Ridden hard and put away wet

Horses—if God made anything more beautiful, He kept it for Himself. ~Author Unknown

When a serious relationship ends, most people go through predictable stages of recovery before they are truly ready to commit to a new relationship.

Like a person recovering from anything, you are the unwilling dance partner to Denial, Regret, Anger, and Reflection. Sometimes the dance is so slow you barely feel you’re moving. Other times it’s more like a mosh pit and you’re just trying not to hit the ground too hard when the room stops spinning.

The recovery processes of women and men appear to differ considerably. I say “appear” because, like most women, I have absolutely no idea how the majority of men process their emotions.

My summation of a man’s recovery process is based on the “mean” of my friends’ (male and female, to be fair) and my own experiences. Sure we could establish some standard deviation; however, I suspect you’d need crampons and snow plates to climb that bell curve. Regardless, I choose to live in “Kate’s World” and maintain that this is a result of biology rather than, well, a lack of sensitivity.

Anyway, since I know “Her” well, that’s where I’ll begin: “Her” stages of relationship recovery.

Her Stage 1, Days 1 through 7—MANure

• Friends and family have spent hours consoling her and reaffirming how selfish he is, how she deserves SO MUCH better.
• “Food” has become either completely disagreeable or her nemesis.
• She’s convinced '80s movies have plotted against her—how many times can a woman handle flipping on the TV to see John Cusack in a trench coat hoisting a boombox over his head? *sigh*
• Finally, she turned to toilet paper and then paper towels after running out of tissues, but she can’t possibly go to the store because:

1. her eyes are too puffy to pry the lids wide enough to insert contacts
2. a baseball cap can’t possibly hide the unmanageable nest she paid $175 to have highlighted like Jennifer Anniston’s
3. donning sweatpants in public when you aren’t leaving the gym hasn’t been socially acceptable since you were too legit to quit wearing legwarmers and jelly shoes in 80-degree weather
4. Dear, God, what if someone she knows actually SEES her?

Her Stage 2, Week 2—Feeling Shod

• The suffering and pain was released from Pandora’s Box and it's finally closing—and only Hope remains.
• Every ring of her cell phone elicits a stunning Pavlovian sprint across the room.
• He’s going to call. She knows he is. Isn’t he?

Her Stage 3, Week 3—Trotters and Pacers

• Pangs of reality set in and her voicemail is full—friends, sister, and Mom calling daily to check on her and see if “anything has changed.” They share a quiet, collective relief that “He” is still gone.
• She joins a gym—must find some way to spend her abundance of free evenings and weekends. Besides, it would be nice to get back in to the pre-“Him” jeans.
• She reluctantly considers accepting the Girls’ Night Out invitation (which is truly more her friends’ rally cry than an option for her at this stage of recovery).

Her Stage 4, Week 4, Day 1

It’s Girls’ Night Out, so in solidarity, they go to a gay bar for men. Why a gay bar?

1. There’s no chance she’ll run into “Him” here.
2. She won’t be forced to endure undesirable passes made by men she doesn’t want (which only remind her of the man she can't have).
3. All the men here think she’s fabulous even if she desperately needs to touch up her roots.
4. She isn’t at risk of missing out on “The One” because of her attitude problem.
5. She can order a crotch grabber, straight up without having to actually be subjected to one.
6. She can be as pissed off at men as she wants and absolutely everyone in the bar would agree with her.

Stage 4 for Her is all about reclaiming self-esteem. She's getting her “sexy” back.

Her Stage 5—A Day at the Races

Her self-esteem is quickly righting itself, so She is now entering Stage 5. Stage 5 is when She finally gives a crap WHAT men think of Her—well, all except the ex. He doesn't get a vote. Stage 5 is when she resumes dating.

For women, returning to dating is much like a day at the races:

• You worry how you look compared to the rest of the women out there.
• You reference magazines to find out what’s “in” and then undertake some serious shopping, Girlfriend.
• No matter what you take with you, as soon as you're out, you feel unprepared.
• Your seat is not as good as it was last year.
• You MUST have an alcoholic beverage in-hand to get through the next couple of hours.
• You want to both see and be seen, but not as the center of attention.
• You keep your options open and hedge your bets to ensure you don't go home empty-handed.
• It’s always better when you bring friends! Now if you decide to bring reinforcements, always consider what my friend “Bob” explains:

When a man sees a woman, the number of friends she’s with can determine whether or not he makes a move to meet her.

1. One woman is vulnerable and suspicious.
2. Two women are approachable.
3. Three women are very approachable (there’s one woman for him and no third wheel).
4. Four women are overwhelming and the risk may be too great that he will be mocked and shut out.
5. More than four women, well, he knows that's just asking for trouble! They are either a sorority gang or a bachelorette party. Why would he risk being forced to drink out of a phallic straw or wear a candy G-string over his jeans... and there will be pictures to prove it?

All Bets are Off

Stage 5 begins as an effort to just get back on the horse and ends in either a sprint to the finish line or a roll in the hay.

Either way is fine with Her because this filly isn't ready to be put out to pasture: She’s just saddling up for the ride of her life!

Coming soon... His Stages of Recovery

It is not enough for a man to know how to ride; he must know how to fall. ~Mexican Proverb

You’ve Got Male

To: JJ

From: Kate

It was nice to meet you and thank you for the great lunch.

I think you are really nice, and I don't think you're an underachiever of any sort. I'm afraid on other accounts we may be too different, like you suggested. Politics, religion,

humor—important things to differ on.

I wish you the best of luck, and I am glad we finally got to meet.

___________________________

(unedited)

From: JJ

To: Kelley

Subject: Re:

I learned a

lesson. Tell a "woman" of my politics and religion before wasting $55.00 on lunch.

Instead of asking me less-than-appropriate questions like "tell me of your eHarmony experiences with women", perhaps you could have asked if I were a republican or weather or not I supported my Catholic faith by going to church.

Also, I shall recognize in the future that if a "woman" sees politics and religion as a deal breaker, then she's way too incredibly shallow and closed minded than to deserve my attention and affection.

You're from a town of 300 people trying to assimilate into a world of 5 billion. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that so much makes you exclaim "ewwww", "grossss", or "that's baaaaaad".

The idea you forced 3 therapists on the marriage is brutally alarming. One should get a therapist just to help them with the problem of retaining three therapists.

Thanks for considering me a "really nice person".......eh, I guess as "nice" goes you do okay. Warm? No. Cold, ah.... now we're getting warmer.

Take care and good luck with whatever it is that you preoccupy yourself with.

Who Dares Loses.

______________________

To: Friends and family

Re: You won’t believe this…

Ok, this is from the guy that I went to lunch with on Friday after I tried to politely tell him that I didn't feel a connection. To be clear, I did NOT tell him ANY of these things. I would never say any of those things to a person like that. There's no reason.
The truth is:

• he has a DUI and no license since last April (almost a year later…no, he didn’t tell me this before our date)
• he asked me to lunch in the city because it's something about "less of an expense" (for the man) on a first date than wasting money on a nice dinner (he said this once I was at lunch with him)
• he CHOSE the place (which was across the street from his office…I suspect this is because he can’t drive)
• I had to wait for him by myself for 10 minutes (which I didn't tell him and he probably would have considered it penance for being born a woman anyway)
• I paid $17 to park and $5 to tip the valet because there was no parking anywhere
• he made fun of me 3 times AND pointed it out, as in "did you notice I did this?" I politely said I noticed, but I wasn't going to say anything (because that would be RUDE)
• he complained about the small amount of soup in the bowl of soup for the appetizer
• he told me "thank you for not feeling up my thigh or asking me to come over tonight." I said, "Excuse me?" Apparently women in the past have done that to him. Ah, yes: Talking about slutty women is such a turn-on during first-date lunch.
• and (as if I needed a deal-breaker) he told me on a first date how much he loves beer and when he drinks beer, he likes to drink A LOT of beer

The one thing he said that made me laugh was when he assumed my father was an ultra-conservative republican (see me nearly spit soup out my nose and trying to picture my father's response to such a statement—a blue-collar from Chicago from a long line of blue-collars and living the last 30 years in a one-horse union town).

The night before, he said he thought I'd find him less than whatever he assumes my "caliber" to be because he's "an underachiever." His words, not mine.

Enjoy the lovely diatribe about my personality.

His email was supposed to go to someone named "Kelly." I didn't see her address on it, which was a bit weird. I suspect he either blind-copied me and sent the email to her or he thinks my name is “Kelly.” I don't care to ask.

Even funnier is he's a recruiter for the American Bar Association! I think the ABA he was talking about is the same one Garth Brooks was talking about in his song about the ABA.

______________________

I never did reply to this "man," but my friends sure wanted to!

Entertainment Weekly -- Part 2

The first date went well. We shared engaging conversation on a multitude of topics. He opened doors. He didn’t drink too much. He made me laugh and feel relaxed, which was refreshing. He even walked on the street-side of the sidewalk—and knew exactly why he should. I was relieved and impressed.

At the end of the evening, he walked me to the doors of my apartment complex. I graciously thanked him for the evening and gave him a sincere hug. Then it happened: My first clue. He pulled me back toward him and attempted to kiss me. Yes, he attempted—I shunned his attempt and he literally looked peeved.

“Are you serious?” he laughed.

“It’s a first date,” I stated. “I don’t know you.”

Now, as the saying goes, I "said it with a smile." I then shifted into “Coy-and-Cute Mode.” So as not to offend, I sprinkled on some reassurance, “You’ll just have to ask me out again so I can learn more about you.” On the spot, he asked me out for the following Friday. Worked like a charm! I may have bruised his ego a smidge by not swooning at the chance for our lips to meet, but I really wasn’t concerned. A kiss is just a kiss to most people, and I’d be lying if I said I haven’t broken my unspoken rule before, but this time I wanted to be cautious.

As I walked the long corridor to my apartment, I mentally remarked at how enjoyable the evening was and caught the reflection of my perma-grin in the mirror. This was good! This was NOT blog worthy! I could face my friends at work the next day without receiving looks of sympathy. Then came the day-after text message...

Message: “How are you? I must say, I’m pretty impressed with you. Your (his misspelling, not mine) hot, smart, fun, and down to earth…”

Hot? Did he really say that? Why did he have to say that? I will put my phone down and pretend I didn’t see that. He probably has no idea how that sounds to most women.

Then a half-hour later came the next text message...

Message: “How did you get so damned hot?” Augh.

I consulted my panel of experts: Women in successful relationships; Men that were just in it to hit it and quit it; My best male friends—married and unmarried. Was this creepy, icky feeling in my stomach warranted or was I being too hard on a man that was just paying me a compliment? The reactions of The Panelists were mixed, but the majority told me to “chill” and not read into it. Perhaps he wasn’t really objectifying me and just looking for sex? But as I ended my discussion with a colleague while leaving work, I warned her that he had better not get handsy.

Date No. 2: It’s on! An ‘80s rock cover band was playing locally. On our first date, Mr. T and I reminisced about our favorite ‘80s rock music and he told me how much he enjoyed bands. Sure cover bands are a bit corny (they’re supposed to be). They’re rowdy (but by the end of the week, I love some sensory overload). Since bands always start late, Mr. T said he’d meet me at the place where the band was playing.

I arrived before he did, so I checked my coat and waited. When he arrived, he paid for himself. Ok. Maybe he thought I already paid? So I paid my cover. Shake it off, sister.

He bought each of us a beer and the band came on shortly thereafter. I was very pleased when he told me how great the band was and how this was “such a good idea.” Song after song, he smiled more and laughed when songs surprised him from the past. When the band broke into a Beastie Boys montage, I leaned back and clinked our beer bottles together, as in toasting the sentiment “Awesome!” This is when Mr. T began to emerge and reveal himself like sunburn.


“If you do that again, I’ll have to kiss you.”

Self: Huh? I must have heard that wrong. Response: Give puzzled expression.

“If you lean back like that again, I’m going to kiss you.”

Self: Warning shot fired and noted. Apparently we are going down this path again.

“I told you, I take things slow. You don’t even know my birthday or middle name.” This was completely logical to me.

“When’s your birthday?” he blurted. I answered.

“What’s your middle name?”

I replied, stripping off bits of "Coy-and-Cute Mode" in favor of "Don’t-Make-Me-Get-Out-My-Can-of-Whup-Ass Mode." He looked confused for a second (my middle name isn’t common), but he quickly dismissed his confusion so as not to veer off course.

“Now that we got that out of the way…” he smiled. I swear it was a semi-creepy smile. Reminded me of Mark Harmon as Ted Bundy. Ew.

Self: Easy there, Killer. You’re missing my point. So I explained that you only get a first kiss once. When you know someone better, you feel a connection and the kiss is natural.

He shrugged, “I get it. That’s true.” His demeanor appeared to soften.


Self: Situation leading to compromised principles averted. Resume dancing and consider ways to stroke his ego without leading him on.

Shortly thereafter, Mr. T must have decided to try alternate tactical maneuvers. He tightened my dance space so I could feel him behind me. Then he put his hands around my waist—Try rockin’ out to Bon Jovi with someone cramping your dance space. Dude, “Runaway” isn’t a slow song! (Hindsight: I should have taken that song as another clue.)

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” he said in my ear (not so much a whisper, as we were listening to a band).

“Kind of, yes, it does,” I replied gingerly. Self: Don’t poke the tiger with a stick.

“Oh, it does? This makes you uncomfortable?” so he held me tighter, laughed, and then released me.

Now I’m thinking he’s just a butthead. Thankfully, Mr. T went to get another beer. About a half-hour later and in the middle of a very kickass rendition of a Heart song, someone put their hands on my shoulders and forcibly moved me over about four feet. Stumbling and startled, I turned around and tensed up preparing to shift into "Black Mamba Mode" (i.e. hold bottle firmly and thump guy on head if necessary). No, not the snake...think “Beatrix Kiddo” stunningly played by Uma Thurman in Kill Bill I & II. Makes more sense now, doesn’t it?

I’m 5-feet nothing and though I can kick a 6-feet-tall man in the head (yes, I totally can), this kitten only scratches accidentally (well, usually—but that's another story). So I’m wondering where Mr. T went just when he was called to duty! That’s when I realized that it was Mr. T that did that to me! What the heck?

Before I could even ask, he provided what he believed to be a perfectly reasonable explanation, “If I didn’t move you, I was going to have to beat the sh** out of three guys behind you.”

What? I know we’re jamming to ‘80s music, but I swear we didn’t actually go back to high school. I wouldn’t have signed up for that! Mr. T was the only person bothering me. No one else was forcing themselves on me.

Let’s clear this one up, shall we? Women are used to men watching them dance with their girl friends at night clubs. It’s no big deal. It’s a compliment as long as they don’t get aggressive or rude. That said, no one was dancing with me except Mr. T. Besides, my eyes were generally nowhere—in crowds, I pretty much get to stare at the backs of heads.

Here we are, all of us having a blast sharing music we grew up with—all of us dancing and singing horribly together in mass elation, well, except for me. And Butthead dropped his fun card on the floor about an hour ago. I had no idea what to say so I shrugged it off and gave his forearm a little squeeze in thanks of his gesture to, I guess, "defend my honor."

Naturally, one gigantically oversized man puked in a garbage can next to us before being hauled out by his friends. Thank God the band was worth the headache I was getting from all the drama. Then to my horror, the lead singer pointed at me and the two girls dancing next to me. He then proceeded to jump off the stage and dance with us while singing an entire song that I can’t recall (for obvious reasons). Ok, that was pretty fun even if he was very sweaty and dressed like someone’s pervy uncle in an Elvis wig and Liberace-rhinestone belt.

After that moment in the spotlight, two guys I went to college with reintroduced themselves to me. It was bizarre to run into them at this little Irish bar in the middle of a random Chicago suburb. This must have been it for Mr. T. His territory had been breached and it was my fault.

Frat Guy No. 1 leaned over to me and said, “Hey, I think your husband left.”

“He’s NOT my husband! What are you talking about?” I asked looking around.

Frat Guy No. 2, “He’s not your husband? He was looking at us the whole time like he wanted to beat the crap out of us!”

Self: How special.

“Yeah, I think he took off. Did he leave you here?” asked Frat Guy No. 1.

Self: Fabulous.

They go back and forth with mutual dismay over my situation. I can’t believe he ditched me, so I tried texting him, asking him where he was. Obviously, I received no response. I started scanning the crowd, feeling pretty much paranoid.

Is he watching me from a distance? Is he coming back?

I waited 15 minutes before I decided this was way too uncomfortable. I felt safe with the guys I knew from college (it’s that whole “Alumni Bond” thing or something), but the fact that some angry, jealous guy might be hiding in the crowd watching me was more than I could take.

A bouncer walked me to my car (thank God I drove myself), and I drove around for a while before actually turning in to my complex in case someone was following me. I know: Paranoid much? I made several unsuccessful attempts to further ensure my safety (tried to reach the apartment security; followed a police car flashing my lights; phoned an incoherent friend). Clearly I was on my own to handle this like a big girl.

I was feeling extremely insecure and really wishing I had never moved away from my hometown in the first place. At least there, I had a huge brother-in-law and a protective father and brother that I could call in a pinch. I told myself to buck up and stay alert. Then I ran to my building like my ass was on fire!

Self: He knows the building I live in, but he doesn’t know where I live in the building. And my building is locked.

I scurried up the back entrance and down my hallway, looking and listening with the intensity of that crazy face-petter cop I went on one date with not nearly long enough ago. (See earlier blog.)

After a long phone conversation with Mom in the middle of the night, I was able to sleep. The next day I decided to take the evening for what it was worth. First, the band was—say it again—awesome! Second, I should definitely trust my instincts. If he acts, walks, and talks like a, well, er, another word that’s one vowel off of “duck,” then he probably is one. Third, dinner dates are probably better choices for second dates than bands playing at bars. Heck, I’d even suffer the pain and humiliation of ice skating instead. Oh the horror of reliving any moonlight skate ever again...

Finally, I’m sure I don’t need to state the obvious: This is exactly why I don’t kiss on a first date! The “right guy” will respect my boundaries. He will be secure enough to know that when I’m with him, I’m with him—I choose to be with him and not with any other guy in the room. He will not objectify me. A simple, sincere, “You look nice,” is all I want to hear from a guy I hardly know. The man I want telling me I make him feel hot and bothered is the man who comes home to me every night. He’s the one that doesn’t need a shackle on his left ring finger to remind him he’s My Man. He doesn’t care if I’m wearing pigtails and sweatpants. He keeps my secrets, he “gets” my sense of humor, and even if he can curl 100 lbs. with one arm, he’s not going to strut around puffed up acting like an, ahem, another name for a rooster.


Sure, I could have kissed this guy on the first date, but I would have compromised my principals and felt skanky the next day. Even in those "movie moments" of my life, I always knew in the beginning how a relationship would end. No matter what the leading man of the night thought, when the music died and the credits rolled, I’d always know that he would have been kissing a fool.

Entertainment Weekly -- Part 1

“Sgt. Barnes” played by Tom Berenger in Platoon
“One-Punch Mickey” (Brad Pitt) in Snatch
“Bender” (Judd Nelson) in The Breakfast Club
“John” (Mickey Rourke) in 9 ½ Weeks
“Stanley Kowalski” (played by Marlon Brando) in A Streetcar Named Desire
“John Preston” (Christian Bale) in Equilibrium—Christian Bale in just about any movie since Empire of the Sun

Jeopardy answer for $500?

“Who are brooding men with short fuses?”

As in the movies, in life they presume to be “misunderstood.” They may be brilliant or they may be rough around the edges. They will flat-out tell you they have anger management issues. The worst part—the part that can twist women’s sensibilities inside out—is they are always passionate.

These men must exist in a virtual pheromone cloud or something. You never see them coming, but men and women both sure know when this guy enters the room. These are the kinds of men that can kink even the most reserved woman and bind her better judgment. The song “Bad Romance” seems to sum it up. Deep down in even the tenderest Christian woman there hides a peculiar degree of curiosity that, under the right conditions, will make her throw her Rule Book off the nightstand to entertain her alter ego.

Yes, that’s how it happens: curiosity. Anxious curiosity. After all, ladies, what’s your real attraction to the supernatural storylines of today’s movies and bestsellers? Dark, suspenseful curiosity. The underlying theme: Some mysterious, untamed man with unfathomable reaction time and pent up rage sweeps our heroine off her feet and draws her into his tumultuous world. Breathless yet? She turns the page...

I’m not talking about the “emo” guys today that wear makeup and disassociate themselves with their masculinity to “make a statement.” I prefer to wear the black nail polish and eyeliner in the relationship.

You know who I’m talking about: Men whose testosterone levels make Fight Club a backstreet reality. These men can spend their days in $3,000 suits behind mahogany desks. Mr. T can work with animals or code software in a windowless cubicle. He may never be mistaken for a model in Muscle & Fitness magazine. He’s not even necessarily the best-looking man you’ve ever dated.

I’ve known beautiful, sweet women that underwent a range of degrees of metamorphoses in hapless efforts to avoid baiting Mr. T to attack. They wouldn’t dare wear a shirt that emphasized their assets. The short skirts—rewards for months at the gym—resigned to the back of the closet. These women were wilting, their confidence and identity slowly handed over to Mr. T. And he didn’t simply take what she had to offer: He demanded it.

How? Why? What are intelligent, accomplished women’s fascinations with these men all about? They aren’t just artists or musicians, but they are always like a great Picasso: better viewed from a distance and often at a legally enforced minimum of 100 feet away.

Every woman has met one. Some have married them. Some are just drawn to the drama—hey, some women knowingly throw a lit match on a man’s arsenal of testosterone. And there you have it: An explosion that will most definitely burn anyone within a variable radius of Mr. T. What sets him off is anyone’s guess. It could be his best friend showing you a picture of his four-year-old daughter. It could be the guy at the gym that politely helped you adjust the incline. Perhaps you laughed a little too heartily at his unmarried brother’s joke. Regardless, the fault falls on you.

Mr. T thinks he’s a badass. He’s usually tense. He’s quiet. He’s pensive, or so he seems. No, honey, he’s not internally dialoging about existentialism. Please. Even Ludwig van Beethoven—a genius known for his outbursts—can’t be given that much credit.

Here’s the secret that Mr. T would never admit to: He’s bloody insecure.

As sexist as it sounds, it’s our responsibility as women to feed the male ego. Oh, and we do it so well! We are nurturing and giving to a fault—that’s as nature intended lest our offspring perish. However, men—the “Masters of the Universe”—not so much.

Now before anyone charges toward my house with torches, yes, there are numerous nurturing, sensitive men. I am friends with many of them! However, don’t doubt for a second that most of these men, if given the opportunity and the promise of no repercussion, would go full-on, Tyler Durden-style into fist-to-cuffs. How soon we forget Mark Darcy versus Daniel Cleaver in Bridget Jones’s Diary?

• The football-playing bully that pushed him into the lockers day after day in high school.
  
• The jerk that cut him off in traffic only to immediately make a turn.
  
• His wife’s first love, who took her virginity in a Pinto.
  

All magnanimous opponents! Our mild-mannered, nice men would seize the moment! Then when the testosterone rush subsided, they would quietly settle back into their humble lives, grinning on the inside.

Without much trouble we can fetter every aforementioned man (or his character, as it were) and easily trace his emotional outbursts down to the weakest link in the chain that binds him to his temper. But let’s leave that to the Psych 101 students.

Whether it rises from the “muscle-building,” papier-mâché-paste-looking crap he drinks after lifting or simply another tired rendition of a bad childhood, some guys can turn even a trip through the grocery store into a venture into The Twilight Zone.

This leads me to the story of yet another dramatic "character" of sorts and my glorious misadventure with Mr. T...

End Part One

But is he paper trained?

Everyone loves dogs. They’re cute, affectionate, friendly, attentive, and playful. Who can resist their cute puppy eyes, their “snuggleability,” and the way they are so eager to be by your side? They just want to make you happy. They just want to please you. But would you give the run of the house to a dog that wasn’t paper trained? I think not!

A dog that isn’t paper trained will leave messes all over your house. He will frustrate you with his constant whining, he will reduce the amount of time you get to go out and have fun—because you have to constantly check up on him! You’ll be preoccupied with what he’s doing when you aren’t around because no matter how adorable and affectionate he may be when you’re there, as soon as you aren’t around, he’s not to be trusted with his own impulses.

Is he just answering the call of nature? Don’t fool yourself, ladies: Someone has been too lazy to train him.

No one wants a dog crapping all over their house, so why would anyone date a man that isn’t paper trained? Well, it wasn’t the brightest spot in the dark sky that has been my dating experience. I think of myself as a fairly sensible woman. I ask questions, I weigh options, and I concern myself with “worst-case” scenarios...

He said, “I’m separated.”

When a man tells you he’s separated, it may be true, but it does NOT mean he’s a free agent. It means he’s a wandering dog that’s off his leash. Like any wandering dog, an encounter with him can definitely leave you bitten and scarred.

You should care why he’s off his leash. Even if he doesn’t wear a collar, he still belongs to someone else. So I asked The Dog exactly what “separated” meant to him and he assured me that his marriage was totally over, but neither of them had gone through the formality of filing divorce papers. (In hindsight, this was my clue to dump The Dog on the side of the road so he could wander his ass back home.)

Uncertain, I asked more questions—Ladies, you are entitled to ask any questions you want regarding this situation! No question is out of bounds. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. If he cannot answer you or his response is flaky, walk. Fast. Away. And don’t look back—even if the view is spectacular.

How long have you been separated? When did he/she move out? Have you been to counseling—all of you—as a family, separately, the kids? Does your wife want a divorce, too?

Yes, I said it. His WIFE. He’s MARRIED. STILL. “Separated” does not equal “divorced.”

How his wife feels is a very important question to ask. If he tells you anything other than “we both have lawyers” or “she served me papers,” jump ship. Think about it: Do you want to get involved with a man whose wife is bitter about their marriage ending and is fighting it all the way? Angry wives can make unreasonable demands on their estranged husband and use their children as pawns in a game you don’t even know the rules to. As a single woman taking care of herself and making her own way in this world, I have enough drama and responsibility in my life that I don’t need the added crazy only a pissed off and vindictive woman can bring just because I chose to walk her dog.

I asked lots of questions. I asked some of the same questions multiple times and various ways—behavioral based interviewing 101. His answers were all favorable and without hesitation. I felt more confident, but still very apprehensive. Upon several occasions, I’d express concern again only to be immediately met with his reassurance and sometimes his frustration at my insecurity. I trusted him because he gave me no reason not to. Or did he?

No matter what The Dog says, the fact of the matter is until someone puts down a retainer on a lawyer, someone gets served, and the gavel falls, The Dog is unavailable. It’s all in the paperwork and he has not been paper trained.

“Oh, but he hasn’t lived there for nine months. He hates her! She makes him miserable!”

Buy a scrambler baby because all you should be hearing is “blah, blah, blah.”

Divorce papers have a date on them certifying that this man is no longer someone’s husband. Until that paper is stamped, he’s still got a wife. She has all the power to make your life hell because she pulls his strings. She has his time. She has his money. Chances are she has his house and his kids, too. Washer’s not working? He’s off and running. She sends him a nasty email about not spending as much time with his kids as he used to (hello, he doesn’t LIVE there anymore), so he freaks out and you find yourself brushing the dust off your coat as he speeds away.

My question is why do men act this way? The answer is so simple, we forget time after time: Because they can.

Every man would be a dog if he could get away with it. A separated man has even more dog-potential than a 20-year-old college frat boy! How can I possibly compare the two? It’s too easy! You’re killing me!


College boys
1. Lose all sensibility as soon as they find themselves surrounded by single women.
2. They’re horny and in desperate need of attention.
3. Are always looking for aspirin.

Separated men
1. Suddenly find themselves surrounded by single women and lose all sensibility.
2. They’re horny and in desperate need of attention.
3. Are looking for an aspirin for a different kind of pain.


Take the advice of a friend of mine: You do not want to be someone’s Tylenol when they are in pain. Hand The Dog a bottle of aspirin and shove him out the door. Lock the door. Pour yourself a stiff drink and consider what’s on the DVR because you need to quickly forget about The Dog.

As a formerly married woman, I would have kicked my dog’s butt to the kennel if I knew he was wandering around the neighborhood, in and out of women’s houses. Better yet, an invisible fence to shock him back to the reality of the boundaries of his freedom.

As far as the damned dog I let in my house is concerned, had I known he was wandering and not really lost, I definitely wouldn’t have taken him in, fed him, comforted him, and given him treats. I sure didn’t want an untrained dog trampling through my flower garden only to spread his dirty doggy footprints all over my house, making a mess of things.

I have no idea how long it will take me to clean up the mess he left behind.

Trust me about The Dog, ladies: If he’s not paper trained, you’ll regret it the second you let him in.

Bad dog!

All Hail the...

Despite how far removed we think we are from our primordial ancestors, evolutionary biology lags far behind the Industrial Revolution.

A man’s innate compulsion to have sex with (almost) any willing woman is the result of his biological need to pass on his seed—but not necessarily make sure it takes root. Women have a remarkable ability to romanticize anything that has to do with children—even if they suffered a split pelvic bone during the delivery of their firstborn.

However, when it comes to actually attracting the opposite sex, the psychology behind what motivates men and women is entirely different.

Women tend to be motivated by their emotions—particularly their insecurities: Her breasts are bigger than mine—I must get bigger breasts! Blondes are sexier. Brunettes are smarter. Redheads are high-spirited. Society preys on women’s insecurities: This pill will make you burn more calories. This cream will smooth out the dimples on your thighs. It’s enough to make you think men actually care what color nail polish you wear on your toes!

A man won’t pick up a magazine and say to his friend: “I wish my abs looked like that…he’s so perfect!” No, they’ll pick up the magazine to find out what exercises the dude did to get his chiseled abs. Why? Because men are motivated by their egos.

So while she’s sitting across the table worried that the wine will make her bloated, he’s considering how much cash he should drop to make certain his financial stability isn’t in question.

I guess humans aren’t that different from other creatures in their efforts to attract a member of the opposite sex. Have you seen the elaborate dances Birds of Paradise do? And there’s no machismo quite like that of two rams fighting over the attention of a ewe. Well, they have nothing on Mr. Puff-n-Stuff.

Mr. Puff-n-Stuff is incapable of putting a lid on his superiority complex. In retrospect, I should have seen Mr. Puff-n-Stuff coming a mile away when he described himself as “good-looking,” “smart,” and “successful.” I mistook his overabundance of confidence for a mocking statement aimed at the competition. Foolish mortal! Mr. Puff-n-Stuff KNOWS no competition!

After talking a few times to Mr. P on the phone, I agreed to meet him for dinner. He was intelligent and mildly entertaining, so it could be good. Our first date was at a seafood restaurant. I was nervous, so I spent way too much time getting ready (flaw in the female design). Fortunately, it happened to be an incredible hair day and the outfit I put together really worked.

Mr. P ordered us a 16-piece oyster appetizer and the most expensive bottle of champagne on the menu. Point #1: I have heard that story about oysters and libido, and I was certain he wasn’t rounding any bases tonight. Point #2: I assure you, my MGD-born taste buds cannot distinguish a $20 bottle of champagne from a $175 bottle of champagne. Nor can I tell an oyster from Canada from an oyster from Maine. I did (surprisingly) learn that oysters from New Jersey taste exactly as you’d expect: not good.

When our nice waitress complimented me on my hair (which really did look great), what did Mr. P do? He did the unspeakable. He actually thanked the waitress for me and told her he did my hair. I laughed and thanked the waitress and told her that I did actually do my own hair. What does he do? Mr. P corrects me, leaving the waitress confused and looking for an escape. I decided to brush off his weird sense of humor as nerves.

When the huge oyster tray came, Mr. P insisted on preparing my food for me. No one has readied my food for me since I was five, so this was more than a little strange. He insisted he treats women this way because he’s Italian and Puerto Rican.

Whatever. Stop touching my food.

After the appetizer-preparation production, we had King crab legs for dinner, dorky plastic bib and all. Really hot. At one point as I’m struggling with two hands to free the meat from the crab, Mr. P looks at me very seriously and asks me to give him my hand. Seriously? Now? He insisted, so I put my crab leg down, wiped my hand, and held it out to him. Control your gag reflex now folks…Mr. P looked me straight in the eyes and asked me if he could call me “Princess.”

Me being me, I struggled to not make a completely repulsed expression as I plainly asked “Why?” He said because I looked like a princess and he feels that’s the perfect thing to call me. Great. One of THESE guys.

Now I know for a fact that I do not look like a princess. What’s more, my friend Holly actually already holds the “princess” title—she even has a hat to prove it. Together with the fact that not my dad or even my granddad ever called me “Princess” and I wasn’t remotely raised to feel like one, I concluded this guy was trying way too hard. I didn’t want to insult him if he was trying to be sweet, but even my grandmother from the South didn’t lay it on this thick.

During dinner, Mr. P told me about his underachiever sister, his brilliant brother, his very talented father, his mother’s incredible cooking, and his spoiled rotten, overweight, fancy pedigreed dog. I suspected some of his quirks were the result of first-date nerves. All in all, the dinner was good and I was still up in the air about our compatibility.

The date ended and Mr. Puff-n-Stuff texted me several times during my ride home. “You looked beautiful tonight, Princess,” “Are you home safe yet, Princess?” “Sweet dreams, Princess.”

Three days later, Mr. P asked me out to dinner again. At one point in his phone conversation, he asked if I would join him on a weekend trip to Vegas. I laughed and said I hardly knew him and asked him in what world would that ever be a good idea? He thought I was being paranoid, but eventually let it go.

Mr. P wanted to take me to his favorite French restaurant which was actually an hour’s drive away. I had insisted on driving separate (he didn’t need to know where I lived already), so I had to just go with the flow.

When we finally arrived, I asked him how ever he found this restaurant so far away from the city and he explained how he was going to buy a factory down the road. He was going to buy a factory?

“I thought you were an engineer for medical equipment?” I asked.

Oh, yes he was! But he put $60,000 down for this factory to build equipment he designed. But alas, the deal fell through because the elderly man he tried to do business with flaked out on him.

After I decided what to order, Mr. P called the waiter over. As the waiter looked at me to take my order, Mr. P said, “The lady will have...” Really? Did he just order my food for me? Even the waiter looked a little surprised.

“So you were a gymnast?” he asked. Finally! He’s interested in ME!

“Yes. I miss it every day.” I said.

“I played soccer in high school. I was the captain all four years. My older brother was also the captain when he was there before me. Our father was a pro soccer player in Italy. My brother could kick the ball over 60 miles per hour!”

“I bet no one wanted to be the goalie against him!” I joked, but really I had no idea if 60 mph was fast or not for a soccer kick.

“I also played baseball. I was scouted because my pitch was faster than they’d ever seen,” he continued. All I heard was blah, me, blah, I, blah, the best. Should I tell him my dad played football against Dick Butkus?

“So why didn’t you become a pro ballplayer?” I asked.

He babbled something about his rotator cuff. I told him I retired from competing because of severe tendonitis in my rotator cuff. He went on to tell me how he now coaches little league. Well, that’s nice.

“So you were married?” he asked. Oh, goody. My FAVORITE topic on a date.

“Yes. It just didn’t work out.” I answered. Of course there’s a lot more to it than that, but I wasn’t about to puke out the details of my former marriage.

“My ex-wife is a model,” he stated. I guess that was enough about me.

My ex-wife is a model? Well, if that’s not a turn off, I don’t know what is. I fair a little better than average, but I sure don’t want to share my dinner and second date with a model. She could be a hand model for all I knew, but he was not about to minimize her fabulousness lest HE look less fabulous.

“A model? Huh.” I said. What are you supposed to say? I didn’t care about his ex-wife. She was a great woman, blah, blah, she didn’t want kids (should have asked that before you married her). Do I want to see a picture? No, and who carries a picture around of their ex-wife? Now I’m thinking this guy is short and he’s losing his hair (which he lied about—I don’t care if someone is bald, just don’t lie about it), he definitely doesn’t work out, and he was married to a model?

Mr. P babbled on about his ex-wife this and that, then more about the dog and how jealous the dog gets of other people around him. He told me that his dog was expensive and that she came from this long line of other fancy, expensive pedigree dogs. I told him my cats were rescued strays and that they love everyone. He then started complaining about how incompetent his coworkers were and how they relied on him too much. I told him I love my job and feel very fortunate, but I paid my dues.

Please let there be no dessert.

At the first lull in conversation (I think he had food in his mouth), I said, “I noticed you have handicapped plates on your car, but you’re obviously not handicapped.”

He beamed at me like I won some prize. “Great observation, Princess! That’s something I’m proud of.”

You don’t say…

“A few years ago, I volunteered my car (a Lexus) and shuttled post-op elderly people from the hospital.”

That was it for me. I smiled a really goofy smile as I bit my tongue to keep from laughing. He continued on about how he should have been a doctor and how one of his best friends is a doctor and how he has some huge boat and throws elaborate parities…probably to raise money to build an orphanage for abandoned girls in China or something.

Dinner was finally over and Mr. Puff-n-Stuff walked me to my car. I thanked him and gave him a hug strategically avoiding any potential kiss attempts before I ducked into the safety of my car.

I couldn’t wait to call Mom. She’d NEVER believe this!

“Sweet dreams, Princess,” was his last text to me. I didn’t text back.

I much prefer my worn-out cowboy boots to glass slippers that don’t match anything I own. But someday, I will wear a damned tiara.