My Thoughts on Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson died on June 25, 2009.

My first thoughts were, “So sad, but I do believe he was a child molester. As much as I want to, I’m unable to mourn him.” In the past two days, with all of the media, speculation, rehashing and visceral reactions, I’ve really thought hard about Michael Jackson’s life. Not his career, but his life.

When I was 10, I loved Michael Jackson. Loved him as in, I wanted to marry him. I had the poster of him in blue jeans and a brown leather jacket, and I kissed that glossy paper good night every evening before bed. The night my sister-in-law Gloria took me to Buffalo with her sister and niece for my first concert, I felt more joy than I had ever before. The concert was Michael Jackson and the Jacksons for the “Victory” tour. It was mind blowing, and I’ve never seen anything like it since. Probably never will. “Say, Say, Say” told me that Paul McCartney was a big deal and that I should find out more. Sure, I’d heard of the Beatles, and John Lennon’s murder is one of my earliest memories outside of home and school, but I had no idea that they were THE BEATLES. MJ made me want to learn about THE BEATLES.

As I got older, Michael got stranger. Whiter. Skinnier. Flashier. He was no longer an approachable figure, but some sequined Apollo. The god of music benevolently receiving adoration from us mere mortals, and detaching from reality.

Anyone my age remembers the stories about Bubbles, the Elephant Man’s bones, the oxygen chamber and making his home into an amusement park. To me, his vocals began to rely on screeches and grunts that distracted from the pop brilliance of the music. Peace out, Michael Jackson poster, I don’t want to know you now. I would see footage of crying, adoring fans and pity them their naïveté.

His appearance continued to change. His skin became white. He had children. He held his youngest over a balcony in front of a frenzied crowd when the child was an infant. He had sleepovers with children who were not his own.

Do I think he had inappropriate contact with children, perhaps to the point of molestation? I wish I didn’t. To me, Michael Jackson was no longer an artist or even a person. He was a criminal who didn’t have to pay. In fact, his dance on top of an SUV during his trial demonstrates his delusion of infallibility, which was reinforced.

I knew there were reasons to have sympathy for him, but I wasn’t having any of that.

Now that he has died, and the secrets and unspoken truths are making themselves known, I allow myself to consider his circumstances.

Once Michael Jackson was able to perform, he ceased to be a child to those who were supposed to care for him and he became a means to an end. You know what I think? I think his father is a horrible human being who exploited his children for the fame that he wanted for himself. His mother may have been in an abusive situation, but she could have gotten out once the older children were self-sufficient. Once Michael was independent and working for himself, he was so consumed with dueling self-loathing and ego that there was no return. Those close to him weren’t about to tell him to cool it with the surgeries, use caution with the drugs and that sharing a bed with young boys was NOT a good idea. After all, they liked the money, the travel and the elitism that came with being able to claim that you worked with Michael Jackson.

In the end, we had someone who hated himself, loved his children and was adrift without moral or rational conscience because decades ago, several someones decided that he was not a person, but a commodity. He bought into the idea that he was a thing. He had no choice; it was all he knew.

Did he cause damage? I believe so. Was he himself damaged, probably irreparably? I believe so. He was never allowed to be human. I have sympathy for him now. To the outside world, his accomplishments were nothing short of amazing. To him, they were empty. The little boy who sang “ABC” should never have become a cautionary tale. He needs forgiveness from people who aren’t me. Whether or not they believe he deserves it is not for me to say. I do pray that his personal torment has ended, and that his children will be spared his demons. I hope that in death, his soul realizes the humanity that it was denied in life.

Complex and tragic. We are all the former and hope to avoid the latter. Let this be a lesson to us all to not be complicit in others’ tragedy. Look out for others. Speak up when you think a loved one is going down the wrong path; you may lose them for a while, but when they face the depths and need to turn to someone, you will be that one. You don’t have to be harsh. You don’t have to be cruel. You just have to try to save them from themselves so they don’t die at 50 in the wake of sordid rumor and accusation. As a human being, Michael Jackson deserved that as much as the rest of us.

That may be the legacy that means more than the fame.

Ground Zero for the Stage 5 Clinger

Oh, those unfortunate women who have only known the incessant attention of one Stage 5 Clinger! How they must envy me with my second go. So that they may live vicariously through me, I tell my tale…

On a gorgeous spring day, I had a dinner date with one of my best girls. It had been the better part of forever (or maybe just a couple of months) since we’d had just-the-two-of-us time and we were meeting at the Japanese restaurant for an evening of sushi, wine and basking in the sweet, easy warmth of our friendship. I arrived early, so I grabbed my Selfmagazine, stopped in the Italian bakery for a glass of wine, and sat on the patio waiting for my girl. As I was on my way in, a guy I vaguely recognized was on his way out. As I waited for my Cabernet, I placed him as the weird dude that had, at one time or another, hit on about every one of my single (and probably more than one involved) girls. I had my wine, I had my magazine, and I was looking forward to basking in the pre-dinner sun. Can you guess who also decided to chill outside the bakery sans anything purchased at the bakery? You’re so smart! I knew you’d guess correctly!

Up went the magazine, covering my face. The weird dude started talking and asking me questions. Since I was not raised to tell some random person to fuck off, I did the next best thing and answered his queries with monosyllables and grunts. Yes, you read that right. I grunted. I grunted like a stuck pig. Other than someone who deserves a life sentence in solitary, who wants to talk to someone grunting like a stuck pig? This is upstate New York, not damn Deliverance!

Blessing of blessings, my girlfriend shows up early! She goes inside to get a pre-dinner vino and I am smug, confident that I am off the dipshit hook. How often do I have to be wrong before I learn to ignore my instincts, people!? Now there’s an invention: the Ignore-ometer…it will guage when to go with your gut, and when to go against everything ever indoctrinated and tell a stranger to go fuck himself. That crazy MoFo took the window when my friend was getting her drink to ask for my number. And THIS dipshit was so shocked that she couldn’t think of an excuse or a phony number. Yes friends, I was a damn fool and I gave the digits. He had my number, and I pressured my friend to down her wine so we could scram.

As I thought about it, I figured there was no way he’d call because how could he be that dense?

Wrong. He texted me duringdinner. In the space of 4 days, he texted me 16 times. I believe I responded 4 times. And I was an asshole each time.

I was seriously annoyed and, once again, my Japanese restaurant provided a backdrop. Carrie and I were meeting for sushi and I started telling her about this latest Stage 5. Carrie informed me that he was also Stage 5-ing another one of her friends! This was perfect! I texted him and let him know that I never wanted to hear from him again, to which he responded with a rambling voice mail in which he called me crazy. It was beautiful.

Even more beautiful was when we had Carrie’s friend join us after dinner and we both texted Stage 5 to let him know he was busted. I think Carrie may have peed herself a little. He really thought I was upset because he was putting the moves on another girl (who was also not at all interested); he had no idea that he’s just a weird fuck.

Thankfully, that got him off my back. He persisted with Carrie’s friend for a few days, but she totally blew him off and he finally got the message. Afterward, I heard (from a frighteningly reliable source) that he had been fired from one of the high schools for inappropriate conduct toward a female student. Nice, huh?

Ladies, if there is a lesson in this, it is: prepare. Make up phony business cards with an alias and the phone number for the weather line. Stand in front of the mirror and recite, “Oh, I’m seeing someone. He’s on duty right now. He’s an Army Ranger.” Talk about your five children (note: this does not necessarily mean you have five children, but they can often be an effective off-putting device for the weird-ass dude). Have a plan. Be prepared to use it. This lesson is my gift to you.

Beige

As Kramer points out, each and every time he sees me, I have not posted in a long, long time. No explanation other than I just haven’t felt like telling another chapter lately. Today, however, I was inspired. Not inspired in a humorous, “just wait until you hear THIS” way, but in a reflective way.

I had a steering committee meeting today in Syracuse with a group of other professionals in my field. At 34, I am the youngest of the group, if that helps orient you. The men are all pretty fly, suave 4-60 year old cats. The women are also pretty together, especially considering they work and probably have the bulk of the parenting and household duties. One woman, though, just depressed me. She was just…so…beige. The sad part is that it was obvious it didn’t have to be that way.

I could tell by looking at her that, at one time, she probably looked like Uma Thurman (minus the height and the incredible skinniness). I would have killed for her lips, her skin is still lovely, if lined, and her eyes clear and blue. So sad that she had a look of chronic constipation on her face. So sad that her fine strawberry-blonde had not seen anything resembling a style in at least 5 years. So sad that although her body is no longer that of an 18-year old, she desecrates its softness it in a cheap beige suit, with a tucked-in knit shirt in a large floral pattern that reminds one of wallpaper in a nursing home, costume Mikimotos around her exhausted neck.

What turned Little Uma into Dowdy McGee? Was it marriage? Children? The stress of her career? Or was it one of the million burdens shared by all women? The illogical sense of duty, the weight of your world on your shoulders, the unspoken responsibility to carry on the traditions, throw the parties, make sure everyone is happy and together…Everybody Else:100, You:0.

These are not the kinds of questions one asks a practically complete stranger.”Say, I can tell you were smokin’ hot a few years back. What the fuck happened in the interim, and how do I avoid it?” All that’s left is speculation. Does life hold us down and make us weary like a bully to the small kid in fifth grade? Or, do we give it permission…surrender and cry, “Uncle! I give up. Take my youth and vitality, just make the hurt stop!”

I have to believe that beige is a choice. Picasso had blue, but blue is a cliche these days. Beige is the new blue. We all have our periods, but it’s what we do with them that determines their effect.

Velcro Is A No-No

As rotten as it may sound, there are boundaries when it comes to “dating up” or “dating down.” You all know what I’m talking about…that couple you see and wonder how in the name of all that is holy the one partner snagged the other. They are so fundamentally different that you figure mind control must be involved.

I’m not talking about one partner being more attractive or making more money. I’m talking the down and dirty basics: hygiene, curiosity about the world, image. Which brings me to the Velcro…

There is a church near work that sells homemade food every Friday. I like to go and pick up something for dinenr once in a while. The first time I went, the parishioner who was running the show got chatting with me about how he wanted to grow the food sale and even start a festival. I, being involved with the community, chatted with him about his plans and offered him some ideas regarding organizational partnerships and promotion. He was definitely kind of odd, but harmless.

A few weeks later, I had called in an order to pick up for my mother’s birthday. I went during lunch to pick it up, and Mr. Food was there again. Decked out in jorts (jean shorts for the uninitiated), black socks and Velcro sneakers. Unless you are 80 years old, that outfit is completely and utterly unacceptable. It says one of two things: 1) “I do not care at all about the image I am projecting about myself,” and 2) “But my mother says I’m special and she doesn’t know why I’m not married yet.”

True to my luck, he fell all over me. Among his comments were, and I quote verbatim, “You make that dress look good.” I wanted to crawl under a rock. How do you answer that? I said thanks and asked how much I owed. He tried to keep talking, but thankfully his phone rang (we were in a church, after all). I paid, left and have yet to return, which is a shame because I really miss the pirogi.

Which brings me back to my point. Yes, we all go in public looking like scrubs once in a while. Whether fresh from the shower with hair still wet, or having just wrapped up a workout or yard work. At those times, it’s obvious that we’re in between moments in our day, and that we don’t look that way all the time. When you head off to work your church pirogi sale dressed like an elderly used-car salesman, knowing full well that you will be interacting with the public, your entire sense of style is called into question. You know what else is called into question? Your level of motivation…are you really too lazy to tie your shoes? A woman looks at a man who can’t be bothered with laces and her mind races with thoughts of dirty dishes left on tables and dirty clothes strewn about the floor. All waiting for the woman to pick them up.

Perhaps this should be the new slang for attempting to date out of your league. I can just imagine recapping a weekend to my girlfriends: “He kept trying to get my number but he was way too Velcro. I had my eye on the Laces at the bar.”

Heisman Award #1

My first pick for Heisman-worthy date place is: Starbucks.

Starbucks is public enough to prevent scenes and kidnapping. There is no alocohol, so judgement is not impaired. It is, in many ways, the perfect place for a first date, especially if there is suspicion that you will be giving your date the Heisman.

Congratulations, Starbucks!

 

The Interview

Now, I have no doubt that any of who who have been following this blog have formed your opinions of me (surely the foremost judgement is “what a bitch. She’s just never happy.” I won’t argue, but I will say in my defense that nothing is as simple as it seems). I want to assure you that I do have times when the old hurts are buried deep enough and I am open to meeting a new man without imposing impossible standards on him from the get-go.

Case in point:

While getting my hair cut, my hairdresser began talking about another one of her customers. Nice guy, single and employed. He had openly asked her to keep him in mind if any of her single female clients were looking to date. I was feeling optomistic, so I told her to go ahead and give him my number. If he called, then nice; if not, no loss. He called, we chatted and we decided to meet. And up popped Clue Number One: he asked if I wanted to go to dinner and a movie. Before you roll your eyes, let me say that I have absolutely nothing against dinner and a movie. It’s the date equivalent of jeans and a white t-shirt – classic, comfortable and easily tailored to your tastes. That said, the d & m combination should not be a first date, and should absolutely not be a first blind date. How does he know I’m not psycho? How do I know he’s not a molester? How do we know we’ll have anything to talk about other than, “Ooooooh…they serve a hamburger with marinara sauce. I like marinara sauce.” We don’t!

I suggest Weapon Number One in the first date arsenal: Starbucks for coffee. For added security, I make it a work night. Wednesday, if memory serves.

We meet in the magazine section, and I know it’s not going to happen. It’s not that he wasn’t attractive. It wasn’t that he was unkempt. It wasn’t that he seemed unkind. We were just from two different planets. At this point, I tell myself to knock it off and quit being such a jerk. We shake hands, and go place our orders. I pay for my own.

We sit and start talking. I really can’t say we were even having a conversation. I’m trying to spark a give-and-take, because I think that’s the best way to learn about somebody. We pick up subtletiesin body language, tone and facial expressions that tell us so much about another person. He wasn’t into it. Clue Number Two: All I was getting was 2-3 word answers and mooney eyes.

(I don’t know what it is with men making mooney eyes at me. I’m really not all that attractive. Average, with no extra appendages, but certainly nothing to go ga-ga over. It makes me wonder if I’m the first woman to give these men the time of day after an extended period of time. I don’t think they’re recent parolees, but they really seem like I’m the best thing they’ve seen since Bubba dropped the soap in the shower.)

So, back to basics. I couldn’t handle the mooney eyes and the complete and utter lack of common ground. I decide to shut my mouth and see how he reacts to the uncomfortable silence. After a couple sips of coffee and restless shifts in our chairs, he attempts to pick up the ball. By asking questions. Not questions to spark a conversation, though. Remember when you were just learning to read and write, and lessons involved listing things that you liked and were familiar to you? Tose are the questions he asked. “Do you have any hobbies?” “What is your favorite color?” “Do you have any pets?”

I know he was trying, but those arent the things I need to know about a person right off. (Well, I do need to make sure that he likes animals.) I think you need to know that you’re what Raquel calls a Brain Match first, and then get to discocover all of the little details. It’s like looking at an impressionist painting: you get the overall feeling, and then examine the brush strokes that make what could be just a picture in some hands into art. Anyone can make a picture. Don’t we all want (and deserve) the art?

Clue Number Three: About 20 minutes into the date, I started getting preoccupied with getting home in time to catch at least part of Countdown with Keith Olbermann. Not an auspicious sign for a second date.

Thankfully, my work night machination was there to save me. a bit before 8 p.m., I informed my interviewer that I had some things to do before I turned in, and it had been nice to meet him. He looked a bit surprised that I had informed him it was time to go home (separately). I walked several steps ahead of him as we were leaving, and turned around and waved good-bye. I was relieved in my belief that the evening had ended with the understanding that there was nothing in the future.

Apparently I should have actually articulated that to my interviewer, as he called a few days later. I was stunned and not about to answer the call. He left a very nice message asking me to call him to go out again, and I was absolutely baffled. Could he be serious? I agonized over whether I should call him back and let him know that “we” were nowhere, or just ignore the call. I was the jerk and just didn’t return the call. How do you tell someone so completely clueless that there is no attraction and no interest? Either way, I’d have been the asshole, so I chose the asshole route that was easier on me.

A few weeks later, I found out from my hairdresser that he was, in fact, clueless. I was getting my hair trimmed and told her that he was very nice, but that there was obviously no common ground. He was just too mild for me…I’m not into knock-down fights, but we all need someone to make us think differently and challenge our long-held beliefs, not with the intention of changing them, but with the intention of examining our true selves and hopefully evolving. Turns out, the interviewer had also been in for a haircut. He thought that all had gone very well and that it was a good date. He just couldn’t contemplate why I wasn’t interested. Was that a lack of self-awareness, or was it ego? I don’t know and it really doesn’t matter either way.

The interview had ended, and I passed on the job. My dream job may be out there, and it may not. I suppose I’ll just do my best to keep my skills fresh and look for the right offer. This kind of economy is never an entirely friendly one, but at least it provides fodder for the resume.

Girls And Their Bartenders

Quitting time on Friday. The first hot and humid day of the year. The workday that follows a restless night broken by thunderstorms. Today, every girl needs a Key Lime Martini at The Hotel Utica.

I take my place at the bar, latest issue of Healthin hand, and settle in with my dessert in a glass. Within a few minutes, a young twenty-something girl bops in and sits at the end of the bar. I can tell she fancies herself an artist and has every confidence that her first novel will be published to critical acclaim before she’s 30. I’m also quite sure she counts Natalie Portman and Carrie Bradshaw as influences.

The girl and the bartender start chatting, and it’s obvious they meet like this often. It’s a flirtation we’ve all been party to in our lives. Mine was several years ago in the same bar, except I didn’t sit at the end. I sat down by the window. As I observed them (stealthily. I wasn’t staring or taking notes. Healthwas my willing accomplice), I began to wonder if this is something we all do. I’ve seen bartenders – and waiters and baristas for that matter – play the game just to get laid, but I’ve seen far more engage in this prolonged mating ritual that inevitably goes nowhere.

But, what do we find so appealing? Is it the fact that these men have other aspirations and we’re swept away in the romanticism of being with them as they pursue their dreams? Is it because they are attentive? Their attentiveness is a good business practice, but some are so good at it, that we feel we really do stand out from the crowd.

In the end, of course, we don’t. Natalie Bradshaw will grow frustrated, as we all do. Bartender will meet someone even more fascinating. It’s a good ride though, and fairly harmless on the romance scale. If they keep it where it is and don’t get carried away with with what they think it “should” be, they’ll have the old-fashioned summer romance that is as old as the stars.

I smiled as I left to face the wall of humidity…oh, to be young again. 

The 50-Year Old (Re) Virgin

In the not-too-distant past, I worked with animals. In the course of my work, some collies that had been abandoned came in and a board member called one of her friends who knew the breed well to come and see them. I showed him the dogs, he fell in love with one and started the adoption procedure.

The next day, the board member called me to tell me that “Garth” wanted to ask me out for coffee. I didn’t think I had much to lose – he was nice and he liked animals and that’s 2 points in his favor right there. So, I made the rueful decision to let him call me.

We chatted, and he was nice, but a bit needy. Not heeding my Needy-Meter (which was off the chart when he left the voice mail telling me how surprised and, no joke, “tickled pink” he was when he found out I would meet him for coffee).

So, I set out to meet him at a very public Starbucks, with Raquel at the ready for a planned afternoon of shopping so I didn’t have to spend too many hours with him. That morning, when I was having my “Sex In The City-” esque brunch with some of the girls, he texted several times about our afternoon coffee. The essence of the exchange was summed up when Raquel commented, “Aaaaaaaw, he wants to prove he’s hip by texting you.” And, for the record, she said that in all sincerity.

He shows up wearing what were apparently his best boat shoes and rocking his coffee-stained choppers. We got chatting…about his life as a 50-something lonely divorcee, his son, his boat, his career (accountant) and his dogs. The man clearly had not known the pleasure of female companionship in years, perhaps decades (let’s not forget he was married for a long, long time and sex had probably ceased years before the divorce). Garth was a 50-year old re-virgin – and not by choice – which is approximately 826 million times worse than a straight up virgin because he knows what he’s missing.  He was getting a little intense, so I worked into the conversation the fact that I didn’t believe in getting serious and really investing until I knew someone as a friend (because if you know my friends, you know the man has to be capable of hanging with them; it’s non-negotiable). He swore up and down that he agreed and that he’d been married before and loved his independence as much as I did.

I knew he was full of shit, from the roots of his crooked teeth to the soles of his popular-in-1987 boat shoes he was chock-full of Government Grade Shit. Plus, I just wasn’t that into him.

I brought the afternoon to a close by reiterating that I had a Marshall’s date with Raquel and shook his hand. Yup, the handshake, aka the kiss of death for the possibility of future nookie. As we were leaving the ‘Bucks, Raquel was walking in. For once, we didn’t plan it, but no outside observer with any sense would believe it. Such is the price we pay for being on the same wavelength.

Several weeks passed and I did not attempt to contact Garth, nor did he try to contact me. It’s truly beautiful when it works out like that. One morning, I opened up the paper – as I am wont to do – and perused the Op-Ed page – as I am wont to do, as if I need a reminder that I am surrounded by closed-minded hillbillies. Lo and behold, there was a Letter to the Editor from Garth. I will take this moment to remind you that he swore up and down and on Kennedy’s grave that he loved his independence and did not want an uber-serious relationship. The letter mentioned, on more than one instance, that he had a girlfriend downstate who agreed with the opinion that he was expressing to the editor and indeed, the whole newspaper-reading population in a three-county area. Please do not judge me harshly, but I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. It was basically a free “I’M IN LOOOOOOOVE” announcement under the guise of civic involvement. I don’t know how my initial reaction was to laugh and not puke.

Toldja he was full of shit. I invite my jaded bretheren to join me in proclaiming: Liberte! Fraternite!

Big thanks to Saffie and Raquel for reminding me about Garth. An oldie (in more ways than one), but a goodie.

Stage-5 Clingers Are Not Movie Magic: They Are Real and They’re Here

If you have not had a Stage-5 Clinger in your life but think it would be nice to have someone dig you that much, this is your warning.

Back in January, my friend Carrie (not to be confused with Kerry) and I decided to bite the bullet and go to what was billed as a single mingle for professionals. The presenting organization is in Syracuse, so we figured there would be a decent gene pool and what did we have to lose anyhow? The mingle was a “lock and key” event, in which the women were given little locks and the men keys. Each key opened several lock. In order to start conversation, the men asked the women if they could try to open their locks. When a lock/key combo worked, the couple went up and got tickets for a drawing. Prizes included crappy Red Cat wine – no joke. Freud would have loved this shit.

The only attractive men within my and Carrie’s age range happened to be brothers: Perry and Craig. Craig came over – on his lone crutch – and asked if he could try my lock. It worked, we got our raffle tickets and chatted. He was nice, but didn’t seem like he could hold his own against two women who refused to dumb it down for a date. Eventually Perry came over and tried our locks. His didn’t work in mine, but his and Craig’s worked in Carrie’s. They chatted a bit and then moseyed over to a couple of girls who were not only willing to dumb it down…wait, that’s mean for me to say; maybe they couldn’t help being dumb…but were also, shall we say, more than willing to play Hide The Salami with a stranger on game night. Carrie and I were NOT down with game night. Perry and Craig left with these girls and Carrie and I laughed until it hurt.

After a couple more locks, keys and middle-aged crises (there was more than one cherry-red BMW in the parking lot on that particular evening), Carrie sent me a text that summed up the evening brilliantly. It said, simply, “Hell.” There was no keeping it together at that point, so Carrie and I went for Tex-Mex.

Flash forward to post-Valentine’s Day February and Carrie, our friend Alison and I decide to give the ol’ lock and key another try, this time outside of Syracuse. And who, to our wondering eyes should appear, but Perry and Craig. Well, as it happened, Craig and I got chatting, exchanged numbers and did a little smooching. The smooching was actually quite chaste (pay attention to this, as it comes back later).

He called the next day and we decided to meet in Syracuse for dinner and a movie. He was clearly more interested in me than I was in him, and I shot down his (several) suggestions that I stay in Syracuse overnight. I thought that would have been a clue, but apparently that’s just me. Again, he was very nice and considerate, but the conversation was like pulling teeth.  Seriously, your girl should have gotten paid for working so hard at talking. I wasn’t truly interested in Craig, but Molly’s words about me getting older and cutting men off at the knees continue to resound in my head and I thought I should give him a chance. So, it was fine (yes, just fine, which really is not acceptable) and after the movie, he drove me back to my car. I wasn’t really worried about getting in the car with him as I had given my friend Raquel his name, number and general address so she could avenge my death if need be, and I told him this.

So, in the car we kissed a little, but they were the same kisses as the first kiss. They were, my friends, pecks. And they were consistently pecks…no variation, no intensity, no spark. They were pecks and we might as well have been in 4th grade. I broke up the little party – by the way, I’d like to take this moment to thank God for the crappy weather and excuse to get going that night – and was on my way. Craig sent a text as I got to Utica and wanted me to let him know that I got home okay. Aw, ain’t that sweet?

After that, he called religiously and wanted to stay on the phone a lot. Again, I worked hard at keeping the conversation fires stoked and knew that he was nowhere for me. I found myself writing email to friends while we were on the phone and saying, “mmmmm hmmmm…really?” a lot. It was suffocating, and I was beginning to see the Clinger emerge from the chrysalis. 

He wanted to go out again, so I told him to come to Utica for a lunch date. Seriously, if you’ve seen each other a few times, and you are going for a lunch date, stick a fork in it because it’s done. Down comes Craig, and he’s all friggin’ moony over me at lunch. I thought I would vomit on my plate. How could he not know? I was giving the appropriate signals, yet this was clearly going to require something more harsh.

After lunch, he wanted to go to the mall. Like we were 14 years old. Good Lord. I complied, and at said mall, he was acting all boyfriendy without cause. After two dates, it is NOT acceptable to put your hand on my shoulder and attempt to guide me. It is also not acceptable to follow me in to Bath and Body works when I am attempting to get a respite. He had apparently never seen this memo.

After the mall, I took him back to his car with the intention of informing him that “this really isn’t working for me,” yet before I could speak he started in with the pecking. I wanted to shoot myself.

The next day, after several unanswered calls and texts, he sends me the text that proves he’s way too needy for my taste. Just to give you the right perspective: we’d met in January, this was February, we had been on 2 dates and I had stopped answering his texts and calls. The text was “My cousin wants to move in. Its in Syracuse. What do you think?”

I think I don’t give a fuck, that’s what I think. Seriously, this guy who I’d only met about 5 weeks earlier was asking me about his living situation. C’mon, I barely knew him and I didn’t know his cousin at all. I knew that I wasn’t going to be moving in with him anytime ever. That, my friends, was the annoying last nail in the coffin. It was over and I decided that The Pecker would not hear from me even if he sent me a text that he won Mega Millions and was offering me a debt-free future. There are some things money can’t buy, and MasterCard can get me a Rabbit…that’s all I’m saying.

Finally, after blowing up my phone, kissing poorly and generally being as annoying as a rectal itch he got the picture and I’ve not heard from him in 3 months. It is bliss.

Moral of the story: there are things worse than being 34 and single. Craig is one of them.

Just call me “Miranda.”

Once Upon A Time…

I went out with a nice guy. Educated, handsome, funny, employed…he was great. Unfortunately, there were no sparks. I knew ahead of time there wouldn’t be (that witchly sense hard at work). I told Molly I was thinking of canceling and she informed me, quite matter-of-factly, that we both were getting to the ages where we shouldn’t be turning down dates.

That got the gears turning. “Oh God, I’m older than Molly by a couple of years. She’s at least still in her twenties. I’ve crossed the 30 threshold and there’s no going back. What if she’s right? Should I go out with him just so I won’t be alone? OhGodohGodohGod! I’m going.”

The appointed date day arrives and The Good Guy calls to confirm time and details. Since he asked me out, I thought maybe he’d throw out some suggestions. Instead, he asked me where I wanted to go. Very considerate, but I felt that since he asked me out, he could have thrown out a couple of choices for me. After all, it was 6 p.m. on a Friday and I was damn tired. I didn’t want to think and I was wickedly (literally) hormonal. This created a tempest of annoyance in my mean little head. “Who does he think he is being nice and asking me my preferences? Doesn’t he know I’m tired and have been making decisions at work all week? Why cant he just be a tool and tell me what we’re going to do and if I don’t like it then I can go to McDonald’s and have coffee with the Senior Brigade?” The poor guy didn’t know he was going on a date with an asshole.

So, to dinner we go at the restaurant of my choosing. The conversation was good (food was okay, but even I’m not so much of a jerk to blame him for that) except that he agreed with everything I said. Now, most people would not consider this a bad thing, but since I am a complete freak of nature, it got a little under my skin. I wasn’t looking for a fight…maybe I just thought he was saying what he thought I wanted to hear. Being of the opinion that men are manipulative by nature, I couldn’t have possibly believed The Good Guy was sincerely sharing his thoughts and beliefs with me and that they meshed with mine. Dinner ended, and I paid my share…I didn’t feel right about bilking him when I knew there was to be nothing moving forward.

We went out for a couple of drinks, called it a night and went our separate ways. I think I did him a favor by not getting him messed up with me. I just hope that, if he ever thinks about it, he realizes that.

I have armchair psychoanalyzed this to death, and I know what you’re thinking and for the record, you’re probably right.

I still see The Good Guy…we share a circle of friends. He is still great and he has a fantastic girlfriend. They’re very happy, which makes me feel like less of an asshole. I truly hope they’re happy and together forever. The Good Guy finished first. It’s refreshing.