No one worth mentioning

Most of my adult life, I’ve been *the single friend. You know, the friend that’s dating, but no-one seriously, or to put it as my mom does “no one worth mentioning” - yeah, I get it honest, you think I’m harsh, meet moms, then we’ll tawk.

I come from a long line of very independent women. My Gramma used to make me angel food cake with fresh strawberries from her garden and home-made whipped cream. The first time she made it for me I must have been 7, maybe 8. We were sitting at the little card table in her kitchen and she told me when I thought about how good it was I should remember that men and icing have a lot in common. Nice but optional. At 7, I probably just laughed and asked for more whipped cream, cuz y’know that shit was good.

In junior high and high school, I was far more into sports than boys. I played soccer, managed the men’s baseball team, was in the marching band (no, I was not a Poofter) and eventually the color guard. I had at least one job at all times exercising horses, selling shoes, working at hallmark, and baby sitting. I was rarely idle.

I broke up with my first boyfriend because I just didn’t have time for him. Being the glowing example of diplomacy and tact that I am - it didn’t go over so well. I can clearly remember the look on my brother’s face when I told him how and why I dumped the guy. Abject horror, I believe is the best description.

Once out of college, I quickly became the friend everyone wanted to set up. I went through with it a few times. Most of the time I was left wondering what I had done to make my friends think I’d be interested in the guy they picked, but usually that was the worst of it. At a certain point I stopped accepting these offers, there were a lot of reasons, but this isn’t that post.

I could tell you why I turned down the men that asked me to marry them, except it’s not terribly exciting. The bottom line for each of them was that I really did just *know* it wouldn’t last. If I’m being 100% honest, I knew well before the proposal came.

I wouldn’t dare say that being single is always the cat’s meow, especially when you catch me in that moment where I can’t open the freakin’ pickle jar or figure out how to start the rented leaf blower.

However, I wouldn’t go back and change my decisions if I could and maybe that’s what matters, maybe that's all that matters.

For the record, I still don’t want to meet your brother.

The dating year, in review.

I'm already thinking about the shiny new year waiting for us just a few weeks away. New years are like new shoes, I love them. I am bad at the standard new years resolution thing; that is, I've had the same one for the last three years, which in the resolution world, a three-peat = failure. So I don't bother with those anymore, but I do like to think about what the past year has brought me (good and bad) and what I'd like to change about my life in the coming year. That's positive, that's constructive, and totally uncharacteristic of me.
Tonight I'm thinking about the men I've dated this year. Now, here's an area that could use a big overhaul. In no particular order here's how DATE '06 went.

1. The engineer-guy. At dinner before our meal was served, he went into a diatribe about the chemical difference between equal, sweet-n-low and splenda. Shut.Up. No, Really,Shut.UP. A full hour later, I've eaten my dinner and spent the last 10 minutes trying to decide how to pretend I have food poisoning. Before I could feign GI distress, he decided that being I'm a 'dog person' I might be more interested in how dog food is manufactured. Turns out he was wrong. Dog food is not any more interesting than artifical sweetners, hard to imagine I know, but true.

2. The hit-man. I liked this guy, he was more than a little rough around the edges, but I liked him. He made me laugh - a lot. Not a manufacturing or chemical compound discussion in site.
On our third date, after dinner we went back to his house and proceeded to get hammered. I remember putting a movie in the DVD, but have no idea what it was. He then proceeds to tell me that his real job is a hit-man for the Mafia. The other job is just a cover. He may need to "take off" at the drop of a hat, or eventually he made need to "make a run for the border" and "disappear completely". I remember thinking that I needed to make my own "run for the border" immediately, however I had ingested a LARGE amount of alcohol and knew driving would be a very bad idea. Not to mention, if what he was saying was not just some weird delusion, he might whack me if he knew what I was thinking. So, being the resourceful girl I am, I kept feeding him drinks while I switched to water. He passed out. I sobered up and got the hell out of there. Take the cannoli. Leave the gun.

3. The cowboy.This one started off with a bang (Getcher mind outta the gutter) we really hit it off. Then came the date where he asked me back to his place..and I went. At the door I got the obligatory bachelor "my place is a mess" comment. I remember laughing it off. I think it was the smell that made me stop laughing. "Mess" to me, means assorted mail, newspapers, books etc., carelessly tossed around, a stray shoe on the dining room table, some dirty dishes in the sink, dusty furniture, floors that need vacuuming . This is what Merriam-Webster would define as early american crack house. Fast-food bags everywhere (and possibly, not completely empty, and partially accounting for the smell) a dining room table ( I think) so covered in dirty dishes, dirty clothes (again, juding by the smell) that I am still not sure there was a table, I just refuse to believe ANYone could have that much foul smelling laundry and distinctly furry flatware. The couch I was politely offered a seat on, leaking sofa cushion stuffing and covered in stains of I don't want to know of what kind. I was speechless. The last straw was the roach that scurried across the coffee table that the cowboy gallantly squished with his sock-clad foot that sent me out the door, my last thought that I didn't want to know what the bathrooms in this place looked like. Ew.

4.The army guy. I liked this one too. He was a little on the quiet side, but sometimes I'm just in the mood for a guy that knows how to shut up. We went horse back riding, and tossed back a few beers together. His weird schedule kept us from seeing much of each other, but when we did get together, it was good. I told a girlfriend that was visiting during the period I was dating this one that I felt bad that I couldn't get more excited about him. There wasn't a single thing wrong with him, I just didnt' get the butterfly thing us girls get. I stuck it out until after being "missing" (his words not mine) for like 18 hours, he sent me a creepy, freaky, stalker-in-the-making email written in the third person asking if after two dates, didn't I think I should be checking in with him? As Tif said "Jason couldn't find Cravey; and Jason was sad".. Ew. Crreeepy.

5.The boxer. Very cool guy, very sexy. Impossible to keep up with. Between his constant flying back and forth to New York to see family and his on again off again work schedule. We just couldn't connect. That and his preferred method of communication was email. So we'd make tentative plans for friday night and then he'd be unreachable, until Saturday morning when I'd get an email "how about tonight" and usually some form of accusation that I was toying with him and not really interested in him... Whatever. Next.

6.The radio guy. Wow. Sooo cute. So Funny. Sooooo high-maintenance. I now know what men are complaining about - what a pain in the ass. This guy would call me every night and talk to me for hours. If he couldn't reach me he'd leave messages, he'd page me, he'd email me. I was exhausted two weeks in. Fuggedaboudit.

7. The Aussie. I admit it, I totally fell for the accent. Perhaps this is a cautionary tale for meeting men online. When the calls start rolling in 6, 7, 8 times a day and before your second date he's talking about how he's going to spend three nights a week with you--the warning signs aren't just showing they are bashing you in the freakin' head.

Here's a glass raised to better things in '07.
Seriously, how much worse can it get.

On second thought, do not answer that.