearing about my day, who used to take long walks with me on summer nights, who would drive the the beach with me on a moments notice and stay there all day in the sun getting tan and hungry before finding some seaside restaruant for dinner. I miss the nights we used to go get enormous amounts of sushi with from the cheap restaraunt across the street from our old Boston apartment and eat it on the living room floor while watching masterpiece theatre on PBS because we didn't have cable. I miss walking to Trader Joes and buying as much as we could carry - olives stuffed with blue cheese, proscuitto, goat cheese, fresh figs, wine, shrimp...and having our own personal anti-pasto with a VHS movie from the run-down neighborhood video store. I miss the way he used to rub my back with baby powder when I was sleeping until I would wake up to him caressing me gently, tenderly.

I miss all of that . All the things that made me choose him as my partner in life. All the things that made me think I would want to wake up to him every day. That together we would read bedtime stories and take vacations, and make a family full of happy memories. I miss it so much it hurts.

But missing something doesn't bring it back to life. Of course, sometimes I find myself wondering if we might not be able to revive things. Reconcile and go back to those happier times. I'm not sure. Perhaps I'm just lonely right now and mourning the death of those dreams. Maybe I'm just feeling uncertain that i'll ever find that dream again with someone else. Maybe he really will never be able to be that person that I need, and in order to have those things, I have to look elsewhere. But maybe he'll change.

I miss him. But I don't want to miss out on the rest of my life. I don't want to miss out on a family - a partner - a lover - a dream. I missed him even when we were still married - because he was already absent from my life in so many ways. And now metaphorically speaking, the things I miss are getting packed away - and the rooms of my heart are empty and filled with boxes.

Now, Blow.

I bet you think this pile of Kleenex is from me crying my eyes out over Berlin don't you? Well you'd be wrong. I WISH it was from crying. Instead it is from the nasty mucous that has been steadily dripping out of my nose for the last 3 days. I know. Too much information. The current physical misery I feel is a substantial distraction from my heartache, but oh my God, I really can't take it anymore. My nose is raw, my lips are chapped, my skin is breaking out -- I am an absolute mess. Even that bowl of green tea ice cream didn't make me feel better.

Besides, there is nothing worse than being single and sick. I had almost forgotten what it's like. 14 years in a relationship with one man, and I don't even remember what its like to be sick and be all alone. No husband or boyfriend to make you soup? No one to stop off at the store and buy you your favorite Citrus C Monster Odwalla juice smoothie? No one to draw you a hot bath or bring you aspirin, or a cup of honey and lemon tea? I am an independent woman - I don't need a man. Nope. I do not need a man. Except right now, I could really use someone to rub my throbbing temples and tell me (lie to me) that I look sexy in my jammies and unwashed hair.

My husband always did that - took care of me when I was sick. It used to drive me crazy. One of his neuroses is his cumpulsion about doing everything according to instructions, or some other regiented plan of his own device. He believes if the box of nyquil says take every four hours then you should take it exactly every four hours. He used to set his alarm and wake me up in the middle of the night for my next dose. Of course, there is nothing more annoying than being woken up from a sound sleep when you are sick so that you can take medicine to help you sleep - a concept he didn't quite understand. But his dedication - his persistance - to the task of making me well was very loving, and thinking back now it almost makes me cry. It's nice to have someone want to love you and take care of you when you are at your worst.

The Fonz

Meet Alfonso. My new boyfriend.

I know, I know. Your thinking it's too soon, right? That inviting a new man into my life is just a recipe for disaster? Well rest assured, he has his own life. He doesn't live with me - yet. We met for the first time before I even moved in. I was just coming to see the place, when he galloped up the stairs of my apartment and acted like he belonged there. Recently he has decided he likes me quite a lot. He is waiting for me when I get home. Always lurking around my house waiting for the chance to bump into me, hoping I'll invite him up for a cuddle and a bite to eat. His persistence is wearing my down like a man who won't stop calling. A man who shows up looking all sweet, and rubbing you just the right way. Eventually you go out with them, even though you know better, and before you know it they are in your bed and making themselves right at home.

That's sort of what happened with my husband. He showed up in my life rather unexpectedly when I was still pining after a boyfriend who had broken up with me for religion. He was Muslim, I was ... open minded. Too open-minded for him I suppose. After he refused to tell his family about me, we broke up. I was lonely and made out with his best friend fraternity brother, which resulted in some name calling, a fist through a glass-paned door, and an end to any and all hope of reconciliation.

For the record I really liked the best friend, but I had to learn the hard way that best friends are a bad choice for rebound relationships. In fact its best to re-bound for a while with guys you don't really like all that much. If I ever have a daughter with a broken heart I will *not* tell her to wait, and be patient, and heal and all that crap. Nope. I will tell her to go find all the cute guys she pleases, but not the sort she will fall for. I will tell her to have plenty of sex with any or all of them, so long as she uses a condom, and none of them are friends of the true object of her affection. In moments of anger, lashing out at the X by hooking up with his friend seems like the most brilliant act of revenge, but it never works. The friend knows about the X, and thinks you're a slut. The X- finds out about the friend and thinks you're a slut, has a fight with the friend, makes up with the friend and the friend dumps you. Now you are twice dumped and twice as miserable. Better to find a cute random stranger, or befriend a lonesome cat.

My eventual husband was a lot like Alfonso (who as I write this is sleeping soundly on my bed): he was very persistent, sweet, and he rubbed me just the right way - that is to say he rubbed my feet. Yes. The man took of my shoes one night and began massaging my feet. It began completely innocently (I think). I was in college and I had just had my car towed away because of multiple unpaid parking tickets. Those tickets amounted to a paltry sum compared to what it eventually cost me, including the towing and impound fees, and fines. I had to call my mother and ask her for the money- some four hundred dollars- to get the car out of the impound lot. She was understandably pissed, and I started to cry. I was lying on my bed, crying, and he, wanting to comfort me, slipped off my shoes and began massaging my feet. It was the sweetest gesture ...and it worked. I felt better. I stopped crying, and soon he was sliding his hands up my calves and helping me wriggle out of my jeans.

And I guess I adopted him, because before I knew it he was making himself right at home. Too bad he doesn't rub my feet anymore, or maybe I'd keep him.

Breaking up is hard to do

Even after all the things I said it's still hard to let go. I turned on my computer last night and skype opened up automatically. Low and behold there he was. Active. Online.

I stared at the screen for hours. I logged off of skype for a while, but logged back in. I didn't want to contact him again. I had said my piece. But seeing him there - it was almost like he was in the room with me, but ignoring me completely. it was maddening. I was becoming obsessed. It was ridiculous. Finally, I gave into temptation and opened a chat window.

"I feel like I should say something," I wrote. "But nothing seems appropriate."

I waited. A few minutes later he went offline. Message received - loud and clear. He was done with this. He was done with me. I knew what had happened. He had blocked me as a contact, so that from now on, no matter when he was online, I would always see him as offline.

Two can play that game. I considered doing the same. But then what's the point I thought. I needed to end it. I highlighted his name in my skype contact list and hit delete. And just like that - he was gone.

I removed him from my favorites list on my phone. He was at the top of the list. Every time I opened it I saw his name staring back at me. It had to go.

Then I went to my facebook page and looked him up. This one was harder. I update my facebook page a lot. I had a small fantasy that this link meant not only would I be able to see information about him, but that he could continue to see what I was doing - without my actually telling him.

I imagined, that he might look me up - and discover I was dating someone else. Or see some really cute picture of me and feel a twinge of regret. But I needed to be realistic. He had washed his hands of me, and he was not going to be checking me out on facebook. He was not going to be wondering what I was doing and following the updates of my life. That was my pipe dream, and if I was ever going to be free of this, I had to let him go.

I opened up the privacy settings and typed his name into the box that says "block this person"

I read the consequences of what I was about to do.

If you block someone, they will not be able to find you in a Facebook search, see your profile, or interact with you through Facebook channels (such as Wall posts, Poke, etc.). Any Facebook ties you currently have with a person you block will be broken (for example, friendship connections, Relationship Status, etc.). Note that blocking someone may not prevent all communications and interactions in third-party applications, and does not extend to elsewhere on the Internet.

That was it. Once I blocked him it would be done. Over. Finito. The magic of technology. It brought us together and now it was going to cut our ties.

Be careful what you wish for .....

I asked him to tell me he didn't love me. I told him I wanted to say it. I meant it. But that doesn't mean it hurts any less. I suppose I wish he could have done it more tenderly. I suppose I wish he could have said something about how he cared a great deal for me, and how he just had to see this thing with Marion through. How maybe if things had been different ....

I think the part that stung was the bluntness of his expectations. " I do not love you. I never expect to love you." He should have put that in the past tense. he never *expected* to love me. It just wasn't part of the plan. EVER. Motherfucker.

The final response was in my inbox the next day.

Writefromtheheart,
In my world there is a lot of ground between meaningless sex and "I love you". Our relationship existed in that grey area, and I thought that you knew that. You don't need to demonize the situation and draw big presumptuous conclusions about me and my psychopathologies, which must surely be plentiful, but then I don't laughably assert that I have ever taken stock of all of them, dissected them and put them neatly away. That is the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said to me, it is in the nature of these hang-ups that they cannot be put neatly away and anyone who thinks they have is deluding themselves.

So, If I must say it, so that you can move on, then I will say that I did not love you and do not expect ever to love you. That is why we met where we did, because I was not emotionally available in that way.

Now you may think that i am a pig or a twisted pathological womanizer, and you are welcome to do so, but my value system (dare I assert that I have values???) allows two adults to have a very nice affair (which is what I think we had) without it having to lead to church aisles and white picket fences. I am sorry that I disappointed you, but I don't think that I ever misled you, and my only error was to not be brutally honest at the first moment that I suspected that you were feeling something outside the parameters of the nice affair I described.

With that, let me say that I bear you no ill-will, i like you quite a lot and hope that we can be more friendly from now on.

Berlin

Yes. That one hurt. Such simplicity. Such resignation. Such apathy. And never misled me? Who the hell was he kidding? I crafted one last response.

Berlin-
This is such a colossal fuck-up I don't even no where to start. You are defensive and angry - justifiably so. I said some things I shouldn't have. The stuff about you being emotionally stunted was below the belt. I do not think you are a pig or a twisted pathological womanizer. I had no right to assume I knew all your psychopathologies.

But try to put yourself in my shoes - You ARE very wrapped up in your own world. And as such, this affair was - well - it was whatever you needed it to be. Casual, uncomplicated, instantly gratifying with no long-term hassle. I don't think you ever gave so much as a thought to me regarding how I was taking the whole thing, my underlying motivations or desires. You offered very little, and figured, if I didn't like like it I could always walk away. It's what I should have done. But I didn't. So I guess I shoulder as much of the blame.

I will give you that there is a large grey area between love and meaningless sex - and that we were in it. But in the same way the lines between love and lust are blurred so is the spectrum of love itself. Love is not all church aisles and white picket fences. I don't want either - from you or from anyone right now. But what I did want was a connection - a real, and genuine connection to another person. A man who I let know me intimately, both physically and emotionally in the way only lovers can. Someone who would let me into his inner world and want to be part of mine. Someone who thinks of me when I'm not around, laughs when he sees something he knows I'd think is funny. Someone who desires my touch, my smell and my smile - and wants to hear me chatter on about my day, or complain about work, or comfort me when I'm having one of those low moments and need a hand finding my center again. Someone who genuinely enjoys my company, and sees me as a lover and a friend.

You see, that's love to me - it's the kind of love I want, and that is what I offered you while you were here. And you took it. And I kept sort of thinking you'd reciprocate. Not by offering some promise of forever - but by simply relishing the fact that we clicked - by offering something deeper of yourself.

I wanted a lover, not an affair. I didn't want church bells and diamond rings and down on bended knee - I wanted someone who was giddy with anticipation about the next time he would see me. I wanted to be the girl who stood out in a crowded room. The one you would surreptitiously brush hands with just to touch, make an excuse to be alone with so you could steel a clandestine moment when no one else was looking, and ravish in the bedroom (or the kitchen or the living room floor) alone at night. But I also wanted to know your heart and your hopes and your fears and for you to want to know mine. I wanted emotional intimacy.

But I guess you can't do that if the person you really desire that intimacy with is someone else. We played the little game for a while, and it was fun, but then it sort of fizzled - the attraction was still there - but instead of naturally progressing there was just sort of this emotional moat between us that you were unwilling to bridge.

Of course you have values. And we were two consenting adults who enjoyed a little bit of each other for a short while. But yes, I am disappointed. Perhaps it is wrong to demonize the whole thing - on the one hand I don't regret it. I can still close my eyes and imagine you touching me and get completely turned on. I can still smell you, and feel you and taste you- and it's nice - even now. But on the other hand, I settled for something less than I deserved.

I too as very upfront when we started this - I wanted someone who wasn't emotionally withdrawn. I wanted someone who had the capacity to let me in and just go with it. I have already had the affair with the married guy- and it was a waste of time. I never wanted to be in that position again, and if I had any real understanding of how serious this relationship was with her, I would not have even met you that night, and I would not have gone home with you most definitely.

And I'm sorry but you *did* mislead me. Yes - you told me about Germany. You told me about Marion. But you left so many crucial details out. Details that I only discovered little by little, that eventually made the picture sooo much clearer. Things like the fact that you two were living together here, that you were going to live with her in Germany, that you would worry about her health, or if a car was safe enough for her to drive. The fact that you talked to her every single day, that she texted you all the time. Little things that reveal what sort of a relationship you had.

And it's not like I didn't try to figure it out. I asked you if you loved her and you said you didn't know. You said you weren't sure if she even wanted you to come to Germany. Even very close to the end you told me you thought it was going to be "awful" and you weren't sure you doing the right thing. What was I supposed to think? That you two were a happy couple? Those remarks made it seem like there was a lot of unanswered questions in your mind about her and about the two of you as a couple, and that there might be room in your life for someone else.

But there was no room in your life for me -- not even for a real affair -- at most you wanted a little companionship and some sexual release. Be honest. Real love affairs involve something akin to love - even if it's not the white-picket-fence sort.

And if I had had all those details early on - or if you had really come clean and been brutally honest when I asked, and said - "listen, our relationship might be screwed up, but I love HER. I really love this woman. I'm going there to make a life and a home with her, SHE'S the one for me. And this - what you and I are doing is temporary - it's nice and it's fun, but it's just not going anywhere." If you had said anything resembling that, I would have bowed out early.

I would have walked away because as nice and pleasant as the sex and the limited companionship was, I wanted more than that. I always wanted more than that. And as many signs as you gave that signaled you were pushing me away, I gave just as many (and I think clearer) that I was looking for something deeper. You just didn't/couldn't/wouldn't look past your own needs, or my well-being wasn't something you put above your own.

But I'll take the blame here anyway and say, I should have asked the tougher questions, and I should have pressed you, and made us have the conversation we are having now 6 weeks ago. Very poor journalism. I didn't get the full story. I was emotionally weak, and craving affection. I looked the other way. I will never let that happen again. EVER. Life lesson learned.

So was this meaningless? No, certainly not for me. But I'm still not sure there can be much meaning ascribed to it on your end. If you never make a true connection with someone, never really bond with them, let yourself be vulnerable and raw and open - then what meaning is there in it? What do you possibly take away? You tell, me - did you feel some sort of connection, ever? A feeling that I was a person you wanted to open up to, and BE truly intimate with - not just physically but emotionally as well? Maybe you did a little bit. I got some glimpses,but really and truly, I don't think you did feel that - or if you did you didn't let yourself give into it. It's too much like falling in love. And if that's the case then we had some nice sex, shared some fun times, and that was about it.

So I have calmed down significantly. I am not angry anymore. I think I just had to let it all out, and I'm sorry that it was so venomous. But I guess I knew that if I never said anything you would just disappear and I would never hear from you again. You would never think of me, or wonder about me, or call, or write, and I would always be left wondering about you. I assume that because - like I said - it always was more about you than me. I was always thinking of you - and you were never thinking of me. I was always reaching out and you were pulling away. And it was just too insulting to let you walk away without so much as a response. The repressed anger, and frustration, and hormones (yes,hormones) just all made me lose it. Completely lose it. So I hope you'll forgive me, and try to understand .

I would like to be friendly - I would like to be friends in fact -though I just don't see that happening. Not real friends anyway. Perhaps I am different than most people. I don't have a lot of people I call friends, but the ones I do have are very close. They are the people I don't hide anything from, the ones I cry in front of, the ones who know all my dark secrets and insecurities, and sadness, and joy. Those are people that are really and truly a deeply intimate part of my life. I was trying to make you one of them all along. Perhaps the whole idea of love scared you off - but I love the people I am close to, and I felt close to you.

I don't really know any other way to be, and honestly, I think any other way is a waste of time. Most people, in my mind, are just a big, frivolous, waste of time. I don't need people in my life who won't invite me in to be a part of theirs. People who don't really want to be a part of mine. Life is just too short and my attention is too valuable and too limited. I have a lot to offer - I want something back.

So you either throw caution to the wind and decide I'm someone worth really knowing, even at a distance, or you say "it was fun, but no thanks. I just don't feel like we have that sort of friendship, or connection." It's your choice. But I don't do the gray area.

Either way, I wish you the best of luck.

-Writefromtheheart

And I sent it off into the internet night.