I love with all my heart.

I hate goodbyes.

I wear my heart on my sleeve.

I have the most loyal, dedicated, put-up-with-all-my-emotion, make-me-pee-with-laughter friends.

I like small towns more than big cities.

I love good food.

I am goofy.

I will jump around in circles before I will conform to any organized dance.

I think Jason Mraz is the most honest person I know.

I have cried during every Grey’s Anatomy episode I’ve seen.

I can’t watch Grey’s Anatomy anymore because it’s too depressing.

I care about what people think more than I should.

I pray for peace every day.

I cry when other people’s animals die.

I cry at the thought of losing one of my cats or dog.

I love to laugh.

I snort when I laugh really hard.

I am stronger than I give myself credit for.

I love clean sheets and fresh air.

I love the airy weight of baby alpaca.

I put people on a pedestal.

I shouldn't put people on a pedestal.  It isn't fair.

I love to create even though I’m afraid to try sometimes.

I love a long, difficult hike in autumn topped with a fresh trout dinner at night.

I am afraid of too much, including being fearful.

I love to teach.

I love to learn.

I love to sing when I’m by myself.

I spend too much time thinking about the past and the future and not enough time on the present.

I miss my friends.

I usually don’t have the answers, but I’ll always listen to the questions.

I have made a lot of bad choices, but even more beautiful ones.

I am always looking for my place in the world.

I can’t bear to see other people suffer.

I hate hospitals.

I think snow days are Teacher Appreciation gifts from Mother Nature.

I get my feelings hurt easily and I hate that about myself.

If I could go back in time, I know I would do things differently, but I’m not sure how.

I love foreign music and foreign countries.

I love the ocean and the mountains and the plains and the forests.

I can be stubborn and jealous and impatient.

I can’t stand it when people are mad at me.

I am loud.

I say the wrong thing a lot.  Like a LOT.

I have seen too much sadness in my lifetime.

I know that my sadness doesn’t even compare to that endured by others.

I love the color green.

I love hugs.

I love Ella Fitzgerald.

I love learning important life lessons from unexpected strangers.

I have strong faith.

I have hope.

I have gratitude.

And I will continue to love with all my heart.  To anyone who will allow me to.  (Well okay, and some that won’t.)

Excerpt from student letter:

I hope my brans [sic] work and I will not skriem [sic] out iny more [sic].

I'm asking the same thing of myself today.

Ultimatum:  a final, uncompromising demand or set of terms issued by a party to a dispute, the rejection of which may lead to a severance of relations or to the use of force.

I'm providing this definition to clarify what I believe to be a recent misuse of the term.  I dated an acquaintance of mine recently.  I met him a few times before in social settings and always enjoyed the conversation and banter.  He seemed like a smart, funny guy with a big heart.  As I’ve stated before, I’m working diligently to avoid my old patterns of . . . dating too long because I’m afraid to break up/dating someone just because he’s fun/leading people on/avoiding difficult conversations . . . I have a lot of bad patterns.  All of which lead me to spend way too long with someone who isn’t right for me/doesn't love me/isn't nice to me/doesn't want the same things as me.  Okay.  I know this.  So on our first date, there was casual conversation about our lives.  He mentioned the fact that he had never wanted children.  Now, normally, this would be my dream man (except that he’s not Hispanic).  Even a year ago, the mention of remarriage and/or children would have sent me directly from a rocking position in the corner to the sofa in my shrink’s office where we would talk (AGAIN) about whether I really believe single people are happier than marrieds.  And it STILL makes me a little bit queasy and nervous, but less queasy than the prospect of spending the rest of my life dating.  Shudder.

 

So, feeling very wise, seriously respectful, gravely responsible, and judiciously fair, I tell him on our second date that I have doubts that we are at the same place in our lives to forge an exclusive dating arrangement.  The sangrias prevented me from using such business speak, but you get the essence of my position.  And at that very moment, I felt so PROUD.  I said the tough words.  I was open!  Honest!  Candid!  Gallant!  I felt like God himself nodded and patted me on the head approvingly.  How refreshing!  No miscommunication.  No quixotic expectations.  No head in the clouds.  There it was.  We have different goals.  Different lifestyles.  Contrary aspirations.  No big deal.  Let’s have fun together.  Let’s be friends.  Let’s keep it light and our options open.

 

He continued to allude several times to what my friends and I have long-called the DTRT, the Define the Relationship Talk.  What are we doing?  Are we dating?  After Date #3, I talked to him again, telling him how much I liked him, but that I felt that we were at different places in our lives.  Did I mention this was hard for me????  I had feelings for the guy!

 

The events that followed are what I term the E-mail Skirmish, followed by the Ultimatum Outbreak, and concluding with the Social Media Barrage.  During the great E-mail Skirmish of Saturday Night, my emotional Guards were shot down by 3 of his “F-you” soldiers.  Upon the Ultimatum Outbreak, he accused me of giving him an ultimatum, (I’m not sure of what . . . perhaps a quid pro quo exchange of exclusive dating for a baby???  Help me with this because I have no idea!) AKA the “Man-up Speech.”  If these accusations weren’t enough to make my head spin in confusion . . . thence began the passive-aggressive social media attacks of Yonker Hill in which guns and bullets of yore were replaced with anonymous technological warfare.  And you know what they say about sticks and stones . . .

 

So, the attack has left me weakened and sad for the loss of a friend, not to mention less than enthusiastic about dating.  But I can’t sacrifice my boundaries in the name of “nice.”  Ultimately this is my life, my decisions, my consequences.  And if someone thinks that my boundaries about common life goals are targeted ultimatums, then we’re definitely not on the same page.  And if someone really cares about me the way they claim they do, they wouldn’t attack me through social media outlets.

 

And these lessons lead me to the most important lesson of all: honesty is NOT rewarding.  If you don’t see a future with someone, DO NOT tell them that.  Make something up.  Or move. 

"To laze amidst the language of a novel is one of life's utmost pleasures; but, it is better to read quickly, carelessly, and partially than not to read at all."

                                                                                         - Anonymous Blogger

I am going to begin dating again.  As I age, my jokes about growing old tangled up in yarn with a fur ball on my shirt are not as funny as they used to be.  Dating for me is nothing new.  I am an old pro.  I field men like Roger Clemens fields a ball, similarly indulging in chemical aid occasionally to ease the pain and better my game.  As I begin with a sports analogy, I can already tell this will be a promising venture.

 

As a 33-year-old woman, I find that I have a lot of dating experience.  I know the games.  The lines.  I’ve given and received the “friend” talk.  I’ve closed doors that I’ve tried to reopen.  I’ve been showered with flowers, wined and dined, doused in hopeful anticipation, disappointed, inspired, confused and bewildered, angered, astounded, insulted, and dizzied.  I’ve waited for the phone to ring, for the date to end, for someone to touch my hand in a darkened theater.  I’ve shared my life and weighed the circumstances.  I’ve dated older men, younger men, and warmhearted men.  Sports nuts and movie virtuosos, musicians and nerds, speakers and mutes, wealthy men and poor, givers and takers, boozers and abusers, nose-pickers, butt-grabbers, feet men and boob men, that never lasted long.

 

And as I reflect on these short-lived triumphs and ever-growing list of failures, I know that the one common denominator is well, me.  It is my decisions that have taken me to the path on which I rest, planning the rest of my journey.  In reflecting upon my role in my dating life (not nearly as much fun as reflecting on the roles of others), I turned to my friends for advice.  I asked them to share complete honesty in their evaluation of my dating strengths and weaknesses.  The results were conflicted.  Problems included low standards, high standards, commitment issues, misguided make-up, clothing, moving too quickly, moving too slowly, and so you see my point.  Never take anyone’s advice or you will lose your mind.

 

That leads me to Plan B:  What Would Sarah Do?  I have an amazing friend named Sarah.  She is kind and wise and funny and I love her.  She’s graceful.  She disentangles herself from the most troublesome . . . wait.  Her grace preempts falling into even the largest fissures in contrast with my ability to tumble on smooth ground.  She makes everyone feel good.  She is wise and competent and solid in deep-rooted Midwestern, “good peoples” tradition.  She has mastered the art of mixing Minnesota nice with the sola gratia of a Buddhist monk and sauced it all up with Einstein’s intelligence.  She’s dynamic.  Of course her sensibility has led to her to select a charming, sensible husband, exemplifying the antithesis of any Austenian theatrics.  And so Plan B means that I’m throwing all the advice to the wind along with my own, personal, flawed dating instincts and shall date following the dogma of What Would Sarah Do? 

 

I have set the dogma in motion immediately upon abandoning my flirting with the cute new Hispanic custodian and my dreams of exotic men who speak little English.  Sarah would not engage in any frivolous romance born out of the lack of ability to communicate and rugged good looks.  Damn it.

“It is perfectly monstrous the way people go about nowadays saying things against one, behind one's back, that are absolutely and entirely true.”

                                                                                                                                - Oscar Wilde

I cheated.  I haven't written in so long, I edited a blog from months ago that I never published because I hated it.  I still hate it.  But there must be a reason why I hate it.  Ugh.

Life flows in waves.  Everyone knows this, right?  There are a slew of weather clichés to prove this.  Can't you see the silver lining in the clouds?  The thunder in the distance?  The sunshine peeking from behind the clouds?  When you're really in a funk, these clichés can be sickening.  A couple of months ago, a friend and I were both recovering from breakups and we'd joke about having a dance-off to the tune of all the breakup advice we'd been given.  I'd say, "Well T., it's better to find out now rather than later."  And he'd say, "Ahh, L., you know you're better off without him."  And I'd respond, "If you love someone T., you have to let them go."  And so the dance carried on.  And while I'm fairly competitive, I will say that T. is a damn good dancer. 

But ultimately, clichés are passed on through generations for a reason.  Like vintage jewelry, photographs, and other memorables from generations yore.  And sometimes there is one that really hits home with me.  For the present, for me, they are words there's a reason.  As A.A. Bondy sings, there's a reason for the girl dressed in flies, and the man with the charcoal eyes.  There's a reason for a dampened heart and a rocky start.  A reason for a frost-speckled beard and an outcome feared.  And while, particularly over the past year, those reasons aren't evident or predictable or even foreshadowed, I'm learning to have faith.  Even if it is in a cliché.

New Underwear, I've been feeling so yuck lately.  Even though I've been working out hard, New Underwear, I still feel bloated and large.  So thank you, New Underwear, because even though you're a small and I washed you, New Underwear, you are a little big on me.  You're the best, New Underwear.

Love,

Me

Well, a new one at least.  Isn't it pretty?  Sha!  Way better looking than my last blog.  Full credit to bulletproofmonk and his photo-computer-ific genius.  The font actually comes from yarn.  Seriously.  Can you stand it?  I'm hugging my new blog right now.