He Won't Commit

In The Hampton's! Plus, Leonardo DiCaprio

2007-06-01T21:08:00.000-07:00

MEMORIAL DAY IN THE HAMPTONS, MISSION STATEMENT:
To snag some quality gal pal time, take some dreaded online dating photos, and of course the usual hunt for Mr. Right.

I headed out with my friends Daisy and Melanie to Bridgehampton and some of the surrounding towns for the holiday weekend. They had snagged one of the last available cars at the rental place, which was a dull purple wagon we called the 'Grimace-mobile.' A real guy magnet. As you may have guessed, I succeeded at two of the three above missions.

As far as girl time goes, we read Star magazine on the beach, shopped, and test marketed double scoop ice cream cones from three different ice cream parlors. Despite a few road blocks, a good time was had by all. Our beach day turned cold and breezy, which gave me a good excuse to cover my lumpy bottom with a towel. Later, shopping almost came to blows in the changing room of Australian Feminity, a curiously named clothing store ran by Asian women where nothing is Australian. I was trying on dresses when a heavily tatood biker chick caught her boyfriend first staring at my breasts, which were stuffed together like grapefruits, and then heard him saying to me "Nice, that dress fits real nice." Then, we were surprised out of our wits to be charged 8 dollars each for take out ice creams in East Hampton. The poor pubescent soda jerk grumbled the exorbitant sum guiltily under his breath as he handed over the cone. Undoubtedly, our voices choraled the beginning of a long summertime arrangement consisting of What do you mean, 8 dollars? and What the fu** , is this ice cream laced with cocaine?
Daisy took a large batch of photos so I could get started on the Match.com. As usual, in every picture I look enbalmed.

We decided to support the community by attending the local fire department's pancake breakfast on Sunday. I ate pancakes, eggs and bacon, and went back for a second helping in true piglet style. Melanie thought the frozen, pre-packaged orange juice was scary. I thought the orange juice was decent but was less impressed with the actual firemen, none of whom I could imagine featured on a calendar.

We did get to spend time with Daisy's dad, who is a chef, which puts him as the front runner for best male dinner companion so far this year.

When I got back to New York and my glamorous life of dog walking, I would like to tell you all that as far as Mr. Right goes, the news is, I found him! Unfortunately, doing so made me want to shoot myself. Here's what happened:

I was taking out a client, a bassett hound named Ziggy for the usual series of treeside leglifts, and, if I'm lucky, a moderately-sized curbside dump. The dog is not important to the story, but I really like Ziggy so I thought I'd mention him. Anyway, I saw a posting in Zig's apartment that a movie would be filming there for that day only. I started salivating when I found out who was in the building. The film's director was Sam Mendes, who directed one of my favorite movies of all time, American Beauty. I mean, two weeks ago, I rented the DVD just so I could see the director's cut. And I will save the detail about who is the star of the movie until I get there in my story. I talked to one of the tech guys who explained that they will be breaking for lunch shortly, if I wanted to stick around and get a glimpse of the star. Ziggy had already pooped, so I had brought him back upstairs already.

I leaned against the building on 101st street in the hot, sticky heat, waiting. I tried calling a bunch of friends on my cell so I would appear to be less obvious, but no one was around. So I just stood there. About five minutes later, I saw him. Leo (DiCaprio, of course) came strolling out of the building by himself. He passed right in front of me, and my God, did he look steamin', ladies. His shirt was unbuttoned about halfway. His skin was flawless and tan. He had been obviously working out and was larger that than I would have thought. And I mean that in a good way. He looked straight ahead as he passed within a foot of me, as I just stared at him like an idiot. I wanted to say something like, "take me to your world."

I cursed myself for not having Ziggy with me. He's a cutie, and I'm sure could have gotten

Leo's attention for me, I know it. Now that I'd already brought him back upstairs, it was I that was in serious danger of throwing myself onto Leo and humping his leg. I should have taken a god damned picture on my phone for this blog and to put under my pillow but I thought that would be rude.

The horrible excruciating part of it was when I saw Sam Mendes join him, and the two of them turned right to the restricted catering area. I had to turn left to go pick up Sam 10 blocks up, for another round of #1 and #2. It hurts people, it hurts.

Gift Deceleration

2007-02-19T09:34:00.000-08:00

We’ve come up with a technical term for all this crappy present phenomena: “gift deceleration.” We, and countless other women who have fallen for commitmentphobes, have been victims of this dynamic. Basically, the longer the relationship endures, the more thoughtless and impersonal the gifts she receives are.
Normal relationship conventions dictate that, with each passing anniversary, gifts become more personal, more thoughtful, and generally more extravagant (First anniversary paper, fifth anniversary linen and so on.) When the woman in question is with a commitmentphobe, however, gifts tend to get less personal, less thoughtful, and far less extravagant. For example, whereas the very first Christmas or Valentine's day you spend together might find you unwrapping tiny blue boxes with white ribbons from Tiffany's, your third or fourth might find you pulling unwrapped gifts out of plastic bags that bear the label Mart somewhere on them, as in Walmart, Sportmart, or Kwik Mart-you get the picture. For the woman this is particularly painful because, from her standpoint, the longer the relationship lasts, the deeper her emotional connection to the man grows. As for the man in question, it's anyone's guess. The length of time he spends in the relationship could be deepening his connection, lessening it, or not really affecting it at all. From the woman's standpoint, however, one thing is clear; the gifts she is receiving get lousier and lousier each year as her boyfriends morphs from a jovial and generous St. Nick to a bad tempered and parsimonious Bad Santa.
Following are some examples of gift deceleration:

V-Day, "Paul"
2000: Purebred Pekinese pooch w/Godiva chocolates
2001: Gundt stuffed dog w/Toblerone
2002: Dog Fancy desk calendar w/Whitman’s sampler

V-Day, "Joe"
2004: Tiffany earrings
2005: Fossil watch
2006: Necklace and earring set from Claire’s boutique

V-Day, "Aaron"
2004: Couples’ golf weekend in Palm Springs
2005: Obviously gratuitous photo album engraved with American Golf Classic
2006: Tin Cup DVD

V-Day, Brian
2004: La Perla lingerie w/Chanel perfume
2005: Victoria’s secret bra and panty w/Body Shop bubble bath
2006: $8.99 Cherokee T-shirt nightie w/Jean Nate body splash

V-Day, Steve
2004: Bang & Olufson state of the art car stereo
2005: Radio Shack Hands-Free Cell Phone Kit
2006: Typing program

V-Day Redux

2007-02-14T19:50:00.000-08:00

Ooh oo ooh! BeenThere reminded me some V-Days that were equally as horrifying. Okay, first, MY boyfriend right AFTER college gave me a bracelet. It was marcacite and appeared to be a bit dulled. The clasp was also broken. He had no problem telling me that he actually found it in the dirt by his work. Let me tell you that all of these guys were ‘well-to-do,’ men, full of pride. No one ever thought they were scuzzies or anything. Except for us, in retrospect.
Valentine’s Day massacre #2: My ex actually took me out to a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant. Not too shabby, right? He didn’t say “Happy Valentine’s” or anything like that, I thought that maybe he had even forgotten it was Valentine’s Day. I expected he had a hotel or something lined up, because that’s what he did the previous year. Instead, we had a drink at the bar and he told me he felt like “a moth to (my) flame.” He said that whenever he wanted to take the next step, he started thinking about how I still lived with roommates and how he was troubled that I should be further along in my life. Check please.
#3 On another year, he decided to work late, but felt bad about it and told me I could order Chinese food on his dime.
#4 I bought a dress, made reservations at a fancy restaurant, and waited outside for an hour. He forgot to set the alarm to wake up from his nap.

2007-02-14T18:39:00.001-08:00

Tomorrow I buy me big Valentine candy box for cheapie.

St. Valentine's Day Massacre

2007-02-14T11:13:00.000-08:00

Ms. DunThat has had a number of bad V days, no doubt about it. I, however, have had many many Valentines Days that were much worse. At least DunThat got to go on vacation. I never went anywhere. And my gifts always sucked. So, the rundown:

College boyfriend: very cheap strand of 'pearls' that broke the next week. He informed me that I wasn't getting a card because he regretted spending so much on the cheap-ass necklace.

Grad school boyfriend: Year One--'the honeymoon phase'--a very cheap plastic Casio watch. I got him a Coach leather briefcase. Did I dump him dear reader? Of course not. The next year I got a set of grapefruit spoons. When he gave them to me he said something to the effect of "I love that you don't need silly gifts like flowers, that you like practical things. Now we can eat our grapefruit together every morning" Instead of punching him in the nose, I thought "what a sweet simple guy" as I gave him $200 worth of Clinique mens skincare products. Year 3: "The Party's Over." Since this was the early 90s cordless phones were still a big deal. I searched high and low and spent what, for me, was a tortuous five days in stores like Best Buy and Electronics World searching for the phone that would best suit his needs since he was way into technology. I, you should note (becuase it is important) am NOT AT ALL into technology, phones, or anything like that. Well, V Day rolls around and I get NO GIFT! He tells me it is something very special and he will give it to me the next day. Well two days later he drops by and gives me THE EXACT SAME PHONE I GOT FOR HIM!! The bonehad says to me: "well, you talked about it so enthusiastically when you gave it to me, I thought you might like one for yourself." So lame. But I stil didn't break up with him until about six months later. When I went over to his house to get my stuff I discovered a closet that contained every gict I had ever given him--unopened. The Coach bag still wrapped in tissue paper. the skincare, all wrapped up and no doubt dried up since it had been TWO YEARS. The phone--never opened. The guy was such a commitmentphobe he couldn't even committ to opening up my gifts!!

Treasured Valentines Moments

2007-02-13T16:58:00.001-08:00

Let’s just make this simple. The best Valentines’ days have been the ones that fall the closest to the beginning of a relationship. Silly me, I was under the impression that as a relationship progresses and grows deeper, V-Days would grow more and more romantic. Is that true for any girl besides my mother? Now that I think about it, my dad has his faults, but not worshipping my mother isn’t one of them. Once, he even surprised her with a necklace she had wanted by burying it in the sand while vacationing on the beach. And she still yells at him for not wiping up the bathtub after he uses it?
My experience has been a little different.
Was St. Valentine a sadist? Why on earth would they devote one day a year that is fueled with so much expectation? Some of you are reading this and thinking that I am a boob. “It’s just a day,” and “It’s shallow to place meaning on a gift” might be some of the things you’re thinking. I hear ya. The point is, I was enough of a boob in the first place to date these guys, so holidays turned into a test that pitted what I knew to be true against the last shred of hope that they would use this day to prove my hunch wrong. Namely, that I was doing the dating equivalent of dialing the wrong number over and over again.
I’m actually, finally, over the breakup, so Valentine’s day and all that comes along with it doesn’t feel like someone’s wrenching Cupid’s arrow from my flesh anymore. I’m just pretty ho-hum about it.
I do miss the chocolate, my favorite thing. But here’s a novel idea- I CAN BUY MY OWN! I can walk into Godiva, pay money, and walk out with lovely red ribboned box of truffles for myself and Mrs. BeenThere this weekend. Or, I could ask my friend John to biy me some. And those candy hearts stink; they taste like chalk and look like suppositories.
Anyway, I had a hard time picking a winner for Worst V-Day, but this one was pretty low.

My ex and I made plans to go away on Valentine’s Day, for four nights. Montreal. In the middle of February. Driving. Actually, I have to say it would be a fantastic, out of the ordinary, cozy holiday for a less-dysfunctional couple. The hotels are all discounted so you can pamper each other in luxury for less. But it would be better if your boyfriend wasn’t on the heels of a commitment freak out and treating you like crap. Remember that, cuz it’s pretty cold not to be nestled in bed almost the entire time. Anyway, so we left New York V-Day evening around six, right after he drove all stinky and smelly from his boxing workout. I thought to myself, “He’s probably waiting until we get to the hotel to give me my card or gift.” On the way up there, we were trying to find a motel to stay at but everything was booked, once again, on account that it was VALENTINE’S DAY. We pulled into this real dive motel, Campy’s, I still remember the name on one of those signs with the individual black block letters you put up yourself. We joked that it looked and sounded like a crash pad for patrons of the strip club we saw a while back. At the counter the old guy told us that he was sold out, although I didn’t know who else besides us rejects would end up here on V-Day. As we were leaving he shifted his gaze curiously and said, “Well, I do have one room available, but it’s a little rough.” Not knowing what “a little rough” meant exactly, we accompanied him to the room. When he opened the door we saw two cots with yellow teeth-colored sheets, stained walls and carpet, and a nasty smell. I felt like we were the investigators of a crime scene right out of “Murder She Wrote” or “Mike Hammer.” My BF adopted one of the most disgusted faces I’ve ever seen in my life, up there with when I tried on for him the kilt miniskirt I bought a couple years ago when the twenty-somethings started wearing them again.
We found another hotel, and at this point, it was 11:30 and I was now kidding myself with the idiotic thought “Maybe he’s waiting until 12:00 to celebrate Valentine’s.” At this point it was pretty clear I wasn’t getting a proposal. And anything valuable never would have made it out of Campy’s. The night ended in an argument and me saying “You didn’t even get me chocolates?”

Once I stuffed down the difficult trip up, we had a couple of nice days. We actually made it to a wild animal reserve about a two hour drive away. We saw deer, ox, wolves, bears, etc. You could buy carrots and feed the animals, which was nice, and we were the only ones there. It is definitely something I wouldn’t mind repeating someday, with a guy that didn’t actually want to leave me there.
We had to stay an extra night on account of bad weather. During check out, he would only ask me to split the cost of the extra night, since it was Valentine’s Day and all. Keep in mind this guy made five times my salary. And then he paid with his corporate account! Actually, he paid for a lot of stuff with his corporate account. It wasn’t until much later that BeenThere informed me that he could charge that stuff to his place of work. So I guess he was screwing me and his boss.
On the drive back, he reflected that the best thing about it was that he got a close-up picture of a wolf.

ME on CBS Early Show!

2007-01-21T16:59:00.000-08:00

On Wednesday, I was proud to be a guest on the CBS Early Show. That's right. Sometime around Valentine's Day, friends and family will be able to catch a glimpse of me dishing it out with 6 other women about my breakup with the ex and its aftermath.
As you can guess, this is part of every girls fantasy. To be able to go on NATIONAL TELEVISION and talk about ridiculous and horrible things about your ex? Come on! It's only a 3 1/2 minute spot, but hopefully something shaming I said about him will get aired, and he will be sitting in front of the telly eating his non-fat Muesli and watching it, along with his friends and his mother (who all think he's such a stand up guy).
It was so nice to take a little walk down memory lane and revisit some of the more vile behaviors I subjected myself too. With two years distance now, I was able to look back and have a real Idi Amin moment. An Idi Amin moment is precicely that moment when a man who you formerly considered charming is suddenly revealed as a vicious and predatory louse.
On the Early show panel, I got to talk about the breakup. How he called me out of the blue to break up with me at 10:30pm , right before a yearly children's dance recital I had to coordinate the next day. How he sent all my stuff back in boxes minus all the jewelry and clothes he gave me. I got to show the viewers at home the only thing I got to keep, his first stuffed animal: a faded and stained stuffed snake. I got to talk about how after every time he treated me badly, he would shut me up with chinese food. He'd buy us a big feast, and after I munched down spare ribs and lo mein, we'd end up in the sack. I should never have been a willing participant in this. And about how he backed out of our vacation plans to stay in New York for his mother's surgery. And before you think I'm a bitch, like all his friends did, can I tell you about how I had to pay for the vacation myself, and how I found out that HE DIDN'T EVEN VISIT HIS MOTHER AFTER THE SURGERY?!

Chances are, each of us willl be hauled to the dump at least once in our lives. I am an expert on getting dumped. At least when it comes to what NOT to do. I've broken all the rules and have lived to tell what what could have been done, what should have been said, what might have been read, and what I'd wished I'd learned when I was eighteen.
If you would like to become an expert like me, I've got a few tips.
First of all, like anything else, you can't expect mastery overnight. You should get one good decade and at least three devastating dumps under your belt before you consider yourself an expert. Here are some things to get you started.
Communication. Make sure you check into his voicemail a few times a day so he can see your number flashing on his caller ID.
Home Decorating. Each time you visit his apartment, bring a gym bag full of your things to stash there. It's not a home until your tampons are edging out his shaving supplies.
Compromise. In this case, fight for what you want and deserve, but if it lasts too long, just give in.
Holidays. An IPod or a Typing program is a really good gift, much better than some girly crap like diamond earrings.
Other Women. If he is still licking his wounds from a previous breakup, by all means, proceed. If it doesn't work out with the two of you, you have the great personal satisfaction of knowing you have helped heal his soul just a little bit, enough to reunite with his ex.

More tips to come...

Mrs. BeenThere says:

2007-01-18T19:15:00.000-08:00

We’ve often heard it said that 'a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.' That's all fine and dandy, unless you happen to be a fish that idolizes Lance Armstrong. We know what it is like to be that fish; desperate to get out there and peddle, even though we don't have any feet. As any fish who’s ever longed for a ten speed of her very own knows, it is especially hard to sit on the sidelines watching all the other fish pedaling off to Pottery Barn to register for wedding gifts. Given how many fish are out there actually riding bikes, who seem to be having a really good time, you can hardly fault your average fish for wanting that damn bike!
Sometimes you are a fish without a bicycle, so your goal is to find the perfect bike. Much of the time, however, you have a bicycle. The problem is, however, that your bicycle has a lot of problems. Some bikes are missing important parts, like the seat, so every time you try to take it somewhere you end up with a big pain in your ass. Sometimes one or more of its wheels don't work. No matter how hard you try, you can never get it to go in the direction you want. Lots of times the bike just doesn’t want to take off his training wheels and grow up, thus making it impossible for the two of you to go the long haul together.
Many fish who find themselves with bikes that don't work simply dump them by the side of the road and get new ones. Other fish (and we put ourselves in that category) want to hang on to the bike that they have. They are attached to their bikes. They have worked on their bike, investing time and emotional energy (and even a lot of cash). They are determined to cross the finish line with the bike they've chosen. Even if that bike is a Big Wheel and the race they are riding is the Tour de France.
"You'll never make it!" onlookers scream. We know better. We love this bike. And love conquers all. Even if we can't control the steering, the brakes are shot, and the only thing that works is the bell.
Welcome to the world of long term love and commitment, where irrationality, blind sentiment, and foolish determination rule. We feel your pain. We have been 'the girlfriend' and we know that when you are just a girlfriend, no one really feels very sorry for you. If someone's husband or wife leaves them they usually get quite a lot of sympathy. A woman or man married to a cheating spouse or stuck in a marriage marred by poor communication and a lack of intimacy usually gets at least a sympathetic nod. But when you are 'just the girlfriend' in a long term relationship that isn't going where you want it to, as far as sympathy goes you get nothing.

Today, A Lizard Man Asked Me Out

2007-01-11T17:44:00.000-08:00

As a dog walker, I am on familiar and friendly terms with a number of doormen that work in my clients' buildings. I've been asked out by two of them, and would have taken each of them up on it if one hadn't been 21, and the other hadn't been married. But today, somebody else that works in one of the buildings asked me out. Somebody behind the scenes. He is obese and looks like a lizard and works with the garbage in the back elevator. And socially, there's nothing wrong with the guy. Which makes it worse, because that means that he used sound, critical analysis to determine the credibility of us as a couple.
Now, I'm not being mean when I say that he looks like a lizard. He just does. He has scaly skin under his eyes and a gap in his front teeth through which his tongue darts out. He appears to be about 10 years older than me. He may be somebody's dreamboat, he's not mine. And I am upset that he continues to hit on me, not only because I feel violated, which I do, but also because he is apparently he has a chance of making it happen with me.
And yet somehow, my sense of inequality would fail to be riled if George Clooney, or someone else out of my league, goosed me while I was leaning over to clean up some dog poop. Oh well.
I used to be real friendly with him, but I have turned into a cold fish. I have to use the service elevator in that building, and I pray to God I won't be caught in there with him and the smelly garbage with him tomorrow. On Tuesday, he told me I was "a hard working woman," and he needed to find someone like me. On Wednesday, he started putting his hand on my shoulder when he talked to me. You know the move. Everyday day now I get the hand. He's got as far as the intro, the old "so what do you do with yourself when you're not working?" I've been able to evade any further advances because it is a very short time I have to see him every day, only a trip from the 11th to the 1st floor, but I feel that one day soon I'm just going to have to shoot him down.

Jagged Little Pill

2007-01-04T15:49:00.000-08:00

When a relationship ends under devastating circumstances, the best thing to do is to take some time alone, and to not jump into anything serious. Good advice, but when you reach the two year mark, beware. I have not had one date that has made me even consider bending over far enough to shave my overgrown legs. A lovelife this barren can actually drive you a bit bonkers. My recent solution that backfired? The Celebrity Crush.
A little background about me: I have all the inclinations of your basic stalker; although I like to believe I have some modicum of impulse control. The stalker side of me reared it's ugly head recently, after developing a crush on Ryan Reynolds, the comic actor. I became immediately infatuated and proceded to google him and fantasize about how we would meet and how I could get Alanis out of the way. Of course, I usually succeed in keeping most of my movie star obsessions safely under control, due to the extremely remote chance of any one of them entering my daily orbit of doggie poop bags and donut shop lunches. This convenient barrier to obsessive behavior derailed, however, when I realized that the movie set I had been passing by with the dogs for two weeks, and which had just wrapped, was the set of Ryan's latest movie. I have since been filled with rage. WHY CAN'T I MEET MY RYAN REYNOLDS!? If I had known, I would have hung out by the set, and Ryan would probably have sauntered by with a meat sandwich. Then I would have encouraged Scruffy to chase after him, surely initializing a courtship between us.

Jessica Biel Wants My Ass

2006-11-06T18:30:00.000-08:00

I've always been small boned, and extremely small waisted. But not in the butt. My grandmother, who I resembled in physique, had a nickname: Big Buns. Now, it's okay to be known as "Big Buns" at 60 years old, but I didn't exactly enjoy having the name bequeathed to me in my 20's.
This past month, I've been eating whatever I want. Fried foods and rich desserts, anything. I've also allowed myself to exercise whenever I liked, which turned out to be 0 times. Now, I am going out to one or two upcoming events and I have nothing to wear. It seems that I have turned into a porker.
I guess there is something wrong in my brain, you know, with that mechanism that's supposed to tell me that I'm full. It's not working. Example: Today I ate chocolate chip pancakes and bacon for breakfast, a Subway for lunch, an Amy's meal for dinner, and a mint brownie and, I can't even say it, a little less than A QUART of Edy's Slow Churned, half the fat ice cream. I was surprised, because I don't usually like Edy's, or dietetic dessert in general, but this peppermint stick was so f-ing good, it tasted exactly like full fat. Unfortunately, eating, according to the nutritional description, seven servings of the stuff was probably not okay.
The reason why I turned into a disgusting pig is because of my sister, who, in a characteristic diatribe against our society's idealization of the underweight female, raged and gnashed her teeth in response to the self-criticism I directed toward my recently expanding body.
"If you think that you're overweight at your size, that's sick. You've always had a body image problem, I've always thought that."
"Cool," I said, tired of explaining the phenomenon of "skinny-fat," where size four jeans may still conceal a rippled jiggly mass of fat stuck on a size my five foot one, size two frame. "Maybe I do have a body image problem," I said. "That's good news. Then I can actually eat anything I want, and however gross I think I look, I'll know it's all in my mind."I have now increased two sizes, and do not fit into the fat pants I bought at the time of the of the body dysmorphic disorder discussion. I realized I do not have a body image problem, it is my sister who has an (other-directed) body image problem. It is directed specifically towards me, and is a by-product of my regrettable reign as big sister bitch-tyrant, where through torture and mind control, she sees me as some sort of idealized physical being.

Now one month later, when I have a skirt on, it looks as if I am wearing an old-fashioned bustle underneath. It's a shame they have gone out of style. My waist is still kinda small, but my ass has expanded. It is what I would call a "birth-control butt." With my clothes off, I notice that each buttock is a little bigger than the size of my head. And it is lumpy. So instead of washboard abs, I have a washboard ass. I can't even describe what it looks like, because I've never seen anything like it before. Wait, let me take another look. Oh my God. The ass sticks out like Jessica Biel's, but as if she was in a funny mirror that dwarfed everything but her butt. A pair of toddlers could stand under it and be completely shielded from a violent rainstorm. That is not an exaggeration.

I don't understand the popular notion that 'women dress for other women.' My ex-boyfriend would tell me things like that, as if he had consulted some encylcopedia of female behavior. I found out later that these are things his ex-wife, (who he still worshipped) would tell him as canons of womanhood, which he would kindly pass on to me so I could benefit from her wisdom. I disagreed with most of them, along with "all women are constantly in competition over men." In my opinion, I would usually win the argument, which he would then rebut with the statement, "well, I guess you're just not like most women." Anyway, this dressing for other women business is no different. I mean, occasionally I will bathe for other women, like if my sister is coming over after I go jogging I might take a shower , but I really only dress for male attention, and sometimes for self-expression, but certainly not all the time. If it weren't for cute guys walking around out there, I would wear L.L. Bean boots, Adidas shorts and fleece shirts everyday.
Which would be kinda the same reason I started eating all this food; it had been so long since I'd had a date that led anywhere exciting. Looking back at all the hours logged at the gym and calorie restrictions, measured against miserable returns in the dating scene, I just decided it wasn't worth it. The pleasure I got from eating fattening foods was more rewarding than what I was getting back from the guys. It's too hard. The men are so bad, and food is so good. It is getting harder to fight the good fight.

NYC Men Stink

2006-10-15T09:39:00.000-07:00

All of a sudden, I was besodden with weariness. That's not mine. Actually, my friend Sally said it while we were browsing the personal essay section at the Barnes and Noble, after leaving my favorite hamburger joint on 72nd street. 'Favorite hamburger joint' is kind of misleading, implying a hierarchy of favorites which would indicate a sense of identification with my community and exhuberance about NYC. Like I could have family come out of town and introduce them to my collection of avenues and neighborhoods that have names like Nolita and Noho, my relationship to NYC like that of new friends who have started to exchange bits and pieces of their personalities. But I don't really feel that way about New York City; I don't really like living here; I just really like that hamburger place. A dive bar that serves comfort food. Sunken, cavernous, wood, with waiters that wear their own clothing and an attitude that defies the New York frenetic pace. The place that Zagat forgot.
I was trying to diet because I would be leaving for the beach in 12 days, and had gained a shocking 10 pounds in reaction to two failed dates and because of the revelation that I now much preferred vanilla cream filled donuts at Krispy Kreme to bullshit filled NYC men. Of course I couldn't diet with Sally because with us, it's all about excess. We added fries to each of our burgers and split a piece of chocolate cake. Only the cake was so suprisingly good, that I called out to the waitress across the room to bring us another piece, like a frat boy on spring break anxious for another shot of Jaeger. I can't drink so chocolate is my drug of choice.
The lunch was kind of a bookend to the most humiliating dating week I'd had since I'd started really dating again, which was only about a month ago. First, an actor I had made plans with for our third date cancelled because he had 'too much work to do,' (translation: it didn't look like he was going to get laid anytime soon.)
Then it got worse. Probably the worst rejection I've ever had without ever even going out with the guy. His name was Phil, I suppose it still is. First of all, I don't even like the name Phil. I don't trust it, Phil Donahue aside. I met Phil at a catering gig, a wedding. We were flirting and exchanging stories all night. I asked some reliable coworkers about him, who gave him a positive endorsement using words like 'ernest' and 'cute butt.' Then I cinched the deal when Phil asked me out to dinner sounds It sounds pretty pathetic when it's the woman who has to do the 'cinching', but that's what it's like in a city with a 5:1 ratio of women to men. In a city where women on every curb seem to be mugging for Vogue, complete with requisite pout.
Two days later, Phil followed up with a phone call, just to tell me he was looking forward to our date and that he would contact me when he returned to NYC from his parents. One week passed and he did not call. Just after I'd mentally filed Phil away in the 'promising date gone awry' junkyard pile located in the back of my brain, I received a phone call at 1:30am Friday night while I was enjoying a bag of kettle style popcorn.
Phil: Is this Erika? (I had apparently already made it into his phonebook.)
Me: Yes, who is this?
Phil: (Confused sounding) Phil. I thought I had the wrong number. Is this the girl I met last night at the bar on 24th street?
Me: No.
Phil: Oh, huh. I guess I have the wrong number.
Click.
So basically, not only had Phil forgotten about our date, he had also forgotten WHO I WAS. Fantastic. What does a woman have to do to get an honest kiss in New York?
I have not kissed a guy since I was well out of the city limits, a year and a half ago in my parents driveway, in front of my grandfathers window, idling in some guy's car. And even that guy, instead of asking for my number, asked if he could give me a spanking.

Youth Day Parade

2006-09-18T13:46:00.000-07:00

First of all, thanks to y'all who have been reading and posting! Now, I wouls like to invite you all to the youth day parade! I've found out the secret to finding a nice guy- go young!!
Okay, I'm still single, ladies, and of course still hung up on the ex, but this has been a nice ego boost. I guess it's because I've been dressing better, but it still doesn't explain why all these youths have been coming onto me. I feel like a lecherous camp leader. I started talking to a 23 year old in my apartment complex. I didn't know he was that young until later, he does seem actually much more mature thnt my ex in a number of ways, so I was surprised. Anyway, I realized that life and romance has had less time to F*** these guys up! We've had a few chats in the hallway, then he invited me to a party. I wanted to ask him if I would be the oldest one there, but I was too embarassed. He is a classical musician, so I figured it might be a pretty mixed crowd. Anyway, we got to the party and, I'm almost to embarrassed to say, it was an UNDERGRAD party! Everyone was F-ing 19! And they looked 12! As I roamed through the odyssey of plastic cups and homemade bongs, I couldn't help feeling like the Fonz on Happy Days. At one point I looked around and I was standing by myself in the midle of a crowded room. I couldn't help but thinking what these kids must be saying, like "You're aunt's hot, dude." I left in 10 minutes. I was tired, I mean the party didn't start until 11:00.
Then, I felt guilty because the next day the kid calls 3 times. I think he likes me. I talked to him but instead of feeling like Demi Moore I feel like a sicky. He's invited me to another party, but I think I have to call it quits. This one starts even later. I can just see, if I continued dating him what it would be like: him, heading out at night and me sitting in my robe. "Come over here and give momma a kiss. Momma goin' to miss her baby." I would bellow.

Channeling My Inner Demi Moore (Dating Young Men)

2006-09-16T14:32:00.000-07:00

If you've been reading, you'll remember that LANE, first in a series of barely post pubescent suitors, never called me back. I was just wondering, why? I figured it was because he saw my crow's feet. But I bet it was because I'm uncool. I had totally blanked on what happened at the end of the date. When we exited the Starbucks, he made all these references to 'next time.' Then we got on the subway together, and when it arrived at my stop, I said goodbye and when I turned around, walked into the pole. I thought it was kind of endearing, but the more I think about it, it must have looked kind of dorky. Anyway, it was no great loss, as shortly thereafter, a door opened to reveal another, even younger, man/boy. And the door did literally open; George is an actual doorman at one of the buildings where I walk dogs. He's 22(gasp.) He's seen me at my worst, (7:30am, last night's eyeliner, bedhead hair.) The absolute best thing about it is that he seemed so desperate for me to go out with him. "I'd really appreciate just talking to you." (Well intentioned lie.) "I just get really shy and nevous around you." (My beauty and worldliness is overwhelming to him.) He's so polite, and his social skills seemed more refined than guys my age. Most of the time it's, "So, you wanna hang out sometime?" Duh.
But I have a hard time coming up with topics of conversation every morning. If I ended up seriously dating him, would our morning conversations end up mimicking the lame exchanges so far that seem to shed a glare on the 14 year age gap?
Conversation 1: Me: "So what was your major?
Him:"I don't know yet. I'll wait til I get back from the navy."

Conversation 2: Me: "So what did you do over the weekend?"
Him:"I went to the movies."
Me: "See anything good?"
Him:"Yeah, Beerfest. It was okay."
Me: "Yeah, I was going to see that, but I didn't know if it would be as good as American Pie." (At this point, I realize he was not even a fertalized egg when I begged my cousin to take me to Porky's, so what can I really say?)
I didn't end up going out with the 22 year old. I almost agreed, after my friend John said "I wouldn't care about the fact that he's 22 one iota. Not one iota." This, knowing I had only had two dates in two years. But even though I loved the attention, and he's a lovely young man, I just couldn't. I mean, the poor guy is leaving for basic training in October. Jesus. Didn't anyone tell this kid a war is on?

Diary of a Mad Single Woman

2006-09-04T20:09:00.000-07:00

OUTLINE OF MY LOVELIFE

I. The Pre-Dating Years
A. Birth
B. Celebrity Infatuations
1. Sean Cassidy
a. Purchase of Da Doo Run Run Album
b. Making Out With Pillow after Hardy Boys TV Show
2. ‘Leroy’ from Fame
a. Defunct ‘Gaydar’
b. Set lifelong precedent for bad taste
C. Awkward Stage
1. Too short
2. Head Gear
3. Flat Chest
II. High School Highlights
A. Prom
1. Stag with girlfriends
2. Snubbed guy who later became unbelievably hot neurosurgeon
B. Drama Club
1. Unrequited crushes
2. Make out session with closeted fellow cast member
C. Dances
1. Drinking Rum and Coke in Bleachers
2. Slow Dance to Stairway to Heaven with Boy Who says my Sweater
Looks like Strawberry Yogurt
III. College
A. The Beer Goggle Years
1. Alternative Mark
a. Wore silverware as jewelry
2. Curly-Haired Thom
b. Kept grandfather’s old condom from WW II as family
heirloom
3. Other
c. Don’t remember
B. Serious Relationship
1. Brian the Schizophrenic
a. Would continually ask me if I could also see things
that were figments of his imagination
1.) Bulls running through backyard
C. Academic Probation
1. Homeward Bound
a. Nights at Home with Dad, Mom and Brother
IV. The Roaring Twenties
A. Buzzkill Byron
1. Refused to take taxicabs, buses or subways; resulting in 8 block
travel radius
2. Had sour stomach which dictated the geriatric plan for most
activities
3. Broke up w/me
B. Crip Dreadfield
1. Separated from wife who he was still in love with
2. Hated his mother
3. Short
4. Broke up w/me

VI. Present Day
A. ‘Couple’ Friends Start Their Families
1. Picking Up Babies Instead of Picking Up Men
2. Necessity of new, young, ‘going out’ friends
a. Pounding house music
b. One-night stand stories
B. Dating Again
1. Guy who kept hors d’euvres in gym bag
2. Two other losers

C. Resignation
1. Ghiradelli Brownies
2. Lifetime, We, etc…
3. Foster dog

Not Quite Ashton and Demi

2006-08-28T08:08:00.000-07:00

A 36, soon to be 37-year-old woman, me, was approached by two much-younger men on two separate occasions last week. The amorous solicitations appeared to signal an end to a long suffering dating drought but ended with not so much as a make out session.
The first hopeful, a strapping Scandinavian Ken doll look-alike named 'Lane,' approached the woman while she was walking a dog on West 93rd Street in Manhattan. The man, who had shoulder-length blond hair, azure eyes and a hot bod, inquired about the dog and moved quickly into the suggestion that they go for coffee. The woman then picked her jaw up off the cement and agreed.
At the Starbucks, the twosome enjoyed green teas over a refreshingly non-stilted conversation that was mostly dominated by the woman. (Still me.) She took notice that under the sunglasses a series of lines hinted at the beginnings of crow's feet, which made her feel better about the perceived age difference. On a number of occasions, the model-like Lane mentioned the phrase "next time we will have to..."
The woman said that she was busy for the next few days, but would call him if she would be attending the movies during that time. She telephoned two days later to inform the man that she would be going to a comedy movie, if he wanted to come along. He said he was booked up. The weekend passed with no follow-up call, as did the following three days. The woman's advisory committee officially declared the situation a 'blow off.' The woman did, however, come face to face with the young man later that week in a disasterous run-in where she was dressed as a mentally challenged individual: high waisted Chino shorts, white sneakers, and a McDonaland T-shirt featuring the Fry Guys and Hamburgler. Lane gave the woman a fake side hug and excused himself giving the excuse that he 'had a lot of work to do.'

"Who cares," the woman was overheard saying, "I don't need Lane and his prep school ass

Where the Boys Are (Not)

2006-08-06T14:08:00.000-07:00

Well, I found out where the boys are. On the street. Specifically, selling things on the street. This past weekend I've been asked out twice, which in one weekend is a hundred percent increase in solicitations during all of last year. I've had interactions with other guys that I've met on the street but every time I think it's going somewhere the conversation ends with no number exchange, no nothin'. But guys who work on the street must feel like they hold some jurisdiction. It's their street; you're just walking on it. That, or they just have more balls than other guys, which also seems probable. The first guy was actually a youth. 24 years old, but looked 16. He was selling jumbo flashlights, and he repeatedly asked to take me to lunch, and for my phone number. Sometimes no guys will ask me out for years, and then, some young guy is begging for me to go out with him. What the hell is that about? The next guy sells jewelry on the street. This is the second jewelry vender that asked me out. The first was Brazilian, and also spun house music. He was young and skinny, and I don't like house music or all that goes along with it, so I rejected him. This new guy is Israeli, but looks and talks and acts somehow exactly like Hank Azaria as the scuba instructor who sleeps with Debra Messing in 'Along Came Polly.' He was sort of cute, but had already made a pass at my friend in addition to me. I don't know, maybe I'll call him. Once, I made out with a street musician who asked me out on the street. He was one of those small Peruvian fellows who plays the Andean flute. So, I may as well go out with him, it's not like I haven't done this before. Besides, my weekend was full of shit. I met a comedian on the street that I sort of like. We chatted, but of course there was no follow through. Then dog I was pet sitting for had exploding diahrea all over the living room at 6:30 am on Saturday.

Are You My Boyfriend?

2006-08-03T12:45:00.000-07:00

The female subconscious is a powerful thing. If you are to begin the process of seeking a healthier relationship, it is vital that you ‘reprogram’. We have thus devised a simple, yet effective, regimen of videos that will help you. Instead of Retail Therapy we suggest Rental Therapy

Rental Therapy

The subconscious is a powerful tool that can be harnessed to help you seek kind men and to discern which men are boobs, unworthy of your attentions or affections. It is important to remember that ambivalent men are Jeckyll and Hyde type creates, prone to extreme shifts in behavior. Sometimes you think because your man looks the same as he did yesterday, that he is the same person inside. For most people, that would be a safe assumption to made. If you are dating an ambivalent man, however, this assumption could very well cost you your sanity.

It is important to recognize your boyfriend could actually be two (or more different people) lurking in the same body cavity. One of those people might be kind and generous—your dream man. The other one, however, might just be an insane, ego-destroying, maniac so self-involved and commitment-phobic that he makes Dennis Rodman look like Ghandi.

It is extremely difficult, however, for the average woman to recognize this. Therefore, we have come up with the following video program designed to help your subconscious to begin that oh-so-important process of discerning who your boyfriend really is. Movies contribute to this problem a great deal as men who are knights in shining armor on the silver screen are often scarecrows riding donkeys in real life. Consider the following "Reel Life" vs. "Real Life" scenarios:

1. Hugh Grant in Notting Hill vs. Hugh Grant getting arrested for solicing a prostitute on the Sunset Strip in real life.

2. Mel Gibson in Braveheart vs. Mel Gibson the anti-semetic, drunk driving lunatic.

3. Tom "you complete me" Cruise in Jerry M. vs. The crazy lunatic Scientologist control freak.

4. Ryan O'Neil in Love Story vs. Ryan O'Neil the abusive crazy father and cheating spouse.

5. Bill Cosby on the Cosby Show vs. Bill Cosby the cheating, chester-molester.

6. Charlie Sheen on 2and 1/2 Men vs. Cheating, crazy, rage-aholic husband of Denise.

7. Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black vs...well, you know....

Where The Boys Are (Not)

2006-08-02T18:31:00.000-07:00

I saw that interview! Lauer needed to give Brit a break. She is young and has a deadbeat husband. He was taking advantage of her vulnerability. Why doesn't he grill Angelina Jolie about how she bragged to the press that she would never sleep with a married man? If he ever said, 'you know, Angie, some people think you're a slut,' she would probably knee him in the nuts on camera. Anyway, Matt Lauer is a cheater; shame on him for looking down at Britney just because her mammaries are spilling out.

Anyway, my roommate has had an experience that further reveals Where the Boys Are (Not). I'm not sure why I find this story so funny but I just do. Perhaps because my roommate is so blase. This time the venue was a mostly-European-clientele jazz bar. Now this was helpful to me as I hate jazz, but was planning on checking out a jazz club just to see if it was where the boys are.
She went two weeks ago, and ended up talking to one of the two guys there that were'nt part of a couple. What you have to understand is that my roommate is Hungarian and likes to drink red wine and have conversations about culture. This guy was also European (Italien) and she described him as 'a little bit macho.' She had said this with a grimace but decided to give him a shot.
The guy came over on a Sunday with purple teeth and a fresh bottle of wine. He had curly hair and looked old. If you ask me she could have done a lot better than him, but she she seemed to be amusing herself. She, like me, is 36 and has not had a real date in 2 years. I heard them arguing in the hallway, but this is nothing new. She was using the same admonishing tone of voice as she uses with me and my other roomates in reference to the overflowing sink and the empty toilet paper roll.
Next week for her birthday, he invited her over for a BBQ but she declined. Mostly because she thinks he drinks too much. He gave her his number to call him, but she was clear in saying she was not going to do that; but he could call her if he wanted to.
On her birthday, this unwanted Italian showed up at the door with a dozen white roses and more red teeth, asking to take her to lunch. She yawned and shrugged. "Let me just change out of my robe."
The Italian launched into an animated monologue about jazz, to which I replied, 'I don't like jazz, I only like the blues.' He then became indignant and told me I couldn't like the blues if I didn't like jazz. Unruffled, I said, "Whatever you say," and offered him some sugar corn pops, which seemed to infuriate him more.

On the date, they rode from one restaurant to the next, looking for something suitable. The Italian refused to take the subway as my roommate suggested. Four cab rides in, my roommate was famished, and begged to just eat at some cheap Spanish place. The Italian was upset. Obvsiously my roommate wasn't falling prey to his charms as planned. For lunch, he tried to order for her, but that didn't work. She wanted soup, so she ordered soup. This next part is the part I really like, but I don't know why. For his lunch, the Italian ordered a salad with salmon. When lunch was delivered, all he was served was dried up beans on a plate. My roommate started to laugh uncontrolably. He got enraged and started yelling at the wait staff. They finally got him some fish tacos.
I haven't seen the Italian since, but he keeps calling my roommate and acting annoyed and angry that she's not calling him and inviting him over.

Britney vs. Angelina

2006-08-01T17:49:00.000-07:00

Adoption guru, man-stealer, UN Goodwill Ambassador--and now Identity Theif. It seems that Angie not only nabbed Jen's man, but she grabbed her starring role in the film "A Mighty Pearl" based on the life and times of Daniel Pearl, a Wall Street Journal Reporter who was killed. So, the lowdown is Plan B bought the movie and Jennifer Aniston was set to star, Brad and Jen busted up, and Angie decided SHE wanted to play Daniel Pearl's grieving widow in the movie.

All the gossip rags report on this, and what I find really annoying is that they all seem to agree that Angelina is a better fit for the role since she "looks more like Mariane Pearl" than Aniston does.

Everyone seems to be overlooking that fact that Marianne Pearl is BLACK!! Hello???!!! She doesn't look anything like Jolie or Aniston!! I don't get it! It seems like Jolie can get away with murder.

Meanwhile, the press is eating Britney Spears alive. I mean, what is so different about what they did? I mean, let's look at the stats:

Adultry: Ok, they both are "homewreckers". But if you ask me, Shar Jackson should be thanking Britney. I mean, at least Shar doesn't have to bear the horrible shame of being married to the man responsible for setting musical history back about 1,000 years with the release of the "PapaZao" single. Meanwhile, Jolie's wandering eye lands her the cover of People Magazine and the title "most beautiful person inside and out"

Endangering the Life of a Child: Paprazzi catches Brad wheeling around the Namibian dessert popping wheelies with Maddox (sans helmet) on the back of his dirt bike. All he gets is a "be more careful Brad" slap on the wrist from US Weekly. Meanwhile,Britney is raked over the coals for running away from paprazzi that are stalking her with her kid in her lap while she was driving. Both are boneheads to be sure. But, just becuase Brit wasn't tucked away in a 3rd world country 'saving souls' and, instead, was speeding down the highway,blasting "Sweet Home Alabama" on her cd player and slugging Mountain Dew, everyone hates her.

Poor Fashion sense: Angelina turned her body into a 5 ft 9 in. billboard professing her love for the OTHER guy she stole, Billy Bob. It looks like she got a bunch of them removed and now her body has a lot of blurry black ink spots on it. I'm sure that looks very attractive when combined with stretch marks. During a Dateline interview Anne Curry has no comment, other than to remark how beautiful Jolie is. Meanwhile Britney, suffering an admittedly terrible case of what Ms. DunThat calls "reverse anorexia" whereby you see yorself as being much thinner than you actually are, squeezes her 6 month pregnant body into one of Jessica Simpson's leftover outfits from the Dukes of Hazzard movie. Matt Lauer proceeds to call her 'White Trash" on national television. Nice.

Poor Acting Skills. Crossroads--no good. Life or Something Like It--even worse.

Failed Marriages: Brit--A 24 hour marriage and quickie divorce. Angie--vials of blood, disgusting public make-out sessions with Billy Bob--who, I'd like to point out, basically looks like a 65 year old Kevin Federline, matching 'his and hers' wifebeaters on the red carpet...you decide.

So, until Brit buys the rights to "The Rosa Parks Story" and decides to cast herself in the starring role, I'm rooting for Team Britney!!

Oprah and Gayle

2006-07-24T20:52:00.000-07:00

So, Gail says that if Oprah was a man she would have married her. HAH! Shame on her. Gail knows (just as I know you all know) if Oprah was a man he would never talk with her on the phone four times in one day. At least not after they had been having sex for awhile.

Ladies, please do not fall for that "my husband/boyfriend is my best friend" garbaage. Husbands and boyfriends are NOT, under any circumstances, to EVER be considered your best friend for the following reasons:

1. If your hubby is your best friend, when he runs off with some hottie and breaks your heart, whose couch are you going to sit on, bawling your eyes out and smoking cigarettes? His?? I think not. His new 'best friend' is sitting on that couch now & I don't think she wants you ashing your Newport lights on her carpet.

2. When your hubby or boyfriend acts like a butt-head, who exactly are you going to call and explain/analyze his idiot like behavior with? Him? I'm sure he will be oh-so sympathetic.

3. When your husband/boyfriend's mother/brother/sister/best friend does something completely annoying and he takes their side who do you get to bitch to? Him? Not gonna happen.

4. How much fun do you think your man would have discussing whether McDreamy or Dr. Burke is the hottest doctor on Grey's anatomy?

5. It is no fun to borrow their clothes.

6. If he dumps you, who is going to set you up with cute guys? Help you edit your profile on Match.com? Laugh hysterically at all the losers on the online dating sites? Not him! Your 'best friend' will be too busy trying to post his own damn profile.

7. If your husband or boyfriend is your best friend they are of no use whatsoever in helping you analyze/understand why you have such rotten taste in men.

8. He can't go into that big huge open fitting room they have at Loehmanns & tell you if your ass looks as fat as you think it does in low rider white terrycloth Juicy sweat pants. You would have to go outside the fitting room and show him (and the rest of the store) thus increasing your humiliation factor by 100 percent.

9. Best friends should not have back hair, read the sports page while sitting on the john, or be capable of 'hocking a loogie'

10. Jen Aniston, Halle Berry, Hillary Swank, and Uma Thurman all said those dreaded words "he's my best friend" and we all know how those relationships turned out...

Where the Boys Are (Not)

2006-07-19T19:15:00.000-07:00

I am officially starting a new cyber column here at HeWontCommit. In my search for a shiny new boyfriend-or, who am I kidding- used and scuffed is fair game as well, I have hit upon a new strategy, namely to go out places, rather than sit at home. Feel free to write in any suggestions in the comments section, especially our friend in Fairfield, who has faithfully checked for updates. The goal is to prove Mrs. BeenThere wrong, and score some hot dates. If you're not counting along with me, we are at 2 dates in a year and a half. That is what I would officially call a slump. So, I will make an attempt to drag myself out. Not without complaint, mind you.

My first step is to finally get that internet profile/photo up on Nerve.com, although I have a still few reservations. I was initially excited, as I learned that Nerve personals are linked with some other personals sites, like the Onion and New York magazine. Then one of my clients informed me that Nerve is more of a sex and erotica publication and that an overwhelming majority of members are looking for hook ups and short term relationships. That sucks. Why would a woman go through the trouble of uploading her information to get a hook up? Last I knew, all it took was a push-up bra and a trip to the nearest Irish bar.
So I'm not looking forward to it. The last thing I need is to go all the way downtown to eat a free salad so some guy can put his hand down my pants.
Not that I'm a prude, mind you, it's just that after I've been with someone for 5 years, sex and the related acoutrements have taken on a new prerequisite: intimacy. The thought of a random, probing tongue is unappealing, comical even.

OK, Maybe I have become a prude. I feel like I have been re-virginalized. Perhaps my hymen has grown back, even. And this second time around, I just don't feel like sharing bodily fluids with anyone that doesn't pass the smell test. So I'm willing to try online dating, but sorry, no action on the first date. As my Grammy Harriet said, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?" Or maybe it was "Don't be a slut."

In the mean time, I can rely on fantasy boyfriends until I meet that special someone. I can always watch Richard Gere in 'Unfaithful' one more time, or get all worked up watching Gray's Anatomy where I can't choose between Dr. Burke, McDreamy, and the sexy jerky guy. Any other readers here try Nerve?

10 Biggest Lies About Where the Boys Are

2006-06-27T06:05:00.000-07:00

I don't like any of my married friends so I am trying to get Ms.DunThat married off--preferably to someone who doesn't irritate me or my over-sensitive spouse.
I have tried looking for dudes for her in all the 'hot spots' mentioned in the dating articles and can tell you right now, that stuff is total bunk.

1. Adult education classes.
I took an adult ed class(3 of them in fact) to help us on some of the book projects we are working on. There are no single men under the age of seventy in adult education classes. They were filled with retired women. The one guy there wrote a story about riding past a funeral home and noticing that the woman being buried was someone he had known in high school. He then wrote an essay about it for class, wherein he was kind enough to mention that the last time he saw this woman she was 17, standing in a window with her shirt slightly open and jiggling here breasts. So, unless you are in the market for a senior citizen pervert, adult ed is out!

2. Weddings.
I went to a wedding last Saturday. Weddings are full of single women, small children, old people, and single men way past their expiration date. I sat next to one of the few single men there. He bragged about the fact that now that he was working for Roto-Rooter he could get all the parking tickets he wanted--he just added them onto the bill of the customer. The only other cute single guy there was 75. So, again, unless you are in the market for a senior citizen or are interested in riding around town in a Roto Rooter van, getting parking tickets, weddings are NOT the place to be.

3. Church. Old people, married people, and babies.

4. Grocery Store. Old people, babies, and mothers.

5. Bookstore. Ditto.

6. Fun classes like the trapeze class we took. Single women, teenage girls, and one dude with his girlfriend.

7. Networking functions. Lots of single chicks. No dudes.

8. Work. Oh, please.

9. Shopping. Only metrosexuals shop. I married one of those. Trust me, you don't want a guy who takes longer to get ready in the morning than you do.

10. Online dating. Weirdos, Wackos, and Weenies are far as I can tell....

On Getting Noticed

2006-06-26T15:42:00.000-07:00

I'd been complaining to all my 'peeps' that I've received less and less attention, no matter how hard I try to look good. Even the cat calls from the construction crews have died down. Maybe it's just too damn humid, or maybe the competition is just so stiff in NYC that even the construction workers, who are usually so dependable when in comes to sexist bravado, have become highly selective.

I did, however, receive some recognition yesterday. I had decided to wear a cute Ben Sherman shirt I had discovered at Filene's Basement. I couldn't believe it was only $20. It was hot pink and had puffy sleeves. About three hours into the day I noticed why it was $20. The buttons were attached in such a way as to make the shirt gape wide open in the cleavage area, at least on anyone over an A cup. I started covering the peephole with my bag but eventually got tired of that and just let it all hang out. I told myself maybe you could only see something if you were at a certain angle. I was wearing a bra. As I stepped back into what I thought was my obscure bubble of singleness, I passed by what appeared to be two 18 year old boys. They seemed to be looking at me. "Yo,check it," one of them shouted as I passed, "Your tit's hangin' out." I turned the corner immediately, went into a deli and ordered an impromptu corned beef sandwich to calm my nerves and gather my thoughts.
Also, further evidence that the last of my pheremones leaked through a black hole in my sex appeal- was the fact that this big fat annoyoying guy didn't even want me. I belong to a fellowship that happened to sponser an evening of dinner and dancing recently. There is a guy I don't know too well who is bald and big, and sort of looks like Sloth on 'The Goonies.' Apparently he keeps bothering all the pretty girls and handing them his personal card that details his 'caberet show.' As I was dancing, I almost tripped over the guys small water, which he had put next to him in the middle of the dance floor. As the water rolled away from my foot, the guy comes up to my face and screams "You kicked my water! I would appreciate it if you picked it up please." Then he folded his arms and waited. I clutched arms with my girlfriend as we both stared at him, frozen in horror and disbelief. Then we ran. Later, he came over and gave our other friend his card, and proceded to describe his 'cabaret,' while giving me the evil eye.

This is why I have had two dates in the last year. This is why I agreed to go out with the last loser, who kept hors d'euvres in his gym bag. (Long story.) But I am gearing up, girls. I am going to fight back. I am going to stage a full out effort to meet guys. I am armed with new pics (new, not-heinous ones) and am ready to register with two websites. I have a ticket to a singles event, and I am even willing to try 8-minute dating, even though the whole concept horrifies me. Wish me luck, and give me strength. Mrs. BeenThere?

The Greatest Show on Earth

2006-06-11T19:58:00.000-07:00

In middle school, when it came time for captains to pick teams for volleyball, Mrs. BeenThere and I were always the last ones standing. Same thing with soccer. And even cruise games. Yes, we had something called cruise games. It’s not that we were total outcasts, just bad sportsmen. We had both long before developed a fear of gym (the quasi-coordinated peers, the oddly pumped and underclothed authority figures,) and compensated by acting like clowns. The last straw came when Mark B., who later played professional soccer, acquiesced to our request to play on his volleyball team. I was stationed in a back defensive position, hands slackly frozen in the ‘bump’ position. It was here that I received my first of many sports equipment related injuries, getting beaned by the volleyball while I was busy showing Mrs. BeenThere how to do a grande plie. A disgusted scowl spread over Mark B.’s face.

Flash forward 15 years. Mrs. BeenThere is now married to a soccer agent (blame it on bad karma), and we are both still allergic to any type of sports equipment. Which doesn’t at all explain how we landed at the entrance of lower Manhattan’s Trapeze school. The force that propelled us there was the opportunity to be featured in a short internet film that would be produced for nycfilms, an emerging internet film company. Seeing as this would bring us one step closer to our dream of co-hosting a show on Lifetime Television, our excitement was initially enough to keep our fear in check.

THE EQUIPMENT:
We were outfitted with their equipment and removed of our own (me-Chandelier earrings, Mrs. BeenThere-glasses.) They might as well as just removed Mrs. BeenThere’s eyes, seeing that she is blind as a bat without those glasses. I had asked Daniel, the filmalker shooting us, if he had a camera setting to decrease the size of my butt, which, already ample, was amplified even more by a shackle-type belt that was cinched around my waist. Even with my aversion to equipment, this one seemed important. There was a safety cable attached to it, and I figured it might actually save my life in the off chance I fainted from sheer terror when I jumped from the platform. Then there was the actual trapeze. It was so high. Higher than the high dive that I was forced to jump off of in swim class as a child, which I had managed to do by squeezing my eyes shut and holding my nose with both hands.

THE INSTRUCTORS:
The instructors seemed to sniff out our history of gym ineptness. The first guy, a foreign type I’ll call Dolf, explained to us the daredevil maneuver that in a few moments we would be expected to execute. This 5 minute explanation, which included safety guidelines, was delivered in what might as well have been his native tongue, at least to Mrs. BeenThere and I. I noted that Dolf may have been an Eastern European stewardess in a previous life, as his instructions seemed to mimic the same abstract brevity. When he had finished, the rest of the class nodded their heads to indicate understanding, which surprised me. We were then asked to line up in front of a mat over which hung a practice trapeze, where Dolf would first spot us before ascending the ladder to the real one. The maneuver was this: grab hold of the trapeze, tuck the knees, curl the legs over the top of the bar, let go of the bar while swinging, hands back on, then a back flip to dismount. This information was surprising, considering I had envisaged my first trapeze maneuver to be more like that of Tweety Bird: sitting relaxed on the bar, hands lightly gripping the cables to my sides, possibly whistling. When I asked if maybe it would be better to save this more complicated maneuver for a more advanced class, I got the still faintly familiar ‘stink eye’ from my classmates, all except for Mrs. BeenThere, who, now visually impaired, was staring serenely into a random corner.
The really troubling part was that I actually failed the test run. I couldn’t get my feet up and around the bar, which was of an uncomfortable metal, not bamboo like I’d imagined. My hands were already slipping off and I could feel the beginning of a blister. And although I could live with a blister, I was more concerned about falling from the upside down position onto my neck, having no health insurance, and spending the rest of my days in a state subsidized nursing home. After being spotted into the hanging position, Dolf had to hold my legs so they wouldn’t go flying off. If I couldn’t complete the maneuver on the ground with a spotter, how could I seriously attempt it at a good 15 feet above the net, by myself, while swinging? Thinking that I, the ‘too weak,’ would be disqualified in the same way that short people were sometimes disqualified from roller coasters, I expressed this concern to Dolf. He mumbled a string of words which included ‘up there,’ ‘weightless,’ and ‘worry.’
Dolf’s female counterpart was stationed at the top of the platform. She appeared even tougher than him, wearing knee socks, Samba sneakers, and short-shorts with the word CIRCUS printed on the butt. She reminded me of one of the girls who would have zig zagged in front of me volleying a puck back and forth saying “Get out of my way.” As I became exponentially dizzy with each rung climbed on the latter, I realized there was no way she was going to put up with my girly whining. I was actually going to have to do this.

"Hut!" That was my cue. I grabbed onto the bar, the mean girl let go of my waste, and I went flying through the air, screaming the whole time. I am ashamed to admit that I was the only one in the class who screamed. As for the commands, I am proud to say that on two out of my four runs, I completed the acrobatic maneuver of swinging from my knees. On one attempt, I really messed up, got in some sort of upside-down pike position, and all the instructors were yelling at me. Mrs. DunThat recalled from her elementary school gymnastic days that I had 'skinned the cat,' and I could have dislocated my shoulders.
When it was Mrs. DunThat's turn, I thought she was in a trance. Before she made her assent, I looked in her eyes and there was nobody in there. Then the instructors yelled for her to take her glasses off. Mrs. DunThat is blind as a bat without her glasses. After she plunged, the instructors kept trying to give her directions from the ground, but all she kept saying was 'What!? What!?' and looking in the wrong direction, like Mr. Magoo.
All in all, it was a great day. It marked the first time we've been recognized professionally for doing what we do best, namely acting like bufoons, and screwing up any directions we are given by authority figures. Who would have known these life long handicapps would be so useful in the realm of reality TV!
I was also very excited that I could walk around referring to myself as 'the talent' and that we received a comped pack of cigarettes (Which I sort of quit but realized i needed before I dove off that platform.)
The shoot went great. The trapeze instructors were 10 times as mean, the activity was 10 times as terrifying. It should make for great television.

Spawn of Brangelina Arrives: Idea of "Karma" is shown to be a load of bunk

2006-05-31T22:40:00.000-07:00

So, the much awaited spawn of Brad and Angie has arrived. I tell you, there is no justice in the world.

Consider this: A woman steals another woman's husband, is knocked up within weeks, publishes photographs of herself and stolen husband "playing house" in a major national magazine, proceeds to rub nose of stolen hubby's ex in endless pictures of stolen husband, mistress, and adorable children romping everywhere from Kathmandu to Kenya. What is the appropriate "karmic payback for said woman?"

1. Voted most beutiful person alive (inside and out)
2. Stolen family voted most beutiful family
3. Snags major spokesperson contract for much $$$$ from hot designer
4. Love child with stolen man is honored by her birthday becoming an official holiday in a mid-size Southern African nation

Meanwhile, wronged ex wife makes three bad movies in a row (yes, it is true The breakup was panned by the Hollywood reporter) and (drumroll please) walks off into the sunset with a bruised ego and one slightly doughy boyfriend replete with receeding hairline.

This is the "what goes around comes around" stuff the self-help schlocks are always talking about?

I Need Some (Cyber)Space

2006-05-24T20:37:00.000-07:00

I hav'nt even gone on my first date, yet I have to get away from the boards for a while. First off, let me say that if you want a man your own age, you're considerably out of luck. The common male preference is something like this: Male, 38; searching for women age 25-35. So some of us are already cut out of a pool of guys our own age.
If you are searching in New York, many of the men are looking for love with a baseline salary of $50,000 a year, which definately rules out this teacher cum dogwalker/writer.
Searching is addictive. I click deeper and deeper into the pool, eating my way into the second sleeve of oreos tryimg to squelch the "He's cute, why didn't he wink at me?" feeling. When you've sunk lower than low, then it's time to go over to the 'men seeking women side' to take a look at the competition. Then that's where the real hooror is. twenty-six year old, big-breasted pediatric residents from Oklahoma. A 29-year -old Hungarian international journalist with Jolie lips. The beyond cute 26 year-old personal assistant with doe eyes and the introduction "Will anyone love me?"
What are they doing on here? This is supposed to be a haven for the dumped, duped, and forgotten. For women who's eggs are nearing the expiration date. What's wrong with them? Who needs internet dating in their twenties?

When you're not getting good responses, there is a kind of desperation that overwhelms you, one that is (thankfully) limited to your cyberspace sessions. It is a desperation that leads me to consider winking at a guy who wants to talk about extraterrestrial life (probably in the same conversation when he describes his hometown.) It is this desperation that almost led me to send an ice breaker to a balding man in a white robe, propped on a couch sitting alone in front of a champagne bucket. Why is this strange man looking at me in his robe? We have'nt even even had a first date and I know what he looks like coming out of the shower. (I don't want to know more.)
If y'all were wondering about the status of my yahoo personals profile, here's what happened. I took the offending picture down, determined to take the photo myself using the timer on my 35 mm camera. The display read that there were 14 shots left, a key piece of information being that this film would have last been loaded about a year and a half ago. (This information did not enter my head at the time.)

I had to dogsit at a lovely penthouse apartment, which seemed like an ideal place for a photo shoot. I started arranging myself in different positions: on the balcony, in front of the fireplace, etc. It was just as uncomfortable as when my brother was taking my picture. I felt like I was at Glamour Shots at the mall, only instead of the photographer with the Awmay poly blend pants stretched over a Grinch body, this time I was the greasy photographer. And I was trying to arrange my cleavage, just like Amway pants would-"If you want to be a serious model, you need to show us a little bit more..." I was embarrassed in front of myself. Possibly more than that, as I later learned the penthouse was equipped with cameras. So the doorman downstairs were probably eating their salami sandwiches in the back room, laughing at me.
I was taking out the film at the development place, I realized it was black and white. Oh well. Happy that the whole thing was almost over, and hoping that I got almost one usable shot, I excitedly went back to the pharmacy an hour later, hastily handing over my stub. "This film is blank, ma'am. There's nothing on this film," said the woman behind the counter. She pulled out the roll to prove it to me. It was indeed a clear strip. Could it have been the year and a half old film? I don't get it. Why would it be blank? Some sort of divine intervention is protecting me from internet dating. For now, I am listening.

Internet Dating for Dummies

2006-05-22T21:24:00.000-07:00

First off...NO MS.DunThat you CANNOT re-email someone with a better picture of yourself after you went and sent him a picture where you looked like a the dude from "The Mask" in hippy-dippy tie-dye tank top. It is beyond cyber-stalking. It says "I am not only desperate, I am also crazy".

To Ms. DunThat's credit, though, internet dating would drive anyone crazy. I will never divorce (even if my hubby gets a sex change operation) simply b/c I fear internet dating ( or really, any kind of dating) so much. 25 percent of the guys on Match.Com and those other internet sites look like criminals. 25 percent of them seem to think the way to a woman's heart lies in taking off your shirt and posing a. in the woods, b. in their bedroom by a fake fireplace or c. lounging on their mock leather couch with a bottle of cheap champagne chilling in a bucket. Another hefty portion of them look like the type of dudes that played way too much Dungeons and Dragons in high school. The rest are just unattractive and weird.

That dope who wrote 'He's Just Not That Into You' should take a cyber-surf through the yahoo personals if he really wants to understand why women are unwilling to give up on a halfway decent guy--even if he does treat her like crap.

From what I can tell, life is no better for famous women, either. Terri Hatcher (who we love by the way) has had the worst dating luck ever. Her first husband only had sex with her once a year. She earned all the money and had to take care of their daughter. The a-sexual a-hole then divorces her and makes her pay HIM alimony!Vanessa Williams...cheated on and kicked to the curb. Jen Aniston (don't get me started....). Meanwhile...Erik Menendez. Married. AFTER he offed his parents and was serving a life sentence without parole. Scott Peterson...oh, he managed to get engaged while trial for murdering his pregnant wife. Even O.J is doing pretty well in the dating dept. These are the statistics and women are supposed to dump a dude just b/c he hasn't called her in three days????!!!! Yeah, whatever.

Internet Dating Starts Off on a Bad Foot

2006-05-22T09:56:00.000-07:00

I remember that video. I think they were dancing in a diner, or something. Brangelina woudn't ever be in a situation like this because a)they would never park in the discount parking lot, b)Angelina wouldn't be caught dead traveling with John Voight, and c)Brad isn't allowed to hang out with his parents. The only thing Mrs. BeenThere's weekend had in common with a Brangelina vacation was the signature oversized child on hip.

Anyhoo, I would like to take this opportunity to caution all those internet dating hopefuls out there. No, I'm not going to warn you about the safety or anything like that, but a much more unexpected side effect: rejection and humiliation.
I cannot stress enough the importance of a well thought out, attractive picture. Now, I happen to hate having pictures taken. It is a well known fact that my pictures bear almost no resemblance to how I look in the real world, as confirmed by friends and family. I am one of those people who puts on make up and gets dressed up but no matter what, my face in the photo ends up looking like Farah Fawcett in 'The Burning Bed.' But my heart was really into this, I just could not wait to find my first date in the yahoo personal ads. I actually registered for the site before I had a picture, as I was eager to find my match. First off, I emailed the guy who I had chosen to be the best for me, a possible soul mate who looked like Dr. Drew Pinsky, was done playing games, and didn't mind being the only couple on the dance floor. In the email I explained that I would be sending him another email with a picture in a few days, that I understood if he didn't get back to me until then. Contact.

Then I enlisted my brother and sister, who took turns arranging me in different positions and under different lighting, snapping away with my mother's new digital camera. Things were already not going well. At one point, my brother actually said "Hey, guys, look at this one! Doesn't she look like the kid in that movie 'Mask?" To make it worse, the next day I woke up to learn that my parents had loaded the photos onto the computer, and were critiquing them. Further mortification, not to mention a gross boundary violation. I was pretty saddened by the results. I never knew I was perpetually shiny with a Michael Jackson nose. Oh well. I loaded up the picture I figured looked best onto the site.
The responses that started to trickle in were heartbreaking. One or two a day from guys who looked like they should be friends of my dad's. Not exactly anyone that I would consider for a steamy romp. No response from Dr. Drew guy. He'd obviously rejected me, taken my profile and dragged it right over to the trash bin. Although mortified at the whole thing, I decided to ask some friends what they thought of my profile. When Mrs. BeenThere looked it up, she screamed "Take it down! Now! Why do you look like a 55-year-old with bad plastic surgery?" My friend Cynthia told me I looked witchy, and asked "Why on earth did you wear a tie-die tank top?"

Why on earth did I wear a tie-die tank top? Immediately I could see what they were talking about, and deleted the offending picture. I can't believe I've ruined my chances. Dr. Drew guy doesn't even think I'm good enough for a grande caramel macciatto and 25 minutes of his precious time. Asshole. Or wait,I could try to get a better picture, and resend it to him, explaining as briefly as possible my misjudgement? What do you think, Mrs. BeenThere? Anyone? Would that be cyber stalking?

ROAD TRIP!!

2006-05-21T19:56:00.000-07:00

Ms. DunThat's past reminds me of another vacation I took with my commitment shy guy (our very first vacation as a matter of fact). This vacation was to a developing nation with unreliable road transport. We were planning to do a lot of walking, biking, etc. to get around. One week before the vacation he decided to run a major city marathon (27 miles) WITHOUT TRAINING--just a couple of hurdler stretches at the start gate and he was off!. He finished the race but had to be on crutches and a cane for our whole trip. Perhaps he was trying to tell me something? But, I digress. This post is actually to you about my latest vacation...to the midwest...with my parents.

So, we finally make it out of the house and to the airport. Just as we are parking the car at the remote parking lot (to save money) a huge cloud appears and the sky gets all dark and all that so my father says I should drop him, ny mother, and my 3 year old at the bus shelter so they don't have to get wet. so, I drop them off and park the car. As I'm getting out of the car it starts raining cats and dogs. I'm holding my 18 month old who weighs twenty seven pounds and I've got a HUGE bag over my shoulder. As I'm hobbling towards them (getting pelted with rain) I see my parents and 3 year old get on the airport shuttle, which then begins speeding out of the parking lot. I start running like mad with this heavy kid and even heavier bag, in the rain. My kid is laughing his head off, like it is some huge joke.

We finally make it into the terminal and we are standing in line. My mom (who is, by the way, 72 years old) for some odd reason, is wearing a pin striped man's tailored suit and jacket. Not exactly comfy travel wear, if you know what I mean. Her suit was exactly like the one Janet Jackson wore in the 'Alright' video during her 'Rhythm Nation' days--except my mom didn't have that hanging glass pocket watch thing that Janet did. She did, however, have extremely high heels on. Further complicating things is the fact that she has recently put her hair in extremely long extension braids (much like the kind Janet Jackson had in the Poetic Justice movie come to think of it). Unlike Janet, however, she did not have a headband or any kind of elastic band to hold the braids out of her eyes. Which is probably why the following accident happened.

So, she is holding my 3 year old by the hand and he is holding his little brother's hand. The three year old decides to bust that move that the kid did in Jerry Maguire, you know, when you are being held by two people bigger than you and you kick up your feet while you are walking and swing in between. The problem with this is that, unlike the kid in Jerry Maguire, he was not being held by two adults. Rather, he is holding hands with a 72 year old Janet Jackson impersonator and a baby.

Well, you can guess what happened. He kicks up his legs and they all went down like a house of cards. The three year old crashes into 'Janet' (aka grandma) those spiked heels gave out and she went crashing to the ground. The three year old fell on top of her and pulled the 18 month old down on top of him. They crashed into our pile of suicases. It was a three car pileup.

The flight was reasonably uneventful. When we got to the hotel, however, thr 'fun' started up again. We get to the front desk and try to check in. My husband had made the reservation over the internet. However, he was not with us. When we get to the front desk I try to check all of us in. The clerk will not let us take posession of the keys becuase my husband is the only name on the reservation. He and I don't have the same name b/c (being the modern missy that I am) I didn't change my name when we got hitched. So, basically she says she can't let me in the room b/c I could be an imposter or something.

I try to call my hubhby so he can tell her he authorizes me to get into the room. He of course has his cell phone off. Things are getting hairy and my parents are meling down. Further complicating things is the fact that when I was on the plane my sinuses started acting up due to th change in pressure and my ears went all funny as well. When we landed something in my nose and ears 'popped'. My nose would not stop running. It was gushing like a fountain. I, of course, had no tissues and had to keep using my sleeve. In addition, I was now temporarily deaf in one ear. I kid you not, I could hear nothing but muffled sounds out of my right ear.

The snotty clerk says 'we need a photo ID with the last name of the person who is on this reservation--nothing less'. My nose is gushing like Niagra Falls. I have no tissue, and I can't hear. So, in a moment of desperation I pull out my 18 month old kid's passport (I travel with it to prove to people that he is actually under 2 and can fly for free since they never believe he is under 2 since he is so huge). So, I pull out the passport, the photo on which was taken when he was 2 weeks old and he looks dazed and angry. (Ms. DunThat thinks he looks like a miniature Albert Brooks, which he does).

Miraculously, it works. Since he and dear hubby have the same last name and the baby had a photo ID, we were able to use his ID to get into the room. I think they gave in b/c my nose was dripping onto the reservation counter. Just as we are checking in (finally) I hear a huge commotion behind me. Hotel employees are running from everywhere. As I move closer to the elevators I see what is going on. My kid (the mini Albert Brooks one whose ID we have just used) has plunged into the decorative waterfall that is the centerpiece of the lobby and is soaking wet. He has also gotten water EVERYWHERE. As I approached and scooped him up, they were putting up all these yellow sighs that said CAUTION, HAZARD, SLIPPERY SURFACE.

Our last act of the disastrous day was to go to the 'Happy Hour' sponsored by the hotel. Everyone wanted to go, so we had no choice but to take the little kids with us. So there we are: me, my parents who are in their seventies, and two small children sitting at a hotel bar eating mini-hotdogs (pigs in a blanket) and driking free apple martinis. Somehow I don't think Brangelina ever have to deal with things like this....

Traveling with a Commitment-Phobe

2006-05-16T19:10:00.000-07:00

Mrs. BeenThere, there are so many of us out there who feel your pain. Each of my ex BF's tended to develop commitment-itis when confronted with an approaching vacation. I have also witnessed the psychosomatic illness. But now that I think about it was really manufactured illness and personal injury. Mr. BeenThere had a choice- to either eat the questionable shellfish or leave it alone. A previous ex boyfriend was even better than your husband. We were supposed to go to the jazz festival in Montreal, and he was sooo not excited about it. He took his mountain bike out the evening before, in the dark, and flipped over it, puncturing something in his shoulder that would actuallyrequire surgury. For the next week, instead of staying in a nice hotel, we stayed at his parents house where I slept on the floor next to his bed, and if memory serves me correctly, holding his hand. Gag, ugh, ughh, gag. I can totally imagine Brad having exploding diahrrea on a vacation with Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox, and David Arqette.He would probably eat some stale pork rinds to avoid having to participate in group karaoke or something. But he wouldn't with Angelina, or George Clooney for that matter. They would look down on him if he had to take a day off from working in the soup kitchen or whatever he's doing that day. Plus, Angie would so rip him a new one and go sleep with that Jenny Shimuzu model.
My most recent ex, you know, the BIG ONE also had a bad case of travel jitters. But he was truly the worst. Countless times he would take me on a field trip to the Barnes and Noble, to look excitedly through travel guides. I can't describe to you hhow excited he was. He would say things like, "I'd love to stay at a little rustic pensione just like this, with a window just like this." Then I would start to really plan the vacation, and after confirming he was available and booking the tickets, he would mentally back away and act like he was doing me a favor, like I'd been nagging him to go with me. Like it was all my idea! I swear, I would be on the cover of 'Duh' Magazine!

Namibia is for Commitment-phobes

2006-05-16T18:35:00.000-07:00

You know how they say Paris is for lovers? Well, I have a new promotional schame for the Namibian tourism board: Namibia is for Commitmentphobes. I was reminded of this story when I read Ms.DunThat's post about her ex's aborted trip to visit her. I too, have a similar story.

Most of you are probably aware that Brangelina and family are tucked away at a $5,0000 a night resort in Namibia. This makes me sour for a couple of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that I once went on a "vacation" with my boyfriend (we got married ten years after this happened but I'm still sour about it). He was in a heightened state of commitment-phobia and didn't even want to be on vacation with me. I begged and begged him to go on vacation with me. I really wanted to go on vacation becuase we were living in Southern Africa at the time and we lived with a bunch of other Americans who were Peace Corp volunteers, Fulbright scholars and the rest. Anyway, come to find out these people who I thought were my friends planned this huge vacation, rock climbing and safari-ing. Like ten people were going, and they didn't invite me. I felt like I had like the biggest "L" for LOSER tatooed on my forehead. My boyfriend was like "who cares, those people are dumb." But I, of course, did care. A lot. So, anyway, I really needed to go on a vacation to make myself feel better and so it wouldn't look like I was such a total loser to these people. Anyway, since my boyfriend didn't even want to be my boyfriend he didn't exactly want to go on vacation. But I begged and he relented. We chose Namibia becuase it was within driving distance. Well, it was like ten hours away. But it was cheap.

Instead of staying in a $5,000 a night place, our place cost $50 a night. It was about 103 degrees everyday in Namibia and the place had no central air. Only a rickety fan. At that time my boyfriend's commitmentphobia generally manifested itself in various forms of illness. Usually stomach related. Anyway, one night we went out for fish. I ate a couple of bites of mine, but it didn't taste right, so I left it alone. My boyfriend, however, decided to eat the fish I said smelled funny. He wolfed it down. About six hours later he got a really bad case of exploding diahrrea, which lasted the rest of the horrendous trip. We couldn't do anything in that god-forsaken country except sit in that hot room which, quite literally, smelled like ass. WE only left the hotel once, to go to an open air market and buy these baskets woven out of grass. My boyfriend thought it would be really funny to go up to the guy selling baskets and say: "I need six baskets, one for my girlfriend, and one for each of my wives". Har-de-har-har.

On the last night of our trip he dropped another bomb on me (this time outside the bathroom). He told me he had been offered a job in Europe and was leaving the following week. I was like, huh? And then he left me and we had a long distance relationship (different time zones) for like the next four years.

Once I saw this Dr. Phil show and this woman had made really bad choices in her love life. Dr. Phil looked at her and said "What are you? The center=fold for Duh-Magazine?" I guess if she was the centerfold, Ms. DunThat and I have lifetime subscriptions!!

The Dunkachino Disaster

2006-05-16T18:22:00.000-07:00

As Ms. DunThat was unsuccesfully trying to get to the Aquarium with her 'rents, I was attempting to get my father to buy me a Dunkachino at Dunkin Donuts. For those of you who are not frequent Dunkin visitors, a Dunkachino is half-hot chocolate, half coffee. Anyway, so the conversation goes something like this:

Me: Dad, can you get me a medium Dunkachino and six donut holes for the kids
Dad: Donut holes? What are those?
Me: They are like, little donuts, little round things. Don't worry, they are going to know what they are, get 3 jelly flavored and 3 glazed.
Dad: What? Ok, where are my sandals? Has anyone seen my sandals?
Sister: Can you pick me up a regular coffee? Hezelnut Vanilla?
Dad: Oh no, I'm not going to be able to do this. Can someone get me a pen? I need to write this down!!!
My 3 year old: Grampa, can I come with you?
Dad: What's that now that you wnat me to get, a Grampachino?

Sooo, he writes it all down, what everyone wants. He comes back half an hour later with....four regular coffees, z smoothie, and a dozen donuts. No Dunkachino, No Munchkins, no Vanilla Hazelnut coffee for my sister. Where he got the notion in his head for these other items, I can't begin to fathom. I mean, he HAD a list...

Vacation musings

2006-05-15T07:31:00.000-07:00

On the last day of my trip, I got in trouble and received the 'silent treatment' from my father. I had planned to go to the zoo or the aquarium with my sister and brother. I know what you're saying already, 'what kind of loser goes to the zoo or the aquarium for the highlight of their vacation?' Especially because this zoo is the world's most horrible, politically incorrect zoo. Monkey cages are tiny and splattered with feces; they throw things at you because they are (rightfully) mad at the world. A huge lion lays lethargically in a cage exactly like the old fashioned one on the side of the Barnum and Bailey Animal Crackers box. Underneath the cage is a crappy sign that says 'Simba.' Indeed, last year we tried to report the zoo but nothing came of it. But it would be fun. The three of us never get a chance to go anywhere together, but when we do, it tends to be very carefree and leisurly. My sister ended up not being able to go because her friend saw a sign for free skin care consultations at Sephora. This opportunity clearly superseded the zoo or the aquarium.
My parents, noticing the time gap left between 'The Ellen Degeneris Show' and 'American Idol' later that evening, volunteered to go with my brother and I instead. Now don't get me wrong, I like doing things with my parents, but it's a totaly different vibe than taking a leisurly drive to observe some wildlife.
My parents got to it with the same zeal and authority as a couple of camp counselors, minus the T-shirts and the whistles. My father got busy plotting out the physics of available time verses possible ground cover and activities. Mom got to work on the hospitality element. By the time she mentioned the dreaded cooler, I was tired out. The cooler, THE harbinger of useless, endless errands. Luncheon meats would have to be bought, ice packs cooled.
Mom: "If we lunch on the beach after, we'll bring the tent, otherwise sand will get in your food. You don't want sand to get in your food. We need that tent for your brother. He's already red and I don't think he should be getting anymore sun."
Me: "We're not going camping, we just want to go for a drive. Just forget it." I was already thinking about the trip there, sitting in the back seat with my brother, getting windblown from the front window rolled down all the way, bobbing and weaving the ashes flicked carelessly out the driver's seat window. When I pointed out that the whole day was turning into a rigamarole, my dad got in a huff. He acted hurt, and thy gave up on the whole idea.
The wierd thing is that this doesn't happen when you have a boyfriend, this type of automatic regression. He's usually there with you, or as much of it was in my case, the idea of him is there at least. The last year we were together, he was supposed to take a trip down there with me for a week long vacation. He kept putting off buying the plane ticket. I kept hasseling him, and waiting to buy my ticket. Finally he said I should just buy it, he had to wait a little longer and would just pay the extra money, and if he wanted to cut the trip short, well, I could just go to the airport and they would switch it around to accomadate us. I wasn't too sure. THEN he said he wanted to drive down there. He seemed really excited about it, and kept talking about visiting my parents, and then driving around and doing our own thing, maybe going to some little B and B, and what not. But I was so uneasy, like I KNEW somehow this trip wasn't going to happen. I just knew part of him wasn't into it. Then, his mom got sick. I still believe that part is true, maybe I'm a shmuck. Some condition that required hospitalization and included possible transfusions. So of course, I was horrified, and couldn't say anything. I offered to stay with him, but he said to go, she might need surgery, but the condition wan't life threatening or anything. Bought the ex mom a card and went to my parents. Now, ex didn't really get along with his mom, but still. Halfway into my trip, when I askd him how his mom was, he told me blankly he never got around to visiting her over the weekend. When I got back from the vacation, I found out he never bothered to visit her at all. I was stunned, but what was I supposed to say? If I got pissed at him, I would also basically be accusing him of being a bad son, and what if something did then happen to the mom?

I'VE STILL GOT IT

2006-05-12T23:27:00.000-07:00

Now I have to get it while the getting is hot!
Although I still (sadly) miss my ex, I am pleased to report that a 21 year old boy tried to pick me up tonight. It was a record low, and was obviously very flattering. I believe 21 is off limits, as it even exceeds the Demi/Ashton gap. I'm not going for any Guiness world records, it's just nice to think that maybe I can at least find a guy my own age. I was having doubts, considering all the guys on match.com who only want to date women 2-15 years younger than them. So screw them all, the pigs!

2006-05-10T15:59:00.000-07:00

Damn, I wish I'd seen that Oprah. Now, Sheryl Crow seems like a real nice lady. I find it interesting that although she's always been described as 'strong' and independent, she too put her professional life on hold for a year for Francy-Pants and then got dumped to the curb like a crumbled up bottle of Gaterade. I don't know about Lance, but it seems like there are a lot of guys out there who get real nervous when you put them in front of your own career. That's so stupid. I would think a man who's lived through cancer would be appreciative of a woman who wanted to make sacrifices to be with him. And about his wife, I mean, what woman wouldn't relocate to France for a seemingly nice guy who's on his way to becoming an international superstar and who is recovering from cancer? Why is that pathetic? I guess you're just not supposed to give anything up anymore. I mean, you would give up where you live and your job if your kid had the opportunity to go to a better school, right? That would be courageous. But if you do it for a man, you're a sap. Sometimes you want to celebrate other parts of your life aside from your 'work' life, but you know what that means-Uh,Oh- she might expect something BACK, something EMOTIONAL. She let her guard down. She's just not attractive anymore. I guess I'm a litttle bitter.
The hospice vacation continues. We were loaded up into the van yesterday to finally go to the beach. For the first time in years, I barely fit into a one piece bathing suit, thanks to my mom's home cooking. But I was able to narrowly escape the 'maillot with skirt' style suit by pairing my bathing suit with a cotton miniskirt. I have been here for four days so far and I would like to make a list of what I've been fed: BLT's, chips, homemade macaroni and cheese, take out chinese, homemade pizza, German chocolate cake with cherry filling, molasses cookies, pancakes and sausage. On the ride to the beach, my sister and brother and I took turns complaining how 'wrong' the scale was in mom and dad's bathroom. It seems it's a good 5-10 pounds off. We hope. But unlike my younger brother and sister, there is nobody at home to be horrified by my acute weight gain.
And yes, we made a family field trip to Reed's Jewelers, to pick out the setting for the diamond my brother bought for his fiance. When we walked in, they were playing a song by Al Green, OUR old song, me and you-know-who's. I am always uncomfortable in those places because they are like a foreign country I am supposed to have visited. They speak a strange language and use words like carrots. My sister who's 29 knows what they are talking about but I do not. She brought along her three diamond rings to use as examples.But the only time I've seen the inside of a jewelry store was with the ex, who had gifted me diamond studs with embarrassing and cautious reserve. Then we went to the store because we had to exchange the studs because they were so small they were actually falling out through my ear hole. Jewelry stores also remind me of how he kept the earrings and any other piece of jewelry he gave me when he broke up with me. He sent all my stuff back in boxes but kept those and the one of a kind Native American jewelry. This was not because he was angry with me but because he 'didn't want me wearing it with anyone else." Huh?So helping my brother was bittersweet. I mean my God, I remember when I used to babysit with Mrs. BeenThere and we used to watch Love Boat. Now my baby brother is a big man getting married and I'm still waiting to find a man who doesn't expect to go dutch on a vacation.

2006-05-10T13:08:00.000-07:00

OK Ms. DunThat, Mrs. BeenThere is here and I feel your pain.

For those who haven't met me yet, I'm Mrs.BeenThere and I have been Ms.DunThat's co-conspirator for about 25 years now.I am also spending the week with my parents. They decided to visit me this year in lieu of a vacation. My parents are odd birds. My dad has a PhD and my mom has two Masters degrees. My dad has written four books and is currently working on two more. My mom proofreads all his stuff and is his co-author on a number of articles. They are in perfect health and neither one of them is senile. Nevertheless, once their feet cross the threshold of my house, neither one of them can complete even the most simple task without assistance. They are unable to turn on the t.v by themselves or change the channel. They can't turn on the shower by themselves. They can't find objects that are right in front of their faces. I spend most of my time running around doing basic things for them. It is sort of like taking care of my two toddlers, except my parents are a lot more bossy.

So, here we both are, on the wrong side of 35 spending close to every waking hour with our parents! Becuase of the collective oddities of both of our families, we have to communicate via blog becuase we actually cannot communicate any other way when our families are around. Yesterday I tried to call her in the morning and after about 100 rings her grandfather finally shuffled to the phone and picked up. He demanded to know why, if I was calling from the East Coast, the caller ID showed a number from the midwest. I had to explain I still had my old cell phone that I used when I lived elsewhere. He wasn't buying it. He acted very suspiscious, like I was trying to pull one over on him. I finally got him to tell me that she had gone engagement ring shopping. For a brief moment my heart soared. I fantasized that Mrs. BeenThere had met the man of her dreams and would finally get hitched so my husband and I (who have no couple friends becuase every other married couple we know is horrifically boring) would actually have another cool couple to hang out with. OK, I know, she hasn't actually been on a date in a while so the chances of her finding a guy and getting hitched within 24 hours of the last time I spoke to her are slim, but hey, I can dream, can't I? Anyway, no such luck. She was going ring shopping with her little brother. Who I have known since he was in diapers. Who is now getting married. To an actual adult woman becuase he is an actual adult man and not an fourteen year old. Which means I am really, really old now. Depressing. So, anyway, I get grandpa off the phone (he didn't offer me any toothbrushes) and decided to call her later.

The next time I called her her father picked up. He started droning on about possibly using my name as a reference for some volunteer opportunity he was pursuing. Once again I felt horrifically old when I realized that the same man who used to drive me to the movies in eigth grade now considers me old enough to write a letter of reference for him. Which again underscores the fact that I am one old broad. So, anyway, the worst thing of it was I was just trying to call her quickly to tell her that Lance Armstrong's ex was on Oprah. Did anyone catch that? Lance Armstrong is (after Brad Pitt) possibly the most dangerous commitment-phobe out there. And now his wife was on t.v, presumably to ditch the dirt. Thank god for TIVO becuase her father droned on and on for close to twenty minutes. I was dying.

You know, I'm getting really really sick of Oprah. She always blames the woman for every crappy thing a man does to her. Take the interview with Lance's ex (who, by the way, looks exactly like Sheryl Crow) She is blaming herself for the fact that Lance Armstrong is basically a self-involved son of a gun. The basic gist of the interview was that she was saying that she lost herself in her marriage and became a 'yes woman' who didn't stand up for herself, which eventually led to her divorce.Oprah went into her whole "yeah girl, you women out there better wake up, if your man is mistreating you it is probably becuase you taught him to do that" routine. Ok, sure, I get it, no one is blameless in any situation, but COME ON. What I saw on that stage was a woman who fell in love with a man, sold her house, her car, and her DOG. Moved to France, got pregnant, and was just trying to hold it all together to support the man she loved. She should be blamed because she didn't ask for help? What about blaming him for never OFFERING to help??? A woman gives up a great life for you, has your babies, moves to the land of bad showers, rude people, and chain smokers (ok ok I hate France), cooks your meals and washes your dirty drawers and you never once think to ask "can I help you?" and it is HER FAULT when the marriage tanks!!! Get your ass off that bike and change a diaper already Lance!! Take your wife out to dinner!!Use some of that dough you won at the Tour-de-Fancy Pants France to fund a getaway weekend for her and some girlfriends!!! And what are we supposed to think about him ditching Sheryl Crow? A woman who had a great career, was independent, and was no "yes woman" as far as I could see. It didn't keep her from getting kicked to the curb once bicycle boy had had his fun. Can I get a witness, Ms. DunThat??? Oops, wait, I gotta go, my father is calling me from downstairs. He needs me to turn on the t.v. for him so he can watch C-Span.

I am on vacation

2006-05-09T09:04:00.000-07:00

Yes, I am on vacation. Not at a tropical island, not in Vegas, not on a singles' cruise (something I probably should do considering I'm hurtling at the speed of light toward middle age.) I am at my parents. The plus side: They live 15 minutes away from the beach, and there is a thriving downtown with quaint stores and big city nightlife. The down side: There is a cold front, I have no access to a car and nobody wants to do anything.
That is not entirely fair. On Saturday night, my sister and her friend took me out to a biker bar. We were going to go to a nice club but there was no parking so we left. The allergy fueled flu that I'd had in New York had settled into an easily ignorable cold, so I grabbed the chance to go out. I danced to a few songs, dodging the 'octopus arms' that occasionally reached from behind me to secure the bump and grind position. There was a lot of cigarette smoke which I guess aggravated my condition because I couldn't speak for the next 24 hours and now I think I have walking brochitis. But at least I was out there.
That was the only time I've been out for three days, except when my dad brought me to the QwikMart to get some Tampons, where he stayed in the car, but gave me $4 to buy his Merit Menthols. I don't drive a car, and my sister doesn't like leaving the house during the day. I wake up in the morning and play Scrabble with my brother. My mother asks me what I'm going to eat. I watch old movies on TV, and watch my grandfather shuffle back and forth to the bathroom. This morning he brought out a cigar box filled with new toothbrushes and asked me to pick one. He says there's more where that came from, that he's got 100's of them. I play with the dogs for a little while. I read, and sometimes I take a bath.
I am 36 years old. I am on vacation but it looks more like i've checked into a hospice. This stuff only happens when you're single or in a stagnant relationship. Can anybody else relate? Mrs. BeenThere?

Last Monday my ex-Boyfriend pretended he didn't know me and the next night I had to work as a bathroom attendant.

2006-04-19T07:18:00.000-07:00

Yes, this is true. As you know, my ex left me in the dust just a little over a year ago after 5.5 years. What you may not know is that I also left a teaching career to write and walk dogs. I also had to pick up some cater-waiter jobs. So here's how it went down: I was entering a restaurant to get a piece of lemon meringe pie. I was in my dog walking uniform, which that day was old droopy beige cords (with a tomato sauce stain on back of leg), scuffed sneakers, and weird sweater with pompom drawstring. Most importantly, I had on no make up and my hair was tied up and windblown; the top of the hairdo looked like a shark fin. That's what I was reminded of when I looked in the mirror after. Anyway so I enter the first door, there is a little hallway between the first and second door, with a glass panel to my left, through which sits one table where both diners are approx. 3 feet away from me. As I'm opening the second door I glance at that table and see my ex BF sitting with his ex wife. (They were seperated when we met.) He looked up at me too, we locked eyes for a moment, and then he returned to the conversation he was having with her without missing a beat. I guess the coward didn't have it in him to acknowledge me after spending 5+ years with me, after all she didn't know who I was. I don't even think she really knew I existed, as I realized later he was hedging his bets and dividing his emotions between the two of us our whole time together. Watching them was like watching a mental picture I had created that now moved on it's own accord. It was just sheer post traumatic pain.

Then I went to the corner store and bought a pack of cigarettes and smoked them. I have not heard from him and I guess after this, I never will. And if I do, I will be an idiot for talking to him. Then, at 11:30 at night, I got a call from a catering co. that wanted me to work for them as a bathroom attndant the next day. Yipee! I hadn't really worked for them yet, so I had to take the job to insure they would call me again.
The sad thing is, that when I saw him, I still wanted him. After 14 months. Oh God, I hope I don't get famous and he reads those words. I guess I can replace that part about wanting him with, 'He looked like an orange troll, I don't know what it was I saw in him in the first place.' My friend Sally told me if you're relationship (or breakup) with a guy seems like a Lifetime movie, it's probably not healthy for you. So I must listen to her.

2006-02-27T06:16:00.000-08:00

I am finally going to get back to writing and maintaining this blog. The reason I havn't been writing is due to my chair. I tried to make a cozy writing area for myself. I bought a new rug, chair, and even hung up the painting that I had bought for my ex before he left me. It had been sitting in my closet for over a year. It is a lovely painting, and it is mine now. It is probably the most 'high class' thing that I own, which gives you an idea of who I treated better, him or myself. Anyway, the chair. It is one of those round, nest-style chairs and it is so comfortable, that when ever I sat down, I didn't feel like writing; only like watching TV or maybe reading. I had planned to do some writing this weekend, and was so depressed come Sun. night when all I had to show for the weekend was an empty DVR and a trail of cookie crumbs that had worked their way down my front and lodged themselves in my navel, that I started to feel really bad about myself. Not just because I havn't been able to write, but because my butt got bigger. Just when I was about to roll across the room into the bed, I found a new position in the chair that felt like the perfect writing position. I am hoping that this is a turnung point to get me out of my slump. I am in the position now, and here I am writing. So anyway, about dating. I havn't really bothered to update because it's been so boring. I had two dates, both of whom I compared with my boyfriend and who came up short, even though my boyfriend was an asshole. He did have other attributes. The first date seemed promising; I met the guy at a catering event, we exchanched numbers and then both saved eachothers numbers wrong. He actually tracked me down by calling the catering company! But then, on the date, he was a bizaare composite of annoying personalities. He kept talking about Bush, Russian literature, and 'faggots.' His voice was high and his teeth were shriveled and blackish, I can't believe I didn't notice that before.
The second date was fine; it was with an ER doctor who was short and bald, but not George Costanza short and bald. But he was pretty young for me, 30. We had a good time talking, but I didn't feel much of an attraction. Anyhow, he invited me to a concert and something else. Then I told him I was 36 (he thought I was about 32) and then I never heard from him again. Those are the only dates I've had in the 14 months since the breakup.

2006-02-05T19:38:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow I am going to try to start the Perricone 28 day diet so tonight, I am sitting in front of Grey's Anatomy with a fork and an Entemen's cake. I have eaten one third of the cake. Like an alcoholic who sucumbs to the fantasy of a last drink, the reality of my pig out session is disappointing and filled with self-loathing. It is a Valentines cake. So I know I will keep eating in an attempt to get rid of it. Pigging out should be left to those who, like my roomate, can exercise a modicum of self-control. I've already gained 8 pounds this season. But I did, on a high note, have a blind date the other night. For those who are counting, that is date number two since the BREAKUP. Not bad, you know, for a 36 year old. Let's see, that's an average of 1 date every 7 months. At this rate,

2006-01-15T05:22:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it seems that just when you start to feel a little bit better about something, fate intervenes to bring you back to a place of misery The following event is real, not fictionalized, as you would be inclined to believe.
As I may have told you, shortly before the breakup, I had given up my career as a dance teacher to pursue other career options. The breakup ensued, and I spent six months of government subsidized unemployment on the beach and under the covers watching Ellen and reality TV. I presently spend my days walking dogs and writing. That's right, careerless and mateless in one shot. Oh well, c'est la vie, I gave away my ticket for a normal life long ago, in college, when I started dating unavailable men. BUT THIS IS WHERE IT STOPS!
Anyway back to the point- Manhattan is a condensed sity. There is so much to see that it is not hard to avoid a particular area if necessary. I used to live with my BF on 64th and West End. So the area on West End between 50th and 80th Streets is basically a blackout zone. (The blackout zone originally included Manhattan, then the entire west side, and has shrunk in time. Not that I'm over it.) The other day, I got a pet sitting job within 10 blocks of the old apartment. I literally closed my eyes in the street as I walked close to the apt. we had shared, risking walking into a stranger or a lamp post. I kept my head down past the neighborhood restaurant we visited on lazy Sunday evenings, where I liked the the fried zuccini and he liked the linguini a la vongole. I got up to the apartment, set up my laptop and played tug of war with the dog. The apartment is a top floor penthouse, with a wrap around balcony. I know, I know. I am staring out the window when it dawns on me that I'm actually freaking looking at the apartment we shared together for almost SIX YEARS, the apartment that he in all probability, still resides at. Then, as if a divine being placed them there itself, I see to my right a set of binoculars. For about two seconds I tried to talk myself into forgetting about it and going to see what was on the Lifetime Movie station. Instead I picked up the binoculars, and with my hands in a death grip, heart pounding, tried to see if I could scout out our apartment. I mean this is a year later guys, I don't know what kind of horrors I could have seen. Turns out I can't see into his apartment, which is a good thing, because even if I could have seen so much as a one inch sliver, I would have stood there in a death grip watching for an elbow, anything, like some 1980's movie voyeuristic loser.

2005-11-22T05:40:00.000-08:00

Newman check out the pic

Anybody have any dirt on Tom Cruise?

2005-10-07T07:53:00.000-07:00

It's me! (not the Asian chick, the pasty one to the back left.) God I look so pasty- Tom is making me look bad with his fake bake! What you can't see is that I'm clutching Tom from behind- we're on a first name basis after all. He's very close to me because I'm actually pulling him in like a lech. I mean he is cute.
Nicole Kidman's a real class act. Because if I were her, OUT Magazine would be doing a big expose on Tom Cruise, despite the questionable validity of the rumors. I would gather every detail of poor conduct and questionable sanity, and there'd be a dent on Oprah's couch where my ass would be telling Tom Cruise fans everywhere. OK, so that's a bit harsh. But really let's examine how awful this is. Nicole Kidman wants a natural child, we all know this. For whatever reason this doesn't happen during the course of her marriage. There is a miscarriage, reports of sterility, nobody really knows the story. A few days shy of their 10th anniversary, soon after he writes her some romantic poem, he announces he's leaving the marriage. She is devastated, and continues to mourn the relationship like a normal person. He rubs out any signs of emotional attachment and starts dating another starlet. And she gets to read about it anytime she passes by a newstand or turns on the television. By the time he plucks the 16 year younger Holmes from her engagement to that cute actor Chris Klein, the public notices that he has gone full out, mad Scientologist-crazy. He still acts larger than life. He is ranting at Matt Lauer on TV, saying negative things about Brooke Shields, denouncing an entire medical field, which incidently is the same field that his former father in law of 10 years devotes his life to, and still expects people to think he's this great guy? Now he's going to be a dad? How can Nicole Kidman stand it? I can't stand it. And you know why? Because my ex is a watered down version of the same thing. And he still has power over me. Tom Cruise gets to act like a crazy person and be rewarded for it with a life beyond anyone's wildest dreams? Maybe my ex can too. Uuuugh!
So, come on anybody. Does anybody have the scoop on Tom Cruise? What's really going on there? You can tell us.

2005-10-02T08:27:00.000-07:00

I've come to think of my ex much like the Wizard of Oz. Remember the frontman? The strong and powerful looming grumpy hologram who claimed to grant wishes?
Much like Oz, who, from what I can recall doled out, among other things, a blackmarketed diploma for a scarecrow and an empty promise for Dorothy, the ex was FULL of unfulfilled promises and bizzare substitutes for caring and commitment. He'd always described himself as generous; and everyone from his doorman to his friend's wife would attest to what a prince he was. But everything he gave was EASY for him to give, in other words he displayed a kind of "generosity of convenience."

He SAID he wanted to take me somewhere exotic and adventurous. We ended up going on two island vacations together, dutch, that I planned and he tried to worm out of.

He told some friends of mine 'not to worry about the bill' for dinner, and when they didn't, he complained they didn't make a counter offer to pay.

He went window shopping for Christmas presents for my whole family, and then got nothing- including for me. (Me to him: huge lavish stocking.)

My favorite: bought me very nice Tiffany earrings and one of a kind jewelry- when he broke up w/me out of the blue, sent me all my stuff from his apt. except for the jewelry, which I never saw again.

Chinese Food. Remember in my Big, Fat Greek Wedding where the father thought every ailment could be cured with Windex? The answer to restablishing balance in any crisis was ordering take out chinese food. I am ashamed to say that that I perpetuated this feeble attempt by jumping up and down and licking my chops . When he refused to let me meet his ex wife, there was kung pao chicken. When he renegged on holidays and I was left alone in the city, there was fried rice to the rescue. When he changed his mind about moving in together and decided not to give me a key to his new apartment, I got to order my OWN egg roll.

I mean, I do really like Chinese food. How could I confuse the Chinese food cure with emotional depth, fortitude, and steadfastness? Just gullible, I guess.

I was so eager to believe in the wizard, all knowing, powerful and benevolent. But remember when Toto pulled the curtain back? The wizard was no wizard a whiz he was. He was just a little con man. I think what happened is I started to pull the curtain back, and he bolted. Sadly, I know I would have settled for the small, deceitful, version of him as well.

2005-09-29T05:53:00.000-07:00

Maybe it is pathetic. But I'm still not over him after almost 9 months. I get disgusted with the idea of him sometimes, so maybe that's progress. I am also, however, disgusted with the prospect of dating, touching, engaging or becoming physical with any man except for Jason on General Hospital. Which doesn't really sound like progress, but more like one of my crazy aunts who sleeps with a cheese knife under the mattress and is in love with Mario Lanza, who still croons to her from an LP. I am after all, at age 35, the propper age to be inducted into into the old maid trainee program. Which I guess is OK because I think once you're a member, you're allowed to blow up like a house and watch a lot of lifetime television, and that suits me just fine. It sounds almost as good as my Camp Cupcake fantasy, in which I can both get even with my ex and catch some rent-free R&R. But living in NYC you can't really progress by those traditional aging standards. Eligibility requirments to become an 'old maid' is up to like, 82. All the would-be members are taking strip aerobic classes, revealing their never distended belly buttons, still holding on to the hope that they'll meet a nice divorcee. Just like me. But I'm almost ready to retire. My ex constantly reminded us that "40 is the new 30." So why, still, am I uncomfortable with the fact that each day that passes since my 35th birthday brings me closer to the big 4-0? I mean Demi Moore is great and all, but honestly I just don't have the energy anymore, you know? I mean I'm a normally aging 35 year old. I have forehead wrinkles and a bursitis.

As a sidenote, if he said that 40 is the new 30, does that mean he couldn't date a 22 year old because she'd really only be 12?

2005-09-26T15:52:00.000-07:00

Well, this past Saturday would have marked our 6th year anniversary. Since we started dating, that is. Most people don't get to celebrate the anniversary of their first meeting. They have to settle for boring wedding anniversaries. Not me! Now that I think about it, that seems a little pathetic; celebrating another year that'd gone by where he successfully avoided marriage and that I successfully hung in there without a commitment. And to tell you the truth, he was the one who made such a big deal with the sappy card every year; I would always be one day off.

Since he left the relationship with pretty much no (rational) explanation-a few nuggets- "Happiness just isn't enough for me...I just don't want a girlfriend anymore ...sooo, do you need cab fair?", I couldn't help wondering if I would recieve a call from the most recent ghost of boyfriends past. I mean, he always came back before!? Ouch, I know that was pathetic.

Anyway, I'm still not over him. Went on one lame-o date in the past 8 months and that's it. No funny business at all , much to some of my girlfriends' horror.

So I went to a bachelorrette party this weekend that was being thrown by a self-proclamed sexologist. The bride to be had organized a celebration of women that included burlesque-style strippers, sex-toy demos and of course, dirty bingo. I attended the party with a group of women from work varying in all ages and backgrounds which of course made for some borderline uncomfortable moments. "What was the last one she called?" asked the sixty-something year old receptionist. "Butt plugs, Dot. She called 'B - Butt plug'. Did you fill in your free space?"

I don't think I have to tell you who the winner was. When I went up to claim my vibrator, the sexologist, who also happened to be a client of ours, explained in graphic detail how to position it to get the most bang for the buck. When I quipped back that my prize will come in handy for my bursitis, the room went silent. Not only was I , I was also an ingrate. Oh and the best part- the thing also has a remote control- just in case .... well just in case I don't know what.

2005-06-08T20:54:00.000-07:00

I seem to be surrounded by good company these days- at least from what I see in the tabloids. First Nicole, then Uma, Jen Aniston, Denise, and let's not forget JLo, have all had the wind knocked out of them by men that either can't commit; or can

Walking on the same streets we always walked down together is still horrific, and turning corners wondering if I stepping wear he may have been 5 minutes ago is still haunting, considering how he has vanished into thin air. It's sort of hard to resolve. So my new thing is to pretend he doesn't live here, nor does he exist. Almost like he died, even though this person I spent 5 1/2 years with may be 1 block away.

Sometimes I pretend he doesn't exist. That came in handy last night when I ventured to a new gym to take a dance class. As part of the last ditch effort to squeeze out what's left of my "still sexy in my mid-30's" years, (like Marisa Tomei in those annoying GAP ads), I chose to take a 'strip aerobics' class. I figure that's one of those things I better get over with NOW, like wearing glitter make-up and flirting with the teenage boys that work at the tanning salon, while I'm hurtling towards middle age, crow's feet, and mammograms at warp speed, having not yet reached my destination.

Anyway, the class for the most part was truly exhilerating. I haven't danced in a year, (which is equal to 4 years in 'teenager years.' I was all high on myself for a while, like 'Yeah, I can still keep up with the kids!" The moment of pride, however, was of course followed by a mortifying event that could have meant the end of dance class if not for my new 'I don't give a rat's ass' attitude regarding public humiliation. If you are familiar with dance class, you know that the last 15 minutes or so are reserved for 'across the floor' combonations. And of course since it was my first time I stuck to the back, wallflower style. Gay Paulo's combonation called for a few turns, dramatic floor slams, and finally 3 very graphic masculine style 'floor humps.' It was a really embarassing move but I wanted to please Paulo as he was very encouraging yet serious about his choreography. He had us going in groups of three but there were 25 peple in the class, which if you do the math means that at the end of each set Ms. BeenThere was humping the floor alone while the young girls cheered and pumped their fists. In, if I might add, full view of the free weight station where the sweaty guys hang out and leer into the dance room.

I only have a few more years to fart around before I'll be forced to attempt the transition into 'attractive older woman', and frankly, I'm a little concerned about it. When I think of an aging attractive woman I think of someone who's 'classy'. Sweeping throught the city streets in some sort of suede coat, a grey-tinted mane, and some sort of Parisian affect, acqired not in Europe, but through - built years of independance. I certainly DON'T think of someone who still tries to stuff into low-waisted pants and is convinced the 'juniors' department is still an appropriate section. (Do I have to tell you about the time my sister had to scold me for shopping above my age group at Abercrombie & Fitch?)

I had better start letting go of this man, and learning how to be attracted to more stable men. I fear I won't be a good candidate for the attractive older woman. I feel like I will just start looking like a munchkin. I'm barely 5'2'' and at some point, I will start shrinking even more. I am going to start to look like those short social studies teachers who have no erotic appeal. And my biological alarm clock has already gone off and it's only so much longer I can press snooze. Oh my God, I just realized I was only in my 20's technically when I started seeing him, and now I am closer to 40 than I am to 30. OH MY GOD! Bastard.

Top 10 wishes for summer

2005-05-31T21:12:00.000-07:00

These are my top 10 wishes for the summer:

1. He will develope a condition on his noodle that prohibits any contact.

2. I will stop being insane.

3. I will keep going to the gym, and be asked to be the oldest 'Bud Girl', and be in an ad that will make him regret his leaving me.

4. He will contract the exotic and rare "shrinking noodle disease."

5. One of my "get rich quick schemes" will be successful.

6. He will develope 'man-boobs.'

7. His noodle will fall off.

8. Someone at the fancy gym he drove me out of will compliment his noodle in the locker room.

9. My sense of humor will graduate from kindergarden to first grade.

10. I will stop thinking and writing about his noodle.

2005-05-31T20:14:00.000-07:00

One thing I hate about 'He's just not that into you':

OK, it would have been nice to have the book during the second year of the relationship- when I chose to ignore his broken promises, and when he started to choose his comfort over my safety and sanity. But I didn't (and I'm sure would have chosen to 'waste the pretty' for the next 5 years anyway regarldess of Greg B's advice.)

But I can't stand how this phrase is buzzing from the everyone's lips whenever a guy poops out, regardless of history or circumstances. I mean yes, it would be nice to have Greg B as my personal relationship crossing guard for the courting stages of the relationship. But for some of us, after 4 years of passion, pain, happiness, firsts, traditions, and compromises, it feels a bit vulgar when in referencing my defunct love affair there is some listener squawking "I've got it! I think he just wasn't into you!"

Gee thanks. I'm so relieved that the last 5 years of my day to day life were a lie. And I suppose I should interpret 5 years of telling me how unbelievable it was that he could feel so passionate and yet so comfortable- am I supposed to interpret that as an overcooked expression of lukewarm feelings? Spoken to what, get into my pants on a nightly basis? To get invited to those exciting annual Scrabble tournaments where he was 'honored' to converse with my grandmother with middle-stage Alzheimers?

I mean it's horrifying to hear that, right? Please, everybody- be careful when throwing around the HJNTIY.

If I'm not that into somebody, I don't want to see them naked. I don't want to lay with them while they're sick, and go out to buy their Kleenexes and tampons. I don't want to talk about my difficult childhood with them. I certainly don't want to drive 6 hours in a day to see them for 2 hours, and then get 3 hours of sleep before work.

2005-05-10T20:03:00.000-07:00

I can tell I'm gaining weight quickly. Not only because of the usual symptom where the stomach distends to a point where I'm actually fascinated and can work it like clay or dough, but also because there's so much more of a rub between my rib cage and my (underboob?), a la National Geographic. I always do this after a breakup. Usually there is a period of near starvation for 6 weeks or so, followed by a period of non-stop gorging. And this time I really can't afford it, I mean I'm 35! There will come a time when I will get to the upswing of one of my yoyo-ing weight cycles, and I will never ever swing down to a normal weight again. I'ts like some women who have children. After the second or third child they were just DONE, there was no recovering their figure. I think that might be like me and breakup weight. At some certain point I'll just give birth to a Krispy Kreme donut and declare "Game Over."
This time, I will deem it as HIS fault. I mean, last year at this time I had a hoppin' body. I was at the top of my game. It's not uncommon when you're with a commitmentphobic man, that you are at the top of your game. I mean you can never OFFICIALLY relax, so you're always working on yourself like a single person, like someone who's in the early stages of a relationship. Sustaining that independant, at the "top of my game" crap became quite tiring after 5 1/2 years. I mean, there were many times I displayed vulnerability, but after responses like "Hmm. Sorry, babe. What are you gonna do?", I pretty much gave up.

2005-05-07T11:40:00.000-07:00

I have two things to share with you:

#1 My emotional cripple of an ex-boyfriend has not come back. Considering he has not resurfaced for 1 month longer than it took for him to crawl back crying last time, I figure I am officially abandoned. And SINGLE. And 35. Holy Crud. It was a lot easier in my twenties getting on after a breakup. Back then, Mrs. BeenThere, Carol and I would mix up some new cocktail, watch taped reruns of 'Melrose Place', and possibly end the night shaking our fists and barking the chorus to 'Who Let the Dogs out.' We always had a lot of fun, even at our most abysmal moments, except that one time we experimented with a new cocktail called a 'Dirty Bird.'
A word of caution: Do not, ever, ever fuel a night of misery drinking with 'Dirty Birds' or any other milk-based concoction.
So anyway, breakups aren't as much fun anymore. Not now that Mrs. BeenThere is in Chicago with her two small children and Carol is in Connecticut with the same.

#2 I loved ex dearly but with the death of the relationship also comes the death of a life construct, a fantasy I thought I was close to acheiving with my ex of 5 1/2 years: The Barbeque Fantasy. I was conviced that at 35 I'd be spending many Saturdays with my best friends and family (like, kids+husband+ canine), in the same way my parents spent their Saturdays. You know, getting together, deciding between macaroni and German Potato salad, arguing over who took who's cheesburger (or gardenburger in this age), and capping off the night with the couples battling it out over a game of Taboo or maybe even Jeopardy. OK, OK maybe my BBQ fantasy sounds a little hokey to sophisticated readers, but really, that's what some people are doing. And it sounds a lot better than my current reality of sitting home alone on a Saturday on a bare mattress that needed to be stripped after the foster dog I brought home peed on it when I refused to adapt to sleeping alone. How is it that the closest I can come to my BBQ fantasy is taking the train down to Nathan's Hot Dog's with my foster dog? I mean, he's not even mine.

S.O.S.

2005-03-24T20:39:00.000-08:00

Starting off with technical difficulties! The broken down cart of author #2's relationship hit a fatal speed bump 2 months ago, with her BF abruptly abandoning her and later slamming his literal door into her literal face. So "man that won't commit" has actually morphed into "man that will never commit". Ouch, it still hurts. Relax, everybody, our book about the slippery creatures is still forthcoming, only a bit more sardonic, perhaps, than anticipated. I won't rehash the horror so much on this site; after all, we are trying to offer enlightenment and humor. Suffice it to say it was grusome and unexpected, most definately 'lifetime movie of the week' material.
Thankfully and suprisingly, I seem to have finally passed through the Howard Hughes-like stage where all I could do was watch daytime TV and eat M&M's that I had lined up on my stomach and that would fall into my navel. You know, when you're well aware every second that it sucks to be alive, but what else are you gonna do. Oh, I know, how about complain and feel sorry for myself, that sounds like the next appropriate action.
This Easter weekend, he can just go and suck on a giant egg. At least that's one less errand I have to do this weekend, go to pick out his favorite candy at two seperate candy stores and shop for a damn basket. HaHa! He's done it now! I'll bet he's really going to miss those twizzlers and other bonbons, realize he's made the biggest mistake of his life and come slinking back to my door. And then what will I say? I still haven't decided but in my fantasy I have 3 versions of responses:
"Kiss my Grits!"
"I would sooner pull a dimond out of my bum than trust you again", and
"What took you so long to come back this time?"

If history is any indication, my response could be a schizophrenic combo of those three sentiments. BECAUSE THAT'S HOW INSANE I FEEL AFTER ALL HIS BROKEN PROMISES, SMOOTH, EMPTY SENTIMENT, and SYMPATHY PLOYS! Uuugh!

2004-11-23T21:55:00.001-08:00

Meet Ms. DunThat and Mrs. BeenThere, with their first case commitmentphobes

Just call us Mrs. Been There and Ms. Done That. Together we have spent the better part of our twenties and early thirties in the Relationship/Self-Help aisle at various bookstores, desperate to unlock the secret of curing male commitmentphobia.

After all of our years of intensive study at Barnes and Noble U., we are both aware of how, in theory anyway, woman are supposed to behave in a relationship. Women are supposed to state what they want without shame or fear and if the the man in question doesn't share the same vision, conclude 'He's just not that into me' and move on without regret, confident that the man of her dreams is lurking right around the corner.

Yeah, whatever.

If you are anything like us, you have a hard time parting with anything you are attached to, no matter how hideous, outdated, or dysfunctional it is. And this includes your boyfriend.

We are firmly convinced that the same gene that keeps a woman from getting rid of a pink faux alligator bag she got on sale six years ago at Ann Taylor (and has never worn) is the same gene that prevents her from getting rid of the guy she started dating the year she bought the bag (even though he hasn't proposed or invited her to move in or even given her a key to his apartment.) She worries that if she tosses either of them she will one day see them hanging off the arm of some other chick, they will look really good, and she'll regret it for the rest of her life.

For any of you that asked asked yourself the following question:

"I'm in a relationship...so why do I still feel single?"

Mrs. BeenThere and Ms. DunThat feel your pain. Best friends for 25 years, they realize that laughter and support among friends is the most valuable resource available to a gal whose lovelife has gone seriously wrong. Get advice from Mrs. BeenThere and Ms. DunThat,
find book and film recommendations, musings on celebrity relationships and survival tips, as well as links to other sites where you can relate and commiserate with similar women going through the same ongoing drama.

It took Mrs. BeenThere seven full years to get her commitmentphobic boyfriend down the aisle.
At one point his commitmentphobia was so extreme, he actually took a job in another country, without telling her! A sane woman would probably have taken that as a sign that the relationship was not meant to be. Not her! She kept at it, refusing to see the ‘writing on the wall.
As for Mrs. DunThat, sadly, her 'man who won't commit' is now 'man who didn't commit and has since vanished.' Her road to recovery is also journaled in our blog.

There are many other women out there like us, who are tearing there hair out, rather than take the practical suggestion to “wash that man right out of her hair.”
If you have the sinking feeling that your ailing relationship should be taken off life support, but you simply cannot bear to sign the ‘do not resuscitate’ order, this site will make that ‘in-between’ time a little bit easier to bear.

2004-10-12T18:09:00.000-07:00