Non-Date

When a Date starts out dropping the F-bomb everywhere, you know you are in for a really good time. This Coffee Date had all the goods, oh wait…I’m sorry…let me back up. This was NOT a date.

After reading my blog, Nondate instantaneously asked me out. Apparently I intrigued him. Intriguing…that’s about as far as I get with guys these days. Nondate was sure to clarify that this was NOT to be considered a date. Probably because he has a wife. “But I do dates with married people!” I hastily replied, seizing the opportunity.

If you really want to impress on a first Nondate, let someone know you owe $20,000 in back taxes, but still offer to buy them coffee. That’s right, this Nondate showered me with generosity, especially given his IRS obligations. I’m sure if an undercover agent had been on duty, they would have put a stop to his frivolous Starbucks purchase and confiscated his bulging…wallet.

To keep the conversation nice and light after the IRS revelation, we switched to the topic of gender roles in society. I mentioned an article I had recently read about unisex naming practices and a couple who was essentially letting their baby “choose” its own gender by keeping it secret from the rest of the world. My Nondate immediately tagged these people as “freaks who are going to f**k up their kids and everyone else’s.” Yes, tell it like it is.

At this, Nondate abruptly announced he needed a cigarette. Did Nondate not realize my militant stance on smoking? Had he known I despise any and all cigarette smokers, regardless of their redeeming qualities, his flame may have flickered right out. When I announced my overpowering aversion to cigarettes ten years ago to wasbund, he immediately snubbed out his cigarette and never again lit up for the duration of our ill-fated marriage. In hindsight, it would have been better if wasbund kept on smoking that day...so I’d have ditched him when I still had the chance to get out alive.

And I don’t mind cigar or pot smoking, all you Dates who may have gotten scared off just now! Since one of my new mottos is keeping an open mind, I actually allowed Nondate to smoke and refrained from coughing, insulting him or walking away. In fact, I even agreed to a follow-up Lunch Nondate. The cigarette fumes must have brainwashed me.

Or maybe it was his parting comment which was so down to earth that reeled me back in, “Get a f**kin’ bed, move on, have dates.”  (Did I mention I don’t have a bed?) Right on!

Sundate

This date is the kind you never imagine - in your wildest dreams - you'll have…and then when you do it’s so, unbelievably awesome.

Everything about this Sundate made me happy. It was on a Sunday - a day once known as a day of leisure. The sun was shining. It involved watching some soccer, a sport I love. And it involved some really excellent, quality people. Plus, I got to travel and stay over in a nice hotel.

The night before Sundate, otherwise known as Saturday evening, we went out to dinner for Sundate’s birthday. To a chain restaurant, but I didn’t even care (see Backslide Date for my true feelings about chain restaurant lovers). We celebrated Sundate’s birthday, and it felt like the entire place was in on the celebration. A gang hang and sang with us and shared the birthday cake. I sat next to Sundate, and I couldn’t stop hugging him.

For the first time in 9 whole months, I had Sundate all to myself. No rivalry or siblings to interfere. Sundate had my undivided attention, which is nearly impossible to come by these divorce-infused, split custody days.

There were a couple “minor” red flags on this date that I’m sure you, dear reader, will gladly overlook. OK, I’ll admit, I did kiss a minor, in a king-size bed. But we didn’t do anything else illegal, I swear. (I’ve done a lot under oath lately – see Court Date for more info on that.) Sundate and I got to eat, sleep and drive together. May sound slightly mundane but…

You never know how amazingly wonderful a Sundate will be…until your just turning 9-year-old son is taken from you in a full-blown custody war…and then you get him back, uncontested, for a whole, entire night and day.

The. Best. Date. Ever.

Backslide Date

After reluctantly reading my dating blog…Knives had a sudden rekindled romantic interest in going on a date with me. Perhaps he saw on opportunity to dump me yet again. Dump on the double. Double dump. That’s what my bathroom looks and smells like when both my sons are finished.

For some unknown reason, sometimes also known as Desperately Seeking Companionship on a Friday After My Kids Are Taken From Me By a man I Once Knew But Now Despise, I relented to this date.

Knives proposed making our originally planned lunch date into a happy hour instead. That’s a sign. Happy, and for a whole hour. I’m not sure I can do it, but that perma-grin solution I’ve been ingesting (tastes like wart-removal oil) is possibly, finally having the desired effect. I’ll test it out.

Plus, he agreed on a venue I have been dying to try but other dates have flatly refused. A rustic wine bar called PIS with mellow live music, bring-your-own board games and heat lamps. Already this environment narrows down the date compatibility quotient significantly. First, it’s not a chain restaurant and that fact alone is very intimidating to some people. Thankfully Knives is an urbanite, and not easily intimidated. He does not adore chain restaurants like Million Maples men do. Also, not many people in SoCal seem to be able to handle outdoor seating on dates. Or even outdoor dates. You always end up in first a car (everybody drives here; walking is outmoded unless on a treadmill fully bejeweled and wearing thick foundation and lipstick)…then after car, a bed if you get lucky.

But this is what I loved, and still very much love, about Knives. He gets it. And he gets me. He is willing to give this place PIS a try. I might even let him win at Othello as a bonus prize for volunteering, even suggesting himself, to date me for an hour on an otherwise fateful Friday.

Let’s pause here for a moment to consider ulterior motives. Knives has not gotten laid in a while, and might be feeling knotty. He knows I will devote my attention to him. He knows he has an admirer in me. He knows we will be taking separate cars (prevents shacking up together at either person’s shanty). Because in Million Maples why carpool or walk when you can guzzle gas?

Knives and I both want things we can’t have. He wants a retirement account and I want to retire, so I can write date full time and rest in between. Even though we don’t have exactly what we want, it’s been much easier to move on in life, especially now that our wallets are so much lighter (not from pissing it all away at PIS; rather from the divorces).

We guzzle gas and wine and have a very good time. And retire. Goodnight.

Date Stacking

At the beginning, setting up a date is nearly as important as the date itself. First impressions are lasting impressions. That’s why I was so excited to meet this date after our exhilarating text conversation.

Him: Hi. I’m a friend of your Agent. Would like to possibly get to know you despite what your Agent says about you. Just kidding. He says great things about you.

Me: Funny. Ditto…despite what he says about you :)

Him: Classic. When you can please tell me the qualities you like in men so I can mimic them 100 percent the first time we meet.

Excellent strategy! He proceeds to introduce himself as Lenny Dykstra.

Him: After I am released and receive the list of qualities, would like to buy you lunch, meet you for happy hour, have you detail my car.

Me: I am detail-oriented so the car thing could work…

His initial texts were funny and intriguing. Although I am a very confident and self-sufficient person, I decided to accept my friend Fiery Fiona’s invitation to act as my date chaperone, since I had provided the same service to her. Lenny was cool with that. After all, what guy refuses 2 on 1 blondes? Especially, I emphasize, non-highlighted blondes, which are a very rare if not extinct species in Southern California. Highlights abound, along with boob jobs, Botox and Hummers.

To balance the stack, Fiery Fiona and I invited Agent. Stacking Fiery Fiona and Agent on this date was comforting, even if unnecessary. After all, I think Lenny and I proved through text that we could hold our own in a conversation.

Lenny tended to talk very freely about everyone’s ex-spouses. Not a problem; spoiled relationships is one of my very favorite topics! We can analyze our downfalls endlessly.

He also described watching the TV series, The First 48, with his kids, which features many divorcees who end up killing their spouses out of frustration. Luckily he had not yet seen the episode featuring me, so we were able to continue on without incident.

The potential for more stacking arose when, on the drive home, both North Sea and Firefighter contacted me. North Sea actually invited me to meet him out, and when we missed each other by mere seconds at the designated spot…he even called to invite me over to hang out in PJs. Uh-oh. No phone calls. Absolutely no phone calls! That’s where he failed. Despite my ravishing voice, I don’t do phone calls, remember? Since Firefighter called at the exact same time, he was booted to voicemail, and not by me.

My only disappointment in the evening was that at 42, I no longer have the stamina to stack endlessly like this. If I weren’t getting up for hot yoga at 6 am and facing a full day of work, legal battling and kid-sitting, then maybe I could have stacked into the wee hours of the morning. But I will leave that to a time that once was.

Colliding Worlds - Part 2

Fast forward to Fiery Fiona’s house. She is preparing for a Date. She is nervous. She is excited. She is busy. She is a whirlwind.

She is trying to unload 3 kids in the nick of time, and still look presentable. (Is that a SpagettiO stain on the back of your white skirt? Is that a piece of toilet paper sticking out of your bra? Is that gum in your hair? Is that a fruit roll up in your teeth? No time to look in the mirror.)

The Date is texting her sweet nothings about his impending arrival time at her house. He is bringing wine and a good time. Her ex husband wusband is standing in front of her house, refusing to leave, until they work out 3 years’ worth of differences and she hands over an outfit for their daughter. He is stubborn. He is argumentative. He is unflagging.

She does not want to be frazzled for Date. She is starting to sweat. This is cutting it really close. Will Date hit every red light on the drive over? Hope so.

How to make wasbund go away? Now he wants to discuss custody scheduling for the next decade. No! I have a date screams Fiery F, in her head of course. “Time for you to get out,” she purrs calmly. She left out various F and S words in that sentence. He finally leaves. Kids’ faces pressed against the rear windows as they drive sadly away.

At that moment Date’s car rounds the corner…he thinks she has been waiting for him…hair blown back, barefoot and expectant in the street…how sweet.

Rejection Lines

This is not the line you stand in to get rejected, as this title may lead you to believe. Although maybe I have been standing in the wrong line all along – in fact I’ve been Line Leader – and I didn’t even know it!



In the world of Dating Suburban, you need to become accustomed to constant rejection. Kind of like actors who work as waiters for 20 years, waiting tables and waiting to be selected for the 5-minute role of passerby in a movie. Dating is the same way, lots of waiting for a small victory. A victory that might never come. Is it even worthwhile? You tell me.

Since I have vast experience being rejected, I’d like to share with you some of the most popular rejection lines in Dating Suburban history. If you have not yet used these yourself, give them a try!

A few have made me cry. Some make me mad. Really mad. A couple were laughable. But only in hindsight. Mostly, I just feel utterly rejected!

Come experience this yourself. Then, for best results, use them on someone else for true vindication.

First, there are the numerous forms of “It’s not you ; it’s all me.”

Then, there’s the “It’s all you (you’re full of irreparable flaws and have caused every problem in this relationship) and I’m perfect, so I deserve better than you. Someone who treats me right.”

I have extensive experience in both styles of rejection.



“I’m sure so many guys will like you because you’re such a great catch…but personally I don’t want you…and here’s why…”

Proceeds to list their top 100 flaws – I’m a perfectionist, I’m too old, I’m too young, I count sheep when I sleep, I’m still a boy at heart, I’ve cheated on every women I’ve been with, my retirement account balance is too low to support your Goodwill shopping sprees, whatever.

“I’m really messed up in the head.”

OK, thanks for letting me know now. You saved me the mental institution bill.

“I don’t date women from work.”

 I’ve gone out with at least 100 women from my office, but now that you’ve come along, I’ve changed my policy. OK, got that. I work in policy change management in my corporate job, so I understand the type.

“I’m not over my marriage.”

Yes, not now, but when you meet the next woman it’s amazing how quickly you’ll get over it.

And my favorite old-timer: “You’re psycho.”

They never say this one to your face. It just gets back to you through the twisted grapevine.

Given a few more minutes, I’m sure I could come up with hundreds more. They’re right at the tip of my tongue, or should I say the tip of my ear.

What are some rejection lines that have been used on you? Can I borrow them?



Still bloodied & waiting in line to get rejected, again.
But still smiling, and dating...



Four-Headed Date Monster

the male perspective
By Agent (guest contributor)

Also known as:  What has eight eyes, ten children and six sworn enemies?

I have been officially divorced for over six months now.   I started hearing “Are you dating yet?” and “I know someone I would like to set you up with” about that same time.  Of course, all of these people were either married or going out with someone.  When I hear these words I become divided.  One half of me is excited about the possibility of meeting someone that I really connect with and the other half of me is scared that I won’t and go down another relationship worm hole.   

I am not even sure if dating is the best way to meet someone.  It can be a very uncomfortable situation probably because they are nervous and or trying to impress.  So when Dating Suburban wanted to set me up with Fiery Fiona I suggested that I bring a friend and we do something very casual.  The first time we tried to do this it was somewhat of an epic fail.  Rude Rick cancelled at the last minute and I was a little out of it for reasons I would rather not say (reference Triple Date if you want to know why).  But between my trips to the bathroom and my abrupt departure I did get to know Dating Suburban and Fiery Fiona a little better….. enough so to write this blog and let them read it. 

If there is one thing I have learned in my relatively short life is that relationships usually take time to develop.  You need to get past that outer shell that everyone has before you REALLY get to know the person.  I don’t think these shells are intentional; it’s just how we all are, and some shells are thicker than others.  Fortunately for me, the two of them were willing to give me a second chance.  This time my friend (a different one I might add) North Sea Mike C made it.  In fact he was the first one there and got us a table as soon as we all arrived.  Great start in my opinion. 

Having four of us there made conversation easy and there were only two moments of awkward silence.  Not bad for a 2 hour and 45 minute date.  The talking ratio wasn’t quite balanced:

·         North Sea Mike C = 65%

·         Agent (me) = 25%

·         Ladies = 10%. 

I think the ladies could have been a little higher on this but it seemed OK since they were laughing a lot and both have very nice laughs.  That’s very important.  My friend and I even learned something new about each other – we grew up in back-asswards upstate NY suburbs.  The atmosphere was relaxed and I would definitely like to do something with this group again.  Although I think a BBQ would be totally out of the question based on everyone’s meat cooking preference.   

Date Awards:

·         North Sea Mike C gets the MVP of the date for his great ability to tell a story and make us all laugh.  And if you ever want to get baptized - in the North Sea - Mike C is the one to talk to. 

·         Agent gets the award for most improved.  It would be hard not to improve on his last dating effort. 

·         Fiery Fiona gets the congeniality award for her great laugh and smile

·         Dating Suburban gets the Purple Heart award. Her favorite color is purple, and apparently she was sick and had a sore throat.

Perfect Pizza Date

Perhaps I throw the word “perfect” around too carelessly…like love. But this date really came close, and I can’t think of a more perfect word to describe it.

There were many ideal attributes about this date. First, scheduling was simple despite the fact it involved eight people. Second, I got to include my children and was even allowed to talk about them incessantly without rebuke, so I didn’t have to pretend they weren’t a very important part of my life that didn’t exist. The food was delicious, cheap and easy. The six Mini-Dates got along fabulously, as far as blind dating goes. They frolicked like they’d been together for years.

But by far the best part of all was that Big Pizza Date helped, a lot! I never even had to provide Big Pizza Date with the usual step-by-step detailed instructions. Big Pizza Date ordered food, helped set the table, knew intuitively where things like napkins were kept, knew enough to serve the Mini-Dates and cut their food first before sitting down and chowing down…overall a most impressive and unexpectedly delightful display of knowledge, motivation and performance.

Big Pizza Date had even had the foresight to suggest we eat our healthy fare alone, together (we forgot about by candlelight) before the Mini-Dates caught wind of the food festivities. However, when the Mini-Dates realized the opportunity to feed was at hand, Big Pizza Date quickly adapted to the new scenario of eight happy chewers. House rules and house wine both went down smoothly.

To extend the date into the evening, as we all hope to do with the good ones, we set the Mini-Dates to work making ice cream, a 30-minute task involving keeping an ice-cream ball rolling around on the trampoline. Thus the Minis were both busily occupied and netted in an enclosed area, out of harm’s way. The ice cream was utterly delish and the Minis could also therefore declare a successful evening.

Although conversations with Big Pizza Date were choppy and several left unfinished (I think the KKK story lasted over 45 minutes, delivered in 20 separate 5 second intervals), overall a feeling of mutual satisfaction still remained.

All in all a lovely evening that could have ended cuddling in bed…except this date was a woman.

Now I know why it was so perfect. I wanna marry a momma.

Court Date

This is not the kind of Date you want to go on. No sir. No ma’am. Not nobody.

Take a handful of random strangers. Let them make completely arbitrary decisions that adversely affect the rest of your life. One of them wears a black robe but is in no way saintly. When they pound a hammer, anything goes. Another character records every “ummm” you say during the Date on some kind of mute person’s typewriter. They mispronounce your name, even though you have been court dating for almost 9 months. Enough time to have a baby and they still can’t say your name right! I’d hate to think of their baby-naming talents. I’m not having my next child with this Date.

Let them charge you a lot of money, that it’s taken you 20 years to save, to tell you what to do. This is not a cheap Date. Hold on here - why am I paying someone to tell me what to do? I am old. I am wise. I am independent. Pay yourself first, as the saying goes. Well, not anymore. Court is bigger, stronger, faster. Sorry, I’m thinking Bionic Man. Court is not faster. It’s like dating a retarded dinosaur. So outmoded it should have been extinct eons ago. But painfully stupid (unnamed) people still rely on it to make decisions they don’t have the fortitude or wherewithal to make.

Its musty cologne is overpowering. The handcuffs are invisible. If you disobey (which I have a habit of doing every once in a while) you go to jail. So be an absolute ANGEL. Court Date means business. And that’s not funny business.

I’m on an everlasting Court Date. And it’s not true love always.

Triple Date

To prepare for a date, guys and gals are different. Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus. Wendy and I chatted about what to wear and tried on different shoes to show off our pedicured toes. Mike drank 4 beers and a margarita, which served to enhance his sleepy anticipation.

Once scheduling issues were cast aside, this triple date was a relatively laid-back endeavor. In case you are wondering about the definition of “triple date,” in this case it meant two chicks and a man. The date was supposed to be a double date in the traditional sense: 2 couples. But the date organizer failed with little comforting explanation. Perhaps, Rick, the missing person did not comprehend the full extent of what he’d be missing.

Wendy and I carpooled and arrived slightly early, making sure our blonde hairs were just so. We promptly ordered beers without waiting for Mike, who spent several frantic minutes combing the multi-caverned establishment looking for the elusive women. At one point I thought I saw him pop his head outside, but he disappeared far too quickly for me to act on the sighting.

When Mike reached his final destination, the girls were beer-saturated and happy. The conversation was comfortable and food was tasty, and goaty. While the unfortunate common ground on this triple date was divorce, we can reframe this to common ground being single, nice and normal with unfortunates for exes.

Not sure who Mike was courting, but if he’s anything like his gender, he wants all options open as long as possible. And the more juggling the better. No competition between the ladies though. Wendy and I, battered by divorce to mere inches of survival, appreciated the attention from a seemingly normal male. Well, normal despite his abrupt transition issues. We’ll get to those later.

It’s harder to judge my own shortcomings…except perhaps I talked too much, or laughed too much at my own tragic stories. It’s always so much easier to point out the shortcomings of others, so I will. With the SoCal frigid night chill afloat in the air, the triples decided a move to the fire pit would be beneficial. Mike, on his 14^th trip to the restroom, volunteered to go reserve a vacant pit. Upon his return to the table, he apparently forgot his commitment (not an uncommon male trait) and left the girls high, dry and freezing.

Later, when all freezing triples ambled stiff-legged and freezer-burned into the fireplace room (amend that: Wendy and I sought fire while Mike again visited the “restroom”) warmth on the date resumed. Goodbye. And this is where the abrupt transition happened. Apparently Mike had reached his date capacity for the evening. He politely thanked the blondes, thinking aloud “brunettes are more fun” and he disappeared into the night.

The girls, startled but rapidly regaining composure (after all, they’ve been trained by the biggest startle of all: discovering a secretly cheating spouse), looked at each other in mock surprise, said “should we stay or should we go now” (sung to the tune of The Clash) and decided jointly to retire to their separate beds for the evening.

An uneventful date, all in all. But one that may be resurrected if the three participants are unable to find anything better to do with their 50/50 custody time going forward.

Mr Big Has Not Called

My friend Michele always has down-to-earth advice worth listening to. It's not usually what I want to hear, but it's more often than not what I need to hear.

She was right on about this one, however. I was too good for the man I married.

I need a Mr. Big. Someone secure with himself; not big in the head. With big ideas and big hugs. Someone who will not wuss out under a little bedazzle.

But Mr. Big hasn't called. Maybe he doesn't know my phone number. I don't know my phone number either. Wait, I don't even answer my phone. (My friend Joe scolds me, "Dating Suburban, if you gonna start dating, you need to learn to pick up your phone when they call.") Well, Mr. Big isn't calling, so I'm letting it go to voicemail.

Maybe he doesn't know I exist. Staying home and reading self-help books may not be helping. Hmmmm. I guess I need to get out more. 

Back to the scene!

First Blind Date

My friend Penny and her new beau Serge set me up with Greg. The double-date evening started out innocuously enough: with three recovering addicts and I was elected designated driver. To top it, they opted to take my mommy minivan, and were seemingly not pained by the image (found out later it offered high-school-style seclusion in the way back).

We decided on Outback Steakhouse and settled comfortably into our booth. Conversation flowed easily from foot massages to diet plans to how the world will end.

“I thought I had a kid once…” was perhaps Greg’s best quote of the evening, “…but then after 15 years I found out it wasn’t mine.”  Holy shit, that sucks! I thought losing my kids to their biological father in divorce was the pits, but apparently my problems are far from the worst. Greg shrugged it off, and the conversation kept galloping.

When Serge adamantly refused the chocolate tower dessert due to the fact the calorie count exceeded his weekly intake, the waitress promptly booted us. Paying the check was a mildly awkward moment, when it sat on the table for a full 20 minutes before Greg recalcitrantly swiped it and we went three-zees (Greg, Serge and me – Penny was somehow exempt).

Despite a quick detour to satisfy Serge’s frozen yogurt fetish, we made it to Azar’s, the best dive in Million Maples, while the night was still young. The band, Tasty D’s, was hot. And please remind me not to wear my thickest wool Icelandic sweater next time I go dancing. Real women wear skimpy tanktops.

I decided not to bring my phone so I could be “fully in the moment.” Mistake. Everyone was on their phones, constantly, showing photos. Unfortunately, my only phone photos are of my 8-year-old son in nothing but a t-shirt and high black pleather boots and my old work-colleague-boyfriend-turned-friend, naked and holding a box of Christmas cookies. Not exactly first-date viewing material, unless I wanted to raise some hairy eyebrows and terminate the date quickly. 

The date’s highlight, by far, was unexpectedly seeing Jake, my 6-year-old daughter’s future father-in-law, and receiving the most rotund, elongated, sincere hug from him. School dropoff hugs are in an entirely different hug league. While my date may have been taken aback by Jake’s Long Island ice-tea induced affection, I was elated. My daughter loves his son, and his son loves her back. We were just keeping the love circle going.

My date demonstrated true sportsmanship after the Jake hug extended remix series by dancing with me to Violent Femmes’s Blister in the Sun. If my shouting tuneless lyrics, “I- stain-my-sheets-and-I-don’t-even-know-why” at the top of my lungs did not turn him off, I’m not sure how else I could repel him. However, nothing could make a slight, slender, willowy woman feel more beastly than slow dancing while resting her chin on Greg’s bald spot.

Penny and Serge surprised me after a few dances with their wedding announcement – this September in Atlantic City. I’ve never struck such fortune after dating a mere two months. Between the two of them they will have eight and a half children and six marriages. California continues to exceed my expectations when it comes to disposable spouses.

The fact that I danced, completely sober, served as a not-so-distant reminder of why I spent middle school dances eating ice cream sandwiches in the school cafeteria while my more mature peers aroused themselves in the darkened gymnasium. Those were fine, young days. I’ve grown up a little, but not a lot.

Greg’s sweetness only deepened when he surprised me with flowers upon my return from the restroom. Given my black thumb, these flowers will be lucky to live through the weekend, along with my memories of the date.

Vegas Chicks

While in Vegas, mixing strip club visits and drinking sessions, my getting hit on by women was a surprising highlight. This made me feel loved again, in a most non-traditional way. First was at the pool. Lovely Lulu was a busty nurse from New York, a crass, tell-it-like-it-is 30 year-old; truly a breath of fresh air. Normally shy and reclusive, I put down my Pulitzer prize winning novel and allowed our chat to unfold, and must report that I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I even bought her some chips. Not poker, nacho. This nurturing nurse offered to take a fabulous photo of me in my bikini to send to my Agent for publication. She also shared with me a tremendous portfolio of penis pictures and stories of dating revenge to rival my wildest fantasies. While I didn’t finish my book chapter…I made a lasting friend.

Later that evening, a cute male bar-fly pronounced to me, “My wife thinks you’re hot.” Whoa, swingers? Well, at this point, who cares? I took the compliment with a polite, yet genuine and heartfelt thank you. Upon my return to the same barspot a beer later, I ventured to ask, “So, is she really your wife?” After all, Vegas is full of con artists. He assured me she was, and that he had doubted the presence of any hot chicks until she pointed me out. It must have been too dark for them to see the huge red divorce dot growing on my eyelid. I’ve involuntarily compromised my facial beauty along with my married life.

In the magnetic way the subject of marriage seems to attract me, the subject was broached “Are you someone's wife?” to which I am still formulating the ideal reply. Almost not. Soon not anymore. Once was not now. Is there a way to convey the utter pain and horror or divorce without using that terrifying, alienating D word? Regardless, the unmarried sentiment garners immediate sympathies. The couple opened up right away outpouring their real-world stories of marriages gone bad, including their own, which they had managed to salvage at the last moment. As a result, they were enjoying the sexy lounge scene in Vegas while their 3 children slept peacefully upstairs. The evening culminated with the classic phone number exchange and vows to keep in touch. Love vibes.

Introducing...My Agent

Anyone as shy as I am who is going to be successful at dating in an utterly domestic, monogamous, sterile environment such as Million Maples, CA is going to need a Dating Agent.

I came about my Agent in a rather unusual way. But then again I am a rather unusual person. It used to bother me when people called me weird. High school insecurity. Now I take it as the compliment that it is.

My Agent passed every initial screening. I could not stump him no matter how hard I tried. He was clever, funny and eager to do a good job. He was responsive, creative and met his deadlines. On the qualitative front he offered professional friendship and advice. I hired him before I even developed the job description. That’s one of my carryover best practices from marriage: diving in without thinking.

“What the hell is a Dating Agent?” you may ask. Well, in an effort to avoid the obvious, it is a person strictly dedicated to helping me date. Yes, I need help. I’m not perfect.

So hire an Agent yourself if you need improvement. It’s working for me.

Dates With Married People

Just like what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas...I need to switch to invisible ink for this one.

If you have one of those special ink-reading computers, you might be able to figure out how to read it.

If not, just use your imagination...

Sex in the City



(Behind) Bars on suburban dates



The problem is, there is no sex.
And there is no city.

Certainly not. This is the suburbs.

Houses two inches apart (not lips) and strip malls where you don’t strip.

And I’m Dating Suburban.
Like it or not. Love it or leave it.

Knives

When he left after 10 years, he took all the alcohol and the knives, but forgot his pillow and blanket. Sometimes we leave in a rush and forget what’s important. But the symbolism was not lost on me.



I lived a knife-less life for quite a while. (Since I don’t cook or eat much, this did not pose a significant problem.) Thankfully I was warm and cozy, surrounded by the multitudes of plush blankets and pillows he left behind. Which, incidentally, were still somewhat ineffective at keeping out the cold drafts of divorce.

 

Knives cut deep



There is much you can do without knives. But we must also consider that knives were some of the first crude implements used by humankind. So to go backwards and remove knives from our lives is like going back 20,000 years ago. When I cooked, I bit, tore and ravaged…but still I refrained from buying knives. This is because I’m incredibly frugal. Also known simply as “cheap.” Not a common quality in most seasoned wives, you will note.



My philosophy has always been to get by with as little as possible to get the job done. But accumulation of possessions is an inevitable byproduct of being married with children in contemporary American society. And a fancy knife set is no exception. Ours may have been a wedding gift. The actual source is not sticking in my mind, despite my incredible memory. But he felt entitled to them, as entitlement is a theme here, so he took them when he left.

As a stunning distraction, I dated a sought-after co-worker to get me through the very worst dark days of divorce drama. Some might postulate that dating is not a solution, but rather a problem in itself. You hear maxims like “too soon” or “not ready,” but only the dateless really know when is when. The relationship served its very necessary purpose: intellectual and physical companionship, wine-tasting and cooking. Generic, yet very essential qualities (the guy that bolted with the knives and alcohol was a splendid cook as well; just not a splendid husband). And this new guy cooked, begrudgingly, with no knives.

Things accelerated when he bought me a toothbrush on our second date to leave at his place. But as usual, I chose to blissfully ignore any and all warning signs, and proceeded headlong into relationship oblivion. Fortunately, he had the wherewithal to recognize his self-professed "destructive patterns surrounding love and relationships." His newfound realization caused him to suddenly freak out and terminate us on Valentine’s Day, VD. VD can kill the love…it’s all timing, right?



Dumped twice now. Ten fateful days after VD, on this cold, blustery, rainy Friday night that coincides with my 42^nd birthday, a package arrived (did I mention his amazon.com addiction?). Despite my weather and relationship-induced depression, I opened the package. It started and ended with knives.

“I know you didn’t plan on (or want to) do as much cooking as you’re doing now. But if you’re gonna do it, you should be properly equipped. I hope you enjoy them.” Well, happy birthday. A really nice, new, expensive set of knives. OK…I’ll take it.

When you have nothing, a little means a lot.

Colliding Worlds - Part 1

On New Year’s Eve an interesting scenario was going on in my house. I was alone. Well, actually, my mother was sleeping in the next room. Although it was the first time in 10 years I had enough social energy to go out, I was still, involuntarily, dateless.

New Year’s is always a time of reflection, and debauchery. I remember ringing it in before marriage in Barbados, Boston and on a boat. I remember during marriage going to a party crying because I had to fire an au pair, and consequently had no childcare for my 3 warriors, I mean children, with my return to work looming in less than 24 hours.

Tonight, at the stroke of 12, when I should have been getting passionately kissed (thankfully Mom was asleep), instead I was on the computer. FaceBook timesuck. When you have nothing better to do…FaceBook.

An e-mail popped in from wasbund ex husband (my new way to insult people is to not capitalize their names if they are not important enough to warrant being a proper noun). What a surprise. Some casual, friendly banter. How…almost…fun. Considering we have never had an even remotely civil conversation before or since. He was home, apparently drinking alone, with my children tucked cozily on their cots in his shack.

Flip over to smartphone. Boyfriend of the time, Knives, is responding to my text. Yes, he went to an artist’s party. No, I wasn’t invited. No, he didn’t think I’d want to drive that far. No, he didn’t really miss me. Miss me, miss me, now you gotta kiss me. Too bad for me on that one. (Even mistletoe has lost its potency these days.)



Cheers?



So what’s wrong with this picture? Friendly banter from hateful husband. Big blowoff from boyfriend. And both happening at the same time. Luckily I had not drunken (I’m not drunk!) enough of my cocktail to cross wires in messaging with these two clowns. But it was close. I was balancing two opposing forces, two opposing worlds, precariously in my hands.

Out with the old, in with the new. A harbinger for the New Year.

Dating Suburban Released Into the Wild

After I got married, I never wanted to be single again. Especially in suburbia. With 3 kids. However, my life has deviated from the blueprints. Drastically.

I never planned to be dating at 42. I never planned to have my life’s savings wiped out instantaneously by the legal system. I never planned to have my wages garnished to pay child support to the narcissistic wusband. I never planned to sleep on my bedroom floor for 8 months (it’s actually been good for the back). I never planned to be confined to the state of California, stranded here in McMansionville, when I’m an East Coast girl. I never planned to lose most of my so-called friends, workout partners, social crowd and in-laws in an instant, only to rekindle friendships I like a million times better. I never planned to have my sanity dangling by a thread. Oh, did I mention I have 3 kids? I never planned to shell out $5000 to see my own children for 6 hours on Mother’s Day, instead of for their college tuition.

Disposable marriage, like so many other manufactured items in society today, is no longer built to last. My new philosophy as a single working mother of 3 young children is “enjoy the moment.” Why make plans that are so easily shattered?

Dating provides that necessary and comforting distraction to my otherwise bleak and repetitious days: assembly line meals and homework, laundry folding, dishes, racing to work, racing to soccer practice, racing to grocery store, race driving a minivan, racing to find the aging antidote.

So here I am…Dating Suburban. I have some juicy tales to tell. These tales may make you wish to join me in the suburban dating scene, behind the exciting veil of domesticated suburban single life. Or at the very least my tales will entertain you...while reminding you to be so very thankful for the life you have.

Come, follow me…while I go Dating Suburban.