A Soulful of Goodness

You know how there are moments, when you just feel like life is good? Like all is right in the world, and you are where you belong - surrounded by love and sweetness and all that is love and hope and warmth and light?

The doctor and I had one of those moments the other night. We had spent the evening eating pizza and watching a British political thriller we rented from netflix. Afterward he took out his guitar. He played, and I sang along to Don McClean, and the Sundays, and Jem, and more I can't remember, and then we climbed into bed and read aloud from a book we bought together in the bookstore - a daily intellectual devotional - that teaches you something new every day. I think the topic was the Bust of Nefertiti, or maybe Hamurabi's code. I can't remember now.

When he set the book down, I pulled myself in close to him an he wrapped his arms around me tight, and just held me like that for maybe five minutes. I don't know what it was about that moment, but my heart just started to pound. I was just so overcome with the love and the goodness of all of it. The comfortable warmth of his embrace and the feeling of sharing our lives and our thoughts and the deepest part of our souls. I knew he felt it too.

When I pulled away, I looked up at him and he leaned in to kiss me. And all of that goodness and love became passion that spread like electricity between us. I couldn't get enough of him - I wanted his skin on my skin, his lips on my lips. Our tongues danced and teased, our pulses quickened, and our skin warmed and tingled with every touch and caress, and we made love like there was nothing else in the world but us. It was wonderful.

As we lay basking in the afterglow, I couldn't help but tell him how I felt.

"This feels really good," I blurted out. "Do you feel it?"
"That depends on what "this" is."
"This moment. Us. Lying here. Being together. Planning our lives."
"I was just thinking the same thing."

Lessons in Internet Dating

I got a funny email from my X recently. He joined an internet dating service he tells me, and he was wondering what my experience was like.

What? My first reaction was don't you have anyone else to ask about their internet dating experiences besides your x-wife? But I know the answer to that question. No he doesn't.

And I hate to be mean, but ladies he-- and men like him--are the reason that most of your internet dates are flops. Oh yes, he is relatively good-looking. He is well educated, has no kids, and loves dogs. Sounds like a catch!

And he is. If you don't mind the fact that he is unemployed, wears the same socks and underwear for days on end (and does not think that is gross), lets the muddy dogs up all over the couch, and has slept in a bed that the cat has peed on without changing the sheets on more than one occasion. In addition, he almost never leaves the house except to walk the dogs, is a pack-a-day smoker, and has nothing in the refrigerator except beer and bowtie pasta and tomato sauce.

Sigh. These are the things you will only find out after several dates, and perhaps you will even find them endearing ... or be able to look past them, like I did, for several years. But these are the men who are on the internet.

Now I know what you're thinking. I met the doctor on the internet didn't I? He is not a flop? Well, yes it's true. But he did not have a profile. He found me. And women are much more hopeful and honest than men. And I think he was a rare anomaly in the online dating world.

So when asked about my experiences, I told him as much.
"I received plenty of emails," I told him. " Most of the men were too old, too young, too ugly or completely uneducated. A few of them seemed possible, but then they often never went beyond a few emails - and when they did, it usually didn't lead to much. The guys I did meet were nice enough, but boring. It was no wonder the didn't meet anyone in real life."

He told me he had put up one of my favorite pictures of him - a picture I had taken at the beach with our three puppies in his arms -- and gotten so many emails he couldn't respond. I told him not to get too excited. But I decided to be encouraging. "You're attractive, smart, don't have a crazy X-wife and a big child support check to write, and you love dogs. What's not to like? Now just get a job and quit smoking and they'll wonder why I ever let you go!"

In case you are wondering why I let him go, re-read paragraph 4. But I do genuinely want him to be happy, and there is someone for everybody, right? He responded to my encouraging words by saying that he hoped to meet someone who liked him for who he was, not how much money he made (read: zero) but that yes, maybe quitting smoking was a good idea. I decided not to tell him that I would never date any man who was unemployed, unless he was independently wealthy and set for life. I think I can comfortably speak for most women when I say that while I am not looking for a man to support me, I am not looking to support a man either. I kept that to myself and instead I just wished him good luck.

A few days later he confessed that I had been right - most of the responses were ridiculously poor matches - but there were two that seemed promising, and he had been emailing them. One was younger - in her late twenties (he is 45, go figure) and has no children. The other was in her thirties with children. One of them asked for a picture of him without sunglasses on -- and he asked me if I would take it.

Again, shouldn't someone else be doing that? Can't you figure out how to use the auto timer on the camera? Is it not a little strange to ask your x-wife to take the photos for your internet dating profile? I hedged a little but said I would do it.

I came over later. He had already figured out the camera and done it himself he said. I think he knew I was secretly glad. Then he asked me something else.

"So what would you think if a guy accidentally sent you an email he wrote to someone else?"
"What? Did you do that?"
He nodded.
"Would you be pissed?" He asked.
Um, hell yeah. I'm pretty darn sure I wouldn't have much interest after that.
"I'm sure she'll understand," I told him.

Some things you just have to figure out for yourself.

I made up my mind- but I need to throw up first

I have thought long and hard about this. My stomach has been in knots since I left him lying in bed, staring sleepily at me, wondering if I was angry (I wasn't. Hurt and confused and frustrated perhaps– but not really angry). And those knots, they have been tightening with my resolve to speak my mind. Tightening because I don't know what he will say. I don't know if he will be hurt, or if he will understand. Or if he will beg me to change my mind.

Or if he will say, "Okay," with the ambivalence in his voice he had that morning I sat next to him on the bed and said I was leaving. An Okay that said he knew something was up, but he wasn't going to talk me out of it. That he would let me go and work it out.

I think I have worked it out.

Before Indiana we had hit a few rough patches. He was tired from working all the time. I was tired of working all the time, and we were both feeling the strain of trying to make our shared life and schedules work. I was insecure about our relationship, and although I didn't doubt his commitment, I was doubtful of his ability to walk away if he needed to. His resolve to call it quits if he thought I wasn't the one.

And I needed to know he could be honest – even if it might hurt. After all, that seemed to be the pattern I had gotten myself into on a regular basis – men who didn't love me, but didn't have the guts to say so. I was terrified of being trapped in that situation again, and I was looking for any signs that he might have changed his mind, signs that I should make a break for it before my heart was trampled on. And that made my trust in the relationship tenuous at best.

Yet he had invited me to spend two weeks with his kids and his parents in his childhood home. That seemed like a pretty big step. It seemed like the sort of thing that means something. But by contrast, he never so much as took my hand in front of his children. His daughter told me she thought we were just friends, and as far as I could tell, his friends knew nothing other than we were dating. Not that I was anyone particularly special or meaningful in his life. When I flew to Hawaii for work, he dropped me off at the airport and said a perfunctory goodbye. It was the longest we would be apart since we met. I was crushed. Little by little these small observances fueled my secret fears that he had doubts, and that made me very wary of handing over all of myself to him– and to the relationship-- completely.

My hypersensitivity to what I perceived as indifference was the source of a number of petty squabbles, and misunderstandings. My feelings were always on the surface of every discussion, and therefore recklessly and needlessly getting hurt.

My friends didn't think Indiana was such a good idea. Two weeks with his parents? They asked. What if you are miserable? What will you do? This is a recipe for disaster they cautioned.

But I didn't agree. This was an opportunity. This was a test. This was the only way I would ever know his family, and really get to know who he was when he was with them. This was a chance for me to see how I fit in. To see if they could be my family too. It was also a chance to spend an extended period together as a couple-something as of yet we'd never been able to do- and to probe what it might be like to do that on a full time basis, instead of the snatches of time we cobbled together between our work and friends, and his parental responsibilities. This was a chance to see if *we* could be a family, and be happy. I took it.

And it was wonderful. We got up late and made breakfast. We sat around and watched TV. We drank wine on the deck, and played slip and slide on the grass in the backyard. I taught the girls how to do cartwheels and we giggled while doing summersaults down a modest hill until we were dizzy. We went to the water park, and the shopping mall, and rode bikes around the neighborhood. It was good. It was all I had hoped and more.

In fact, it inspired me. When we came home, I couldn't imagine going back to the old way of life. I wanted us to be a family every day. I wanted us to move in together, and I told him so.

We had talked about moving in together before. He was actually the first one to bring it up. It was only a couple months into the relationship when he told me he thought about living together every time I went home. I was touched. At first we thought that maybe he could live with me, or I could live with him, but neither of our places was really suitable for two – much less four. And then I decided it was too soon. I wasn't yet divorced and I wanted that chapter in my life closed before I began a new one. I told him I wanted to wait until my lease was up in October, and then we could proceed, assuming of course that his divorce should be well under way by then too.

But now, in the afterglow of this new family life, everything felt different. Now I felt we had moved beyond the casual dating stage. I felt we had left behind the separate lives that met for drinks or dinner or coffee and kept toothbrushes and t-shirts at the other person's apartment. I didn't want to go back. I wanted to move forward. I wanted this man in my life every day- from grocery shopping to laundry – to sex on our very own kitchen floor.

But that was before reality sunk its claws back in.

A two week vacation is not real life. Devoid of the pressures of work and hostile spouses, and real mommies, life was good. We were good. But back at home the nagging voice inside me that kept picking at my happiness was asking me if I had all the details. If I knew what lay in store for me, and if I was truly on board.

It started with the phone calls. For some time the Doctor had all but stopped answering the phone when she called. He didn't want to talk to her. He had nothing to say. When they did speak, I could here him answering her in short direct sentences meant to convey the minimal amount of information in a manner devoid of personal affection. But she kept at it, constantly trying to engage him in a casual banter that he clearly resented. Pressing blithely for a friendly relationship that was completely at odds with her sense of entitlement for monetary remuneration for their marriage. At odds with her selfish desire to strip him of everything he had worked for in order to satisfy her own personal need for financial security and comfort. At odds with the fact that this behavior was impeding the formal dissolution of their marriage, and making him terribly unhappy. Why, I imagine she wondered to herself, should everyone not give her everything she desired, and be happy about it too?

In Indiana these phone calls became more frequent. Every morning and every evening, and sometimes in between. Sometimes she talked to the Doctor, sometimes she would call the house and talk to her in-laws, always under the guise of talking to the girls. Given the unpleasant circumstances she was creating for me, listening to any friendliness between the adults was like ants crawling all over my skin. I felt certain that she knew it, and that this was a deliberate intimidation tactic. A pissing on the proverbial territory so to speak. These are my children, and my in-laws, and (still) my husband she seemed to shout at me through the phone. I was here first she reminded me, lest I forget my place, and think she was out of the picture. But I swallowed my bitterness, and told myself to pick my battles. This was a temporary an immature outburst borne of insecurity

But he kept calling even after we came back. She wanted to talk about the divorce the Doctor told me. Her boyfriend was leaving her, and she felt insecure, and as a result he thought she was softening and becoming more agreeable to the terms of their separation. I was highly suspicious.

And so when he called me one morning on his way home from work, exhausted and complaining bitterly about the previous nights unbearable overnight shift at the hospital, he made the mistake of bringing her up.

"And in the middle of it all, she called and wanted to talk about thing," He said.
My ears caught on fire. What things? I demanded to know. Had she agreed to anything? Was she working? Was she making any contribution? Why couldn't the lawyers come up with a settlement? Why wouldn't they talk to each other? They were taking the house off the market? Was the divorce contingent on the sale of the house? Would they still be married three years from now?

Until now I had been careful to back off at a certain point – I didn't push too hard when it came to the terms of the divorce because I knew it upset him. He wanted to be a good father and spare his children the ugliness of a court battle. As the child of parents who ended their marriage in a particularly nasty court battle, I could appreciate that. But this time I was unrelenting. I needed answers to these questions. We were about to move in together and I could not keep looking the other way. What if six months from now, or a year from now I found myself living with him, and no progress had been made? Living with a married man, who had no real prospect of divorce because she refused to agree to anything less than impoverishing us for the rest of our natural lives? Making it impossible for us to support children of our own?

And then I asked myself some hard questions. What was I really willing to give up? What did I want?

I want marriage and children. I want a family. If I am to take on a parental role to his children, I want a say in how they are raised and I want my opinion to be respected. I want him to consider what that private catholic school costs us in terms of building a future for ourselves, and re-think the excellent public schools that are free, and just as good, if less elitist. I don't want to be an accessory to his marriage to her. I refuse to do it. I want to be first in line at least some of the time.

As I mulled this all over, I realized that so far, I have just fit in to his plans. Nothing has had to change for me. Nobody made any sacrifices to accommodate me, and I made no demands. I was willing to stay in the same city because he couldn't leave his kids. In fact I even acquiesced to living in the same part of town, because even though the other side of town has great houses for rent and wonderful public schools, they simply couldn't be asked to drive an hour to school when they were with him—and God forbid they change schools. My suggestions that he try taking them on weekends only fell on deaf ears. The idea that we might live in another city and he have them for vacations or fly them out for weekend visits unheard of (and possibly prohibitively expensive). The idea that he might fight for custody was immediately dismissed.

Nothing and no one had any flexibility but me. I was the only one willing to bend. And I was willing to do that – without complaint –as long as I got the one thing I wanted in return: a free man who planned to have more children with me.

Without that I don't know if I can live with them getting everything and me getting the scraps. His responsibilities toward her and the kids come first. It's not his fault. But I need to be a very close second, and in many cases an equal consideration. I don't know if I can accept it. any other way. I don't know if I can live me life deferring to the first wife and family without the bitterness and resentment eating me up. I am pretty certain I can't.

And so I made up my mind. I can't move in with him until there is some resolution about the divorce. I can't move forward until they have made peace and are willing to let me be a positive part of the relationship, or until he is willing to put his foot down and cut her out. Until he is willing to say, I love this woman and she is part of my future. She deserves something too, and I am willing to fight for it.

But even though I have come to this resolution it is breaking my heart. Because I don't want to give ultimatums. I don't want to lose him. But I have settled for less than I deserve for too many years and I can't do that again. This is my last chance. There is no time to spend years negotiating or hoping things will change. They won't. I have to ask for what I want. So I am asking. But I am scared to death, and my heart is tight in my chest . My stomach aches and a wave of depressive tiredness hangs over me like a cloud. I am sadder than it has ever been. But I am hoping for the best.

The things I can't say

You are probably thinking I am avoiding you. I am. You called twice today. The first time I had gotten up from my pool chair to go to the bathroom and left the phone behind. The second time I was actually in the pool trying to drown my frustrations in two miles of repetitive motion. Both times I checked my phone after I got back. You didn't leave a message, so I decided to let you sweat a little.

I know you know I am upset. You're like that – really good at knowing and anticipating my emotional reaction. And I imagine you feel badly. But I don't know what to say to you. I don't know if I should swallow the lump that is rising in my heart and in my throat and threatening to destroy us. I don't know how to get past what seems more and more to be a permanent roadblock.

A "deal breaker", that's what they call it. Something you just can't live with – something you just can't get past. And I think I may have found one.

Just a week ago we were basking in the glow of the promise of new home – a place we would live together and make a life of our own. But they gave the house with the porch and the basketball hoop to the other couple –the one with the golden retriever locked in the back of their blue Eddie Bauer Subaru Outback. You said it was no big deal. Fair's fair. They could take the place sooner. They offered a longer lease. No big deal.

But it was a big deal. It was a sign that this road couldn't be so easy. That life was just not going to let us ride off into the sunset without a fight. But I am so tired of fighting. The thought of the struggle ahead made me cry. It made me cry all night until you came over and held me and made me feel better. Made me feel foolish and petty for resenting the happy couple and their dog. For resenting the twenty-something landlord and his glowing pregnant wife, who had the power to choose between us and them. Between easy and hard.

But now I think I am beginning to see it was all for the best. We can't have the house with the porch and the basketball hoop. We can't make a home and a family. We can't do anything because we are stuck. Stuck like waders in hip-deep mud. Stuck because of her. Maybe the would-be landlord and the swollen belly by his side could sense it.

Yesterday I thought I could come over and make you feel better. I thought I could cheer you up and we'd make love and everything would be alright. But you told me I couldn't make it better and I went to bed alone and frustrated. I dreamed all night about you. I dreamed that I was trying to give you something and you wouldn't take it. Or you would accept it and then accidentally leave it behind. And all throughout the dream I kept chasing after you trying to give you the thing you'd forgotten. As the dream wore on I became more and more upset by your carelessness and I began to think you didn't want it, but every time I would ask you if you wanted it you would say yes – enthusiastically. But I didn't believe you.

It doesn't take a genius to psychoanalyze that. I give and you say it's just what you want. But you leave me behind, over and over again. And when I ask you are you sure, you say definitely, without a doubt – but your choices tell me a different story.

Like the way you always diminish our relationship to your friends and family. You once became annoyed when a told you a friend of mine joked about the intelligence and height of our future children. "That's awfully presumptuous of her," you snapped. "I don't know what you tell your friends but I don't go around saying we are getting married and having children." I was speechless at the time-and heartbroken really. I had said nothing of the sort in fact – just that you made me happy and that I could see myself with you for a very long time. Your words wounded me deeply and caught me so off-guard I couldn't respond. The sting stayed with me for weeks to come.

You waylaid my fears, only to re-ignite them on a regular basis. When your parents asked you "what's the deal?" You said you didn't know. When your daughter asked if I was your girlfriend, you seemed to think she didn't need to know. And when one of your closest friends recently inquired about us, you say "we're thinking about moving in together." Thinking about it? We were ready to sign the lease on a house last week. I thought we were done thinking about it. Why can't you say to them what you say to me?

But I can let all those little slips go – chalk it up to nervousness about what your friends and family might think. Worries that they might say it's too soon, or it's too fast, or how well do you really know her? I have them to. But I tell them the truth. That I love you, and that you are the piece of my life that was missing. I have no need to wait.

Except that I do – need to wait that is. Because you can't seem to get her out of your life. She calls and calls and calls. You talk about money and selling the house and children's school tuition, and months go by and you're still no further than you were before. There is no resolution in sight. No end to this marriage and your financial and personal obligations that are greater than your means. No end to the uncertain future for us.

And therein lies the deal breaker. It is one of life's cruelest jokes that I should find a man I could love so deeply, trust so completely, whose heart resonates with my own, but is nevertheless bound to another woman and the family he made with her; dangled like a carrot in front of my face, just out of reach of my grasp.

I need to move forward. I need the promise of a man who is mine, who will give me children and a family that is ours. I cannot wait much longer. And so here I am. wondering if I should do what my heart tells me I should, even though it's bound to break it. I am wondering if I have the strength to say what I don't want to – that I cannot move in with you. That perhaps, even, I can no longer be with you. Not right now. Not until there is an end in sight.

This morning when I woke up I reached for you and held you while you were sleeping. I secretly wished you would wake up and kiss me. I wished that despite your exhaustion and lack of sleep that you would be overcome by desire. But instead you told me to get in the shower. She would be coming to bring the kids. And something inside me snapped. I couldn't take it. Not today. I couldn't see her. I couldn't see them. I couldn't dig deeper and give more, and play the step-mother. I couldn't face the woman and her children who robbed have me of yours and mine. Who will always come first and will leave nothing left over for us.

So I went to the pool, to beat my anger and sadness into the water and I couldn't answer the phone because I have nothing to say. Nothing I can say that won't break my heart further.

Family Ties

I once told the doctor that I was falling in love with his children. And its true. I adore them. The older one is a bit on the spoiled side, but sensitive and emotional. I can relate. The younger is a firecracker, and cute as a button.

I'm really not the sort of woman who saw her primary role in life to be a mother. In fact I detested just those sorts of women. In fact when Jennifer Garner, declares in the movie Juno " I was born to be a mom" I just about threw up. But somewhere in my early thirties all baby-hating went out the window and my stance on mommyhood softened.

I began to look longingly and mothers cradling their newborns. I would smile at fathers carrying infants in backpacks, or pushing pink-cheeked toe-headed toddlers. I wanted to hold them and smell their little baby smells, and when I heard their little voices calling mommy, I secretly fantasized about my little one, climbing in my lap and calling for me.

Don't think this wasn't shocking. And it was nothing if not purely biological -- but regardless of the origins of my sudden designs on motherhood, I could not deny they existed and growing stronger.

In fact, they were one of the primary reasons I left my marriage. I could not fathom making a family with this man - and I desperately wanted a family.

One of the things I find most attractive about the Doctor is his sense of family - and a paternal aptitude that is off the scale. He loves those little girls with just the right amount of tenderness and firmness. They result is they are well-behaved and well-adjusted and know in no uncertain terms that they are unconditionally loved. The way he is with them - his skill as a father - is one of the things I most admire in him.

But there is no doubt, that being around those little girls has done nothing to quell the burning need for children of my own. If anything, my constant interactions with them have made the problem worse. They hug and kiss me goodnight, we read books together, and they crawl in my lap and cuddle. During our recent trip to his hometown, the older of the two told me that since I would probably be her step-mom, that made me sort of like her mom, and then proceeded to call me mommy at every opportunity, in front of everyone. The younger enthusiastically joined in.

Of course, I was mortified. Not that she would actually want to call me that -- I found that flattering actually -- but that the Doctor and his parents might think that I had encouraged this. And truth be told, I probably had some guilt about it, because I secretly liked it. It tapped into all my deep and hidden longings to be called mommy.

He had a talk with them -- and in no uncertain terms told them to stop. How would their real mommy feel to hear that? He asked.

I confess that stung a bit. Their *real* mommy. I was just the fake mommy. The stand in mommy. I was just for fun and games and make believe. I wasn't real.

This is one of those moments when you know someone is right but that the words hurt to hear. Because even though I never had any intention of attempting to take the place of the *real* mommy, I had begun to feel that I was wearing the mommy role, and that I deserved to be recognized. We were making a family, and if I wasn't part mommy, then what was I?

It also reminded me how badly I wanted to be someones real mommy. I wanted a real baby to grow in my belly, and I wanted that baby to suckle my breast and coo at my voice, and tug at my leg and crawl into my lap and call me mommy. I wanted it so bad it hurt.

But after the doctor's youngest was born, he had had a vasectomy. It was a hasty decision because of a medical problem that made it to risky for his wife to have any further children. She should have had her tubes tied, he told me once, but she couldn't be bothered and so he did the responsible thing and took care of it.

The responsible thing that robbed me of having his children, and is a source of anguish for me every day.

As it turns out, vasectomies can be reversed, but it's expensive and delicate surgery. And it's not always effective - less and less so the longer you wait. If I had my druthers he'd be on that operating table right now taking care of it. But he has expressed reservations at going under the knife again, and financially - if his insurance won't cover it - it is a burden we can't bear right now.

So when he asked his daughter how it might make their real mommy feel, inside I was screaming, "who cares how she feels? Because of her I may never get to be a real mommy to your children, and If it makes her feel bad to hear her children call me mom, then I'm not going to lose any sleep over it."

Now I suppose that's just hurtful retaliation on my part, But what can I say. The woman took his sperm, and she has ham stringed him financially so he has no other options. She gets to be the sole bearer of his progeny, which I am certain pleases her greatly. My resentment oozes out from ever pore in my body.

Writefromtheheart gets outed ... sort of

So a funny thing happened at the end of December. And by funny, I don't mean funny haha, I mean funny in a raised eyebrow sort of way: writefromtheheart's identity was accidentally uncovered.

Well I should think it was rather deliberate on the part of the person doing the uncovering, but accidental on my part for being so stupid. It all started because of an old Craigslist post that had been lingering on the internet ....

In a half-hearted act of quiet loneliness and desperation, I re-posted a version of the ad Berlin had responded to. To be honest, I never really had much intent of responding to anybody unless of course something amazing fell into my inbox. Surprise, surprise, nothing did. But I admit, when you are bored, depressed and single, it can temporarily make you feel better to have interested suitors sending you email, even if they are nobody you'd ever go out with in a million years. At the very least it's somewhat entertaining. However, long after the emails stopped coming, the post was still there and one day somebody found it and did something I never imagined.... he googled it. And guess what came up? That's right folks, this very blog, with the matching parts of the original Berlin Craigslist posting.

So you may be wondering, so what? Now Mr. stalker here has an anonymous Craigslist post and an anonymous blog. Big deal! Well as it turns out I had mentioned on this blog that I had a profile on a certain internet dating website, and based on a few bits of coincidental information included herein, he matched it to my internet dating profile, and then used additional more revealing information in my profile to google me and figure out my real name. And then he sent me an email.

Subject: You were too articulate to be fake, but I had to check
To: pers-950910314@craigslist.org
Date: Thursday, December 25, 2008, 9:37 PM

Dear Writesfromtheheart (with or without the s),

Of course your ad is striking, unique, bla bla bla - I'm sure you've heard that over and over. In the spirit of "trust but verify", I decided to Google some of your phrases. At first, I felt a deep sinking feeling when I found a hit, thinking that I had fallen for a standard cut and paste job. But as quickly as it appeared, the disappointment turned to shock and anticipation as I found that you probably are who you say you are, and that all your writing is as articulate as your posting. Either that or you're one serious psycho, so nuts that you put a ton ........

I've managed to lose the rest of the email ...but needless to say he confesses he has some "strings attached" that need cutting, he found post highly intriguing, and he promises never to make me eat cheap ice cream. I thought that part was rather cute. I wasn't quite sure what to do. Did I reply? Was this guy trouble? Eventually my curiosity got the better of me. I had to see what happened, so I wrote him back.

OMG.
I am not sure what to say at this point. On the one hand I NEVER thought anyone would google that posting and find my blog - and on the other, it's so damn obvious I don't know why I didn't think of it myself. SHIT. I'm sort of freaked out, since those two worlds are totally separate, and the point of the blog was that it was an anonymous outlet of my own rather personal life ... not exactly ALL the information I would probably share a priori to a first date ... if you catch my drift. And presuming I did meet you, and like you - would that mean I couldn't write about you? And what if I started seeing someone else ... you know ... assuming we weren't all serious and committed and the like.. then you could read about THAT too.. and something tells me that would be a little bit weird. And what if I meet you and I think you're a goofball .. then if I write about it its going to hurt your feelings...or you think I'm a nut - then I get to let you read how you hurt MY feelings. This is kind of a problem.

But I am mildly intrigued by the fact that you aren't completely shocked and repelled by my atrocious (at times) , messy (often) and overly-emotional interpretation (constant) of some of my recent life events. Sometimes I wonder if I will one day look back at it and see it all as the somewhat juvenile musings of a grown-up diary. Either that, or I will give up my embarrassment and it will become the next best seller on the chick-lit shelf. Sophie Kinsella look out.

It's really true what they say ... when you start to write what's inside you - it sort of takes on a life of its own, and so YES this would make an incredibly interesting post, and I admit that I absolutley want to use this in a next installment ...so maybe I can protect your identity and you can recind that block on the cutting and pasting. It is really rather a fascinating twist ...

Now what are these strings you are talking about if it's not your wife? A girlfriend? Hmmm. Well I think you know how I might feel about THAT - seeing as I was all trusting and "wait and see how things pan out" before , and as you well know, Berlin is now on the list of men would eagerly push infront of a large, fast-moving vehicle. Don't worry. It's not a long list. But lucky for him he is FAR, FAR AWAY.

Too honest? U freaked out now? Oh well. It's hard to imagine I could say anything shocking to you knowing what you have already read. And since this really still is anonymous, I guess there's not much to worry about. But if you figure out my real name, just don't out me, K?

Oh yea - and I'm not a COMPLETE ice cream snob. In general I'm a total bargain hunter - with food , clothes, gas, everything ...But crappy vanilla or chocolate just sucks, and there is no such thing as a bargain that you didn't like. When you indulge, you might as well go all the way - that's my motto ;-D

WFTH

And here is where it gets scary.

WFTH (except insert real name),

After I sent the first email the lightbulb went off and I figured out who you were. I was going to write again but worried you'd think I'm dangerous or something - though after some of your confessions who knows, maybe someday it would earn me a "You had me at Google". So I'm writing from real me so it's fair - you could now cause me as much if not more problems than I could cause you. Please don't. I won't.

You did a poor job of concealing yourself, but fortunately most are too lazy to figure it out.

I'm permanently separated (8+ years), have a girlfriend, and it is that that is a relationship one could only call the living dead.

Don't out me, I won't out you, worst case we wind up friends. Y'know, someday, I'm going to use that motto of yours against you... :-)

-Tom

Tom-
If you get to use that motto against me, you are a lucky man. But I'm going to be honest - I'm not so sure - for a variety of reasons. For starters I posted that ad a while ago now, and I haven't been blogging a lot, so there is stuff you don't know. Namely that my husband and I are sort of talking again. Dating maybe. I don't know what we're doing to tell you the truth. It's not us back together, and I think we both agree that we need to take a good long break from the pressure of that, but the time apart has had a healing influence and we are in the process of mending some fences. Perhaps it will just be so that we can be better friends. But I don't know. No, there aren't multiple suitors. Berlin sort of broke my heart and other than this person I have been tied to for most of my adult life, I just don't know if I have the strength to do it again. At least for now. I reposted that ad to make myself feel better, or because I am slightly voyeuristic and love reading what people write - not sure really. But I haven't met anyone. A few close calls that fell through. They probably found my blog. Dear lord. So I don't want to give you any false hope. I've sort of started to think I need a break from heartache for a while.

I'm not THAT freaked out. I didn't go to great lengths to protect my identity - I just didn't want to make it easy. For obvious reasons, I don't want employers googling my name looking for my work and finding that blog instead. I really never thought anybody would be digging all that deeply though. Jeesh. I admit that I sort of don't love that you know all about me, since, while I am not all modest and shy and everything, I also sort of like having the power to reveal the details as I see fit. Most people close to me already know all the stuff I write about anyway. Not *everything* but pretty close. When it comes to new people, I kind of like the power of being able to control what they know.

I may go back into that blog and make a few changes just to make it a little bit harder should there be any additional overly enthusiastic googlers out there.

-WFTH

It was more or less the truth. The holidays had been kind of rough on me. I found myself feeling sentimental and nostalgic for a sense of family. My X was the only family I had. We spent Thanksgiving together, then Christmas, and ultimately New Year's Eve, though by then I was starting to come to my senses. I was dating, but the prospects seemed pretty bleak, and I was just confused. Tom and I emailed back and forth a few more times, revealed a few more personal details and swapped photos. I can't say he was really my type and so I let the whole thing drop, and he stopped pursuing me. I sometimes wonder if he is reading this.

A month later I met the doctor, and it was (dare I say it?) love at first sight. More or less anyway... I was crazy about him from date one when we essentially closed down the local Vietnamese restaurant and he impressed me by using chopsticks. He didn't kiss me that night, but he did immediately text message me and tell me he had a great time and would I like to do it again. I was equally enthusiastic, and we texted for a while until he finally said I should call him instead and so I did. And we have barely been out of each other's reach since then.

Once our relationship became serious - which was almost instantaneous- I decided to reveal that I had a blog. I didn't share it with him, I just told him about it. Primarily it was because I didn't want to lie. I would spend several hours on my couch writing and invariably he would ask me how I spent the afternoon.

"Oh just writing." I would say.
"Writing? Are you working on a story?"
"No, not really." This is just for me"
"Like what?"

After a few times of skirting the question, or just making up a bald-faced lie about what I was doing I decided to fess-up.

"Well actually, I have this blog ...." and then I told him that it is a series of personal memoirs and such, mostly about my relationships and my divorce and whatnot. I was deliberately rather vague.
"Is this something you want me to read?" I wavered on this question.
"Ummmmm. Not really. Maybe some day. possibly. I don't know. It's sort of personal. But maybe... or maybe not."
"OK then"

I really wasn't sure if I wanted him to read it. On the one hand I wanted him to know me -- all my faults and flaws. I was tired of being someone I thought I was supposed to be. I wanted to see if he could love me and appreciate the way I was, even with a past as sordid as mine. I wanted him to know about all the cheating and Craigslist, and my whole period of exploration and reinvention. But on the other hand, I was a little worried how he would take it - and assuming he was fine with it, then what? Would he keep reading? And what would that mean for what I could say about us?

We dropped it. But I was truthful from then on about what I was doing when I was blogging - and one day I left the browser window open -- not on purpose -- but I had stopped being very careful. I had ceased to worry about it. He hadn't brought it up again, and I didn't think he was that interested. So I decided not to be secretive.

But apparently I had sparked his curiosity after all, and once he saw my blog name, he couldn't resist. He looked it up one night and read the entire thing from start to finish.

The day after he read the blog, I came over for dinner, completely unaware of his new knowledge of me. He was acting really funny. Avoiding my eyes. Answering my questions shortly. I thought maybe he was mad at me for some unknown transgression. Finally, after he put the kids to bed, we cuddled up in his big oversized chair. Now that he couldn't get away, I asked him what was wrong. And he finally confessed.

"I did something."
"What?"
"It's hard for me to tell you." He was squirming a little, avoiding my stare.
My heart immediately started pounding and my mouth went dry. Oh my God. Did he cheat? Did he meet someone else? Was he unhappy and going to break things off?

I swallowed hard and decided to be brave.
"Why is it so hard? Spit it out."
He squirmed some more. Took a few deep breaths.
"This is really hard. You don't know what it is? You really don't?"
"How could I possibly know? Just tell me."
There was an excruciating pause.
"I read your blog. I saw the name on your computer. I thought you wanted me to read it. SO I did.

I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Shit. I thought it was something serious. We were quiet for a moment while I let this sink in and he waited for me to react.

"So what did you think?" I asked.
"I think you are enormously talented writer. And that there are lots of things you didn't tell me."

The truth is I had already told him a lot. I had told him that while I was living in New York I had a number of affairs - most of which were nothing more than modern-day technology assisted Loooking for Mr. Goodbar one-night stands. I told him about the Craigslist ads. And I told him about Berlin.

He shocked me then by not being shocked. In fact he seemed rather impressed that I asserted my sexual independence in this way, and that I had it in me to go trolling around for sex on the internet . Of course he made sure I didn't think the whole cheating part was OK ( I didn't) or that I thought that was the sort of communication I wanted in my future relationship with him (again, very much did not want that) . But he not only was not repulsed, he wanted details.

This immediately made me embarrassed, because this blog is the only place I have ever uttered any details of any of this period in my life, and the most freely I have ever talked about sex. The truth is I am just not that comfortable talking about sex - something I figured out immediately once I was face to face with someone who was. So eventually I choked up . Which is probably why he was so curious what I had to say about it here.

I think what he found surprised him. I have never actually asked him, but I imagine he thought it was going to be more of those sort of sordid sexual details and less of my emotional fumblings. He told me it mostly made him sad for me, to see how bitter and angry I was over the whole Berlin business. And that he thinks I was completely wrong in expecting something more than what I got - under the circumstances of the relationship we created.

That made me a little uncomfortable. Deep down I agreed. I had been naive and foolish just downright stupid, over and over again. But I didn't want him to see me like that. I wondered how my outpouring of love for Berlin made him feel- now that I felt so strongly for him. Did it cast doubt on my true feelings? Did it make me seem weak and overly emotional? Did it make me seem like a woman who didn't know her own value, having given so much so easily? I was suddenly very self-conscious. I had just given him a glimpse of my innermost thoughts, and now he had the opportunity to critique them. He had the opportunity to see them in their most raw and unedited form. The unfiltered. What would he make of it?

It did begin to give me some insight into his personality though. It became clear, that he saw my actions from a clearly logical perspective. He saw my expectations, my desires and my dreams - and felt they were misguided. He saw everything as a series of logical choices and expectations wanted to right my thinking. But what he couldn't seem to see, was that emotion clouded my judgment. That expectations when it comes to love are not necessarily based in realism and reasonableness. Sometimes we love just because we do - even when it is all wrong for a multitude of reasons. The trick is falling in love with someone who will love you back for all the right ones.

Keys to the Temple

My good friend Mad Scientist wrote a love letter to her husband for Valentines Day that may be among the most simple and touching things I have ever read. Maybe it's because I know her so well that I found it so moving. I know that she's a lot like me: tough on the outside but a big, sentimental mess of weak and easily-wounded softness underneath. And despite her gallant exterior, thinks twice (or thrice) beore letting individuals probe into the nether reions of her emotional insides.

She and I are different in a lot of ways too. For example, she's much more disciplined, focused, and when provoked, has a tongue sharper than Ginzu knife. I am a classic procrastinator, stare dreamy-eyed and wistful at he computer screen for hours on a regular basis, and when faced with confrontation my mind goes blank and my reservoir of witty retorts evaporates faster than sweat in the Sahara at high noon. In my most flustered and insecure moments I would kill for her powers of sure, swift, and eloquent oral persuasion.

But I like to think that while her shell may be titanium to my lead (read: good for keeping out pesky inquiring x-rays, but little use for deflecting sharp, pointy objects) deep down we're kindred spirits. So when I read her words of affection for her beloved it struck similar chords in my own heart and reminded me of how love drives me, propels me forward, and or better or for worse shapes me heart-and-soul. It made me think about what love means to me and and inspired me to write my own love letter.

It reminded me of how utterly lost I feel without love. How much of it there is inside me. And how desperately I have longed to bestow it on another human male. It made me realize that throughout all my past relationships - all the ridiculous, immature, and utterly desperate behavior I exibited all-too-frequently was nothing other than a manifestation of this immovable fact: I need someone to love. Someone to let me love them. Someone who wants me to love them - needs me to love them.

All my craziness was not about me needing to be loved by someone else - though receiving love is certainly the natural and desirable extension of giving it. But there is a subtle and important difference between craving love from someone else, and desiring them to crave it from you. Hoping that another person would find your presence and contribution to the world so rich and fulfilling that without you in it, all that's left is a dark, airless void. That your love is the light, and the warmth, and the music - and the life-giving breath that fills the lungs.

I suppose that sounds overly dramatic. My X -husband certainly never understood it. I tried to describe it to him once - what I wanted - what I hoped for -- how I wished he felt. The look of exasperation on his face was heartbreaking. He told me I was vain and selfish. He thought I wanted doting and ooohhing and aweing over my amazingness. He called me shallow for what he saw as needing someone to fall all over me to feel loved.

He just didn't get it. I didn't want any of that. I didn't want any outward display of love per se . I simply wanted him to have the deep, inward desire that I would love him that way - in a way that made his whole world shift.

I don't beleive that just anybody shifts your world. These are not small shoes to fill. In my darkest moments I was tempted to accept the fact that maybe the best I would ever do was capture the modest affections of a good man. I'm glad I didn't listen to that devil on my shoulder. It's one of those rare instances when I am rather proud of my obstinance, and my stubborn refusual to give into reason. My inability to accept the ordinary because its more probable than its precious and rare extrordinary cousin.

I'm no gambler --in Las Vegas, I don't even play the slot machines. But when it comes to love I have bet over and over again, and every time I lost I refused to walk away, certain that one day the big payout would be mine.

Dear Doctor, I think I've finally hit the jackpot.

I know that I can be weak, selfish and petty. I know that I am always running late, and take on more than I can handle. I second-guess myself, I hide my insecurities, and sometimes I'm afraid to just put myself out there and be who I really am. Sometimes I cry at completely inappropriate times. And other times I don't cry at all, even when my heart swells with uncontainable emotion. I avoid confrontation even when it's to my detriment. I know I'm always trying to be glue, even when acetone is called for. I can get defensive. I'm stubborn. I find it hardest to be honest with myself. And yet you seem to love me anyway.

Sometimes I look into your eyes and I just ache with joy and happiness and wonderment that we found each other. I am filled with so much gratitude for the chance to know and love the amazing person who is staring back, who is loving me with every breath, and every compliment and every criticism. Who is asking me to love him in the best way I can. Loving my imperfections and flaws. Healing my wounds. Uncoveirng my scars and finding the beauty behind them.

I think back on myself - on the sad, lonely and broken woman that I was. So ready to give up on happiness and a shared life purpose. When I conjure up that pain I am overcome by the way you washed it away and allowed me to start fresh . I want you to know me. See me. Reach down into the deepest, most intimate and secret parts of me. I'm willing to let you push me to places that make me uncomfortable - because I want to let you in. I want be a better person for you.

You make me happy in the smallest of moments. Sometimes I catch myself daydreaming about the small of your back, or the tip of your nose, the way it feels when you sneak up behind me, wrap your arms around my waist and kiss the back of my neck. I secretly watch you with your daughters and derive little bits of pleasure every time you soften in response to their irrisitable charms, or hold them tenderly in your arms. I could hope for nothing better than to build a family and a home with you, where our children will grow up under the umbrella of our mutual respect and admiration. Where they will have a foundation of trust and honesty on which to build a framework for their own healthy relationships.

My deepest desire is to give back all you have given to me, and then some. To make you feel loved and desired and needed. To show you that you are the most important thing in the world to me - and without you I'd be adrift in a sea of lonliness. My greatest fear is that I will fail. That I will disappoint you. That I will let you down. And every time I think I fall short of your expectations I feel a pang of guilt, sadness, and shame.

You once said to me that falling in love with me as like hearing music for the first time - and you didn't know what you would do if it went away. I don't know that a more beautiful thing has been said to me -- ever. It may be presumptuous to expect that these words might touch you in the same way, but I can't help but try. You deserve the deepest, greatest gift I have to offer, and so I present you with these sentiments. They are my soft and vilnerable insides. My inner dog rolling over and exposing his belly in submission. The keys to the temple of my heart.

10 Things I Hate About YOU

It has been weeks (about 6, in case you were wondering) since I have stalked Berlin's facebook page. I looked at it again today -- but solely for the purposes of this posting. I'm chalking it up to journalistic curiosity.

The truth is there's nothing there anyway. Just a bunch of stupid comments from old friends, and frankly, I figure its about time to end the madness anyway. I know what I need to know. He sucks. We've both moved on.

But that doesn't mean that I have been entirely mature about the whole thing. In fact I was decidedly childish. But what can I say, love drives you mad sometimes, and not being loved - well that drives you madder.

You know the old adage ... hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And damn, had I ever been scorned. So scorned my skin was on fire, and if there was some way, any way, that I could hurt him back, I was going to take it. I'm not proud of my vindictive streak, I'm just honest about it.

So in mid December, I sent him this email:

Please do me a favor and return the items that I gave you. You can mail them when you are back in the States after Christmas, since I know you are too cheap to spring for the international postage. I would appreciate it, if you would also burn the letter I wrote, delete emails and whatever other items might connect you to me, that is, if you haven’t done so already.

I threw out the plants.

Please don’t reply.

The thing about the plants was just a way to piss him off. He had given me a bunch of plants when he moved. He had studied botany or horticulture or plant biology or something like that in college. He could name all sorts of plants, and when we'd be out on walks he would always be teaching me something about some kind of plant or flower. I loved it. I happen to know relatively little on the subject, but I have always had an interest. I used to have a big orchid collection, and a lot of plants at home, but over the years of moving, and apartment dwelling, it became hard to really maintain, and most of them either died or had to be given away. I have always wanted my own backyard and some time to design a garden. I had started one when the X and I bought a house, but since we moved and the house is going into foreclosure, my lovely yard is now a sad, and untended mess. It took so little time to undo that labor of love - and while I'm talking about the Garden, it seems an apt metaphor for the relationship as well.

I actually cared about the plants, and I figured Berlin knew it. And I know that at one time he cared that they might actually have a proper home in which to flourish. Me deliberately killing them was a destructive act that was meant to be hurtful. Who knows. Maybe by then he had long since given up on them, and me. They were just plants. But even so - I couldn't REALLY throw them out. I said I did (and I kinda wanted to throw them out the window on a couple of occasions) but in the end I simply couldn't do it. So I still have them, I just lied and said I didn't.

After that email I waited. And when he did exactly what I asked - that is he did not reply - I began to stew in my own angry juices and I chose to further provoke the situation. I emailed Marian. Yup that's right. I emailed her and told her that Berlin and I had been having an affair. I told her that he told me he wasn't sure he loved her and that he suspected her of cheating, and that he had said he was awful and uncaring and that he wasn't sure he was making the right choice in moving in with and across the world for her. I said things he told me in confidence. Things that only he could know. Private things, so that she would know I was telling the truth.

I justified it by claiming that I would want to know if I was her. And I think the truth is I would. But it would be a bald-faced lie for me to claim that revealing the sordid details of my sexual tryst with Berlin was something I did out of kindness. It was pure, unadulterated spite, and targeted wholly at him.

I knew he had already bought a ticket back to the town in New York where he was from for Christmas. I had a sneaking suspicion that he would be back here for a visit. He's incredibly social and can't stay away from his friends, plus he mentioned he was thinking of driving to Texas with his Dad - and my fair city happens to be a hop skip and a jump off that path. I wondered if he might show up on my doorstep to berate me for outing his indiscretions. I sort of hoped he would. I was itching for a face-to-face fight.

I wondered silently for weeks whether my actions invoked the ire I had anticipated. I got my answer on day when I came home from the store and noticed a package wrapped in a plastic bag in my mailbox. Inside was the journal and the ipod I had given him as a parting gift at the airport, and on the first page was a handwritten note.

If you need to demonize me inside your deranged mind in order to justify why you are a cheating wife that is one thing. You have no basis for this, but it is something that I can accept. What I cannot accept is that you attacked Marion, a woman you really know nothing about, with your evil, "I know this about you," and "I know that about you," comments. You have no justification for this, it is purely evil, and a window into the true despicable person that you are. I have nothing but disdain for you. You should be ashamed and I am happy to report that your evil plan did not work, but has brought Marion and I closer together. please leave me alone you deplorable person.

When I finished reading it my hands were shaking . And then I started laughing. The whole thing was so incredibly ridiculous. I had been such a complete fool in every respect. I was strangely relieved by the fact that he was as immature as I was, but still pissed as hell. I wanted to kick and scream and beat him with my fists and tell him how much he had hurt me and how much I wanted to see him suffer. I wanted to see the anger on his face. I wanted to create a scar so deep he would never forget it.

The idea that after everything he just couldn't fucking say"I'm sorry that I hurt you this much you feel the need to lash out in such an inexcusable way." The fact that he was unable to shoulder even a drop of blame infuriated me. And what was the bitterest pill to swallow was his accusation that I was a "cheating wife." Perhaps it was because it was true. I had been a cheating wife. I was once as dishonest and untrustworthy and adulterous as he was. But not with him. I wanted something better from him, and instead, he turned it into something ugly. And I hated him for it. If I could have I would have gotten on a plane, tracked him down at his doorstep and given him a piece of my mind while I straddled him with my hands around his throat. It's a good thing I didn't choose that route since I'm much more skilled with my words than my hands, and I probably would have been the one getting choked. Sp I did the next best thing. I wrote him one final email, and I swore it would be the last communication between us.

Berlin-

The idea that of the two of us, I am the cheater, is absolutely laughable. Months before I met you I told my husband it was over and I planned to see other people. The fact that I kept it quiet and didn’t throw it in his face was my being respectful of his feelings. And let’s not forget, I moved OUT. You moved IN with Marion. Who are you kidding?? I was not hiding our relationship from my friends or my X. You were. The only deranged one here is you.

Oh, and should you feel like sharing it with him, be my guest. I told him about you long ago. He asked me why it ended and I told him it was because there was someone else – and you know what he said? So why was he seeing you then? Good question. Better question: why was I seeing you? Answer: Because you lied to me and told me the relationship was ending. Because you were not forthcoming with your full relationship history with Marion, or your future intentions toward her.

You go right ahead and make me into the devil if you want, because whatever haughty, self-righteous “disdain” you have for me, it does not even begin to scratch the surface of the pure hatred I have for you. The fact that I ever even had the slightest affection or respect for you is the only thing that pains me now. The fact that I turned a blind eye to your obvious fucked-up character.

You are a spineless, insensitive, delusional, selfish, washed-up loser with zero integrity, and I cannot thank God enough for ending that pregnancy and not binding me to you with a child. If the knowledge of the indiscretions brought on by your obvious mid-life crisis has served to draw you and your teenage lover closer together then, bravo. You have my blessing, because there is not the slightest doubt in my mind that you two deserve each other. Go with God.

And here’s a little piece of advice. If you decide to cheat on Marion again, when you break it off with your lover, do yourself a favor and show just the smallest amount of tenderness and respect to her. Make her feel that even for a little while she was valued, and that the moments you shared were ones you will remember fondly. Show her a few small gestures of affection and appreciation for the fact that she cared for you, went out of her way to help you pack, let you share her home, was thoughtful enough to buy you a present, and got up at 4 in the morning to carry your heavy boxes and drive you and your dog and all your shit to the airport when even your closest friends wouldn’t. Comfort her in her time of deepest loss, and when she says she’s going to miss you, the appropriate response is “I’ll miss you too.” Not “GOOD.” For someone as adept at lying as you, I would have thought telling one or two more wouldn’t have killed you. But then again that would require a level of empathy and thoughtfulness that is evidently beyond what you are capable of.

If it makes you feel better to call me evil and deplorable and despicable, you go right ahead. If nothing else, convincing yourself this is all part of my evil plan should make it easier to look in the mirror every day. But the facts are this: I was always completely honest. You were not. My relationship with you was never a secret. If revealing it to Maria is perceived as an attack – well – that’s probably because YOU kept it a secret. And it’s probably because YOU actually said all the things I said you did. Did I have to share them with her? Nope. But I really began to wonder if your depiction of her as a cold-hearted tease who kept you hanging at the end of an endless string of lovers was accurate. Maybe that was bullshit like everything else. A way for your “deranged mind” to justify that you are a cheating boyfriend who was just stringing me along. If it was, then you’re an asshole and she ought to know the truth, and if not, well then none of what I said should have come as any real surprise now should it? If she’s really fucking every guy in sight right under your nose, and believes in open relationships, then she shouldn’t really give a shit, should she? Either way, you can both feel free to hate me all you like. I’m not losing too much sleep over it these days.

The irony that I hope one day you’ll come to appreciate is the ire and wrath I am invoking on you now could have all been avoided – by either the smallest amount of genuine tenderness on your part, or... with a few compassionate white lies. How funny is that?

It’s almost as funny as the fact that you hand-delivered your hate mail. Brilliant! You are even cheaper than I thought.

And I haven't written or spoken to him since.

Though this cool line of hate mail cards sure makes me wish I had one more round of venom in me. Check em' out : http://www.junkmailgreetings.bigcartel.com/

The Ice Cream Wars

I am picky about ice cream. You may have already figured that out, based on my refusal to bend to the whims of Berlin and his cheap ice-cream buying ways. Call me crazy, but I just think that with all the calories that stuff packs, you had better damn well be enjoying yourself while you're eating it.

The same night the Doctor broke my wine glass, we shared some post-coital Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough Ice Cream that he had brought over for dessert. A very thoughtful gesture I might add. You know you love a man when you can lie naked an bed with him and eat ice cream right out of the carton.

Now Ben and Jerry's is perfectly good ice cream, and by no means falls into the cheap, grocery store generic category that isn't worth the waxy cardboard it's packed in. However there was something off about this batch. For starters, it was really, really frozen. And while there wasn't anything really obviously wrong with it, it just did not press my "this is really delicious" buttons, and make the spoon move magically from carton to mouth all by itself. And that's really the test of ice-cream goodness. How hard is it to stop eating it, even when you're full? This one was too easy to put down.

So the Doctor ate his fill, and returned the carton to the freezer, the door of which he failed to properly close. So sometime in the middle of the night, when I stumbled to the bathroom, I found a partially open and defrosting freezer. It didn't seem to have passed the point of no return, so I shut it and went to bed. Crisis averted.

But the poor ice cream had already suffered. It got that disgusting layer of ice on the top, and even below the ice, the creamy, yummy goodness was now intermixed with crunchy crystals of ice that absolutely ruined an ice cream that had been already teetering on the edge of the sub-par dessert category anyway.

So for several weeks, the poor B&J's languished in the freezer, untouched, and relatively unnoticed, until I finally threw it out.

In exchange I bought two other flavors of Edy's to take it's place - vanilla, and Spumoni - two of my favorites. I figured since the Doctor really hadn't touched that cookie dough ice cream since it's inauguration to my freezer, he wouldn't really miss it.

I was wrong. When one gets a craving for ice cream, you go looking for it, even when it has long since passed its prime. It's like the And to prove that point, just other day, I was on the couch watching TV, when I noticed him rooting around in the freezer. And before I had the chance to ask him what on earth he was looking for (I already had a sneaking suspicion) he wandered slowly into the living room with a quizzical look and somewhat taunting glint in his eye.

"You threw out my ice cream, didn't you?"

He raised an eyebrow. I thought I saw just the slight crack of a smile, but he maintained composure.

"well....," I hedged, "it was gross. It was all frozen and yucky."

The Doctor nodded, the corner of his mouth turned up in a sly smirk. "Sure whatever." He said turning and walking away.

"Oh come on, you weren't gonna eat it anyway." I called out after him.
"Yes I was. It was perfectly good. there was nothing wrong with that ice cream," he said over his shoulder.

I bounced of the couch, followed him back into the kitchen and put my arms around his waist. I looked up into his eyes and we stared at each other for a moment.

"Are you mad at me for throwing out you're ice cream?" I asked trying to stifle a giggle.

"No, but I'm pretty sure why you did it."
"Why?"
"Cause you wanted to make room for all of your stuff. You got your ice cream, the kind that you liked, and there was no more room for my ice cream in your freezer."

Now I couldn't help it - I was full on laughing.

He continued. "I've never thrown your ice cream out of my freezer - my freezer is wide open to your ice cream."
"Whatever!" I shot back. My ice cream has never even made the acquaintance of your freezer, much less moved in."
"oh so that's how it is? Your ice cream would be welcome in my freezer any time, and would be in no danger of being tossed out. Ice cream should never be so hated."
"I'll get you some more - you want cookie dough?"
"No, no - the damage has been done. I understand. There's no place for for my ice cream here."
"I'll get you some more," I laughed.
"I won't eat it."
"Yes you will"
"No I won't."

I rolled my eyes.

The next day I stopped at the store and bought a gallon of Edy's cookie dough ice cream. It was the only brand of cookie dough ice cream they had (lest you think I am a walking advertisement for Edy's)

I sent him a text message.
"I got you a present." I wrote.
for the next few hours while he was at work, he pestered me about the nature of his surprise.
"If I give you a hint it will give it away," I told him teasingly.

He works nights, and the next day he came over after work, just as I was on my way out to work... In the freezer I left his present ... with a note (see above). He was sleeping when I left, but I knew he would find it when he eventually woke up and went rummaging around for something to eat. I was cracking myself up all the way to work.

The eventually found ice cream did elicit a good chuckle, though he still hasn't eaten any. I plan to break him down though. I'll leave him alone in the apartment with nothing to eat but that ice cream.

Or maybe I'll just eat it all myself. That'll teach him.

Be My Valentine, But make sure you wash your hands first.

Let's face it - if you're not in love Valentine's Day can be a pretty dreadful holiday. And a month ago, I thought I was going to be one of the Valentine's Day haters. I was not looking forward to this day AT ALL.

But a lot has changed in a few short weeks - and even though I'm really not much into the commercialism of conventional American holidays, the Doctor and I had planned to spend the day together in pink-hearted, candy-coated, goofy-smiling bliss.

Well, our own version anyway, and there were a couple of snags....

Valentines day this year fell on a Saturday, and the Friday night before I had planned to go to a concert at the House of Blues with a girlfriend, her husband and some other mutual friends. She had asked me weeks in advance and the tickets were already bought. The doctor was invited, but he declined. He didn't feel like going out after a pretty busy work week, but said I should go anyway. We decided I would meet him at his house later - sometime in the wee hours of the morning, then we would spend Saturday together.

So slightly tipsy after a few too many drinks (not too tipsy to drive in relative safety, but certainly over the legal limit and with somewhat of an impaired judgment ... I know I know .. please don't lecture) I drove my friends home, then stopped at the 24 hour Giant Eagle to buy little bags of Valentines Candy for the Doctor's two girls, and then headed to his apartment. By this time it was about 2:30 in the morning, he had left the door unlocked for me and was already in bed.

I wasn't sure if he was sleeping, so I crept in quietly, and the little shiny red bags filled with tissue paper and candy on the kitchen table.

From the kitchen table I could see the outline of his body under the covers. He didn't say anything, or move - so I assumed he must be sleeping. I had planned to climb into bed with him, and nuzzle him awake gently, perhaps giving him a reason not to go back to sleep. I balanced precariously, one hand on the table, equilibrium slightly impaired, and slipped off my boots. I slid out of my jeans and sweater and when I had undressed down to a baby doll t-shirt and black lace panties I padded across the carpet to the bedroom pausing a moment to look in on my sleeping man, before I slipped into the bathroom to relieve the beer induced overfilling of my now throbbing bladder.

I peed. Quietly. Now don't ask me why, but sometimes in the middle of the night I don't flush the toilet. Especially when there is someone sleeping right next door who you don't want to wake up. Or someone whom you would like to wake up, but who you would rather wake up to the feeling of your skin next to his, or the alluring and irresistible scent of your pheromones and sweat mingled with perfume, not to the sound of a flushing toilet. So I didn't flush. It was just a little pee, after all.

I switched off the light, opened the bathroom door, and crept into the bedroom. Tiptoeing around the bed I climbed in and slid under the covers. I snuggled up behind him. reaching my arm around his waist I pulled him in close to me kissing the back of his neck. I was in sort of a dizzy, drowsy, alcohol induced stupor. He lay quietly and then in a rather matter-of-fact way he spoke.

"You didn't flush the toilet. Or wash your hands."

I stopped. I was not sure what to do. He had been awake the whole time. And yes, I did not wash my hands. I also didn't pee on them. And who cares anyway if I did have microscopic amounts of urine on them anyway, it's not like he hadn't happily planted his face where I peed on a number of occasions without asking me to wash with soap and water first, and if I had my way he was going to do it again in a matter of moments. Why did he suddenly care if I washed my hands NOW?

Now here is where new relationships differ from long established ones. I am pretty certain if my former husband had ever said something like that to me I would have set him straight about what a buzzkill that remark was, starting with the words "so the fuck what?" and if we had ever had any sort of sexual chemistry I might have reached over, taken his hand, placed it between my legs and said

"Now we're even. Shall we wash our hands together when we're finished here?" Which in retrospect is exactly what I should have said to the doctor.

But in my slightly drunken state, and seeing as I hadn't quite become that comfortable or that bold with him, I was caught off guard and became slightly embarrassed. I had come to bed attempting to be seductive and desirable and, if I understood correctly was now being shunned for my poor hygiene practices. This was not how I had planned this to go. So I simply got up, walked across the hall, flushed the toilet and washed my hands, and came back to bed.

Returned to the sanctum of the covers, I attempted to re-awaken my inner seductress - but the drowsiness was taking over and the sexual image of myself now loomed less large and pressing after this whole hand-washing business. I was going to need some positive reinforcement in the form clear signs of my desirableness, or I was going to give up and fall asleep.

I offered up some gentle kisses, some soft caresses, some nudging and nuzzling in what I hoped was the right direction. He lay motionless staring at me. I had no idea what that meant, and I was beginning to be too tired to care. I closed my eyes to think about what to do next and that's the last thing I remember.

The next morning, the inner-seductress was re-invigorated and after brushing my teeth, peeing, flushing and washing my hands (I learned my lesson), I managed to finish what we started.

Later the doctor told me he was disappointed -- that it had been his ultimate fantasy that I would take him by force because I absolutely could not wait one minute longer. I was flattered - and yet slightly annoyed, pointing out that if one's goal is sexual disinhibition, perhaps it's best not to interrupt the process with hygiene instructions that would have been utterly futile should we have gotten it on in the manner he had envisioned. And furthermore, one good "you've got the right idea" kiss would have set us both on the proper path, and I cannot read his mind after all. ugggg. MEN. I was however grateful for this morsel of information which I have now filed away in my brain for future use.

It had begun snowing during the night, and since the doctor hates snow and cold, my idea of spending the morning taking a hike through the arboretum was losing steam. Besides which, I still hadn't managed to finish his Valentines Day present - a somewhat sappy love song CD with songs that I had been picking out over the last week or so. The problem was my spindle of blank CD's was in a box of office supplies that managed to find their way to x-husband's house instead of mine. All week I had neglected to stop an buy some new ones, or drop by the x's and pick them up. I had to figure out a way to get this done.

We made a plan that I would drive home, shower and change, and (secretly) stop at the drug store, buy aforementioned lank CD's, burn said CD and have ready and waiting as if I had been prepared for this day for weeks. Less secretly, he admitted that he had not had time to stop and buy my present either. He would do his shopping and meet me at my place. Now, when you are in a hurry, nothing happens easily. I drove to the drugstore. Could not find the CD's. Found CD's, Waited in long line. Tried to leave parking lot and got stuck behind a 15 minute (I kid you not) funeral procession that prevented me from making the appropriate left hand turn onto the highway. Got home, burned CD, wrote on the cover, and was just about to get in the shower when the doctor arrived.

"what? you haven't even gotten in the shower yet? What have you been doing this whole time?"

"uhhh..." I really, really did not want to tell the whole story.

"If I would have known I wouldn't have rushed around so much. I got to the store, there was this long line, and some woman who wanted to use a coupon or get money back or something and there was just one cashier, and I was thinking the whole time that you were here waiting for me impatiently."

I couldn't help but laugh and thankfully so did he. I told him the CD story.

"I can't believe I finally met someone who procrastinates more than me. Hurry up."

His gift by the way was a set of red wine glasses. On what was maybe our third date I think, he came over and we made dinner together. We had some wine, and afterward when he was helping clean up he attempted to dry one of my wine glasses and squeezed a little too hard. I told him I didn't care - and it was true. Stuff breaks when you use it. Wine glasses can be replaced. No big deal. Butthe gesture was rather sweet. I gave him my CD, and we both agreed that maybe pink-hearted, candy-coated, goofy-smiling bliss was best left to everyone else.

Making it Official

It's funny how when something new comes along how easy it is to let go. I finally went to see a lawyer to draw up the papers for the divorce.

Divorce was something I had been putting off for months. Even though I had moved out, even though I had started and ended another relationship -- and ended it - with Berlin. Even though I knew I was happier on my own, and I was rebuilding my life and my independence, I just couldn't quite manage to make it official.

I had been thinking about selling my engagement ring. In November, I sent the paperwork to the jeweler where we bought it from to see what kind of offer I could get. I got a decent response - but then I panicked. I would take that ring out of its satin box and hold it in my hand. Feel the weight of it in my palm, cool metal against my skin. I would turn it over between my fingers and look at the detail of the engraving and tears would well up in my eyes. There was so much promise in that ring. So much hope for a future different from my present reality. So much lost.

I even put it on a few times, holding my hand out in front of me, remembering the first time I wore it, showing it off to my friends in the silly girlish ritual of engagement goofiness. I remembered how, when I was out alone, men would give me flirtatious looks until I casually lifted my left hand into view so they could see that I was already spoken for.

It's hard to say exactly why I couldn't fully walk away- but I guess I was just scared. Scared that I was making a mistake -- that I was deluding myself into thinking there was something better out there for me. Maybe this was it. This was all I was going to get. Maybe we all just have to do the best we can wit the cards we're dealt.

In my heart I never truly believed that. I always kept one eye on my source of secret inner strength - my belief that there was love and happiness out there for me that could be completely fulfilling, someone that could fill me to overflowing and surpass my expectations. But the seeds of self-doubt can creep in at the most unexpected moments, making me waver in my resolve to forge ahead into the great unknown for the ultimate prize. I suppose none of us is perfect.

So I held onto that ring. And I held onto my marriage. If for no other reason than I was too weak to stand alone and face the possibility of a lifetime of me against the world. I wanted to hold someone's hand and face it together. I didn't want to do it all alone. I couldn't. Not yet.

But love changes everything. Someone is holding my hand and telling me its OK to let go. Telling me they'll face the world with me, and it's time to put the past behind me. And suddenly I wasn't scared anymore. I wasn't afraid to say goodbye to the ring, or the dreams it had once represented. So I called the jeweler back. then I called the lawyer and made an appointment. Then I called my husband and told him.

I can't say that he was happy about it, but all in all he took it pretty well. There were only a few pretty harmless rounds of him blaming me for our current financial disaster, and then accusing me of running off when the going got tough. Of course he was lashing out as a result of his own grief. I reminded myself that I had spent a lot of time thinking about this, getting used to the idea. And that I now had someone to hold my hand -- but he didn't. It was going to be harder for him. I was going to have to be the stronger one.

He agreed to all the terms - which is to say he keeps his stuff, I keep mine - and we part as friends. I told him I planned to sell the ring in order to pay the lawyer and that I would cover all the expenses. He wanted to know whether I would try to take the dogs from him and I almost couldn't believe my ears. I love those dogs like children, but I know he loves them too - and as much as it kills me, I know that he is better equipped to care for them at the moment than I am. Of course I would let him keep the dogs.

And there it was. A ring, a lawyer, an agreement, a handshake and new life. I have never felt so free.

2+2 = 4

It's probably been 26 years since I was giddy about going to Chuck E Cheese. I went last night with the doctor and his two little girls, and I have to say, I was excited about it all day. Probably not the same sort of excitement I felt when I was eight. Back then it was the pizza and the candy and the games that made me drool with anticipation. This time it was the love of one particular dad that was making me weak in the knees and ready to subject myself to the scrutiny of a 7 and a 4 year old.

I changed my clothes at least three times, which is completely stupid, given the chances they were even going to even remember much less care what I was wearing. Turtleneck? Too stuffy looking. Work clothes? Too professional. Short skirt – wrong target audience (the doctor yes, girls no). Khaki pants and layered t-shirts was the final verdict, with my cute black flats that I haven't gotten to wear in months because of the obnoxious Midwestern snow drifts and arctic temperatures that make anything except for knee-high waterproof snow boots impossible to consider. Hurray for global warming!

Internal kid-friendly dialogs were running through my head. What were we going to talk about? School? Friends? Their favorite doll? I am ill-equipped to have those conversations. I don't know what kids think about. I've never cared what any of them think, much less what they think about me. Children are unfamiliar territory. Normally I just treat kids like adults and they seem to like that. I don't do baby talk or parental condescension. I always hated those people when I was a kid. I remember at around age 10 how my friend's mom used to always talk to us like we were 3 when I was at least 10 and well beyond the cutesy-baby talk. It was infuriating, and it made me want to be grown-up obnoxious. I distinctly remember informing her one day that her house stunk and so did she because she smoked too much. She told me I was rather rude - which was true – but it did kill the baby talk for a while.

When I got to the doctor's apartment I took a deep breath before calling him to say I had arrived. He let me in and two little red-headed faces smiled shyly from the kitchen table where they were coloring or doing school work or something like it. I introduced myself rather awkwardly. Fortunately the doctor was cheery and knew how to better engage them than I did. Thank God he didn't let me remain standing there like an awkward, silent idiot for too long. Before long we were putting on pink coats and pink shoes with sparkles that lit up when they walked. I told them their shoes were cool, and I meant it. I never got sparkly, light-up shoes when I was a kid (I do distinctly remember begging for jelly shoes, a pair of clogs and a pair of knee-high 70's style brown vinyl boots – all of which I eventually got) , and if I didn't think they would look absolutely ridiculous, I would buy myself a pair now. Can you imagine me out for a run in my sparkle, light-up shoes? I think when I am old I am going to get myself a pair. I am going to be one cool old person. Kids on the other hand will probably think I'm a nutty old lady.

But for now I'm just a normal, boring grown-up in black flats that neither sparkle nor light-up, and I am incredibly paranoid about how to talk to these kids. If they don't think I'm stupid, will he? Will I say something that makes it all-too-obvious that I am not parent (or step-parent) material? Something that plants a seed of reservation about my worthiness as a partner and potential surrogate mum? I keep reminding myself that I normally get along just fine with kids, and that I should just be myself, but I remain wrapped in my wet blanket of silent and awkwardness.

Fortunately these two pink-clad, sparkly fire-crackers don't seem to care that I am not my bubbly self, apparently satisfied by the promise of tokens and rides. The early part of the night was rather quiet in terms of conversation between me and them. But I was being watched. Two little pairs of eyes were watching me at all times. Checking me out. They're nothing if not their father's daughters.

I have to say that Chuck E's has modernized a bit since when I was 8. It's still the same old pizza and candy and goofy kiddie rides – but there are some distinct high-tech additions for today's modern tots. Rides that take your picture, or give you a secret CSI photo ID, and a place to dance to your own kid-friendly music video. That's pretty awesome. I think my favorite was a ride that makes you feel like you're on an actual roller coaster. You recline inside a compartment in front of a screen with the image of a roller coaster track. The video on the screen gives you the perspective of being seated in one of the front cars – and as it climbs and turns and flies down the track the seats shake and move – and the combined sight, sound and motion make for a pretty realistic sensation that you actually ARE on a roller coaster. I was impressed. I went on it once with the older of the two girls, and then – with the "let's do it again" mentality of children – they decided to go on it together. I was standing behind them supervising when their dad came up behind me and, taking advantage of the fact that both pairs of eyes were simultaneously occupied, looked at me in just that "you're wonderful" sort of way, and kissed me. Man. Who needs roller coasters ?

Pass the Ticonderoga #2

I am a sucker for a well-written letter. If there's one thing that separates the men from the boys in the world of online dating, it's an ability to catch my attention and hold it with words. You wouldn't think this would be all that hard- but it is. Just read a few profiles. I guarantee you will come away unimpressed.

This fact has left me rather disappointed and, frankly, depressed. In recent weeks, I had begun to think that I may have to set my standards a little lower. There are some nice guys out there, right? Was it really necessary for me to be a complete intellectual snob? Couldn't there be a wonderful man, a possessor of many amazing traits, sans the prerequisite 800 GRE verbal score?

Perhaps, bu the whole thing makes me sigh in despair. I can't help it. Intellectual stimulation is required for the proper progression of the infatuation process. It's a well established fact that in my world, a few lines of prose will get you farther than an equal number of margaritas. Much farther. Just ask William, or Berlin, whose well-worded wooing won my heart.

Much to my surprise and delight, just when I was about to venture into another substandard round of dating I received this email:

After staring at the screen now for 20 minutes, I have to admit that I am a little self-conscious about how this comes out with you being a writer. I always agonize tremendously about anything I write, and the added pressure of the intended audience is gut wrenching!

I have to say that your profile is the most startling I've ever read, and it made me actually join this site so that I could contact you (I hope that doesn't read "stalker"). I'm a physician, and although my profession and educational background is fairly opposite of what I imagine yours to be, my interests, and attraction to life appears to be very similar. I have always been a voracious reader, and of the last 10 years or so, I have been interested in a great range of things: philosophy, literature, education, and most of all history. I have a sincere interest in medical history especially, and have lectured a little, and written one article.

I have to say that I consider myself an intellectual. If there is one thing that defines me it is my curiosity. A room full of creative and interesting people people talking and laughing and sharing food, wine and conversation not only would be, but has been the perfect evening. Actually, I'd like to meet more people like that if I could. Physicians can be intelligent on a wide range of topics, and most have interests that are far afield of medicine, but they tend to be somewhat narrow in their conversations. Also, they are not very imaginative, and tend to want to solve problems all the time and not consider complexity, which is a favorite topic of mine.

I also really love music of all types. I am in a band with some of my friends who are also doctors. It is one of the only absolute joys I've ever experienced and we have a lot of fun. We play out occasionally, but mostly just for parties of friends, or more likely just for ourselves. I play guitar and sing lead. I also enjoy going to the opera as well. It looks like a great season this year so I'll probably try to get "season tickets".

I guess I should tell you more about myself. I am 6'3 190 lbs, built like a swimmer. I have brown hair and blue eyes, and although I'm not the male model I was in my 20's, a glance in my direction won't turn you to stone. I was married for 8 years, and I have 2 daughters age 6 and 3. Right now I am a shared parent and they live with me around 10 days out of the month full time. I am currently separated, but we have been totally separated for 2 years. The divorce has been slow moving because of the economy mostly, and the fact that the house has no way of selling. We have no interest in reconciling and have both dated. The biggest lesson from that relationship is that we both needed someone different that more represented our values and approach to life. Luckily our girls turned out wonderful and perfect despite our faults.

So I've been babbling for a while, and while this certainly in no way describes my inner workings, it's a fair enough snap shot. I am very new to this whole internet dating thing, so I mostly hope that this email isn't inappropriate in any way. Please read it for what it is, trying to meet someone who sounds like a very interesting person. Whether or not you or I want a relationship, I am pretty sure you are someone I would want to know anyways. Hope to hear back from you.

I can't say that it was any one line that did it - but there was an overall generosity of spirit - a genuine lonely heart in search of a soulmate that came through. It wasn't poetry. But it was honest. It sounded like me. He had used his real name, so I checked out his picture on the website of the hospital where he works. He was cute. So I responded. And after a few emails we set a date to meet. Dinner on a Sunday night at a Vietnamese restaurant that I particularly liked, but he suggested. Off to a good start.

He picked me up at my place and we drove over to the the restaurant together. I liked him pretty much immediately, and there was a distinct lack of the usual first-date discomfort. But he really got my attention when I picked up my chop sticks and he said, "Oh good, you won't embarrass me by using a fork!"

That is exactly something I would have thought - if not said. I have never understand why westerners refuse to learn to eat with chopticks - and I can eat virtually anything with them. I spent a brief period in China and never even touched a fork, just on principle.

I don't remember what we talked about anymore. I asked him frankly about what happened in his marriage, and told him about mine, and the rest was a blur. Before we knew it the place was empty, and the waiter was at our table with an embarrassed smile on his face, politely asking us to wrap things up.

So we did. He drove me home. Slowly. And when he dropped me off we experienced our first awkward moment. I told him I had a nice time - and was wondering if he was going to kiss me goodnight - and also wondering if I should let him - seeing as I recently made a post-Berlin resolution to take things a little slower. In the end we contemplated it just long enough for it to get weird to I just hopped out of the car, waved good night, and sauntered back to my doorstep hoping he was watching me the whole way.