Sad Sick Singleton

No, I haven't suddenly become sick of being a singleton. Rather, I wanted to bring up one thing about singletonism that truly sucks, namely being sick. I recently developed a disturbing and disgusting allergy to my contact lenses. I didn't know this at the time, I thought I just had torn a lens and had a bad pair. Let me set the scene for you: I'm still at the office about 90 minutes after I was supposed to have left and my eyes are killing me. I determine that one lens does seem to have some type of tear and couldn't figure out what the hell was up with the other one. The result is that my eyes are irritated and itchy, I'm becoming increasingly cross-eyed from not being able to look out of both eyes successfully at the same time, and this cross-eyedness has me feeling like I'm going to vom.

So of course this is when my boss decides that we need to have a meeting about how we can overachieve on a task that we haven't been officially assigned yet, despite the fact that my eyes are red and twitchy and I increase the amount of mentions of being about to vom. I finally get enough done to the point where I am set free into the balmy night although on the way at least two people try to stop me for another meeting. GAH!

As soon as I get to my car, I realize that all is not well as I have got to drive myself home. I can only credit a fleet of guardian angels, some seriously undeserved good karma, or nearly blind luck that I made it home with myself and my car all in tact. When I get home, Charlie is at the door waiting for a long walk and some entertaining. I look around for my butler to walk him, take out my eyeballs, and give me a Manhattan, but sadly I have not achieved independent wealth yet. So I pry the lenses from my eyeballs, hurriedly put on my glasses, and head out the door for a highly squinty walk. After the walk, I'm pretty much done for the day except that as Charlie has not learned how to cook me dinner or take out the recycling, there is no rest for the weary.

The next day I had fully planned to take the whole day off but as my work to do list had not become my to done list, that dream was shattered, leaving me with the hope that I could at least take a half day. My eyes are actually worse despite opting for glasses over the hateful lenses and prodigiously using eye drops. I make it an hour or so when a colleague sends me into a near panic by wondering if I have scratched my cornea and developed an infection. Being a bit of a hypochondriac I manage to make an appointment with the one ophthalmologist who works in the state of Maryland on a Friday and get out the door only slightly late for the appointment.

But there's that pesky part of being a singleton again, I have to drive myself to the doctor's where I learn that somehow in the past year I have developed a serious allergy to my lenses and have some awful infection. This is when I would have loved to have someone to drive me around and make everything better, but Charlie can't reach the gas pedal so I motor to 3 pharmacies to find the expensive and elusive eye drops I require and then return home.

There have been worse times when I've been sick and filled with angst at my solitary state. During those times I will whine mightily until my sister arrives to bring me juice, walk Charlie, pick up my meds, or generally be angelic. But although I know that I can call her whenever (and hope that she knows the same goes if she needs me), that good ole fashioned Catholic guilt makes me feel bad for bothering anyone. This is when it would be ideal if in/near my house there were someone with two legs, a driver's license, and the ability to make tea and soup who would come unbidden to deal with me in my sick and sad state.

Now I know that having a husband or boyfriend does not mean that all my woes would be made wonderful. I've seen plenty of friends whose spouses are miraculously unavailable or unwilling when my friends don't feel well. But if I had some sort of manservant or minion, he would have to tend to me and bring me saltines, eyedrops, fixed ankle walkers, or whatever my little heart desired. Just the thought of having a minion has made me feel a little better.

Thinking Outside the Box

“Thinking outside of the box” has to be one of my least favorite sayings (along with pre-planning and “I’m not disagreeing with you but…”). However, I dearly wanted to think outside of the box a few days ago when I had to make that fateful leap of checking the box for 35-39 instead of 30-34. It was just some stupid survey but if it hadn't been my laptop, I might have thrown it to the floor and run out screaming.

I already had the feeling that I was headed for my three-eighths life crisis. As a sign of how loony I had become, I sat down and actually figured that since I am possibly now somewhere between one-third and mid-life crises, that I likely at the three-eighth stage. Since I’m not a balding male, this crisis has not involved purchasing a sports car or taking up some sort of extreme sport. On the more feminine side, this crisis has not (yet) involved a major or even minor plastic surgery purchase or juice fast.

As far as I can tell, this particular crisis just involves a lot of thought of the number 35. I see it as these looming numbers, 100 feet tall and made out of something like concrete, and about to crush me like a bug. Images of what I thought my life would be like by the age of 35 have been fairly persistent too. No, not the thoughts that you have when you’re 5 years old and 35 seems ancient. But how in high school, when we had to fill out those things with where we thought we’d be in 10, 15, 20 years’ time.

I actually saw my senior year book with all those thoughts written out not too long ago. I thought that by 35 I’d be married, have at least one kid, and be happier with my weight and body image. I actually did write that out – I didn’t write that I wanted to be skinny, but that I wanted to be a healthy weight and be happy with my appearance.

As I tried to remind myself with my last post, I have in fact achieved that last bit. Sure I could stand to lose a few pounds so that my jeans were a little more comfortable, but I’m about 35 lbs lighter than I was in high school. I guess one out of three ain’t bad because unless I meet a guy, get knocked up, and have a baby in the next 11 months and 19 days, I will exit the age of 35 without having fulfilled the first two parts of what I thought I’d be by the age of 35.

It’s not that this number has me thinking about running back to online dating sites (although some have serious potential at least for unitqueness/hilarity/mortification/physical endangerment like SeaCaptain Date, FarmersOnly, and the Ayn Rand Dating Site). Nor do I feel the need to hit the sperm bank and pick out a donor. It just feels a little weird. Like there’s some great big “to do” list out there and not only have I not done the things on them, but may never do those things. And I might be okay with that.

Don’t get me wrong there are some days when I am decidedly not okay with the idea. But by and large, these things usually don’t weigh on my brain for days on end. Until 35.

By the time my mom was my age, she had 5 kids and was 8 years away from having moi. Crap, by the time my mom was like 28 or 30, she had 5 kids. However, she had 5 kids before she ever had a house of her own whereas I’ve had my own little abode for about 7 years now. She had also never worked outside of the home and to this day never worked outside of the home, whereas I’ve been gainfully, if at times unhappily, employed for 13 years. And although I have no kids of my own, I’m the proud aunt of some damn find nieces and nephews, and honorary “Auntie A” to a few kids that are so cute, they could get away with murder, or at least tying my hair into knots or pounding on my stomach when we play “salon” or “hospital.”

But still, 35? I don’t feel 35. I still feel like an idiot teenager who has no idea what to do with her life and keeps hoping someone will show up and make the decision for her. I still plot out the tattoo that I’ve been planning on getting for about 10 years or so, were it not for my crippling fear of needles and pain. I still drink milk from the carton sometimes or have too many beers or take a nap when I know I should be cleaning or doing something productive.

They say age is just a state of mind. My favoritest boss in the world is somewhere around 73 years of age and he still works the schedule of a person younger than me and with a fire in his belly that I think will prevent him from retiring. Yet I know people my age who live like their best years are behind them.

When I look at Charlie, I can see more grey in his muzzle, but he still runs around like a pup. So even though some of those lines around my eyes and mouth aren’t going away and I fear its past time to call up the stylist and touch up my roots, I will try to run around, not like a teenager as I don’t think I can take the angst and emotional turmoil, but maybe like a 24 year old. The time when you’ve had to live a bit on your own but you can still remember the last time you woke up with your head in the toilet, although you may wish you couldn’t. When life seemed like an array of endless possibilities, nothing decided, nothing set in stone.

And on that note, I gotta get moving as I’m going to a concert soon with a friend from college. We’re going to see Dar Williams, a singer/songwriter I first saw in concert when I was 18 and she came to my college. Afterward, she went out with a few of us to a diner for late night pancakes and philosophical discussions. I saw her again I think around my senior year and then a few years after graduation. So my Brendala-friendala and I will grab an early dinner, hit the early show, and maybe grab a beer before she heads home to the kidlets and love-muffin hubs and I head home to Charlie who will probably get to hear me singing off-key to one of the more apropos Dar songs, “You’re Aging Well.”

You Are What You Eat?

I realized today that it's been 10 years since I went on a weight loss program that I actually stuck with and that mostly worked. I say mostly because I have put back on about 15 lbs of the near 60 lbs I lost. Regardless, I'm pretty proud of my accomplishment since I know the odds were not in my favor. According to a study I just read on the Internet (so you know it must be true), something like 95% of people who lose weight put most or all of it back on. So I did pretty good.

And yet, I am still obsessed with my weight. I'm going to guess that if I were to add up all the minutes when I thought about my weight on a daily basis, it would average about 45 minutes. This is a total guess but I think a lot days it may be more than 45 minutes. For a while I thought about keeping a record and making a notation every time I thought about my weight, but in addition to it being really depressing, if I decided to do this I would skew the results because I'd be conscious about how often I obsess on my weight and would think even more about my weight.

I know in my head that it's only a number on a scale and that I have a very distorted image of myself. But most of the time, knowing that in my head has no effect on how I see myself, how I've always seen myself. Since I was eight years old, I've been chunky, overweight, fat, whatever you want to call it. I kind of remember it starting around 3rd grade. There was a really extended period that year where my mom had a hard time getting up and dealing with the world, so my dad fixed my lunches. Dad would pack me the most fantastic of lunches: bags and bags of Cheetos, Ding Dongs, candy bars, those crackers with the red spatula and a well of cheez. You name it, if it was junky and delicious it was in my lunch box and there was usually enough for 2 or 3 kids. And I loved it. 

Of course, these dangerously wondrous meals were not the only factor of my increased weight and the fact that it stayed like that for 2/3 of my life. I was never an athletically inclined kid which is a roundabout way of saying that I was crap at sports and humiliated by/terrified of gym class. To say that I was a geek is a bit of an understatement. I was that kid, you know, the one who takes extra math and science classes on the weekends and in the summer. Once upon a time, I was actually pretty smart until the omniscience of the Internet and the presence of calculators on my cell phone meant that I spent less and less time thinking about problems and finding ways to solve them. 

So I was that kid. The nerdy one, who was in honors classes, band (and yes even summer band camp), drama, etc. It was great. I wouldn't have changed it for the world. I accept and even embrace my dorkdom. Except there was always something that diminished my love of life and self-confidence: my weight. I had this idea that when I was thin, everything would be better. This idea has stuck with me pretty much to this day. Once I hit puberty, I became convinced that as soon as I became THIN all of the guys that I had crushes on would regret how they ignored me and ask me to go out with them. I saw the word THIN in these big, hazy, glowing letters, as if they were bathed in a heavenly light. Something highly desirable and seemingly unattainable.

The thing is, I actually did have more guys interested in me once I started to drop some lbs. Its not like they were lining up around the block, but I had a period where guys who hadn't noticed me before, did. This was even before I had turned to dating websites. These guys from "the real world" were pursuing me. Me. Can you believe it? I couldn't. Now I don't know if it was solely due to the weight loss, or if because I was feeling better about myself, I went out more so I met more guys, or if my increased self-confidence drew them in and made them LIKE like me, not just like me. Maybe it was a bit of all of those things. 

But even when I got to my slimmest, I believed I needed to lose more. I still think that now. When I enter a room, I look to see if I'm the biggest person there. It's automatic; I've tried to stop it and while I don't obsess about it all day long, the idea of my weight in comparison to others--that idea persists. 

I have accepted that I just like food too much to ever be thin. I mean, food is great. There are so many wonderful dishes out there to try, I don't know how skinny minnies can resist. And I really enjoy cooking, particularly baking. I feel calmer when I'm in the kitchen. Ideas come to me a little more freely.  I don't want to give that up even if I were to become a size 6. Plus, my food can make other people happy, which is a really great feeling. A while ago, I made pots de creme for a friend and she was so enthused that she said she would leave her husband, move in with me immediately, and become my minion if I agreed to make the dessert every day. I have always wanted minions. But I digress. 

You may be wondering, what is my point? Why am I blathering on and on about my now-not-so-secret obsession with my weight? There is an idea, or rather the nugget of an idea, that popped into my head. If I admitted this obsession--this fear that people thought I was fat and that who I am is related to how much I weigh-- if I admitted this, I could move the hell on. 

Am I afraid that my friends and family, at least the ones who read this blog, will think I'm crazier than they already thought? Maybe a little. But sitting here now, just a few minutes after getting all of this out there, I feel freer. I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders even if it hasn't been lifted off my thighs. My new goal is for every time my brain goes back to that place and I think negatively about the junk in my trunk, I will stop and think of one thing about myself that I like. 

I'll try not to take this too far in the other direction to the point where the main thing that's fat is my head as I become so convinced of my awesomeness that I am unbearable to be around. Honestly, I think almost everyone out there could do with a little more self-confidence, a little less focusing on our flaws. At least once a day, look in the mirror and like what you see. Not what you would look like if you worked out a little bit more, or looked more like you did when you were younger; like what you see here and now. Maybe doing this will make it a little bit easier to go out in the world and see the beauty in someone else, in everyone else. 

Golden Girls

I know its been 100 years since I last posted but that was largely due to the fact that I've actually been working on my book. Gah!!! It is both exciting and completely unnerving at the same time. I mean, will people actually want to read about me for scads and scads and pages? Is this something I'll write and my friends will hide their grimaces and say things like "way to go" or "I really like the cover?" But let's leave this hand-wringing and angst until later for my latest dating rant.

On Saturday night I went to a party at the nicest house I've ever seen in real life without having to pay for admission. It was seriously swank: 3 floors, ultra finished basement, wine cellar, multiple balconies for me to recreate scenes from Evita, ginormous garage, beautiful lawns, and a fantastic porch. I felt like a perpetual sophomore using milk crates as furniture.

Now don't get all excited, I wasn't on a date with the owner of this house (although I do have a plan to become the couple's new best friend and get invited routinely to spend the weekend at their estate). Nor was I on a date with anyone. But I was there with a single guy friend who I've known for over a decade now. Before you start thinking this is one of those Harry-Met-Sally deals, let me say that he has unreasonable expectations about the female body and he has 2% body fat. He also hates to stay up past 9pm, doesn't like bevvies or lots of people, and doesn't seem to really dig dogs. He is however a really decent guy and a good friend so when he told me about this party for a friend of his who I hadn't seen in years, I said yes.

The evening itself was good - I really didn't know anyone else but people were pretty friendly, the birthday boy was hilarious as usual, and in spite of the fact that it was an ultra-posh pad I managed not to make a goober of myself. What was unnerving was the convo I had with my friend that brought me.

We were talking about how difficult it is to find someone to date. He has also tried multiple dating sites and although he hasn't had my atrocious luck, he also has yet to meet his other half on said dating sites. Anyways, my friend was saying how he was debating going on a date with a woman because she was one year older than him. One year. Yet, he was totally comfortable dating a girl 12 years younger than him. Sadly I don't think he's alone in this preference. Most guys I meet that are my age are looking for some girl in her early 20's maybe as old as mid-20's. When they find out how old I am, some of them high tail it for the hills as if I were actually 40 years older and offering them a prune cocktail.

The thought of dating a guy in his early to mid-20's gives me the heebie jeebies. My cousin and I have been talking about giving speed dating a try, but she wants to join the 25-35 yr old crowd where I feel more comfortable with the 30-40 yr olds. It isn't that I wouldn't consider dating a guy younger than me, its just that a) men don't appear comfortable with that b) the few I've met or interacted with are crazily immature and c) I'm just too tired to set myself up for something where I fear the guys would think I was an old maid trying to cruise the playground.

Why is it that men almost always seem to want a younger girl? I have been approached by some younger guys online but they inevitably are the ones who talk about suffering from a case of "macro-phallus," live with their parents, all of their profile pics feature them drinking with lots of ladies, and cannot seem to carry on a conversation that doesn't at some point lead to a discussion of my undergarments. Seriously, this one tried to instant message me for like two weeks in a row (before I figured out how to block him) and always started out with a question about my panties.

So what are the options left for me? Dating the psychos I find online, picking out my next boy, er, manfriend at the nursing home I volunteer at, being harangued by boys who seem to be perpetually pubescent, or being alone? Out of all of those, the alone thing isn't looking so bad.

It’s Not You, It’s Me

Two things have made me question what is it about me that seems to only attract weirdos and assclowns. Last night, I went out to dinner with some old friends that I hadn’t seen in what feels like about 100 years. We had all worked together once upon a time and were getting together because the one couple had moved out of state a few years ago and is back in town this weekend. It was a great evening and that might make you wonder why I’m pondering my seemingly endless supply of bad luck in the guy department. In addition to the first couple I mentioned, there was another couple and a single female friend. Whilst we were waiting for a table, the subject of my insane dating stories arose and I began chatting with my single friend about her foray into the world of online dating.

Now this friend is trying one of the many sites I have tried. She’s been on eHarmful* for a month or so and has met very few of the guys she’s been matched with, but is continuing to communicate with a small number of gents. What’s strange to me is that, even though she has only met a few of them, none of them were weird. None were matches that swept her off her feet, but none of them were wacko. Given my experience, I really don’t understand how that is possible. She said that she thought it was me – that somehow I was attracting all the crazies. I replied, somewhat frantically, that it was just that I had dated so many guys that there bound to be some who were a little bit nuts or frightening. But a nagging voice in the back of my head wouldn’t shut up and kept saying “what if she’s right?”

Fast forward to this morning, whilst walking my faithful canine companion I realized it’s been about a year since my last online date and that date was with the satanic fecalphiliac. If you want the full story, read Deal With the Devil, but the short version is that he had an email that had “666” in it and when I asked why he said because it was so easy to remember. And for some reason in at least two phone conversations before we met, he talked about poop. A lot. I mean, any discussion of poop before you even go on your first date is alarming, but he really seemed incapable of not talking about it. I think the context was about my dog and did I often come home to a house filled with poop, did I have to pick up his poop all the time outside, etc,. etc.

When I met him, he didn’t seem to be satanic and he managed to get thru the whole date without mentioning feces. That’s about all that could be said for the date though, so it was both our first and our last date.

So with my friend’s words from last night ringing in my years, coupled with the memory of my last internet date a year ago—this is of course not counting the debacle with the dog walking neighbor (aka the DW) who I didn’t meet online but now have to see constantly as he runs in and out of the neighborhood with that chippy little girlfriend who of course I have not thought about flinging a bag of dog poo at, but I digress… where was I?

Oh yeah, so now I’ve spent the morning wondering, is it me? What is it about me? I’ve philosophized that because I’m probably the first woman in a long time that has actually appeared to listen to what these guys are saying, that this is why these guys tell me all their strangest and most embarrassing traits within 20 minutes of meeting me. That may or may not be true, but I need to rewind to even before that point in time. What is it about how I portray myself online and “in the real world” and the qualities I say I am looking for in a guy, what is it about those things that seems to make me a magnet for the maniacs?

In composing my online profiles for the various sites, I often solicit the feedback of friends, both female and male, to ask for pointers. I’ve changed profile pictures and how I describe myself and what I’m looking for based on these pointers. I’m not trying to say that my friends are responsible for my profile catching the eyes of every weirdo in the DC/MD/VA area, but saying that I’ve taken the time to get people’s opinions on the profile to see if it’s the best way to go.

I just tried to find some examples of what I’ve posted but can’t find a single record.  The closest I’ve found was some of the answers I put to the free form questions that make up a person’s profile on Viral Venus* and here are some snippets:

Self summary: What do you say about yourself in 100 characters? I love to laugh and love to make other people laugh. I'm pretty independent and love to try new things. I try to spend as much time as I can with family and friends. Interests include yoga, working out, reading, writing, hiking with my dog, sucking at golf, cooking, playing the piano, and just hanging out with friends and family.

I'm the youngest of six kids and have a large extended family as well who mainly live in the area although fortunately some are in great places to visit like England. I really enjoy traveling and have plenty of places left on my wish list to check out. Some of my favorite trips have been kind of last minute plans with my sister or a friend - driving through Tennessee, taking a Navajo tour of Canyon de Chelley and staying overnight in Monument Valley, or hitting my aunt and uncle's cabin in WV for a long weekend.

I like learning new things and am an inexperienced trivia buff. I used to speak Spanish semi-well but a beginner's Chinese class gave my Spanish tones, and a general disuse has eroded my skills. This past year I started taking golf and yoga classes and really enjoy them although am far better at yoga than golf. I'm taking some cooking classes with a friend and am contemplating brushing up my Spanish or picking up a new language.
           

I’m really good at: Cooking, yoga, getting into hijinx with my friends, playing bizarre medleys on the piano, making fish faces

The first thing people notice about me are: My willingness to make a fool of myself to make people laugh, my crazy laugh, my NBA player-like height (ok, totally kidding on that one)

Fave books include "Gods Behaving Badly", "Eyre Affair", "Secret life of Humans", "Once and Future King", "Me Talk Pretty One Day". Fave movies include "Philadelphia Story", "Office Space", "Old School", and "Stranger than Fiction." Fave food includes Chipotle burritos, breyers mint chip (but not with the burritos), pecan pie, and twizzlers.

On a typical Friday night I am: Checking out a new restaurant, having drinks with friends, or cuddling up with my dog and finally plowing through some of my netflix movies that spend most of their time sitting on top of the t.v. waiting to be watched. Or if its warmer I'm at a golf class making a fool of myself with a friend and then out on the town afterwards to relive how goofy we were at said golf class.

That wasn’t what I had on most of my profiles but although I tried to keep accurate records of the disasters I dated, I couldn’t find any of my many dating site profiles. I know I’ve asked you in the past for examples of pickup lines (see What’s Your Sign?), but your new mission, dear readers, should you choose to accept it is to help me figure out how I should describe myself in a way that is both honest and appealing and most importantly in a way that will attract more mentally healthy guys than not. If I am to rejoin the frightening world of online dating, or other set-up schemes, despite my dating history, I would need some way to change it up so that when I’m describing my dates to friends as we catch up, phrases like “afraid of people and food”, “afraid of electricity,” “I feared for my physical and mental safety,” or “hair licker” are not the first words that come to mind.

*Name has been changed.

What is the Cure for VD (aka Valentine's Day)?

That's right people, Valentine's Day is tomorrow. I know I haven't updated this blog in quite a while, but given that today is the 13th of February I felt compelled to right that wrong with some sage advice on how to survive the day as a singleton. I am very qualified to dole out this advice seeing as I have never been in a relationship on 14 February. Yes, I am being truthful here and yes it does seem a little strange now that I'm writing this out, but I am a 30-something woman--increasingly alarmed by how the something keeps getting higher--and I have never had a boyfriend on Valentine's Day. I have been dumped the week before VD and I have started dating guys immediately following VD, but never actually on VD itself.

I have to admit I really haven't been thinking about the day at all this year (I'll get to the reason for that in a while). Other years, I dreaded Valentine's Day as if I would be surrounded by a horde of happy couples who would stone me to death with roses, chocolates, teddy bears, and heftier gifts. One year in college I remember getting together with a single friend, watching Muriel's Wedding and an insane amount of other rental videos, eating raw cookie dough, chips, and onion dip and drinking wine straight out of the bottle until the point where I believe I was praying to the porcelain god by the early morning hours of 15 February. Another year in the not so distant past I sadly bought myself an enormous heart shaped box of chocolates and paired the entire box with a few vodka gimlets for my dinner. I have wallowed, almost luxuriating, in my misery; picturing how my friends were off having romantic dinners and getting swept off their feet while I will wile away my days as the spinsteriest of spinsters.

Well, this is of course absurd. Very few people actually have a perfect, romantic Valentine's Day. I'm not going so far as to say the whole concept is a myth, but please don't spend your evening thinking that every other person on the face of the earth is part of a couple and being wined, dined, serenaded, and spoiled. The truth of the matter is Valentine's Day, like any other holiday (although more of a commercial, somewhat faux holiday) is just one day. People place a lot of expectations on how that day should be heralded. Gift lists can run long and expensive. Reservations have to be made at ever increasingly difficult to get into restaurants. New and exciting ways of showing your love have to be displayed.

I know of several stories of disappointing 14ths of February. I have one friend who's boyfriend always gets her the same exact set of presents, including food that she is allergic to so that he gets to eat it. Another friend has a significant other nearly always forgets the day which is doubly sad as it is also her birthday. I've heard of burnt dinners, depressingly domestic gifts, and being treated to whatever was left on the shelf at the convenience store up the street.

I was unknowingly the ruination of a Valentine's Day of the wife of a friend. No, this was not because I was hell bent on ruining 14 February as a rule. It was 5 years ago and I was away for work and staying near a friend and his wife. This friend and I had a thing about watching American Idol when we were in the same location. Even now, when I really don't watch the show on my own anymore, we will try to get together and watch it. Pretty much every year since around 2003, there's been at least one day when we are in the same town at the same time that American Idol is on. We've watched it together in Charlottesville, Baltimore, Dayton, and Honolulu. One year, this lucky guy got to watch the show with myself and four other lovely ladies and we treated him to pizza and beer.

But the particular year I was first referring to was a doozy. We were at a conference and the only night the show was on was on and we didn't have a work function was Wednesday, 14 February. My friend assured me that his wife was on board with our viewing of the show and we invited another friend, also female, to watch the show with us. I had a sneaking suspicion that my male friend hadn't really asked his wife at all, so I repeated the question of "are you sure she's okay with this" at least three times. So my female friend and I were a little surprised when we arrived at his house, cracked open a beer, and listened to him call his wife while she was at work to inform her (not ask) that we were visiting, actually already at the house that very moment and heading out to pick up dinner, return home, have some beverages, and watch American Idol.

We probably should have left at that point, but our host insisted we remain. His wife was nothing but gracious upon her arrival home that evening. We ate, drank, and watched the show together. She participated actively in the conversations, saying which contestants she liked, which she couldn't stand, and asked us how things were back home. At times, I thought I caught her giving my friend the stinkeye but I convinced myself I was imagining it.

Of course I wasn't! We found later that she was sooooo

Anyway, the bottom line is VD is just one day. More than likely, it will not be the culmination of a lifetime of romantic fantasies or a living hell that you have to survive. If you stay out of gift card stores and don't watch any sappy movies, you might be able to get by with not hearing any references to the day. Or if you're lucky like I am, you'll have an amazing yoga class the night before VD where your stress and anxiety over whatever and whoever, melt away for 90 minutes and you feel so full of love for your friends, family, classmates, and hell, even perfect strangers, that all you can do is to wish everyone you know health, wealth, happiness, and of course, love.

This Valentine's Day I plan on treating Charlie to a new chew toy, myself to ONE nice glass of wine, and I'll spend the evening snuggling up with that lovable, huggable dog-o-mine and reading a magazine. I will not go anywhere near Hallmark or Lifetime Channels and will keep the wallowing to a minimum, instead focusing on my wonderful friends and family and the constant love they shower me with and kindnesses they bestow upon me.

The main reason for my sense of perspective this year is that just a little over a week ago, one of my dear cousins died unexpectedly. In between grief, trying to help, and worrying about my family, I've been doing that kicking-myself-for-every-little-thing-I-missed-or-screwed-up thing that we all seem to do when someone we love dies. The question "did he know how much he was loved" kept running through my brain. While I'll never know the answer until we're all reunited at that bowling alley/dog park/Thanksgiving dinner table in the sky, I can try to make sure that my family and friends here on this earth truly know how much I care for them, pray for their happiness, and just plain old love them to pieces.

There are so many different kinds of love besides romantic love. So on that day meant to celebrate love, show your heart and share your time and yourself with someone that you love. Even if its just a phone call to your parents, an email to a friend, or setting aside time to dedicate your thoughts and prayers for all the people in your live that have loved you, continue to love you, and will love you in the future.

How to Survive the Holidays and Even Enjoy them as a Singleton (part 2)

Well, I’ve more or less survived both the poorly timed work trip and Christmas with only minor emotional scars. Now it’s on to that one holiday of the year that more than any other can bring me to my knees and curl me up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, wondering will I be a singleton for the rest of my life???? That’s right it’s almost New Year’s Eve!

Note: I do not count Valentine’s Day as a holiday—more as a tragic day that has been throttled by commercialism which sucks so bad when you’re not dating anyone that I’ve contemplated sealing myself up in my house like Ms. Haversham. But that’s another breakdown for another day, for now I’m going to try to come up with some hints on how to survive New Year’s Eve.

First of all, if you have recently gone through a breakup or just have been alone long enough and still not deleted your ex’s phone numbers from your mobile, delete said numbers, have someone babysit your phone for you, or set up some type of breathalyzer so that you cannot get hammered and call up/text your ex in a poor emotional state. Sad to say, no one gave me this advice many moons ago when my ex had dumped me 2 weeks before Christmas (or as my dim memories are suggesting, I was able to run past a friend who tried to stop me by locking myself alone in her bedroom with my mobile) so that by the time I got to New Year’s Eve it’s a miracle that I only tearfully called him a little less than a dozen times.

Second of all, much like with weddings, Christmases, and other celebrations, please remember that New Year’s Eve—no matter how tough it is to take—is only just one day. It can never be as wonderfully exciting as you think it should be, nor will it be your undoing.

Third of all, while you shouldn’t dread the day for weeks in advance, you should come up with some sort of plan or options for how to survive it and maybe even enjoy it. Right off the bat I will recommend NOT attending some big party where the majority of people will be couples as when midnight rolls around and you are the only person not smooching someone else, things could get desperate either in the form of you kissing someone that you would never in your right mind kiss the rest of the year OR you could end up running out of the room sobbing/screaming into the night.  If you are unsure of the ratio of couples to singles, make sure to ask the host. If they are your true friend, they will understand and not be offended if upon hearing that every other person is a part of a half you decline their kind invitation.

So what can you do to actually enjoy the evening? For the past several years my New Year’s Eves have been awesome as I have spent them with a close friend whose husband is an emergency room doctor and subsequently is usually working all or part of the evening. This means that she and I go out on the town to new restaurants and bars, enjoy some excellent food and libations, and crash at one of our casas. Also because we both have dogs and they are pretty much in love with each other, we would bring my dog to her house or vice versa depending on where we were crashing. The result was we got to have fun, the dogs had fun, and no one had to rush home to walk their faithful canine.

One of the best of such New Year’s Eve was spent at a wonderful Lebanese restaurant in Baltimore within view of the harbor and the fireworks. There was tons of food, bottles of champagne, and belly dancers who sometimes danced around with swords on their heads. The crowd was a great mix of groups of friends, families, and couples. And for some reason, my friend agreed to be the designated driver so I got to fully enjoy the bubbly and then when we made it back to her casa we had some more bevvies to properly ring in the new year.

Sadly for me, but happily for her, that all changed last year when she was preggers and wanted to do a couples weekend thing with her hubs and now that she is a new mommy with lots of family responsibilities, we don’t really see each other much. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy for her and her husband, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little sad to lose one of my most constant shopping partners, new restaurant testers, travel companion, and New Year’s Eve concelebrants.

Last year I went to the Kennedy Center to see “South Pacific” with a single male friend. This friend is really not a night owl (or someone who routinely stays up past 9pm), so I was poking him awake by the second act and was unable to convince him to stay at the Kennedy Center for the midnight toast and party, but it was still a great evening. 

I was at a bit of a loss as to what the hell I was going to do come New Year’s Eve this year, but thankfully some of my awesome DC pals have come to the rescue finding lots of non-couply activities for the day. I’m going to join them for a fun scavenger hunt during the day and then since I was unable to procure dog care for my four-legged soulmate, the evening will find me coaxing him out of the corner he is sure to hide in when the fireworks start. I think it’s a great way to ring out the old year by running around Virginia searching for clues and prizes with some seriously fantastic ladies and then return home to the best and most constant male in my life. Unlike years past, my New Year’s Eve plans this year ensure that I will not overindulge in the libation category and make much regretted phone calls/texts/decisions and that I will be feeling great and non-hangovery come New Year’s Day so I can start 2012 with a clear head and maybe in spite of all the craptastic dates and let-downs, I can even begin the year with a heart filled with hope of better things to come in the year ahead.

No matter what you do, make sure you let yourself have fun and don't think about what you don't have - concentrate on what you do have. Just stay safe and keep others around you safe. A lot of cities have free taxi service but if yours doesn’t, make sure you figure out a designated driver, bus, subway, or some other form of sober and non-texting form of transit.