Senior Dropouts

My mom just pulled my dad out of day care. That is a sentence I never thought I'd write but it's true. Not because I didn't think she'd yank him out at some point but more just because it's totally weird to be talking matter-of-factly about my dad being in day care.

It was only two days a week but for those two days we knew that he was not falling asleep in his recliner. We knew that he did multiple types of activities and was fed both breakfast and lunch. We don't really know if he liked it because the damn Alzheimer's makes those types of conversations impossible as he says everything is great no matter what you're talking about but can never give any details about what happened that day. But it was two days of non-sedentary action and interaction with other people.

The bus would pick him up in the morning and bring him back in the afternoon. I always wondered about that, about what that bus ride was like. When my mom would walk him down the driveway to meet the bus in the morning, a lot of times he would try to help her onto the bus too and would get a little confused when she didn't join him. She said it was really difficult to do and too difficult to get him up in the mornings and that it took too much out of her to keep this up. Sigh.

But up until this week, I imagined that this bus full of "active seniors" turned into some type of field trip where the seniors started acting like kids on a school bus. The troublemakers would be at the back of the bus, sticking gum under the seats and using curse words. I can't see my dad as a troublemaker at all but I can see him and his seatmate playing one of those stupid car games that are great on road trip. You know, like the license plate one or I Spy. Maybe my dad would check out some of the ladies; he has always been a boob man and I can easily see him trying to cop a feel or at least joking with his friend about the rack on the "girl" a few seats in front of them. I see the bus driver and their helper playing the role of chaperon and tortured school bus driver who keep yelling at those damn kids to shut up and sit down!

Or if it didn't get that raucous, I could easily see it turning into a singalong. My dad still loves to sing and really hams it up in more dramatic moments in a song. Anyway, so they'd get there and then I'm not sure exactly what happens. I know that once they had a luau and my dad had to wear a Hawaiian shirt. I bet on other days they did some sort of chair exercises and maybe a craft. Like summer camp for adults. And I liked the idea that him and his sister weren't too far apart, even though I knew they didn't combine the residents with the day care folks. I can just see them though at their luau, joking and probably eventually trying to get people to join them in a verse or two of "Harvest Moon."

I really don't think the problem with day care was that it was too much for my mom to get him out the door, although I can certainly see that played a part as when he is determined to sleep it is very difficult to get him to agree to do anything besides napping. But I think the main problem is that she can't be away from him. It might seem sweet but its always seemed a bit too extreme for me. I guess because I've always been single but it just seems like way too much togetherness. My ideal husband/boyfriend would live in the house next to me or even better, we would have a hugeass house and live in separate wings so we could have sufficient alone time.

Also, my mom has never been a "joiner" and when my dad retired 23 years ago, I think she became convinced that they should never ever be apart. Dad, on the other hand, used to be a "joiner." He joined the choir, a wood carving class, a cake decorating class, a group that prepared food for the homeless, tried his hand at writing children's book, and plenty of other things. She was less than thrilled at all these activities he did without her but she didn't want to join in. After a while, he dropped pretty much everything except the wood carving.

I know that when my mom is apart from my dad she worries about him and the fact that he can't really tell us about anything he did at day care when he gets back makes her think it's not worth it. I'm trying not to judge her decision too harshly as there's nothing I can really do to convince her otherwise and honestly I can't imagine what she's going through because although this hurts me too, I don't spend every moment with him.

Sometimes she drives me up the wall, with her weekly to monthly proclamations that she is moving to Montana, or telling people that we turned off her water and made her go down to the river with a bucket, or locking me out, or calling me at work with an emergency that turns out to be that they are almost out of hominy. But the truth is, I love that little nut. So I'm going to tamp down the "tough love" part of me that wants to march right over there and tell her to put on her big girl pants and let him spend time away from her. Instead, I'll take a breath, eat some Cinnamon Life cereal (along with Cap'n Crunch, it is my go to dinner when life seems chock full of suck), and plan a vigorous session of chair exercises when I spend Monday with the 'rents.

This is all far heavier than I normally like to post but it's what's in me tonight. Just be glad I didn't get into the fact that my parents still have a book called "Sex in the Great Outdoors" that for some reason persistently ends up displayed rather prominently in their living room. I guess it's not for nothing that there's six of us kids. Gah! Ok, now I want to poke my eyes out which is a sign that I need to call it a night.

There May Be Hope After All...At Least in Terms of Me Not Becoming Toothless in the Next Year

Admit it, you've had a hard time sleeping at nights because you're now worried about me grinding my teeth into nubs because of a thankless, demanding, bureaucratic job. Or at least you might have been mildly concerned about my dental health and stress levels if you read my post, Work Bites. Well, worry no more, my friends. Although my job is undoubtedly contributing to me aging before my time and sinking my health down the drain, my boss is admirably trying to reverse the ill effects of work on my teeth. What did I find on my desk today...

That's right, after she makes me an inspiring award for Best Dental Hygiene Ever, she gets me a life, or at least teeth saving device to save my remaining and dulled teeth.

This is not the only thing she has done to help improve my health and retain what little of my sanity is left. When I was sick, she actually made and brought me an enormous buttload of chicken and rice soup. It could have fed a family of four and it kept me well-stocked throughout a long and hideous cold/Mongolian deathflu. I don't think I've ever had a boss this kind. I consistently find that the people I get to work with and my immediate supervisors are the best thing about my job and one of the reasons when I keep going back in there despite the fact that my higher leadership often has me wondering if this isn't really a job, but a psychological experiment to see how much humans can take before they crack.

Alright, that is all. I need to get back to my gluttonous viewing of the debate. With the advent of Twitter and the presence of bourbon in my house, the debates are far too entertaining. Godspeed, good viewing, and don't forget to floss.

The Write Stuff

I have this gnawing feeling in my stomach that my book is complete crap. This feeling is likely responsible for my procrastination in actually finishing the thing; well, that along with my basic slothful nature. I've got more than 71,000 words and when I open it up to finish and just get 'er done, I think of something else I need to do. Like dusting. Or Words With Friends. Or working late and coming home with a lowered IQ and eyes that would rather be plucked out of my skull than look at a computer screen for another second.

The thing is, I've been writing all my life. I've never really worried about whether it was good or bad, whether or not I could actually make any money at this and support myself and my dog's growing sweet potato treat habit. When I was looking through some of my stuff for old pictures a while ago, I found some of my incredibly strange writing from grade school. Sweet Mother of Pearl, I was a weird kid!

Some of the poetry is totally nuts - there's a lot in there about sea monkeys, angry ducks, the school band sounding like cats being run over by psychotic lawnmowers, and a tirade against school pictures. There's short stories about other planets with currency based on music, a Wild West where Paul McCartney stops in for a guest appearance, and a slew of bumper stickers about barnyard animals. And this was long before I discovered alcohol! By the time I got to high school, there was no stopping me. I made up songs (again about sea monkeys, don't ask me why I was seemingly obsessed), wrote bizarre and what I thought to be hilarious skits for every Year Day, and    stories in Spanish about my love of Paul McCartney and fear of quicksand (which is why I learned to say, "Ayudame! He caido en la arena movedizza!)

I miss my weirdness. Don't get me wrong, I'm still a weirdo at heart. But I'm more wary of letting my freak flag fly. I'm ground down by being a cog in the overwhelming bureaucratic machine and it has sapped my creativity, courage, and my weirdness. In the dark places I often dare not tread, I'm afraid that whatever bizarre creative spark I had is gone. That everything I'm writing has already been written. That I'll not be able to pull together enough strength to actually finish this book and that even if I do, and I pour my heart and soul into it, and then people won't like it.

There are people out there who go about their lives seeming to pay nary a thought to others' opinions. They do what they do for themselves and if someone else doesn't like it, well to quote my irascible mother, they can sh*t in their hats and pull it over their ears (I'm not sure when she started saying this or why, but there was a 6 months period when I'm pretty sure she leveled that threat at everyone who crossed her path. I've tried to convince her that this is not a legitimate saying or popular expression but she will not be deterred).

Sadly I'm not one of those people. I've found a few of the things I've written freelance posted to my client's site and I can't stop myself from looking to see what people thought of it and wincing if they didn't dig it. I try not to look at the amount of site visits, followers, or comments I get on this blog but I never really succeed. As soon as I post something I go to see if anyone reads it, likes it, comments, etc. When one of my dating stories got accepted by the site, My Very Worst Date, I was horrified when some people didn't like the story or thought I was "uptight" when I didn't want to continue to date a guy who said I should euthanize my dog so I can go out more (see Anger Management for more on that doozy of a date).

This is the problem when you write about your own life. If someone doesn't like what you're writing or thinks that it's complete crap, it kinda seems like they think you're crap too. It's tough to put yourself out there. The excitement that I first had when I started my book began to wane when I started doubting myself. When I tried to reign in my thoughts and tame them so they'd be more acceptable or something. I need to get back to that dorky weirdo who ate far too many cheetos and thought up fantastic and wild ideas without stopping to think, what if no one likes it. The one who didn't think that because it didn't matter if no one else liked it or people thought she was weird. She knew she was weird and loved every minute of it.

Taking a page from a friend who has decided that this will be the Year of Awesome and she will be better with what a yoga teacher refers to as "tough self-love," I will try to embrace my weirdness, revel in it, and let go more than hold back. I'll try to let it inspire me to be brave enough to finish this book and see what happens next. And in the meantime I'll laugh my ass off re-reading the crazy crap that once effortlessly flowed from my pen.

Work Bites

I had the best time at the dentist's office today. Wait, stop. That can't be right...but it's true, I had the best time at the dentist's office. And not just because I got to leave work for the day to go to my appointment. But more on that later.

Why, you may ask, was it such a good visit? Well, I met the most fascinating dental hygienist ever. Before those of you who are my relatives get excited that this was a single man who will now sweep me off my feet (which would be easy because I was already off my feet, laying back in that reclining dental chair), think again. This hygienist was one of the funniest women I have ever met. She had me laughing almost the whole time which did make the cleaning a little tricky.

But she was mainly fascinating as she had only recently become a hygienist. Before then she worked building movie sets. She said it was super hectic and stressful and she was always traveling and wanted to be in one place for a while, so that's why she chose her new job. And before she built movie sets, she worked with Ringling Bros. Circus. Seriously.

Around the age of 30 she decided to go to school to become a dental hygienist. She said all the other students were like 19 years old, had never been outside of Western Maryland, and were planning on marrying immediately after dental school and pretty much staying in the same town forever. They were intrigued by her stories as she had been to so many places. On a trip to Pittsburgh, these youngsters were enthralled by "the big city" but said they just wanted to settle down and marry their boyfriends, most of whom they'd been dating since the 3rd grade and at least a few of whom were almost certainly making meth in their basements.

Although all the students got along, they just couldn't understand that Jean* had absolutely no intention of getting married and having kids. She wasn't anti-marriage or anti-kid, she just said she liked to sleep late and to travel and that she didn't want to be so-and-so's mom; she wanted to be herself. I admire her boldness. It's not that there still isn't some part of me that hopes that I'll still meet a guy who isn't a duke of douchebaggery and maybe have a kid or two. It's just that I'm becoming happier with my life as it is and not pining constantly over how I thought it should be. If I meet a decent guy, good. If I don't, that's still good.

Her career path sounded strange to me at first. How could someone go from working the circus to working movies to dental school?? I mean that just doesn't add up. But when I thought about it, it suddenly made so much sense. Jean* was hilarious, a natural storyteller/comedian, and in her new job she gets to come to work, meet lots of new people, and when those people are anxious or nervous about their visit--or even dreading the visit altogether--she gets to entertain them. How great is that? She makes them laugh when they expected to grimace. And that she had the audacity to so radically change her career, her life--that is incredibly impressive.

Now back to why I was so glad just to leave the office that I willingly ran to the dentist's office. It wasn't enough that today was the sort of day (or you could say it's been the same sort of day for like month after month) where I wanted to stab myself in the leg with a pen so I could leave the office and spend several weeks in a nice, relaxing hospital. Nooooo, I find out that work is literally destroying my health.

Alright, that may be a slight exaggeration. But as Jean* described it, I am apparently trying to eat my own head and have chewed off the porcelain on my crown from grinding my teeth constantly. She suggested that I might find a new career as someone who lifts weights by holding them between my teeth because I had an overdeveloped temporal muscle, particularly on my left side, from all the constant grinding.

Work probably isn't the only culprit in this marathon of stress that is running my teeth into the ground. I have to admit to those of you who haven't met me in real life that I have always been a tightly wound person who desperately wishes she was more laid back, so much so that she stresses out about how stressed she is. I had been trying to deal with these tendencies-o-mine through yoga, shortened commutes, exercise, volunteering and more fun time. Unfortunately, work has been insane with self-created problems, catastrophizing, and unreasonable expectations about what a human can actually accomplish in 8-11 hours a day. This means that I have missed all my yoga classes, am too tired to go to the gym more often than not, haven't volunteered at the nursing home since Charlie slipped a disc making Pets on Wheels a little trickier, oh and my commute is looking like it will soon return to a state of hellishness that I fear will drive me over the edge.

Hence, my teeth are now ground down to nubs. Ok, not nubs exactly but Jean* said I would starve if I were a vampire as I'd worn down my teeth so much.

How can I still be in a pretty decent mood and consider the dental visit a raging success? Well, because I almost peed myself laughing when I thought the dentist was referring to my vah-jay-jay when he asked "How are things downtown?" while looking at my lap. I'm pretty sure Jean* thought the same thing as we both looked horrified, surprised, and then snorted with laughter, particularly when we realized that he was referring to the Baltimore magazine resting on my knees.

And then to top off the visit, my "areas of concern" where the dentist thought they might need to do fillings on the last visit, well, this time he said that I was taking such good care of my teeth and gums that the cavities had kind of gone dormant or something and that we could hold off again and maybe even not need to do anything to them at all. I wanted some sort of award like "Best Dental Patient of the Year" and maybe a parade. Or at least a sticker. I did get the consolation prize of a toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, and a follow-up visit in six months.

And then the icing on the cake that was that during that one great hour today when I wasn't a stressed out maniac, I actually went to the gym and the loudspeaker played "Istanbul (Not Constantinople)" when it usually plays crapass music that makes me want to vom.

It's the little things that make me happy. Meeting an interesting person, laughing so hard I almost bit off that dental pick thingy, being praised for my excellent oral hygiene, hearing They Might Be Giants when I expected club techno music. These things seem so small but they make me smile, albeit with award winning improved teeth that are ground down to nubs.

It's the little things that can make you miserable though too. The idiotic task with no guidance and unreasonable deadlines with no explanation of what the hell is happening. Computers freezing. Inbox overflowing. Realizing that even though you've been too busy to eat anything more for lunch than a quick yogurt at your desk that you've actually gained weight. In the scheme of life, those things are quite small but it can feel like drowning by inches in quicksand while mosquitoes bite you constantly.

What's the moral of this rambling post? Well, I think it's that I need to stop letting the bad little things that don't really matter stress me out to the point where I become a toothless migraine sufferer who has to put all her food in a blender. I need to put away the scale or at least decrease the amount of times I use it and the amount of control I give it over my feelings of self-worth. And I need to cherish all the little things that make me smile, appreciate them more, and enjoy them while they're happening instead of worrying what's ahead.

And of course that I need to make myself some sort of award (or maybe a tiara!!!) to proclaim myself as the Best Dental Patient of the Year. That is the moral of today's long-winded story. The end.

*Name has been changed.

Memories and Tiaras

At work today, one of my very young coworkers was talking about how 10 weeks is "like forever." I laughed at first as the older I get, the quicker time runs away from me. Further solidifying that idea, when I got home tonight, instead of writing articles on emotional affairs or unlocking the inner goddess, I procrastinated by going through some old pictures. That's when it truly hit me how quickly things can change.

Tomorrow would have been my cousin Dave's birthday. It has been eight months since he passed away, so young and far too, too early. I don't know why but tonight I decided to procrastinate work by looking through the beautiful film that my sister compiled of pictures throughout David's life, set to music chosen by her professional sound styling coordinator (that's me).

There's a picture in there from my 30th birthday party, only five short years ago. The picture shows not only Dave who was taken from us too early, but his mom--my ineffable, highly organized and totally wonderful Aunt Maggie--who's been gone for more than two years. It also shows my spunky and original Aunt Marge. Aunt Marge of the enduring bun (when I was small, I was convinced she was born with her hair that way and that gale force winds could not ruffle or disturb it), the same woman who could do the breaststroke without disturbing her hair or her jewels, suffered a stroke and now words come so difficult, when they flowed so much easier before.

The one from the picture who remains and is mostly unchanged from that sunny and funny day is my crazy, adorable, and maddening uncle, aka Unk. In the pic, he is using Aunt Maggie's head for a coaster and I'm pretty sure the picture was snapped just before she jabbed him in the gut. My dear, complicated Unk who now alternates between sweetly calling to check up on me and to lay on the guilt about when I'm stopping by next.

Five years doesn't seem like long enough of a time for all these things to have happened but that is how life is. Rather than feeling the loss though, I'm left with a bittersweet feeling of wanting to be grateful that I am blessed with the presence of a large, loud, and loving family. I had thought by the time I was my age I'd be surrounded by a family of my own. You know, the traditional nuclear type family with 2.4 kids, a husband, and SUV filled with soccer equipment. The thing is, I am surrounded by a family of my own. True, it is different than I imagined but although I have no children of my own to emotionally scar with bizarre nicknames and crazy fairy tales, I feel lucky to live so close to and be in such close contact with my family. We are there for each other in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. And death doesn't part us, it just makes it harder for those of us left behind to see the love coming down from the angels we have lost.

So, although  I dearly miss those we have lost either from death or losing them slowly to thieving illnesses like Alzheimer's disease, I will look at those pictures and remember the good times. Remember the fact that I still have the tiara that I wore that day at my party, proclaiming my 30-ness (and that I still wear when I clean the house sometimes and once accidentally while walking Charlie). Remember the crazy amount of sangria that we had that day and how a lot of the other memories are happy but blurry. Remember all of the other times and more than remember, I'll be ready to make more memories as we go. For although there are plenty of times when I would love to staple things to various family members' heads, I have to admit that I love those crazy people and wouldn't trade them for all the world.

Pesto, Relationships and Happiness

I overslept this morning, waking up groggy, slightly headachy, and seemingly incapable of rushing to make it to the Unitarian church I've been attending this summer. Instead of making it to the service, after walking Charlie I've been pondering three things: pesto, relationships, and happiness.

The last shall be first so let's talk about my current musings on happiness. I started re-reading the book The Geography of Bliss this week for a critical thinking class where we had to take an article or book and examine the arguments in said work and how the author made or did not make his or her case. All the other people in the class picked articles on information technology, military decisions, or the economy but I decided I wanted to examine the arguments that Eric Weiner sets forth in The Geography of Bliss to see what makes some places happier than others. I could tell the rest of the students thought I was a hippie, trippy liberal type but since I kind of am I didn't take it as an insult.

If you haven't read the book, I'd recommend it. And if you're a freak like me and can't read a good book just once, pick it up again. Weiner travels to a variety of countries to figure out why some peoples are happier than others and the findings are surprising. Happy countries include places like the Netherlands, Switzerland, Iceland, and Bhutan. America may be the home of the brave but sadly we rank in the lower end of the mid-range of most sociological studies into happiness. At least we beat out Moldova, Tanzania, and Rwanda I guess, but it still seems like we should be happier than we are.

The study of happiness is one of contradictions. Republicans are happier than democrats (go figure). People who are more tolerant are happier than the intolerant, but homogeneous nations are among the happiest on earth. People who attend church are happier than those that don't but secular nations are happier than religious nations. There is no link between happiness and suicide rates; Switzerland is highly rated in both. Married people are happier than singles (I lose out again) but people without children are happier than those with children.

The strongest argument that the author makes is that a person's happiness is intertwined with those around them; people are happiest when they are part of a vibrant and active community and when they trust one another. By some accounts, trust is the most important factor to happiness. That alone could seem to make singles lose out again accept that recent studies show that single people are actually more likely to be an active part of their communities than their married counterparts; singletons tend more towards civic activism and volunteerism, at least according to Eric Klinenberg when discussing the trend of increasing amounts of people choosing to live alone in his book, Going Solo.

So now for the pesto and relationships. I know about the first but apparently not the latter. I've just started doing some freelance article writing in an attempt to build up my resume in terms of writing and editing and to improve my writing overall (with the hopeful goal of finishing my book sometime in my lifetime). I've mainly been writing for a "dating and relationship expert" who is very nice but has me write things like why do men lose interest after the first few dates and how to get your man to commit. The last one I sent her, I actually thought was good. So I have to admit my pride was damaged a bit when she told me she needed something more practical--a step-by-step guide to help intelligent, attractive women to find a man, date him, and make it into a relationship.

Those who know me can appreciate the irony of me writing such an article as I can't remember the last time I actually had a successful relationship in the form of a boyfriend who wasn't a complete lunatic. I felt a little like a hypocrite and also a little nauseated, but I sat down and wrote the article and thought I did a pretty good job.

After seeing my client's recommendations though, I'm not sure that I can fix it to be what she wants. Because meeting a guy and having a relationship isn't like making pesto, which I did fairly easily this morning. My little container garden out back has been prolifically producing basil so I decided that this morning I had to make and freeze copious amounts of pesto. The steps to doing so are pretty easy: 1. Pick and wash 4 cups of basil leaves 2. Put basil in food processor along with 4-6 cloves of garlic, one-half cup of pine nuts, and one cup of olive oil. 3. Blend until smells delicious and is somewhat liquidy green wonderfulness. 4. Pour into ice cube tray to freeze so you have nice individual servings of pesto. 5. When you want to use, thaw and add in grated Parmesan cheese. Done.

I don't really think getting and keeping a relationship can be broken down into the same, neat little steps. If it can, I don't know what they are. I don't own the rights to any of the articles she buys from me but since she didn't buy this one, here's what I came up with. I'll mess around with it later today to try to get it to be what she wants, but I actually think what I had was probably the most practical steps I could have come up with that could be genuinely useful.

How to Get a Boyfriend

We like things totally spelled out these days: 8 ways to lose 10 pounds, 6 new hairstyles, 14 steps to financial success and 5 steps to building the perfect resume. It’s almost like following a recipe. Up front, recipes tell you exactly what you will need for ingredients, each individual step to get to the end result. Some even tell you the total amount of time that will be required to bake that perfect cake: 25 minutes preparation, 60 minutes baking time, 85 minutes overall.

If only things were that simple in getting a boyfriend. You know, something that said to mix up 1 cup of patience, 2 gallons of persistence, and a good dollop of a sense of humor; total time overall: 6 months. Unfortunately, even though men claim to be more logical and less emotion-driven than women, I haven’t found the perfect scientific method for getting that great boyfriend.

That being said, my years of dating experience have helped me develop a sort of formula to improve my chances for obtaining that mysterious and highly desirable prize of a boyfriend. This isn’t foolproof but I think that following some of these steps will improve your chances of ending up with a boyfriend.

Step 1: Get Your Act Together. This step is probably the most critical –if you don’t do this not only will you probably not get a good boyfriend, you’ll also not have the greatest time in your everyday life. You need to figure out who you are, what you want, what you need, and how you prioritize all the various elements that go into making up your life. If you don’t know who you are as an individual, you won’t be happy as part of a couple. I know far too many women whose identities are completely wrapped up in their husbands’ or boyfriends’ identities. These women end up being relationship chameleons, changing to reflect the habits and preferences of their partners rather than reflecting who they truly are.

Step 2: Put Your Best Foot Forward. If the first step is about getting the inner you in shape, step 2 deals with getting that outer you in shape too. No crash diets, plastic surgeries, or exorbitantly costly wardrobe changes are in order. But it is almost a universal truth that when you look better and are happier with your appearance, you are more confident and confidence attracts other people to you. I’m not talking about overconfidence or arrogance, but a decent amount of self-confidence goes a long way. So make sure you’re doing some sort of exercise you actually like, eating healthy, spend some time on your grooming, and put on something that makes you feel hot—not slutty or overly glamorous, but at least several notches up from sweats.

Step 3: Get Out There. I wish it were as easy as ordering up a boyfriend through a high-end catalog and having him delivered right to your door, but sadly if you don’t leave your house and go somewhere where prospective boyfriends hang out you’re probably going to stay single. Now you can try an online dating site—I have and as a result have met some great (and some awful) guys—but you have to eventually meet up in real life. If you haven’t gone the online route, I’d recommend joining a group that does something you’re interested in. Volunteer with an organization that helps build houses for the homeless and you might chat up a tall, dark and handsome stranger while installing siding. If you like kayaking, running, reading, cooking or whatever, there are tons of groups out there where you can actually meet men who share the same interests as you. I’d recommend something like that over heading out to your local bar.

Step 4: Listen More than You Talk and Be Open. When you’ve met that guy that you think could make good boyfriend material, ask him about himself and really listen to the answers. Figure out early on if this is a guy that you actually could want to spend time with in a relationship. Now you might find out something that at first glance, seems different than how you prefer things or how you look at the world. But before you kick him to the curb, be open to trying something new. Don’t try to change who you are, but you never know—you may find out that you get a boyfriend and a new hobby or interest in the process.

Step 5: Don’t Overthink Things. I don’t know about you ladies but when I like a guy, my tendency is to overanalyze everything he says and does. Not only does this make me miserable but if I vocalize that overthinking of mine, it can drive him away. Don’t call him multiple times a day and don’t text nonstop. If he wants to spend time with his friends, don’t complain that you don’t get to see him enough. You both need to be secure enough in your burgeoning relationship to let each other do things independently. It will make the time you spend together even sweeter.

Step 6: Appreciate What You Have and Make Sure You Feel Appreciated. I have a disturbing tendency of watching sappy, sickly sweet romantic comedies and build up a fantasy idea of my future boyfriend. There is no way that any normal human guy can live up to the qualities displayed in the perfect boyfriends and husbands on display in the movies and television. You will not be able to change him into a perfect specimen of hotness and chivalry. He is who he is and if you can’t appreciate him the way he is, you need to get out now. And remember back around step 2 when we talked about self-confidence? Well, you need to make sure that he appreciates you for who you are and doesn’t try to change you. Feeling unappreciated and like something is wrong with you will sabotage your self-confidence and make you miserable.

If at the end of these six steps, you end up with a great relationship, well, that is just fantastic. If you don’t or you find that your guy doesn’t appreciate you or treats you poorly, don’t settle. The woman who can follow the steps will be the happiest and healthiest version of herself possible, with or without a boyfriend.

It's Like 10,000 Spoons When All You Need Is A Knife

Today I paid a long overdue visit to my Aunt Marge. I've been meaning to visit her for months and I finally hauled my lazy butt over there. I see my Uncle on my mom's side fairly frequently, about once a week or so. We share mutual interests in dogs, festive beverages, making sure that he and my cousin have an appropriate amount of homemade baked goods, and attempting to prevent WWIII from breaking out between said uncle and cousin. I sadly see uncles and aunt in Florida and England far less frequently than I'd like to. Since air fare is pretty steep right now, I decided to at least pick up the slack with my Aunt Marge. She's not as coherent as she used to be, but she still loves to sing and when she laughs you can catch glimpses of the sunny, funny side of her. 


Isn't it ironic then that, on the weekend I decide to put a concerted effort into working on my book of the joys of singletonism, my dear Aunt turns to me in a moment of unexpected clarity to ask, "Didn't you ever think of getting married?"


I was momentarily stunned while she sat patiently waiting for my answer. I replied with something along the lines of yes, I did think of it but it just hasn't worked out that way. She looked confused for a minute, maybe thinking that I had meant to get married but somehow never got around to it; like how I mean to clean the basement but it remains a hot mess. Then she grabbed my face and told me I was beautiful. That was almost too much to take; I teared up a bit, seeing myself through her eyes, and decided that that was so much better than being told I'll meet the right guy soon--this being what far too many people say when asking why I'm not married.


My aunt could have written her own extreme dating diary if she had chosen to. Well, maybe not extreme but she was a hell of a lot more successful than her maiden niece. My aunt had been married fairly young but sadly her husband passed a long time ago. She never remarried, but man, did she have the fellas running in circles for her! There was one gentleman who bought her fine jewelry and other wonderful presents, another who sent her flowers fairly frequently. Lest you think there was anything untoward about their liaisons, she reassured my mother repeatedly in my presence that she didn't care what they bought her, none of them was putting his shoes under her bed.

After her proclamation of my beauty, she and I chatted a bit more, me trying to describe some of the more memorable men that I've dated and her responding that they sounded like a bunch of simpletons. She was in and out of it for the rest of the visit but snapped back to when I mentioned a recent morning with my father. I told her that taking a page from her book, I'd started having out-of-tune (on my part) sing-alongs with my dad since music seems to be one of the few things that still reaches him.

Anyway, that morning he really wasn't into it. I couldn't find any song that moved him. He just wanted to go back to sleep. I grabbed CD cases trying to find one that would break through when all of a sudden, he started singing "A You're Adorable," a song that he sang to me all the time as a little girl. He forgot some of the words, but I don't think I've heard anything more beautiful in a long time. He may not always know who I am and he is so disinterested in almost everything these days, but there is a part of my dad that is still in there.

When I told my aunt about this, she started singing the song right away. I joined in and we did our own little duet in the common family room area, surrounded by the other residents. Then I kissed her cheek and returned home.

For the past two hours I've been thinking about her question. A few years ago that question would have me curled up in the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and chain watching horribly cheesy romantic flicks. In fact it did when my very young nephew--I think he was 8 yrs old at the time-- ruefully shook his head, said to me, "I just can't understand why you're not married yet." I'm pretty sure he overheard that from either his parents or mine and it was supremely difficult to convince him that not everyone gets married and that it wasn't something to be sad about. Hell, at the time it was difficult to convince myself.

Maybe that's why I started writing my book, as a means of convincing myself that the life of the singleton is a great thing and nothing to pity. Maybe that's why I have taken a serious hiatus from Internet dating, as the dates were getting crazier and less fun. I know I haven't delivered on this site's promise of extreme dating and although I hate to disappoint anyone that is actually still reading this very infrequently updated blog, I have finally realized that I don't need to wait around for a better half. I'm whole myself.

Don't get me wrong, if a tall drink of water turns up, I won't send him packing. Especially if he is wildly wealthy and either travels frequently or believes in separate wings of the same mansion. I have just lost my tolerance for wading through the online crazies to find someone acceptable, let alone awesome. On that note, I'll stop procrastinating on coming up with an ending for my book and just start writing it.