I Triple-Dog-Dare You

I used to pride myself on being a very talented flirt.  I could seductively smile, coyly toss my hair, and bat sultry eyes with the best of 'em.  But that was almost ten years ago—I do not really know if I still possess this above-average ability.  Perhaps the skill is something that one gradually forsakes without practice like playing the piano or speaking French.  If you don't use it, you lose it—isn't that the rule?

Flirting aside, one aspect of my personality which has always remained consistent, even without use or practice, and despite my increasing wisdom and maturity, is the fact that I absolutely refuse to be told that I cannot, will not, or would never dare to do something.  In fact, if a certain individual wants to ensure that something will get done by me, tell me that I can't do it, and, by golly, it will get done so fast you'd think my dog's life depended on it.  Every time I think that I have outgrown this silly, stubborn behavior, someone goes and says "DD, you would never do that..." and drop-kicks me back into resigned reality.

One of the first emergences of this trait occurred when I was seven years old.  An older girl at my elementary school was the master of the Cherry Bomb, a challenging move on the monkey bars that involved hanging by your knees from the high bar and swinging back and forth to gain some momentum.  Once the right level of "swing momentum" had been reached, one would then flip her body mid-swing, release her legs, and land gracefully standing on her feet.  It was majestic.  It was fearless.  It was a feat that no one else could accomplish...until I came along.

Unfortunately, while I was basking in the awe of my admiring fans, my little sister Steve thought, if I could do it, she could do it too and ended up with a broken wrist.  Our mom did not share my feeling of glorious accomplishment.

And who could forget when I was twelve and dared to prank call the boy I liked to tell him how cuuute he was but not reveal my true identity—which then backfired (of course it did...it's me) when Cuuute Boy's older brother figured out how to call back our number.  An hour later, my friends and I were no longer guarding the phone, and my sister Rugrat answered to tell Cuute Boy our family's last name.  Oops.  Cuuute Boy made sure no one forgot about that phone call for the rest of the school year.

Finally, this trait was again notable when I was sixteen and a junior in high school.  Steve and I were staying at our seventeen-year-old cousin Prima's house for the night, and Prima decided to take us out to a nightclub featuring an 18-and-under night so that we could dance the night away...or until our midnight curfew.  Well, this nightclub had platform cages—yes, you read that right:  enclosed, barred cages that were up on platforms around the dance floor.  (I promise, it was not quite as sketchy as it sounds.)  It started out as Prima and I trying to convince little Steve to dance in one of those cages for a laugh, but of course Steve shyly refused unless her big sister danced in one first.

Prima let out a huge laugh.  "Yeah, right!  DD would never get up and dance in that cage!" she insisted.

I kid you not—I was in that cage and dancing faster than you can say "underage debauchery."


Bringing us to present day...  Recently, I attended the annual Christmas-tree-lighting ceremony in my town, followed by a post-ceremony drink with Faith, Rowdy, and Todd.  The night starts out fairly quiet—until I notice the DJ working that night.

"That DJ is pretty attractive...how old do you think he is?" I remark, my gaze still affixed on Mr. DJ.

"Yeah, he's definitely cute.  Go request a song," responds Faith, smiling encouragingly.  "Then you have an excuse to talk to him!"  Discussion commences amongst us over which song to request before an agreement is reached, and I'm out of my seat and striding over to the DJ booth.

"Hi."  I give Mr. DJ my best flirtatious smile.  He actually turns away from his music and smiles back.  Score.  "I was wondering if I could request a song...?"

"Sure, what to you want to hear?" Mr. DJ says.

"Well, my friends really want to hear 'Don't Stop Believing,' so they sent me up here to talk to you," I say, putting my hand on my hip, slightly tilting my head, and still smiling.  "Do you think you could play that one?"

I know—I'm pathetically obvious, but it did work.  Introductions were made, Journey was put in the queue, and I sat back down looking triumphant.  He was totally going to glance in my direction right away.  Or soon.  Any second now.  I mean, he did have a job to do....  Sigh.  Maybe not so triumphant.

Rowdy decides to take charge of the situation.  "Here's what you do:  Go buy two drinks; one for you, one for him.  Then you walk up to him, give him the drink, raise yours, say 'cheers' and walk away," she instructs.  "Trust me, it will work.  You will totally get his attention."

I'm skeptical.  "I don't know...that's not really me.  I'm not sure I can pull that one off."  Rowdy and I argue; Faith plays Switzerland; Todd refuses to be dragged into, much less acknowledge, our nonsense.  At last, I give in and obediently march up to the bar defeated.

I manage to talk myself out of this Rowdy-move once I'm alone at the bar waiting to order drinks.  Minutes later, I skulk back to our booth and straight into Rowdy's disapproval.

"Why don't you ever listen to me?!?" she exclaims.  "Why do you give me decision-making power if you don't listen to me?!"

"I was thinking...maybe I should just go flirt with him?" I suggest tentatively.  "I can actually do that!"

"Ugh.  I've seen you flirt.  You cannot do that," Rowdy sighs.

My jaw drops, and I let out huge gasp of shock, quickly followed by a stubborn look of determination.  Without a word, I drop my purse next to Faith, throw off my cardigan sweater, push up the sleeves of my shirt, and stalk off resolutely to conquer the challenge.

As I exercise my best flirting moves on Mr. DJ, back at the table Todd is pretending he doesn't know me (which I'm sure has nothing to do with the fact that I stick my tongue out at all three of them when Mr. DJ has his back turned to change the song).  My flirting works sufficiently enough for Mr. DJ to ask for my number—insufficient, however, in getting Mr. DJ to call.  Weeks later, and my phone still hasn't rung.  Apparently my flirting techniques could use a tune up....

At least I can count on the fact that some things about me will probably never change—too bad it's the things that probably should.

Lesson #10 in Post-Divorce Dating:  Flirting is a time-honored tradition that requires regular use and exercise in order to see improvement.  One should practice flirting on unsuspecting men that are not too important to snare when still enhancing skills.  The use of new flirting methods is highly suggested and encouraged, but beware of the "triple-dog-dare" method—it has not been proven to be the best source of motivation.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

An Apple a Day

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a beautiful young princess who dreamed of one day finding true love.  She believed that falling in love was something truly special, something that would make complete sense when she was finally lucky enough to have it happen to her.

As this young princess grew older, she met a handsome prince.  The prince was not like any other man she had encountered before—in fact, upon their very first introduction, the princess was struck with a fluttery feeling deep in her heart that told her this prince was something special.  And as the princess got to know him, she realized that the prince possessed every quality she had ever hoped for in her "true love."

The prince and the princess fell in love instantly and lived happily, ever after...

 


PFFFFFFTTTTT!!!!










Okay, I'm just kidding, don't worry—not another depressing blog post, I promise!  But let's be honest—there are just certain things you were absolutely never told about fairy tales as a child.

To start, Prince Charming is a Disney character.  This man does not exist in the real world.

Secondly, even this fictional romantic prince has flaws—like, he is ready to marry a girl simply because she looks hot in a ball gown and has the propensity for dashing off mysteriously while leaving shoes and crap around for someone else to pick up after her.  Leading us with no other conclusion but:

There is absolutely—positively, 100% scientifically-proven, without-a-doubt-nonexistent, impossibly—no perfect man.

And, yes, so glad that you asked—this does include Dr. Perfect.


When I met Dr. Perfect for the first time, I was amazed at his apparent flawlessness.  He had not only good looks, but an interesting and fun personality, similar interests, a sense of humor, and topped it all off with the fact that he was single.  If you remember back to my first post about him, Rowdy and Zamboni were also quite impressed—I believe Rowdy's text to me during the course of that night went something like this:

Rowdy:     Omg I want u to have cute little blond doctor babies... pls date him, I am 2 in love with him for you not to date him!

But then of course, one has to wonder... Why is this man single?

Could it be that he is simply between relationships at the moment?  Maybe he made the decision to hold out for that one right woman to come along?  Did he suffer some horrible heartbreak and now approaches dating with caution?  These would all be acceptable reasons for Dr. Perfect's single-dom.

However, there are also the other questions that seemingly-perfect-guy-single-dom brings forth:  for instance, does he have some severe social disorder?  Does he secretly enjoy playing with plastic Star Wars action figures in his spare time?  Is he the leader of a polygamous cult that requires all members to remain unattached until age 30?  Is he suffering from some incurable disease that causes giant puss-filled ulcers to cover his fantastically hairy back?

(All very valid, reasonable questions, of course.)

My first date with Dr. Perfect was simple.  He called, requested my company at dinner, offered a mutually-agreeable date for said dinner, met me at the restaurant, paid the bill, walked me to my car—and he brought me flowers.  Flowers!  On a first date!  (I told you this guy seemed too good to be true...who does that?!?)  Absolutely no drama, no weirdness, no issue.  Perfect pedestal still standing, and Dr. Perfect standing strong atop it.

But the second date with Dr. Perfect?  Let's just say, it never happened—but not for lack of trying.

Date Attempt #1:  Sunday

Dr. Perfect:     So I'd love to get together again this week...

DD:     I would love that too!  I am only free on Wednesday or Thursday...do either of those work for you?

Dr. Perfect:     I am free all week, so just let me know what works for you.

DD:     Well, either of those two days are good for me...I have plans the rest of the week, but I can do dinner or drinks or something either Wednesday or Thursday—whichever.

Dr. Perfect:     Okay, well, just let me know when you are free, and we'll do something then.

I think there was a small part inside me that started sounding the alarm bells at this point.  I partially felt as though I was on a phone conversation where I could hear everything the other person was saying, but they couldn't hear me.  Didn't I tell you when I was free???

Date Attempt #2:  Tuesday

Dr. Perfect:     Hi, you have reached Dr. Perfect.  I am out being perfect somewhere and cannot take your call at this time.  Leave a message, and I will get back to you as soon as I can.  BEEP!

DD:     Hey, it's DD.  I know we had talked about getting together tomorrow night or Thursday, so I thought I'd call to see if one of those days still worked for you.  Send me a text or something tomorrow during the day and let me know if you want to make plans.

No contact from Dr. Perfect that night or Wednesday.  Well, I thought, he must have just decided he's not interested.  No big deal; it happens.  No one needs to mail me the book He's Just Not That Into You.  I get it:  if a guy wants to call me, he will move mountains to find a way.  Hence, Dr. Perfect threw me a curveball when he texted around 5 p.m. on Thursday evening like nothing had happened.

Date Attempt #3:  Thursday

Dr. Perfect:     Hey there!  R u still free 2nite?  Just got off work & was thinking we should get together for dinner.

DD:     Hey, sorry - I actually hadn't heard from u about it, so I went ahead & made plans with a friend.



I really had made plans, too.  Faith had texted me earlier that day about dinner, so I went ahead and said yes.  I certainly didn't know I'd hear back from Dr. Perfect at the eleventh hour expecting me to be free.  Still, noting the absolute lack of perfect men in the world, I decided to cut him some slack.  Again, we made frustratingly vague plans to hang out that weekend.  But of course, that weekend I spent lying in bed feeling deathly ill and unable to date anyone ... not that I heard from him until late afternoon on Sunday.

Date Attempt #4:  Sunday

Dr. Perfect:     On my way home from the football game—want 2 see a movie 2nite?

DD:     Ugh, I can't.  been sick in bed all wkend.  But I really would love to hang out.  Can we get together this wk?  When r u free?

Dr. Perfect:     Sure, just let me know.  I don't have any plans.

DD:     Great, how bout Thurs. nite?

Dr. Perfect:     Sure, just let me know, we'll do something this wk.

AAAHHHHHH!!!  Why was it so difficult to make definite plans with this guy?  Commitment issues?  Not a planner?  I couldn't figure it out.  When I was out with my girls on Friday night, I filled them in on Dr. Perfect's emerging flaw.  That was when Chanel and Rowdy intervened and hijacked my cell phone for the night, so the text messages between "me" and Dr. Perfect looked something like this:

DD:     Look it's not that hard - pick a date, time, and place.  Then we have a plan.  U can't call me an hour b4 u want 2 hang out.  That doesn't work 4 me.

Dr. Perfect:     A little sassy tonight, aren't we?

DD:     Just telling u how it is.  So u know.

Dr. Perfect:     Glad I know ;-)

Rowdy and Chanel must have been seductively sassy in crafting their text messages to Dr. Perfect from me, because he actually showed up at the bar to see us that night.  And he was as seemingly perfect as always while he was there with us.  And he promised to plan a date for Sunday.  And it went exactly like you think it did.

Date Attempt #5:  Saturday

Dr. Perfect:     You looked very cute last night at the bar :)

DD:     Thx :)  So did u.  R we still on for a date tomorrow?

Dr. Perfect:     Sure.  we'll do smthing.

DD:     What time r u thinking? 

Dr. Perfect:     After the football game.  I'll call.

DD:     What do u want to do?

Dr. Perfect:     We'll see.  whatever

Well, needless to say, "we'll see" just wasn't cutting it for me.  After another few texts of I-need-at-least-a-definite-time-cause-I'm-not-the-girl-who-sits-around-waiting-for-a-man, with him responding with various versions of you-are-sure-being-a-lot-of-work-how-dare-you-want-at-least-12-hours-advance-notice-on-the-second-date, and Dr. Perfect had completely fallen off his pedestal and down into the trenches of all other men in this world. 

I never did figure out why I was unintentionally keeping the doctor away—but I think it's safe to say, it sure wasn't a daily apple.

Lesson #9 in Post-Divorce Dating:  There are no perfect men in this world—only men who are better at hiding their flaws than others—but one should date these men without fear.  Eventually, even Superman has to remove his disguise and reveal his true identity.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

I Used To Be...

This weekend I took a journey to my past.  I woke up, ate breakfast, packed a bag, hopped in my car, and drove until I reached nine years ago.  His eyes were still a piercing blue.  He still made me laugh at his jokes.  He still made me feel safe, and he could still melt all tension and anxiety completely away from me just by being near.  The chemistry was still there between us.  Everything was exactly the same as it had been before—and it wasn't.  I was different.

Mr. Cadet has always been my ghost of lost-loves past, and I finally had the chance to see him over the weekend after so much time had passed since our last encounter.  Meeting up with Mr. Cadet again after all these years was absolutely wonderful.  It was amazing to see how your memory holds on to things that you don't even realize were there.  We would be sitting there talking and catching up, and he would do this cute little thing where he tips back his head slightly when he is saying something funny, all while giving me this goofy little grin, and I would immediately think—I remember that!  When he hugged me, just the way he smelled would send a tidal wave of emotions and memories crashing down on me.  And when I looked at him, though almost ten years older now, I could still see that same 23-year-old who used to race me across town in his truck so I wouldn't miss my curfew—and who would then stop in the church parking lot down the street from my parents' house to kiss me when we made it with a few minutes to spare.

Mr. Cadet hadn't changed a bit, except older, and maybe a little wiser.  He was still the same handsome, charming, genuine, honorable gentleman.  So why didn't my heart drop into my stomach when he looked at me like it used to?  Why didn't I allow myself to jump into the sky and float along with fluffy clouds of silly emotion?  And though he told me more than once that he had a great time and wanted to meet up again soon, why was I skeptical that I would ever hear from him again and preparing myself for the worst in my heart?

I suppose that I shouldn't expect to be normal quite yet.  It has been nearly a year, but it feels as though I have been "getting over" my divorce for much longer than that.  I'm finally ready to be normal again.

But instead, it feels as though a part of me has died, leaving an empty void in my chest, and the part of me that knew how to love someone is gone forever.  I wonder sometimes if I will ever be capable of that kind of love again.  When my ex-husband destroyed our marriage, he seems to have destroyed the part of my heart that was filled with hope for fairytale endings and the ability to feel romantic passion.  And here I am left, not only with a broken heart, but with a broken spirit—and wondering if it ever ends.

I wrote this poem when I was in college, around the time that Mr. Cadet was in my life on a daily basis, and I found myself thinking about it today.  At least I know that, when I wrote this, I must have been feeling close to the same way that I am today, ten years later.  Somehow, in the years after I wrote this poem, I became that glorious bird again.  Hopefully, I can do it once more now.

I used to be…

A bird with golden wings—
I lived high up in the mountain tops
That were peaked with silvery snow.

Each morning
When the sun flashed
Its first brilliant rays of daylight across the land,
I would swoop down
Straight down
Passing clouds as I dropped,
Falling so fast towards treetops
And then
Remounting the wind
And letting it carry me up again.

I used to fly behind waterfalls
And let my big golden wings
Gently brush the crystal-blue water.
I used to sweep through grassy fields
Covered with wildflowers
And leafy trees
Filled with chattering chipmunks...
Then
I used to rise above the clouds
And flutter in and out of rainbows.

At last, as the sun’s bright light
Disappeared behind the mountains,
I used to land softly in my nest
With the sweet taste of freedom on my beak—

A bird with golden wings…but I’m not anymore.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

Music & Lyrics

Lately, I have a new favorite song.  Most of the time, a song catches my attention based solely on the melody.  I become so entranced by the music, the lyrics barely register.  However, with this new favorite of mine, I am noticing—and enjoying—both music and lyrics of the song.

Possibly it's due to the fact that I have been on several more dates with Mr. Songwriter, who has, well...surprised me.  Though his potential had a slow start (despite the fact that his tried-but-true bathroom line actually did work to get a first kiss), Date #2 had only slight weirdness, and Date #3 was pretty wonderful. 

The "slight weirdness" that erupted on Date #2 began with a phone call about an hour before Mr. Songwriter was scheduled to pick me up for a Halloween-themed show he was taking me to downtown (thanks to his co-worker who had passed free tickets around to all his school employees).

Mr. Songwriter:     So I'm not sure if I told you, but I work with my ex-girlfriend, and I ran into her today....  I was crossing my fingers that she wasn't going to the show tonight, but unfortunately she is—and bringing various family members with her.  I didn't say anything about the fact that I was going with you, but now I'm thinking I should have?  I might call her and let her know that I will be there with a female companion...just so she doesn't get upset or anything...so she is at least prepared...?

Was he asking my advice?  Did he really want to know what I—the woman he was taking on a second date that night—thought about how best to protect his ex-girlfriend's feelings?  Reminder:  I've been on a date with this guy once (if that drink-at-the-bar even counts as an actual date).  Other than that, all I know about him is what Big D and Mamasita have passed on about their dear friend.  I remember hearing mention of an old girlfriend living in town that was fairly recent, but I hadn't gotten the impression it was all that serious.  Maybe I was wrong?

But, honestly, even if I was wrong about the degree of heartbreak—have Mr. Songwriter and I reached that level of comfort on the second date where he feels it necessary to share intimate romantic history with me?

I wasn't sure really how to respond—if memory serves me correctly, it was something along the lines of, "uh, okay...," followed by, "you don't have to take me if you would rather go with someone else and avoid the issue."  However, he quickly insisted he wanted to take me to the show, then debated out loud whether he should call her or not to let her know that a girl was going with him, and finally questioned if I would feel awkward or weird being put in that situation.  He genuinely asked if I would feel uncomfortable running into his ex-girlfriend.

Okay, now, I'll be honest...maybe this makes me an unaffected, uncompassionate person...possibly my heart has turned black from my own all-encompassing heartbreak...and maybe this will label me as a senselessly callous person, but...

Why the heck would I care?!?

(...at least I'm honest, right?)

After I hang up the phone, I have to laugh, still dumbfounded and wondering whether I should care about my presence upsetting one of his girlfriends past.  I really just...don't.  At all.  In fact, I cannot comprehend why I should care if Ms. Heartbroken has to leave the show early because she is bawling her pretty little pitiful eyes out and cannot stand to be in the same room as Mr. Songwriter and some chick (me) who, for all she knows, could be his cousin (I seriously am turning into such a bitter divorcée...).

I really wanted to warn him before we left.  This is me, Dumbfounded Divorcée—of course we are going to run into her at the show.  There was really no doubt in my mind that dumb luck would, once again, prevail.  At least it provided extra entertainment for the night:

Mr. Songwriter:     "I think we actually have pretty good seats, from what I—oh, no, slow down, slow down, let these people get ahead—oh! nevermind, she saw us.  Okay, smile and wave, smile and wave... Ugh, she doesn't look too happy....  Oh well, I gave her the courtesy call to warn her—what more could I do?  At least hopefully we're not sitting near her...."

Meanwhile, I'm now convinced that Ms. Heartbroken and Mr. Songwriter must have broken up mere weeks ago after dating for a year or so.  Turns out, this "relationship" ended back over the summer after only six months.  Therefore, at this point I'm thinking—is he crazy arrogant, or is he really just a nice guy?

The rest of the Date #2 was surprisingly enjoyable (not to mention the next few dates that would follow).  Though Mr. Songwriter is not my type—in fact, he is the absolute polar opposite of my ex-husband—we still seem to have this curious connection and chemistry.  While my ex-husband was a ultra-conservative, suit-wearing, financially successful, southern good ole boy, and Mr. Songwriter is an artsy, guitar-playing, tattooed, tree-hugging-democratic dreamer, the conversation between Mr. Songwriter and I is never difficult.  The ridiculously comfortable feeling that we have around each other has been there since Date #2.  The way he seems to know exactly what will make me run screaming away and what is the right amount of affection or attention is simply eerie.  And, just like music and lyrics, our song seems to play in perfect tune.

And, so far, I don't want to stop listening.


Lesson #8 in Post-Divorce Dating:  When your date makes serious second-date mistakes, like acting as if his ex-girlfriends are all scarred for life because he broke up with them, don't give up on the potential just yet—with certain songs, the music and lyrics need to play out a few verses before you start to pick up the tune.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

The Teacher Can Still Be Taught

Top Ten* Lessons Learned by Dumbfounded Divorcée during GNO with her Friends:

Lesson #1:   A quick celebratory drink at 5 o'clock always ends up lasting at least six hours.

Lesson #2:   Nights out involving any combination of DD, Chanel, Rowdy, Dolly, Stella, or Faith require a mature and responsible chaperone to be present.

Lesson #3:   When you leave for a trip to the bathroom, you may come back to find a Navy officer in your seat.

Lesson #4:   Think twice before you ask a Navy officer why he is carrying two sailor hats—you may learn disturbing information.  Like, Navy officers who carry around extra sailor hats might be doing so in order to make trades with hot women for various sexual favors.

Lesson #5:   Rowdy is an enabler, but also the best wing-man ever. Therefore, don't ever point out a guy who you consider attractive unless you are entirely prepared to have this information shared with said guy and an introduction with him scheduled to occur imminently.

Lesson #6:   Buy a table full of already-drunk men any drink they desire, and the end result will be 6 SoCo & lime shots for your table and hilarious company for the rest of the night.  Plus an amusing blog post—can't forget that one.

Lesson #7:   When Dolly's husband, Great Dane, drives by the bar where your group is seated at an outside table, only to see his wife surrounded by flirtatious men, Great Dane won't get panicked, angry, or jealous. He'll park the car, order a beer, and sit back to watch the madness ensue.

Lesson #8:   Great Dane is not a good stand-in for a chaperone, even if he is the current front-runner for the Husband-of-the-Year Award.

Lesson #9:   Chanel is a flirting goddess.  Not only did she get asked for her phone number by the hottest male visitor to our table of the night, but he actually called...five minutes after we started walking away.

Lesson #10:   While sharing drinks at the bar, Faith's vegetarianism and Chanel's annual meat-intake rules may result in an intense debate over the ethical killing of cows. Dolly is a star at making her opinion known, in addition to breaking the tension—she deals with it by ordering a burger.

Lesson #11:   Shared hatred for the Florida Gators helps Rowdy and DD make friends with male strangers who become all the more appealing once you find out they say the word "boat" with a Southern accent.

Lesson #12:   When going out to a bar, one should wear a light-blue cardigan. This magical clothing article produces insistent promises by attractive men that, since they are flying back home the next morning, they will schedule a return trip to your city just to take you on a date.

Lesson #13:   Stella's neighborhood needs to be visited more often—but next time, a sleepover also planned in order avoid the 20-minute ride home, thereby giving Chanel and DD far less time to write unintelligible text messages and make phone calls to everyone we think might want to share in late-night pizza with us.

Lesson #14:   Pizza, while enticingly delicious at 1 a.m., does not fare so well after beer and SoCo shots.

Lesson #15:   Finally, no drink could be sweeter, no joke as hilarious, no evening as perfect as the one shared with my friends.  I love you guys to the moon and back.  Let's plan another night out soon!

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

* — Okay, so I lied. There are 15 lessons, not 10. After sharing an entire blog full of embarrassingly and entirely true tales, I am entitled to one free pass.  So deal with it :-)

Adventures in Face-Licking

I often question whether dumb luck is something that just happens to everyone in this world or if I really seem to attract weirdness like a comic book convention attracts never-been-kissed men who live in their mothers' basements.  I always seem to have these absolutely bizarre encounters, and I have no explanation for why this screwy stuff occurs whenever I'm around.

Todd, Rowdy, and Bear attended the local university in town and get football tickets together every season.  It was my first game tagging along with them.  The weather was perfect, the tailgating was abundant, and the people watching was sensational.  All in all, it was quite the day—that is, until our team started losing. Badly.

Around the third quarter of the game, Rowdy and I finally give up hope and decide to venture on a little excursion to visit with her good friend who works at the stadium—and what a good choice!  Not only does her friend get us into the Club Level seating of the game, but we are escorted into the VIP Club (a.k.a. Party Lounge) of the stadium!  I feel as though we have entered some prestigious night club and half-expect to turn around and see P-Diddy kicking back drinks with the Rock and the Kardashian sisters scantily-clad on the dance floor. Unreal.

So Rowdy and I claim our place at the railing overlooking the field to watch the end of the game while inwardly freaking over the good fortune that has landed us in this very exclusive spot.  Out of nowhere, an attractive, mid-30s guy joins us and stands at the railing next to me.

"Hi there," he says with a huge smile at me.  I smile back, say hi, and then quickly glance back at Rowdy who is giving me a discreet thumbs-up in approval of Mr. VIP's disarming good looks.

Before I can barely turn my head back to Mr. VIP, he has picked up my hand and is now holding it.  I kid you not.  What the heck?  I draw my gaze from his hand holding mine up to his face, and I am surprised that he is simply standing there, smiling broadly at me, his body now completely turned to face me instead of the football game.

"Errr...hi?  How are you?" I ask him nervously, still wondering what exactly to do about getting my hand out of his grasp without revealing that I am a bit freaked out at his unashamed affection with a complete stranger.  I can see Rowdy trying desperately to surpress the laughter that is bubbling up in her, without much success.  I slowly start to pull my hand away, but that only makes him clutch it more firmly.  Yikes.

"Are you nice?  You look like you are nice," Mr. VIP says to me, matter-of-factly, with a serious gaze.

I carefully consider my response.  "I think I am nice.  Are you nice?"

He sighs resignedly.  "I am nice."

"You say that like it is a bad thing!"  For a moment, I think I forget that this conversation is beyond weird and actually react normally to Mr. VIP's dejected comment.

Mr. VIP continues to smile at me.  Rowdy intervenes in an amused attempt to elicit more entertainment from this transaction, reveals that Mr. VIP has season tickets to this expensive part of the stadium, ends up with his phone number and an post-game outing invitation (shocker), and causes this guy to start rubbing my neck at one point, as well.  Creepiness abounds.

"What do I do?!?"  I whisper to Rowdy at one point.  "I mean, he's cute, but come on!!!"

"Shhh, you could get a really awesome date out of this!  Go with it!  He's got to be loaded to have season tickets in here," she urges.

Finally, one of Mr. VIP's friends comes up to inform him they are headed out.  Mr. VIP turns to give me a seductive smile.  "You should come with me," he says to me with a wink.

I think quickly and use Rowdy as my excuse.  "Oh, well, can't...I'm with her.  We came here together.  Kinda a package deal tonight.  Sorry."

Then, Mr. VIP leans in close, gets right up to my face, before he responds: "So both of you come with me—I like the package."

I wish I could say that was the end of that, but unfortunately, Mr. VIP couldn't leave without saying good bye.  He put both his arms around my neck and proceeded to make out with the side of my face.  Again—not kidding.  He actually licked my face, right there in the middle of the VIP Club of the stadium.

Bear:     I'm gonna blog about my date last night. Like, 'we met for dinner, made inane chit-chat, ate food, said goodnight'...actually that would be the exact post lol

DD:     why does this weird stuff only happen to me? i had a guy LICK MY FACE. where do i find these people? gross

Bear:     it happens to everyone

DD:      no really - that doesn't happen to everyone

Bear:     lol, ok that one is just funny. but go to a douche magnet like the VIP lounge at the stadium and people are going to lick ur face! its just common sense

DD:     i'm gonna take a poll. how many people have had their face licked by a stranger. guess what - i bet not that many people are gonna respond yes!

So go ahead—help Bear and I settle our dispute.  Vote below!

Have you ever had your face licked by a
stranger in the middle of a public place?

Lesson #7 in Post-Divorce Dating:  If a complete stranger ever approaches you, takes your hand in his, and smiles at you seductively, get out of there fast and report the suspect immediately to the authorities—he could be a face-licker.  Fight back, America.  Remember—you can make a difference.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

Nobody's Perfect

DD:     i met a guy last night :)  a very cute one

Rugrat:     Oo fun :)  not the one u have a date scheduled with already?

DD:     nope that's Mr. Songwriter.  this is a new one - he's a dentist

Rugrat:     Oo la la.  how old?  prior marriages?  kids?

DD:     28, no wives, no kids.  and texting me today :)

Rugrat:     Very nice.  Love him already.  Love the younger guy.  I'm going younger next lol.  so he feels sooo lucky to date an older woman :)

DD:     we'll see - i met him at a bar

Rugrat:     who cares?  Life is supposed to be fun :)  Google him.  Make sure he's a legit dentist - what's his name?

DD:     Dr. Perfect.  And trust me - he's perfect.  it's scary

Rugrat:     found him.  he's a legit dentist.  Dr. Perfect...but can't find a pic yet... have to trust u on that one...

Last night was pure craziness.  I really should know better.  When I get a text message from Rowdy and Zamboni on a random Wednesday night that says, "K's event going on at the martini bar 2nite - must support her - get here now!", I should just mentally—and physically—prepare myself for a night of very little sleep.

The evening started off fairly tame.  The three of us sat at the bar (i.e. perched ourselves attractively in view of all the comings and goings around us), made friends with the bartender (if you haven't learned this lesson yet, learn it now), enjoyed our free martinis (and a few others supplied by our new friend, the bartender), and caught up on each other's lives (i.e. intense gossip session occurred).

A few fun-filled martinis later, Rowdy spots a group of men, appearing to be close to our age, who enter the bar and sit themselves at a table across the bar.  Nudging Zamboni and I, who are seated on either side of her, Rowdy indicates the new direction of her gaze, and, pretty soon, all three of us are checking out the new arrivals.

Rowdy and I completely have the same taste in men, which actually works out well since she is happily married to Todd.  She spots them—I date them (sometimes).  It's a great system.  Zamboni, on the other hand, is at a disadvantage, since she is usually attracted to a different type.  However, Zamboni (the irresistible girl that she is) has snagged herself a seemingly-wonderful guy who she has decided to keep around for a short while now, and things are going great.  Luckily (or maybe depressingly) for me, that means any attractive, non-wedding-band-wearing guys are going to get pushed my way tonight.

"They're pretty cute—look!  That one kinda looks like Matthew McConaughey...a little, at least," suggests Rowdy, and the three of us consider them.  "They are certainly the only ones at this bar function who seem to be under the age of 40.  Date that one," she says, nodding in the direction of the McConaughey-look-a-like.  "You need new blog fodder anyway.  It's been a while since you had a good one."

"But please, didn't we already establish this?  Men don't talk to women at bars.  They will sit over there all night, yucking it up with each other, absolutely oblivious to the fact that there are even women in proximity.  I'm not sure I'm brave enough tonight to walk over there, and—let's be honest, here—I came straight from work.  I ain't lookin' that cute," I point out, indicating my jeans-and-tee-shirt appearance.

"True.  Okay.  I'll take care of it," Rowdy states matter-of-factly as she turns back towards Zamboni, who instantly snickers at Rowdy's comment.

"Uh, oh," Zamboni smiles devilishly, "this is gonna be good."

Uh-oh is right.  Rowdy "taking care of it" can only mean one thing—I should brace myself for the night to get wild.

Within ten minutes, Rowdy scouts out our bartender friend and buys a round of drinks for the guys' table.  Within twenty minutes, Bartender is delivering four vodka tonics to our new prey.  Within twenty-two minutes, sure enough, McConaughey-look-a-like is approaching.  With friends in tow.

"Are you ladies the ones who sent us the drinks?  Thanks so much!  We were just hanging out—we all actually went to dental school together and got together to catch up—and we were pleasantly surprised.  You have to let us return the favor and buy you ladies a round..." he says with a smile.

As you can imagine, the night went downhill (or uphill, as Rowdy would argue) from there.  Zamboni was stalked by two middle-aged men who seemed to have some creepy fetish for being rejected by her over and over again.  Rowdy almost fought with the girlfriend of one of the dentists after she started getting an attitude about us flirting with her man (even after Rowdy pointed out her wedding ring to the overprotective chick).  And, for the rest of the night, Dr. Perfect and I got to know each other.  We sat there, the two of us, engrossed in talking together at the bar amid all the chaos, the dancing, and the madness.

We called him Dr. Perfect because, well—he is.  He's a sweet, successful, funny, interesting, non-creepy, beer-drinking football fan who has a normal job with good hours, doesn't seem to take himself too seriously, and loves the nearby country-western bar just as much as we do.  All of a sudden, Zamboni is dragging us out because it's 1 a.m. and all three of us are working early in the morning, and Dr. Perfect and I still haven't run out of things to talk about.  So the only question now is—

Why is this guy single?

Dr. Perfect and I exchanged numbers that night, he called the next, and we set up a dinner date for a few days later.  Nobody's perfect—right?  I guess we'll soon find out if Dr. Perfect lives up to his name...

Or not.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

The Set-Up

Step 1:  The Set-Up.

Big D:     I have a guy I want to introduce you to.

DD:     Oh yeah?  Who is it?  Cute?  Nice?  Single, I'm assuming?

Big D:     He broke up with someone not too long ago, so he's recently single.  Mamasita thinks he is very attractive—

Mamasita (shouting in background):     OMG, yes!  he is adorable!

Big D:     He and I went to grade school together—we've been friends for a long time.  He plays guitar and writes all his songs; he still plays, but he's now a teacher at a Montessori school.  Let's see, he surfs, writes fiction—he's a very nice guy.

DD:     Nice, cute, teacher, surfer, and musician?  And a writer?!  Sounds intriguing...

Mamasita (off in background):     Tell her—oh just let me talk to her...

*Various noises, as Mamasita and Big D struggle over the phone*

Mamasita:     Hey—so the last girl he was dating?  He ended it with her because—he told me—that he just didn't see a future for them, so he didn't want to lead her on or waste time on something that wasn't going to last—this is what a nice guy he is.

DD:     Wow.  That—that really is nice.  And surprising for a guy to say that.

Mamasita:     You will definitely like him—and he's hot!

Mr. Songwriter and I met shortly after this conversation at a fundraising event that was planned and hosted by Mamasita and Rowdy.  Conveniently, we had both been invited and were quickly introduced by Big D, who absolutely loves playing the role of matchmaker with me.

Step 2:  First impressions.

Wow.  Definitely attractive...in that mysterious, sexy-voiced lead guitarist sort of way.

Hmmm...he sort of has this artsy-rocker look to him with the dark-rimmed glasses.  Gives off the air of coolness...sort of like he's a bit of a rebel, not too concerned about what others think, and all that "independent" image stuff....definitely interesting.

As the event progresses, we chat and get to know each other, while also mingling with the rest of the crowds and mutual friends who are attending.  I get the usual background information—except his past is not at all what you would consider "usual."  After earning a degree in Creative Writing, he decides to move to Costa Rica to teach surfing lessons.  Then he lives abroad for about a year before he returns to the U.S. for a girl, lives with her in a coastal northeastern city, works odd jobs, plays music, and writes for a while, until he eventually breaks up with said chick, moves back to his hometown, and takes a job teaching.  Definitely not the "usual" path, that's for sure.  I'm intrigued.

As the fundraiser is winding down, I walk out to the parking lot to head for home—and Mr. Songwriter happens to be out there helping Mamasita load some of the event items into her SUV (awww...).  Oh geez, here it comes...decision time.

Step 3:  Extend the evening.

"So what are you doing now?  Do you want to go get a drink somewhere?" Mr. Songwriter asks casually once we stroll far enough away from Mamasita that we are out of earshot.  "Or do you have other plans?"

Other plans now?  Is he serious?  It's 11:00 p.m., and I have a job training the next morning at 9.  If I was smart and responsible (key word there being "if"), I would head for home and get some much-needed sleep.

On the other hand, he's cute, and I haven't been asked on a date for a while...this is the first guy that I've met recently who hasn't had severe social tact issues or isn't just looking to follow me home to "hang out."

But no!  I need to get my sleep!  This training may not be important, but being tired for hours while listening to boring people talk about boring things will be absolutely miserable.  However, he is cute... shoot, did I say that one already?  I am horrible at this...


I make a decision.  Sigh.  I am going to hate myself when that alarm goes off in the morning.

We leave the event and park near my place, planning to walk from there to a local restaurant/bar down the street from where I live.  Despite the late hour, the restaurant is still packed, but we find seats at the bar and place our drink orders.  We talk mostly about work, comparing our students and the fact that, when you are a teacher, your day never fails to include some hilariously-crazy story.

Huh...if seriously famous, I bet this guy would have a whole clan of groupies...he has that husky voice, that quick humor.

Not at all my type...but you know—my type hasn't exactly worked out for me thus far...so maybe? I don't know....


The time passes quickly—we seem to have plenty to talk about, and, to top it off, he certainly makes me laugh with his dry, sarcastic humor—but I'm still not quite convinced that there is that "spark."  However, I can hear Mamasita in my head:  "Sometimes it takes until the second date—that is what happened with Big D and I—give it a chance!"  As I attempt to remain open-minded, I give him a quick glance as we are walking back toward my home and his car, and I notice that he seems to be looking around and nervously fidgeting a bit.

Step 4:  End-of-date kiss strategy.

"Man...I should have gone to the bathroom before we left the bar.  Hmm...think this place is open?  Nope—closed.  Oh well...oh man, didn't even think about it.  Should have. ...," Mr. Songwriter trails off, still looking around as if hoping some place will magically open up at one o'clock in the morning.

HA—hold on a sec, is he really going to pull that card?  What does he take me for?  Some naïve divorcée who hasn't dated in 7 years and doesn't know the new tricks of the dating game? Oh wait...  Okay, so while that might be true, I hate to break it to you, buddy—that bathroom trick ain't "new."

But wait—if I don't let him come up, is that mean?  He is kinda squirming...maybe he really has to go to the bathroom?  Shoot...that pesky little angel on my shoulder is gonna get me once again...


"If you need to, you can come up and use my bathroom, of course," I suggest casually, trying to word the invitation in a way that does not suggest that any funny business should be anticipated after said bathroom trip.

"Are you sure you don't mind?  Really, I will just use the bathroom and leave; I know you have an early morning tomorrow with that training and all," Mr. Songwriter apologizes, sounding genuine, as he follows me into my building.

While he's in the bathroom, I debate the usual end-of-date-kiss debacle.  I am not going to be dumb this time—I'm almost certain a private goodnight kiss is the angle with this whole bathroom routine of Mr. Songwriter's.  The question is:  do I let him?  I'm still not used to this whole kiss-on-the-first-date thing, but it seems to be gaining popularity here in the new age of dating...that, or I'm just dating a bunch of overly-affectionate (to put it nicely) men.

I decide just to go with it—if this is dating in 2010 and I'm single, then I should give it a shot.  And the kiss is, well...nice.  Just nice.  Not sure what that means, but since I'm not really aiming much higher than "not unpleasant," I can't say it is that bad of a sign.  Maybe Mr. Songwriter has some potential?

Lesson #6 in Post-Divorce Dating:  All in all, set-ups are a good thing.  First, step 1 removes the pressure of finding a date; then, step 2 yanks you out of your comfort zone toward someone who is totally not your usual type and whose first impression might have normally had you walking away.  Finally, step 3 allows for dating practice with a safe, mutually-known, and trusted individual.  But watch out for that fourth step—it's a doozy.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

Cocktails & Conversation (or "A Single Gal's Guide to Getting a Drink")

"You know, it is hard to get a guy to talk to you at a bar," I remark one night when I am out with girlfriends Rowdy, Faith, and Zamboni.  "I never thought about it when I was married, but now that I'm single once again, it is definitely quite difficult.  Look at us.  Four attractive women, sitting her at a bar, all of us single—okay, well, except for Rowdy.  So I don't get it—why don't guys approach us?"

"You are so full of it," Rowdy rolls her eyes at me.  Zamboni simply laughs knowing that, a few drinks in like we are, and Rowdy and I are bound to end up debating about something.

I continue adamantly, "No, wait, I'm serious.  I can get our beer pitcher filled at an Irish bar on St. Patrick's Day in about 30 seconds, I can find a guy to dance with me in a club full of hot women, and I am quite sure that any one of us could pick up a guy to take home in less than a minute if we wanted to.  But when it comes to getting a man to have a conversation with me when I'm out somewhere, I'm clueless."

"I never have guys come talk to me when I'm out," admits Faith.  "I think I have to go with DD on this one."

I nod my head furiously to emphasis my point.  "See?  Seriously!  The whole reason most guys go to bars is to meet single women, right?  So what is the deal?!?"

"You are both high if you think it is hard to get a guy to talk to you at a bar," Rowdy argues back.  "You could go up to that bar right now, and I bet you're not up there for 2 minutes before someone buys you a drink."

Of course Zamboni pipes in, "I'll take that bet—2 minutes?  They can't get a guy to buy them a drink in 2 minutes.  No way."  Rowdy and Zamboni argue a bit longer, place their wagers, and seconds later I'm being shoved away from our table and up to the bar, empty wine glass in hand.

Okay—I feel stupid.  This isn't working.  I've been at this bar for WAY longer than two minutes...I think Zamboni has definitely won her prize on this bet.  Nothing.  Just as I'm starting to feel pretty pathetic, Faith suddenly appears at my side.

"They decided you needed reinforcements.  Apparently, that equals me," Faith explains with a sympathetic smile.

"Well, if you can't get someone to talk to us, we have really won our argument," I say.  Faith is a blonde-haired, blue-eyed beauty—she turns heads everywhere she goes.  Yet, as we head back to Rowdy and Zamboni at our table a few minutes later defeated, I'm still standing by my position:  men don't talk to women at bars.

"I win!" exclaims Zamboni in triumph.  Rowdy just shakes her head.

"You both are lost causes.  You can't just stand there and do absolutely nothing.  It takes a bit more than just looking cute.  Here—" she says, taking off and handing me her wedding rings, "let me show you losers how it's done."

With an air of determination, Rowdy stands up, squares her shoulders, and starts off to conquer the challenge.  Eyeing her marks, she casually saunters up to a group of three men standing a little ways from our table.  From where we are sitting, I watch as Rowdy asks them something, one of them answers, and moments later they are in conversation, and Rowdy is laughing at something one of them has said as she flirtatiously puts her hand on his arm.

"I can't hear what's going on, can you?" I ask, looking over at Zamboni and Faith, who are both craning their necks to get the best view of Rowdy, intrigued and a bit in awe.

"Nope, but looks like it is going well.  I think she's going to end up winning this one," Zamboni smirks.  "Can't say I'm all that upset though—this little battle is quite entertaining.  Oh, look—I think you're being paged," Zamboni says to me, pointing in Rowdy's direction.  I look up, and, sure enough, Rowdy is motioning me over while still chatting up the poor suckers.

I'm just about to get up and head her way when we see Rowdy's husband, Todd, come through the front door of the bar and start heading in Rowdy's direction. 

"Oh no, is this bad?  Will he be angry?" Faith asks nervously.

Rowdy sees Todd and quickly turns away from the guys to give her husband a cool greeting and subtly whisper something in his ear.  Shaking his head, Todd walks away and, looking in the direction Rowdy had pointed, spots our table.

"Why did my wife just tell me, 'Walk away, I'm getting free shots,' and push me in your direction?" Todd asks as he sits down looking confused.

"She said I have no game and wanted to show me how it was done.  But look!" I add with a smile, holding up the hand that is laden with Rowdy's wedding rings. "We're married tonight!"  Zamboni laughs.  Faith glances nervously between the rings and Todd's face.

Todd shrugs.  "Whatever.  So where is your waitress?  I need a beer...."  I laugh and finally head towards Rowdy who is starting to give me the evil eye for taking so long to join her.

Free shots later, I have a bit more confidence.  I even get someone to buy me a drink—even if it's only Zamboni's guy friend who has joined our group while Rowdy and I were away from the table.

But one of the big lessons that resulted from my night:  Todd and Rowdy are so secure and confident in their marriage, neither one of them had a second of distrust with each other.  That is truly what a good relationship should look like.  I wonder whether my ex-husband would have reacted the same way that Todd had if we had ever been in a similiar situation.  Part of me is glad I'll never know—I'm not sure I would have been so happy with the answer.

Lesson #5 in Post-Divorce Dating:  If you go to a bar for good conversation with someone of the male gender, make sure you are prepared to do some (or all) of the initiating to get it—or to have a married woman show you how it's done. 

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

Building a Bridge

Bear:     after that texas post, I have officially downgraded u to a Category 4 Man-Hater.  good job

DD:     oh come on now!  let's not get ahead of ourselves.  momentary lapse in judgment - got a little soft from vacation mindset.  quite sure force will be regained over the wkend

Bear:     nope don't think so.  a few posts now in a row in which u have displayed visions of hope & light & happiness...& all that junk

DD:     hardly - i'm still swearing off men - i JUST chatted with a girlfriend who told me how she found out her creepy husband was doing all this awful stuff behind her back.  AND they have 2 kids.  no downgrade. 

Bear:     too late.  done.  build a bridge and get over it.  u have to stop blaming us for all the jerkwads out there.  we don't blame u for every crazy chick out there.  and trust me - there r plenty of crazy chicks.

DD:     true.  but there r plenty of nice girls too.  there r no nice guys - at least not once u start dating them.

Bear:     ouch

DD:     they start nice and then u start dating them and BOOM - jerk

Bear:     so can i disprove your theory after i date a girl when i don't turn jerk?  i can provide proof, references...

DD:     sure - i'll have a panel consider the evidence.  but let's be honest.  men = jerks.  male pic in the dictionary next to 'jerk' to prove it.

 Bear:     sending you a link...30 things women shouldn't do after age 30.  check out #8

At this point in the conversation, I check my e-mail to find this site - http://www.thefrisky.com/post/246-30-things-every-woman-should-quit-doing-by-30/

I scroll down the things every woman should quit doing by age 30, and #8 reads:

Declaring an entire gender 'all jerks.'

Okay, how does he do that?  I write back swearing that Bear is somehow responsible for crafting this website.

However, on the other hand, does the website make a valid point?  Is there an age where I am cut off from being skeptical and untrusting of the male gender?  Maybe it's like women wearing mini-skirts in their 40s, or men wearing loafers without socks before 45.  But don't I get a grace period—like 1 year before and after my husband throwing me out?

I decide Bear's list is utter nonsense (I will probably never stop using the name 'daddy' no matter how old I am), but maybe he is right.  Maybe I do need to build a bridge and get over it and accept the fact that one bad experience should not affect all my relationships going forward—if only it were that easy, though.  I can't seem to make my heart feel any differently about men.  At least not yet.

I suppose it's possible that building a bridge just never gets easier once it's been explosively burned down...or does it just take the right person on the other side of the ravine to help you navigate your way across? 

Since I did rule that the "30 Don't" list could use some work, I crafted some better lists—with help from my wonderful friends Mamasita, Rowdy, Dolly, and Stella.  Enjoy!

After the age of 30, a woman should not:

1. Wear a mini-skirt or a tube-top—obviously.
2. Try to "fix" or "change" men.  This lesson should have been learned by now, right?
3. SETTLE!  Better single than miserable.
4. Dress up for Halloween as a "sexy" anything.  Yes, a naughty school girl does count.
5. Do shots—that's what college was for.
6. Have un-dyed gray hair—that's what retirement is for.
7. Be jealous...of anyone.
8. Let a man determine her self-esteem.  No man is worth a shattered confidence.
9. Participate in a wet t-shirt contest.  Really—it needed to be said.
10. Be naïve.  Period.

After the age of 30, a woman should:

1. Date—a lot.
2. Treat herself to things she wants...especially when it comes to designer shoes.
3. Not sell herself short with men.  By the age of 30, you've dealt with a lot of crappy ones—you deserve it.
4. Learn to get a drink bought for her at a bar.  30s are the new 20s—own it.
5. Dress and act her age while staying young at heart.
6. Learn how to cook—microwave popcorn and soup from a can doesn't count.
7. Consider dating a guy slightly out of her 'Mr. Right' image.
8. Date someone younger—so long as the guy has been over the drinking age for at least a few years.
9. Make out like a teenager in the movie theater (you're 30, you're not dead).
10. Be happy with being herself—that includes the size of her butt, the shape of her nose, the hatred for spinning classes, the number of her wrinkles, the laziness in shaving her legs, the habit of being judgmental, and the addiction to Coach purses.  Love yourself—after 30 years together, you being you is at least one thing you can always count on.

Forever fearless,

Dumbfounded Divorcée

Thirty, Flirty, & Thriving

Very recently, I turned the big 3-0.  Thirty years old.  I remember when that seemed so old.  My students all keep guessing that I'm somewhere in my mid-twenties, but I think that has less to do with the fact that I look young and more to do with the fact that mid-twenties seems terribly old already from their perspective (and the one student who did guess that I was over 30 is for sure getting an 'F' in my class).

I really didn't think much about entering my third decade of life—that is, I didn't think much of it until I was barrelling toward that target as a recently-divorced woman.  For some strange reason, turning 30 didn't seem so bad when I was married.  I was supposed to be entering that mature, sophisticated, and domestic stage of adult life with the devoted husband, white-picket fence, and 2.5 kids (read:  I was supposed to grow up and stop acting like a drunken, careless, impulsive sophomore on spring break in Panama City).  Now suddenly, single again with my "twenties" life behind me, I feel as though I have lost my excuse for engaging in any heedless gluttony of the quarter-life crisis.

Last week, I was reading status updates on Facebook—wedding anniversaries, kids' halloween costume ideas, meal planning, wedding ideas, house buying, pregnancy photographers, laundry tips—and I stop for a second to look at myself:   I'm on four hours of sleep, recovering from martinis with the girls on a random Tuesday night, and eating ice cream out of the carton for dinner.  When did this regression back to my college life happen?  I used to think my life was very sophisticated and mature.

It seems like another life ago when I cooked dinner for a husband after work, wore a sweatshirt out on a Satuday date night to Five Guys for burgers, or cuddled next to someone in bed pondering together whether our kids would have my eyes or his.  My daily life once looked like one that any regular adult would be living at the age of 30, but suddenly, my days don't resemble anything I had once envisioned for my near future.

Don't get me wrong—I'm not unhappy with my circumstances.  In fact, I'm quite content.  I love that I can dance around my living room without worrying about anyone walking in and teasing me.  I love that I have a bedspread covered in pink flowers and a leopard-print pillow on my chair.  I love that, when Mamasita called the other night to see if I wanted to come over for dinner, there was no one I needed to consult before I replied, "Sure!"

I know that my life is just as it should be right now—it just wasn't where I expected to be on my 30th birthday.  Not even close.  I seriously think that the loss of that future vision we hold is one of the worst parts about losing a spouse (however that loss may happen).  You picture yourself sitting on the porch, drinking tea and talking about the "good ole days," with a certain someone and POOF!—that someone is no longer in the picture, and suddenly the whole picture vanishes.  It is a very unsettling feeling not to know something that you wish to know, but most people deal with the fact that you never know exactly where you are going in life.  It just becomes even harder when you unexpectedly don't know who you are going there with.

Thank goodness for the friends and family that I do know will be there every step of the way.

Let's hope Chanel and Stella are right.  Cheers to being thirty, flirty, and thriving—who knows what this new decade will bring....

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée

Lone Star State of Mind

I know my post-vacation review on the trip with Rowdy to visit CB has been a long time coming, so here it goes—Texas was basically incredible.  It was a much-anticipated, much-needed, and much-deserved adventure.  And of course, without fail, every adventure of mine does not fail to include some sort of entertaining story.  During our one night out with CB and some of his friends, Rowdy and I were fortunate enough to witness a relationship disagreement.  Oh, and not just any relationship disagreement, but a full-out, straight-from-a-movie-screen, ugly relationship brawl.  But I'm getting ahead of myself...let's start at the beginning.

It is Saturday night deep in the heart of Texas.  The bars are hopping.  The drinks are flowing.  The crowds are partying it up.  Rowdy and I are ready for an evening of non-stop fun and excitement—I mean, we're on vacation, right?  CB and his friend Matthew have introduced us to some of their other friends who we are also at the bar, including a guy named Toad.  We find out that Toad's fiancée is at the bar somewhere, too, but we haven't yet seen her—apparently, she is waiting to make her grand entrance.

We've been at the bar for about an hour when CB comes up to whisper something in my ear.  "Hey, I am so sorry, but I'm going to have to leave you for a bit—some stupid slutty girl is telling Toad's fiancée lies about him, and I'm going to try to put a stop to it before it gets out of hand.  I'll be back as soon as I can," CB promises.  I nod and tell him to go, of course—he's got to help his friend.  (By the way, seriously, he really needs to stop being so wonderful...I can only make excuses to myself for so long.)

So CB goes off in search of Fiancée and Slutty, and Toad stays with us, assumedly staying out of the way until things have been smoothed over.  But CB isn't gone for ten minutes when a cute, blonde, livid-looking chick, determinedly elbowing her way through the massive crowd, comes up behind Toad and shoves him out of nowhere.

"Apparently, this is Ms. Fiancée..." Rowdy remarks with interest, as we watch Fiancée start to ream out Toad while he stands there looking pathetically like a doormat.  She is definitely on the warpath.  I look around for CB, but he's no where in sight.

Just as I turn back to the raging couple, Toad finally says something back to Fiancée—which we quickly learn is not the 'something' she was looking for.  She suddenly stops screaming, takes the glass of red wine in her hand, and furiously splashes its contents right in Toad's face.  Then, since that was obviously not cruel enough, she takes a look at the empty glass in her hand—and spikes it on the floor like she's Tom Brady in the endzone, shattering the glass into tiny shards.

Fiancée muscles through the now-staring crowds and heads for the exit.  The worst part though?  Toad, the stupid loser, runs after her—covered in red wine and all.  Seriously?!?

"Okay, first lesson learned, if you ever get a bit crowded or clausterphobic at the bar, I now know how to clear the area around us quickly," Rowdy comments, amused, as we both look at the open space that has suddenly been created around the shattered glass on the floor.  "Second of all, what the hell?  If anyone ever did that to me, I would definitely not be chasing after that person right now.  Instead, I'd probably be getting arrested, and you'd be attempting to sweet-talk me out of cuffs...."

When CB returns, we give him the update, and he hustles off to help put out fires with his friends.  However, aside from that night, CB spends pretty much the entirety of the weekend with us—and I know he didn't have to.  I enjoyed every single moment in Texas—including the very entertaining spiked-glass drama—and I will finally admit:  I very much enjoyed spending time with CB.

There was an unexpected result of my Texas trip...a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, you might call it.  A ray of sunshine...a star glowing in the darkness...a sign of healing.  You see, this lone star of light was remarkable to me, not simply because it shone far brighter than others and couldn't possibly be ignored, but because it was the first time since my ex-husband left me that I felt any inclination, any thirst, any desire at all that I might, one day, feel something for someone once again.  Up until now, I have wished for the complete opposite:  I have wanted to be absolutely happy on my own forever.  And out of nowhere, there was a flash—a small second of hope for something different.

I received this from CB when I got back home:

Hey there.  Glad you had fun.  I had a great time hanging out with you.  You made hanging out easy.  It was the best weekend I've had in a long time (despite my obligations to leave you on Sat. and try to diffuse the relationship bomb).  I'm looking forward to seeing you again in [your city next month].

For clarification, I booked the trip right before you came in town (but after we had e-mailed regularly).  I told my sister not to tell you in case we didn't get along for whatever reason, but I was hoping we got along as well as we did, and well, we did.  Should be a fun time.

Now, let's not go crazy; the flash didn't last that long.  It is certainly not as though I've found Prince Charming on his white horse, and suddenly I'm whole again.  In fact, I'm quite sure that Mr. Right could find me, appear to me tomorrow, and I wouldn't know him at all—I'm still too broken to see the forest for the trees.  But the fact that I feel anything at all for CB—even if I have no idea what those feelings are or what they mean right now—has to be a sure sign that healing after divorce is possible.  It's taken me over nine months now to see that lone star of light, but I'm definitely glad that I did.

And who knows?  Maybe a happy ending will happen for me someday—just not yet.

Forever fearless,
Dumbfounded Divorcée