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.