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