to top

I Won’t Respect You in the Morning

I won't respect you in the morning

 

“If I have sex with you, I’ll never see you again.”

 

“Sure you will. I’m not that kind of guy.”

 

Isn’t that cute? He thought I was worried he would not respect me the morning after our “third date.”

Getting Crushed by a Crush

crushed by a crush

 

Does this sound familiar?

 

You, an otherwise intelligent, semi-rational, mostly-mature, kind of confident woman, are friendly or perhaps even friends with, let’s just be honest, an “in-significant other.” You know, the type of guy you like, but you don’t “like” like.

 

You see him out and about, or hang with him at parties, or go to/play games with him because he’s the only other sports fan you know. You enjoy his company. You have fun together. He amuses you. The last time you saw him, you laughed for three straight hours.

 

He has a crush on you, and doesn’t try to hide it. He’s a goofy man-child to you, though, and you can’t take him or the idea of romance with him seriously.

 

Sure, his hint-dropping can be anything from grating to yawn-inducing after weeks, or months, or years. That said, you know he is harmless. He is all talk, no action, blessedly. And if your ego needs boosting, his unfailing adoration works better than your therapist or Prozac.

The Royal Pains Series Finale Was Exactly That: a Royal Pain

Hank's royal pain of an ending

The Royal Pains series finale was exactly that, and it left me with just one thing to say: put your hands down again, patriots.

 

I take it all back. I saluted USA too soon. All hands on hips.

 

“At ease” is the official command for ceasing military gestures, sure, but the last minute of the last episode of Royal Pains, un-ease bordering on dis-ease was my dominant feeling. The unofficial gesture I made in reaction only needed one finger, not four.

 

SMH. I must have been an idiot, hailing a television network as a leader in diversity in its depictions of my fellow Americans: Single people.

 

Nope, USA Network, the writers, the producers, whoever, just could not resist a trip to Cliché Island.

 

They did what Hollywood always does: substitute societal expectations for creativity. Instead of depicting Dr. Hank Lawson as the happy man on his own he proclaimed himself to be just a week earlier, they caved in to cultural biases, or just gave up trying, and settled for a biased, boring finale.

 

Which means they made Hank settle, too.  They tied up his story by tying him down. Who saw that coming? To be honest, not me.

What’s it like to be Single At THIS Age? Hint: it doesn’t suck

Single at this age

What’s it like to be single at this age?

 

Even for someone who writes and reads and thinks about single* life in America, this is a tough question to answer.

 

Not because of my age, or yours. Because, regardless of age, the question I actually end up answering is, what is it like not to be married?

 

And that, my friends, drives me BAT. SHIT. CRAZY.

Millie and Me

Today is Millie’s birthday. She’s two years old. Yesterday was my birthday. Ha! As if I was going to tell how old I am. Besides, nobody is interested my birthday. Not even me.

 

Millie gets top billing today and every day. She’s a dog, after all, and dogs are better than people. They are easier to love, and they always love you back. At least eight or 10 humans didn’t love me back. But that’s a story for another day.

 

This is a dog tale. Like all canine chronicles, it is a story of a hero’s journey. But remember, it’s the journey that counts, not the destination.

 

Some dogs are born heroes. Lassie. Rin Tin Tin.

 

Some dogs have heroics thrust upon them. Lady. Tramp.

 

Some dogs have heroism buried deep within. Marley. Millie.

 

Marley?

The Swede Who Loved Me

This is the story of the Swede Who Loved Me.

 

This is not a “ain’t single life fabulous” story. I hate them.

 

Don’t get me wrong; the unmarried-way works for me. I am even fabulous on occasion. But alone and awesome tales are usually considered pathetic attempts to convince myself that I am happy, while “what we did on vacation” is all the evidence of bliss a wedded couple needs.

 

Let’s get one thing straight. I am not happy. That’s my nature, not my marital status. I’m ok with it. Anxiety is my go-to emotion. If I am trying to convince myself otherwise, you better believe it’s on doctor’s orders.

 

If my marital status makes me anything, it’s interesting. Interesting as in, “your new haircut is interesting,” or “you are so cool and do the most interesting things.”

 

This is a story about the latter.

%d bloggers like this: