Not bitter, just bruised.

The Dallas Diva recently wrote about how much it sucks to be dating. She wrote:

Why is dating so difficult? And it doesn't do anything but get harder as we get older. As time goes by, we are more set in our ways, and it is harder to be willing to tolerate other people's idiosyncrasies especially when I can barely tolerate my own. (I'm saying 'we' hoping it really is 'we' and not just me.)

Uh, yeah, it's totally "we."

I am doing online dating, and on one hand, it's really exciting. And I met a nice man this weekend at a party. After a little liquid courage, I said, "I have really enjoyed talking to you. I know this is really forward, but can I give you my card?"

And he smiled and said yes and I gave him my card. No, he hasn't called yet. That's not the point. The point is that I did it. I put myself out there. Yay, Cha Cha!

On the other hand, he hasn't called. And online dating is a ton of work. You have to keep track of all the different conversations you're having with different people. And tonight? Tonight, I'm in my bathrobe and super tired and I just can't face logging on and writing another chipper "So, what kind of music do you like?" e-mail. I. Just. Can't.

I thought dating in college was scary. Oh, little did I know! At least everybody's single and if they're gay, they don't know it yet. You know someone who knows someone else, so your chances of ending up with a total creep and not knowing it are slim. And everyone's your age and no one has kids or a psycho ex. And you're thin and don't have to have conversations like, "Oh, that giant disfiguring scar? Funny story ..." Because you are young and if you're really weathered, you once knew someone who died.

And then there's dating in your 30s. It's deliberate. And you have to do it after working a full day and doing grown-up things, as if pretending to be a grown-up isn't work enough. And it seems like you're the only person in the whole entire universe (ok, maybe just your social circle) who is experiencing this particular level of Dante's inferno.

But sometimes? It's also really funny. Like when you admit to your friend that you were disappointed that your blind date showed up in an old, beat-down Corolla, and your friend shoots beer through his nose. And likes you anyway. And later, that friend tells you that being single isn't so bad, because at least you don't have a mother-in-law who steals filets out of your freezer.

So, I'm thinking we need a Dating In Your 30s Blog Consortium. Just a little blogroll of partners in dating crime. A list of sites to turn to when you need to laugh or just know that you aren't Miss Havisham. I'm in - anybody else? Suggestions?

I can see clearly now.

Two years ago, I remodeled my kitchen. It was like Laura Ingalls Wilder's The Long Winter. It took forever. I ate only cereal for two months. And no, I still haven't touched up the trim paint. I'm just now beginning to accept that it still needs to be done.

As part of this magical remodel, I got a new microwave - a fancy one that goes above the stove and has a fan in it for the stove. From day one, this microwave has sounded like a jet. And not in a good way. In a this-might-set-the-house-on-fire way.

But, much like the trim paint, I just couldn't face it. For two years. Yeah, I know.

I finally called Sears and had them come out to look at it while it was still under warranty. The repair guy was very nice, but he was wearing these John List glasses that just really threw me.

You remember John List, right? He was the accountant who killed his entire family in the early 70s and then vanished. And the forensic sculptor made a bust of what List probably looked like 20 years later - and made a point to put these dark, heavy eyeglasses on the bust. The sculptor figured that with List's psychological profile, he'd want to look important.

They found List, and he was totally wearing the same glasses. The same glasses being worn by my Sears repairman!

So, the repairman was all, "Oh, you need a new wavemasher and a new transponder" or some such thing. And all I could think of was, "Oh, please don't kill me and turn the furnace down to 50 and leave classical music on the radio and tell all the neighbors that I'm out of town while you make your getaway and become a model citizen in Colorado. And no, I don't watch too much TV. What are you talking about? Please don't kill me."

But he just ordered the parts and promised to come back in a week.

So, a week passes, and the repairman comes back. But pulling a microwave out of the wall is a heavy, two-person job, so he brought another repairman.

And that repairman was also wearing John List glasses!

I shit you not.

So, they fixed the microwave and chatted with me about Foxie Doxie and Lil' Frankfurter, all the while planning on how they'd lay out our bodies and hopefully not splatter blood on their glasses.

And then they left.

And my microwave no longer sounds like 27 freight trains. And the doxies and I are fine. But we probably need to stop watching those true crime shows.

Creepy image courtesy of Google Images.

Things that are awesome.

Best way to ruin my entire Sunday
Make Rock of Love Bus a rerun. vh1, how could you?

Best way to make a potential beau run screaming
I was at a party last night with Alice and Jake. There was a guy there who was handsome ... and who looked really familiar. I couldn't figure out how I knew him, but I was pretty sure that I did.

Alice was talking to his friend, so I asked I Know You Guy how I know him. His response? "I get that a lot. Who's your favorite member of the A-Team? Maybe we know each other through the fan club."

So, I Know You Guy and I chatted it up for several minutes. He was very funny. And then he made a comment about his sister. And I'm all, "Wait a minute. What's your sister's name? And what's her fiance's name?"

And then, I was all, "I know how we know each other. I used to date The Ex-Boyfriend Formerly Known as Mr. Wonderful."

I Know You Guy took a giant step away from me. His sister is marrying Ex-Wonderful's good buddy. He avoided me the rest of the evening.

What's that bewitching scent I'm wearing? It's Eau de Ex-Wonderful. Driving men away since 2008.

Best "Yes, this is my life" moment
That would be courtesy of Lil' Frankfurter. Lil' Frank, who is still not housetrained. Lil' Frank, who I caught making a poo this morning on the kitchen floor. I reprimanded him while he was still, uh, you know, doing the doo, and he ran off. He ran off with a piece of poop swinging from his butt. As I held his little seven-pound body over the toilet and wiped his rear, I had a very distinct "So, this is what it means to be an adult" moment. Rock on.

In which I am completely self absorbed, part 72.

I've been thinking that my hair, in all its growing-out-ness, has reached new levels of yuck.

Yesterday, I realized that I look like our pal Hillary. I know it's a good look for Hil, but for Cha Cha? Not so much.

Then, I realized that with just a little more teasing, I could achieve 80s hair nirvana: The Markie Post.

But I'm really pretty low maintenance. So, I just go around with hair that looks like that guy from Bride and Prejudice (which is actually a really great movie, by the way).

The odd thing, though, is that friends have started complimenting my 'do. Umm? Ok. Thanks.

And I guess my online dating profile photo must not be too hideous. My tag line is "'75 Chevy Impala. Low miles. Runs great."

Because I am so hot like that.

And last night, at like midnight? Some drunken, not-even-divorced-yet fool sent me a one-line e-mail: "Had your oil changed lately?"

After dowsing myself in Purell, I determined that yeah, I must have it going on - at least at some level.

It runs in the family.

As I have mentioned before, I'm a lateral organizer. My office organization system is The Carpet Credenza. To the uneducated, this might look like piles of stuff on the floor. But really, people, it's a system.


I inherited The Carpet Credenza from my dad. His office often has neat piles of folders lined along the wall. I have taken The Carpet Credenza to new heights ... new heights of sloppiness. However, I'm coming to realize that along with putting my own spin on The Carpet Credenza, I have also passed down this lateral organizing system to my kids.


Lil' Frankfurter is really pushing the limits of The Carpet Credenza. He's so dedicated to lateral organization that he freaks out if his toys are actually inside the toy box. He watches me put all the toys away, then spends about five minutes distributing the toys around the floor - as they should be.
Dad? Do you see what we've created? It's a proud, proud moment - kind of like watching your kid accept a Nobel Prize ... but with a lot more fiberfill strew all over the floor.


Also, I'm not sure if many Nobel Prize winners don fiberfill in such an adorable, decidedly Colonel Sanders sort of way.

I don't ask for much.

Lil' Frankfurter currently is asleep with his head resting on my wrist. As I type. And as he makes what I call The Snorgle.

You know The Snorgle - that sickeningly adorable snort that dogs make when they are sleepy and happy. Both Frankfurter and Foxie Doxie have their own versions of The Snorgle and it pleases me very much. It's so cute that it almost makes up for the fact that Frankfurter is still not housetrained.

Oh, sweet eight-pound, five-ounce baby Jesus in your golden fleece diaper, help me. Help me to get Lil' Frankfurter to understand that when he goes potty outside and I stand there and say all those sweet, affirming things to him that it's a sign. It's a sign from You that he should go potty outside. All the time. Please help me to teach him that while the house is mercifully all hardwoods, grass is so much better for doing certain business. Please help Foxie Doxie continue to set a positive example for his brother, and please guide Lil' Frankfurter to follow that example. Please bless our home with fresh air so that it doesn't stink like dog pee. Thank you for making Lil' Frankfurter so cute so that I don't sell him to gypsies, even though it would make for a really funny "Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves" doxie-esque photo essay based on the Cher song. Please grant us patience, grace and all the paper towels we need. In the name of the kibble and the Nylabone and the Greenies, Amen.

The things I do for you people.

This is a story about what may or may not have been a good idea.

So, Ex-Ex contacted me again and asked to meet for a drink. I am bored. I need blog fodder. I agreed.

And then Foxie Doxie got an eye infection and we had a vet appointment ... at the vet in my old hood. At the same time Ex-Ex and I were going to meet for drinks.

Foxie and I ended up just going over to the home that Ex-Ex and I purchased together, the house he still lives in. I hadn't been there for more than four years.

Let me just tell you about this house. I fucking loved this house. 1927 bungalow. Arts and crafts tile fireplace. Incredible architectural detailing. I painted. I landscaped. I cleaned. I held down the fort when Ex-Ex traveled for work all the time. And when we broke up, I left the house. My house. With the exception of my parents' house, it's still the place I have lived the longest.

I have thought of the house probably more than I have thought about Ex-Ex.

Ex-Ex said that his super-sexy job didn't allow a lot of time for home maintenance and that he really hadn't changed anything since I moved out. Well, he was right. But it also looked like he hadn't cleaned in a while. I'm pretty sure that super-sexy job means he can afford a cleaning lady. He might check into it. It was just odd to see the floors scratched all to hell by his big dog and noticeable layers of dust on everything. I used to clean and clean and clean, and he'd walk in and be all, "This place is a dump. I'm going to have to take a day off work to clean." And now I'd be afraid to go barefoot in the house.

So, there was that. And the new living room furniture. And the new artwork. And the yard that had gone all to hell. So glad I busted my ass on your dumpy-ass house, you home-maintenance moron.

But there were some surprising things that were the same. The rug in the bathroom was the same. I slept on that rug one night after a bad run-in with cheap vodka. And perched on the kitchen windowsill was the tiny glass perfume bottle that I found buried in the backyard.

I sat as a guest on a chair that I had helped purchase. We drank beer and watched the dogs play. Foxie marked a rug where he had marked a hundred times before. As I half-heartedly pretended to clean it up, I noticed a framed fortune from a Chinese fortune cookie. Displayed on the coffee table, it read, "You and your mate will be happy in your life together."

Oh. Ok.

Ex-Ex actually asked about me, unlike our last meeting. He wanted to know how I was handling "the whole Geriatric Poodle / break-up thing." It felt a little ... patronizing.

We talked about books and trips and dogs and his grandma's Alzheimer's. The beer hit me and I had a sudden urge to just go lay down on the bed that had been mine for seven years. But instead, I gathered up Foxie, threw on my cashmere Pashmina (because I! Am! Fabulous!), and left.

The thing that struck me as I drove off was that he walked me outside, but didn't watch to see if I drove off safely. A man who cares about a woman watches. Ex-Ex did not.