Take my hand, take my whole life too

Ten years ago today I had a date lined up for tonight.

One decade, one wedding, two children, two moves, and too many funerals and memorial services ago, I had not yet met Nick.

So half a score ago, I got up alone and dressed for work in an outfit that was cute enough for a date, but still serious enough to have gone to work in.

Because, see, one evening in summer I'd changed into a sundress for a first date, and the guy said, "Did you go to work in THAT?"

Along these lines, I'd begun wearing my glasses on dates. Then a date asked if I'd worn them to deliberately look less attractive. Come to think of it, he was also the one who wanted to know what was wrong with me, being that I was apparently this pretty, funny, and smart.

What was not obviously wrong with me that I was still single?

What I'm saying is, I didn't get up that morning with the thought that I'd meet a man I might marry anytime soon or really ever.

In fact, I did go home to change after work, but mainly because it was one of those weird warmy-coldy DC November days, and my outfit was either too hot or too cold and I can't remember which.

And I did wear my glasses. Both of these things I remember, because changing meant I had to hurry, and because I was hurrying I was sweating. And because it was cold my glasses fogged up as soon as I walked into the bar at the Tabard and said hello to Nick.

He teased me about the glasses then and there. He didn't mention the sweating until we knew each other way better.

You've likely already read about this day at least once or maybe nine times. (Why isn't there a nince, like thrice? Have I written about this nince? I can't remember. But here's the first time and the second time.)

I was 38 and had been internet dating for about two and a half years at that point. I would say that I had no hope left, but that's not exactly true. I couldn't keep going on dates if I had no hope.

So I suppose it's more accurate to say that I had no positive expectations.

He could be someone who was funny on email and dry in person. Someone who didn't actually laugh at anything I said that I knew for damn sure was funny to me. Someone who grilled me on my resume, making the date more of a job interview. Someone who made sure I knew how important he was. Someone who was rude to the server.

There were many reasons, I had learned, that I might loathe whoever he turned out to be. I'm being melodramatic. I might not outright loathe him--that rarely happened--but the overwhelming odds were that I would never want to kiss him and that would be that.

I was tired of going on dates and wishing that instead, I were home doing laundry and watching Grey's Anatomy. I was tired of looking but afraid of not doing so.

I wanted to throat punch people who told me I was trying too hard, that they met their spouse when they weren't looking.

Mainly, I was so tired of balancing on that sharp and painful line between hopefulness and utter despair.

You give up hope and you're done for in this life. Or anyway, I would be. 

So I had to maintain a modicum of it, while still having no expectations. I didn't get excited for dates anymore, but I couldn't give in to dread, because then where would I be?

I should just sum this up by saying I was tired.

I was tired and five minutes late and it was warmy-coldy and I was rushing and sweating.

Nick was five minutes early and calmly sipping a beer by the time I hurried in and scanned the room.

He stood up and held out his big warm hand to introduce himself. I put my small cold hand in his. He smiled. He teased me about my glasses, but didn't compliment or denigrate them.

He didn't talk about his work or ask me about mine. We talked about travel, and books, and weird situations we'd gotten ourselves into and out of. He was warm and kind. He was funny, and he laughed at things I said that I knew for damn sure were funny.

Ten weeks later, when he asked me to marry him, we didn't actually know each other all that well. But he was absolutely certain, and I was confident enough to ride on his utter certainty.

This is who we are in life.

If we stop at a convenience store he chooses a beverage and doesn't give it a second thought. I stand in front of the frige and think, "Would I rather have lemonade? But tea has caffeine, and I'm kind of tired. But then I might have to pee. I should probably have water. But..."

And he's all, "Just pick a drink and let's go!"

Of course marriage is way bigger than picking a drink for the road. I wouldn't ever suggest that ten weeks is an amount of time that tells you everything you need to know about a person.

We all know that it could've gone very badly. I won't pretend that there haven't been some hard periods of time, and we all know I joke about stabbing my husband and that he never finds funny.

But as a human, he is good people. He's generous and smart and thougthtful. He is polite to everyone, and he makes sure our children are as well. He's kind. He laughs and he makes me laugh. He's a very decent, loving person and a terrific husband and father.

I didn't know any of these things when I headed into my last first date.

But I'm thankful every day that I did.

Ha ha ha, hee hee hee I'm a laughing gnome and you can't catch me

 

I don't know if you've ever written an internet dating profile.

It's hard to describe yourself in a way that is sincere but not painfully so, and breezy but not contrived. Although maybe now they require less text. Does Tinder require any text?

Anyway, back in aught-five, when I had a flip phone and sody pop cost a nickle, I remember that it took me a long time to even put up a profile, because there were so many steps that required careful thought.

You had to pick a username (one that was not boring and not stupid). I chose Lemon Gloria, because I didn't have a better idea. If you're doing internet dating and have a blog that chronicles your dates, it is in fact plain stupid to use your blog name.

You also had to have a tagline (seriously?), and then write a couple paragraphs about yourself. It needed to be long enough to say something, but not too long because who wants to read paragraphs and paragraphs?

Anyway, I wrote it, and then I read a piece about phrases not to use. One was something about being equally comfortable in jeans or a black cocktail dress. Another was, "I love to laugh." I had to go and immediately delete that line from my profile.

Apparently, saying you love to laugh is stupid and trite, because everyone loves to laugh.

Now, I don't actually believe that everyone loves to laugh. Or maybe they love to, but don't actually do so very often. There are people who will remark that something is funny, but not actually laugh. (I am pretty sure this was on a Seinfeld episode.) There are other people who will smile politely and then you're just left amusing yourself.

When this happens I like to mutter "anal sphincter" and then move along.

Try this. You may be the only one laughing, but it works.

Although none of this happens to me that often anymore because: 1. I am not going on first dates with random people; 2. I'm not actually going on ANY dates with random people; 3. Nick thinks I'm funny. Usually.; and 4. My kids and my mom think I'm hilarious.

Oh! and 5! Maybe even most importantly! I don't work in an office anymore. So I don't have all those regular encounters with people outside my house.

Also: this is why I suck at outlines and figuring out the final points before you start the first ones and making all the things parallel.

So I'm just going to say it: I love to laugh. I do. And! I don't laugh all that often anymore.

Not in a mouth wide open, laugh till you're crying kind of way.

So, anyway, I recently heard a program on NPR on laughter yoga.

Laughter is good for us, both mentally and physically. It makes us feel good, and it actually helps with our health and well being.

And get this: your body does not differentiate between real and fake laughter.

That's the part I found the most interesting. In these laughter yoga classes, they have people fake laugh until hopefully they real laugh.

Since then, here's what I've been doing. I walk around the house fake laughing. I do this when nobody is around because frankly, it's weird.

Go ahead and try it. Ha ha ha ha ha! It feels weird, right?

But your body has no idea. So now I do this. And any opportunity I have to giggle--like if my kids say something emi-funny, I laugh. And then they laugh. And we laugh harder, till we're really laughing.

I'm on a mission.

So a couple weeks ago, I decided to solicit actual, make-you-laugh suggestions from friends. I saved the post so I could always refer back.

And because I love you, and want you to not have to walk around feeling weird about fake laughing, I'm sharing some, most of which I have not yet watched, because we are currently immersed in Stranger Things (which if you are not watching it, why not?).

Some funny suggestions:

It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt
My Drunk Kitchen
Eastbound and Down on HBO
Youtube video Can't Hug Every Cat (see above)
Tim Conway skits, especially the dentist one
Veep
The Office
Modern Family
Arrested Development (until the last season...which was definitely not as good)
Parks + Rec
Love Sick
The Good Place, Catastrophe, Atypical

Maybe you've seen some of these already. Maybe you have other suggestions. I'm all ears.

Also, I had to retitle because I totally forgot that I was going to use this lyric from David Bowie's weird little ditty "The Laughing Gnome." When I first listened to it in 7th grade I thought it was just kooky, but now I imagine this was during the period where he subsisted entirely on cocaine and milk. Seriously. He said that.

Enjoy! 

Past the scientific darkness, past the fireflies that float

If you could go back in time and tell your younger self anything, what would it be?

Sometimes, when I'm driving on a highway at night, I feel so peaceful. I turn off the music and it seems like the entire world is wide open, the possibilities are endless, and I could just go on forever.

The darkness feels like a protective blanket.

And then, then I get to a more rural area with no street lights and lots of trees and I check my gas gauge nervously all I can think about is that lunatic axe murderer loose in the woods and how I cannot wait to arrive at my well-lit destination.

What I'm saying is, I drove to New Jersey Friday evening.

Due to necessity, I started out at rush hour, and as such it took me eleventy kabillion hours to get there. However. I was alone. So they were pretty peaceful hours, no matter what was going on on 95.

Nobody was screaming "FROZEN!" "NO FROZEN! Taylor Swift!" "SNACKS! WE NEED SNACKS!" or picking at the other person in the back seat. Nobody was in the passenger seat to criticize my choice of 80s Italian pop music.

The car that I inherited from Nick's dad—our "new" car—has a tape deck. I played a recently-unearthed mix tape made by a long-ago boyfriend, and thought about who I was at the age of 22.

I drove up for a weekend with two of my dearest friends. These are women with whom I spent so much time eleven, ten, nine years ago.

We lived near enough to run over at a moment's notice, and knew what was going on with one another each and every day. They were my closest heart people, the ones who listened to my dating dramas, and who gently offered hope and wine and solace, and who were surely relieved when I started this blog and had somewhere else to direct my angst.

We no longer live near each other, and as such, don't get together as much as we'd like. But heart people stay, and sometimes you are shocked by how well you know each other.

You remember the when of the when and maybe even what they were wearing that one time that particular thing happened.

And so, when I mentioned the exhaustion of motherhood and the tedium of marriage, and how I think it's just an inevitable by-product of stability and continuity, I laughed after one of them said, "Listen to yourself. Wouldn't you love to be able to reassure 10-years-ago Lisa that she was going to get married and have kids?"

God, yes.

In fact, I would love to reassure so many ages of Lisa that things would be OK.

To teenage Lisa, I would say: You are smart, and you have good ideas, and you should listen to your heart and mind rather than doing what authority figures tell you to do. Also, eat protein. Seriously.

To college Lisa: You weren't raised to think this, but happiness is an important goal. You're miserable. Drop out and do something else until you can figure out what path you'd like to be on.

To 30-year-old Lisa: Find a therapist. You don't think you need one, but oh, you do. It'll make you feel better.

To 35-year-old Lisa: Don't let guys' opinions of you dictate how you feel about yourself. They've got their own problems; your problem is you pick them. The right person is going to love you for you. And your therapist is right; you really will get married.

And PS at any age: Marriage isn't going to make you happy. You have to figure that shit out for yourself.

Well, that’s one way to lose these walking blues

For me, searching for comfort sandals has been like Internet dating.

Perhaps you have never really had to search for comfort sandals. Maybe you found your comfort sandals in college or grad school, or in your neighborhood, and stuck with them and they still work for you.

Me, not so much. I had some and eventually got tired of them and moved on and now sometimes I look back fondly.

It didn't used to be this hard. When I was younger I bought all kinds of adorable shoes with pointy toes and spiky heels and what-have-you and tromped all over cities around the globe. I tried shoes on and purchased them with nary a thought of compatibility.

No longer. Now my feet are particular. One friend suggested that my expectations are too high. I cannot expect to do the kind of walking that I do in sandals.

But I figured, eventually I met Nick on Match.com. I could find myself some sandals.

I've ordered and returned a ridiculous number of shoes. And these comfort sandals? They are not cheap. At some point Nick got a call from our credit card company saying that there had just been an uncharacteristically big charge at Zappos, and was he aware of this?

Heh.

He now gets an alert every time our card is used in a not-in-person transaction.

I ended up sending them all back. I thanked them and I boxed them up, and then I stuck them back in their boxes and that was that.

Nick is sick of talking about this. The other day I was all, yes, OK, I will have some sexytime with you. But only if we can talk about shoes afterwards.

The romance, it flourishes.

Anyway, because some of you like to talk shoes and aren't asking for sex, here's the story.

I loved these gladiators, but they were not my shoe. Perhaps they are yours?

The gladiators are made by Naot, and I love how they look. The soles feel magical. They are soft leather and inviting and delightful. But the front is too wide for me, and as such, rubbed the sides of my toes.

The ugly-cute fuchsia shoes are made by Wolky, a Dutch company. I love the look of these shoes, and they have a really thick sole and this comfortable liner.

Shockingly, the fuchsia didn't feel like it would go with enough things. I know, I know.

But I found a turquoise pair on super sale at Sierra Trading, so I ordered them. They felt good all around, so I boldly/foolishly wore them on a Kindergarten field trip, and they rubbed the top of my big toe and the side of my little toe. I was surprised because you can adjust them in three places.

Betty decided she wanted them. So they are now hers.

I also ordered another pair of Naots (also too loose) and these Born shoes, which I loved but which also had way too much room around the front of my foot.

It was getting demoralizing, you know, because I was thinking that I was just too picky. I was asking for too much. Other people could find their pair, and walk around totally happy.

What was my problem? Just like in dating, friends had begun to suggest that my standards were too high.

I really was starting to wonder what was wrong with me and my princess and the pea feet.

And then I went to Comfort One. And they measured my feet on this infrared scanner thing. Here's what turns out to be my problem: I have very high arches. I have very small feet. There are specific and actual reasons this is difficult! (Also, I have this weirdly small little toe, which makes it hard to buy strappy sandals because it likes to poke out all, hello! Which is uncomfortable.)

So even if Nick and I get divorced and I desperately need money, clearly I cannot count on foot prostitution as my fallback career.

Anyway, here's what it's come to. I got these Dansko sandals, and I love how they look and they feel great, although they do bug a little if I walk a lot. I will have to put moleskin in them.

But the soles are soft and squishy and the  bottoms are light. I think someone (Laura?) recommended this exact pair! I didn't really like this year's colors but found these from last year (and much cheaper!) at 6pm.com. They also have a lovely blue. So it all worked out!

I may also have gotten a little carried away with Tevas. I got two pairs.

Shockingly, the higher ones, which I think you need to see with an outfit to get the fabulousness, are more comfortable.They have leather straps that don't rub.

So many inches taller! So great!

Really, it's so nice to know it's not me. I mean, it is me.

But it's also them.

Monday non-stalker kind of poll

So, if you were shopping at Costco and you saw a woman who you were quite sure was the wife of your most significant ex-person, what would you do?

Would you:

1. Surreptitiously follow her around, because actually, you were already heading down the same aisles, noting how she was dressed (casually), what was in her cart (more chocolate than one would have expected), how she behaved with the sample people (politely), etc? 
2. Do nothing – you’re glad he has found his person, but you don’t really need to know details.
3. Introduce yourself with, “This might sound weird, but are you Signifcantex-boyfriend’s wife?”
4. If C, would you explain how you knew that? Or just let it hang awkwardly? 
5. Other: _____________________

 Just wondering.

The time Nick didn't go on a date with Ann Coulter

I think we can all agree that my beloved Nick looks like a conservative Republican, at least most of the time.

He wears the Brooks Brothers suits and the seersucker suit and the bucs and the khakis and button downs and navy blazers during the week. On weekends he wears khakis or shorts and polo shirts and those cloth belts with things like anchors embroidered on them.

I've admitted this before - the fact is, uptight, conservative-looking men are my type. I just got lucky with Nick in that he's less uptight than many, and he only looks conservative. Under those starched, crispy shirts and carefully tied ties beats the heart of a man who believes in public education and health care for all.

I love this combination. I do.

Thus I was fascinated to learn that a year or so before we met,  a friend of his offered to set him up with Ann Coulter. THE Ann Coulter. Seriously.

Nick, my darling dearest, responded with something along the lines of, "I'd rather slam my dick in a car door repeatedly and then rip my fingers off with a pliers."

He doesn't remember exactly how he put it, but it was certainly not more gentle than the kind of things he says to customer service people who have angered him.

The friend insisted that Ann Coulter's actually a very nice person. She just says these dreadful things in public because that's her schtick. She makes her money by being so publicly outrageous. It's not really who she is.

In other words, she's not actually a vile, loathsome, carrion-eating bag of maggots. (My words, not either of theirs.)

Nick, however, wasn't buying it. He doesn't believe that you can say such hateful things and put such negativity out into the world and  and yet be a good person. No way did he want to meet her.

I do agree with him. Except that I was wishing he'd gone out with her, just once. So that he could give me an informed opinion on whether or not she's actually a man.

Agos

I went to Tryst this morning with a friend of mine and our babies.

Random note: there were a shocking number of attractive men there today.

Anyway, as pretty much always happens when I go anywhere, India wanted to nurse. So I did. Our server gave me a dirty look, but I think she was in a bad mood or didn't particularly like us or something. Nobody else batted an eye.

And I realized that a year ago I was freshly back from Paris and heading to the doctor to see if I was still pregnant (pleasegodpleasegod...).  And I was!  And here we are!

I ordered a chaippuccino, a word that still makes me cringe whenever I say it, and which I've been ordering there since back in my single days. And I said to my friend, "You know, five years ago if you'd told me I'd be sitting here nursing my baby, I wouldn't have believed you."

Because five years ago, I hadn't yet met Nick. I was dating like a fiend, and had recently gone out with a completely critical asshole who inspired this post.

Four years ago, I wasn't yet married, but was counting down to next week.

Three years ago, I had a new baby and was completely losing my shit.

Two years ago, I was trying very hard to get pregnant. I was terrified of being too old. And I wasn't talking about it. When I finally did let it out, it was such a relief.

And here I am, a married mother of two.

Five years and a million chaipuccinos ago, I would never have believed it.

Methought I heard a voice cry "Sleep no more! MacIndia does murder sleep!"

Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? 

Uh, no. It's an iPhone. Pretty cool, huh?

Also, if you've ever done any internet dating, is this picture not reminiscent of those in a number of men's profiles? I was always like, why, why are they taking their own picture and not smiling? It makes me think they don't have any friends. And they don't, in fact, love to laugh. No matter what their profile might say.

So anyway.

In sooth, the only difference between a zombie and me today is that I'm not out to eat anyone's brains. Well, that and I can talk and type. I don't think they can do either. Although I can't say for certain, because honestly, I avoid zombie shows. I wouldn't be able to sleep at night. Truly.

But if you were a zombie and you nursed your kid, would you turn your baby into a zombie, I wonder?

So my non-zombie baby, she is not happy about this sleep-training bullshit. Her cries are not, "Help me, help me!" 

Oh, no sirree, no! These cries are all, "WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU MOTHERFUCKERS? I'M AWAKE! AND I'M USED TO MUCH BETTER SERVICE THAN THIS! IN FACT, I'D LIKE TO BE ABLE TO JUST RING A BELL TO SUMMON YOU. BECAUSE WE'VE ALL SEEN DOWNTON, BITCHES! NOW GET THE HELL IN HERE!"

It pisses her off, and she is not shy with expressing her ragey rage at top volume. I must say she comes by this honestly.

With Jordan, it only took a couple nights. Not with this one. I met a friend for lunch today and she said that it had been a long, hard slog with her daughter. 

"The problem," she said, "is that she's stubborn. I think the real issue is that our girls are just like us."

Which makes me think, oh, man. I am in for it.

When I was in high school, we were at my North Dakota grandmother's for a few weeks in the summer, and I found a letter Betty had written to her mom when my brother was a baby. She said she'd thought I was a good baby, but only because I was her first. Because my brother, he was actually a good baby. He was easygoing. He slept. He was wonderful.

She had written something like: Lisa, on the other hand, never slept. Never napped. Never wanted to be put down. The minute you put her down, she opened her eyes and screamed. 

It wasn't until my brother came along that she realized how exhausting I actually was.

I read the letter out loud to her. She felt terrible about what she'd written, and being a teenager, I teased her about it mercilessly. It didn't hurt my feelings, even then. And now, now all I can do is sympathize with her.

Pretty sure we all owe our mothers big-time.

All the dishes rattle in the cupboards when the elephants arrive

We met four years ago last night.

I must mention, because a friend asked, that this is a NOW picture, not a THEN picture. Although it made me think how funny it would be if I had whipped out a camera to document each first date.

Awkward, no? Plus, I'd need an extra hard drive just to store them all.

So, I wanted a picture that showed us and showed the couch and the room so it included some atmosphere. But Nick chose to ask a couple sitting like 15 inches from us to take a picture. And so we loom LARGE in the photo.

(And no, I'm not sure why I'm hell-bent on capitalizing shit today.)

And also: I have to show you what I wore. I love this dress. I got it in Paris and it is A-line and knit and accommodating and I can still wear it and it has such cute flowers and embroidered collar and sleeves and did I tell you I love it?I love the anniversary of our meeting more than our wedding anniversary.

And not just because the service at the Tabard is so much kinder and friendlier than our wedding venue. Even though the place is spectacular and I do feel very fortunate that Nick's father is so into genealogy and found an illustrious dead ancestor (are ancestors necessarily dead? I think so) so that he could belong to this particular society and Nick therefore could belong, which ultimately resulted in us getting married at an affordable and spectacular venue.

But also at the Tabard they let you drink red wine and set things on tables and aren't all pursed-lipped and unhelpfully rulesy, thus making you want to spray urine in their corners.

Which I would of course never do. Of course.

So they do have a couple things up on the wedding venue. Plus I don't suppose anyone actually celebrates their anniversary precisely where they had their wedding.

God, I can speculate about useless crap, can't I?

ANYway.

I think the main reason I like our first date anniversary is that first dates are so fraught.

By the time our wedding happened, there was no uncertainty left. Walking into a first date? No certainty whatsoever. When I started doing all the Internet dating, I was excited about first dates. Honestly.

Oh, the possibilities!

And as you know, by the time I met Nick, I canceled our first first date, because I had already had so many that not only had all the excitement been squozen out of me, but I was tired and jaded and fully prepared to loathe him by halfway through the first glass of wine.

I write about this every year, so I won't bore you with the rhapsodizing or the oh-thank-Godding on luck turning my way again this year.

But...I still feel lucky, so very lucky. And not only because meeting Nick meant I never had to die alone again.

So far, of course. I suppose he could always get hit by a bus.

Look both ways, Nick. I mean it.

Warthogs and unicorns revisited

Out of the blue the other day I got an email from my old upstairs neighbor - someone I haven't seen in almost three years.

He and I both live in the same neighborhood, just north of where we used to live. And so, he said, he's seen someone he thought was me on the street corner several times, and do I pass by there? Not to imply that I loitered on street corners.

I replied that in fact, I do skulk on that very corner, and if he's seen a disheveled blonde sweating profusely and tapping her foot waiting for the light to change, then he's seen me on my way to work.

Which firmly established that it was me he'd seen. And so we had lunch.

He's just recently gotten married, to someone he met shortly before I met Nick. He and I went out a couple times that summer - now four years ago. When thinking about this post, I looked back through my archives to see what I'd written, if anything, about him during that Summer of Deepest Darkest Despair.

And it was this missive about warthogs and unicorns. It came from a very terrible, hopeless place of utter hopelessness and pointlessness and pointless hopelessness.

But in the end, Warthog Theory turned out to be right, and I meet my very own warthog - no offense, Nick. And no implication that you're graceless or grunty.

Because actually, if you were, you'd most certainly have been meant for someone else. And I'm sure the two of you would be very happy. And hopefully I'd have met someone who suited me just as well.

This is not going anywhere that I expected it to. So I'll stop now and just say boy, am I glad things worked out the way they did and also, oh, thank God.

The reason you should never listen to my advice

Image: Edward Gorey: The Gashleycrumb Tinies

I spoke with my friend Laura last night. She's the one I used to have all kinds of shenanigans with, and then she up and moved to California for love.

And I really like her husband, so I can't even be resentful.

So, one of the first things she said was, "In your opinion, does being an orphan mean you don't have siblings?"

She had me there.

In fact, it does not. Being an orphan means you don't have parents. So even if I'd married an orphan, there would be the sisters - my issue of the weekend.

Unless, of course, Nick's entire family minus him had died in a fiery car crash. Or one by one in a series of tragic accidents.

Which, of course, I would never hope for him. Or anyone. Never.

And I'd never suggest that you explicity look for a partner whose whole family had died in a fiery car crash. And definitely not someone whose family members had one by one met with an early end.

Not least of all because maybe that would mean your person was really unlucky, and they might be next. And then you.

What? I mean, you never know.

Also, it would narrow the dating pool so dramatically, and make it close to impossible for you to find any of your 26. Even if they did live.

Plus, the person would most likely be completely traumatized. And so there would be that for you to deal with.

What I'm saying is: never listen to me. I have no sense of direction, and no idea what I'm talking about.

Unless you're my husband or my son. Then I'm always right.

How to stay single in the normal world

Do you remember Bob from the Quad?

I ran into him at our meeting in New York. It was a delightful surprise.

He's still the same. We hugged and giggled like maniacs.

He left our office shortly after I got engaged, so I gave him the life highlights: married the guy, got knocked up, have a son, all is well.

He's still living the single life, still dating. He said he just tends to say or do the wrong thing and fuck up the dates.

He gave a cringe-worthy example. Personally, I think he just hasn't met anyone with the appropriate level of goofiness and appreciation of the absurd.

So I told him the following story.

Nick had a second date with a woman in Baltimore. They were going to have dinner and then see a movie. Traffic was horrendous, and he'd gotten there late. So he asked if she'd rather have dinner or see the movie, as there just wasn't time for both.

She chose the movie. She really wanted to see Brokeback Mountain.

Having been stuck in the car for a couple hours, Nick really had to pee. He waited until they were settled in their seats, and then he excused himself to go to the bathroom.

By the time he sat back down, the film was underway.

He leaned over and said, "Have I missed any of the good sodomy?"

He never saw her again.

The sunset of Butterbean13

This was taken on the last night Jen and I spent in Cancun three years ago. It's pretty representative of how we spent our time.

Pool and cocktails. Cocktails by the pool. Cocktails in the pool. Swimming. Reading. Occasionally planting our wide open mouths under the soft-serve ice cream machine. Followed by more cocktails. It was great.

We also maybe watched some porn, but that was just out of curiosity. And alarming.

Three years ago today - and really, for four more days as well - I hadn't yet met Nick, and Jen and I had this Cancun-all-inclusive-fabulousness vacation lined up for Thanksgiving.

It's the only really fun Thanksgiving I've ever had, actually. But that's not what this is about. This is about the end of my long sojourn in the Internet dating world of Match.com.

A week prior to meeting Nick, I'd come home from either a date or drinks with friends - I can't remember which, and wound up chatting on the phone with a cute Canadian, with whom I'd been exchanging Match emails.

Which resulted in me inviting him to Cancun. He'd have to get his own room, of course. But Jen and I were planning on just hanging out. He could join us.

Because where else would we ever meet?

So he said he might be in trial that week, but if not, he'd book last minute and take a vacation. The trial happened; the vacation did not.

A week after this call I met Nick, and went out with him three times before Thanksgiving, and then immediately after and then he was my boyfriend and then it was basically forever and ever, sickness, health, so on, so forth.

Which brings us to now.

Canadian Lawyer and I are Facebook friends, and have been for a while. In the odd way of the world, we never met in person while I was on Match, and I got off rather quickly after meeting Nick. But now we're friends, in the removed, Internet sense.

He reads LG, and he knows a lot more about me than I know about him. But I like his mind, and I like his sensibilities.

So today he dropped an email saying, hey, Butterbean13, we spoke three years ago, and then I didn't go to Cancun, and wow look what three years can bring.

Soo, yah, Butterbean13 was my Match name. I don't have a better explanation than that I wanted a vegetable, and Broccoli sounded too weird, and 13 is my favorite number. My Match names merit their own post, in fact.

But this really drove home for me how life is about timing and coincidence. Sometimes I think life is entirely random, but then others I think things work out the way they're supposed to...which suggests some sort of fate.

In other words, I'm not sure what I think. But it gave me a jolt, because if he had committed to Cancun, I don't imagine I'd have gone out with Nick, or anyway, I wouldn't have gotten myself all swept up...and now where would I be?

I think Nick is perfect for me, but I believe more in The 26 than in The One. But at this point, it's impossible for me to imagine my life any different than it is.

But it could have turned out any number of ways.

Life is random? Fate plays a role? Depends on the day?

What's your outlook?

One way to go about it

You know, it's so weird that this skin cancer scare happened this week, because I had just been thinking how Nick probably needs to have a tiny little heart attack in order to radically change his eating habits.

Not a big one. Just more of a shock.

I'm not saying I was wishing for it, or that I think it's a good idea. I'm just saying, it typically takes something big like that to effect major and sudden change.

I didn't tell him I was thinking this. Although now he knows. Sorry, Nick. I hope you know how I mean it.

But what it reminded me of was when I was leaving San Diego to move to DC, which also meant ending my very-serious-talking-about-getting-married relationship with my boyfriend. Because San Diego was his dream, and he was never leaving.

We're still friends, and he's still there, with an amazing house, gorgeous wife, beautiful kids. 

I had a very good friend named Kristen - who also still lives there - a research psychologist I'd met at work. We used to run on the bay together. She started trying very hard to convince me not to leave.

And one day, a couple weeks before I left, she said, "I know! I what needs to happen?"

"What?"

"He needs to get into an accident. One that's just life-threatening enough that it triggers your maternal instinct. You'll be protective, and you'll realize that you don't want to lose him, that you can't live without him."

"Huh."

"If you want, I'll hit him with my car. I really think this would do it."

Now. It's not like she'd really have done it. But when someone with a doctorate in psychology tells you something about human nature, it really makes you think. You know?

My boyfriend and I were very close, even though I was moving out and away, and so when I got home I shared this outlandish idea. I was sure he would find the suggestion as hilarious as I did.

Instead, he got all twitchy and said, "Keep Kristen far away from me. She's not running me over with her car."

I don't think he ever regarded her the same way again.

You never know with people.

Rules for Crazy: A public service sort of post

The intro: My friend Mark, who is a criminal defense lawyer in Houston, created the list of rules I've posted below. He's an incredibly accomplished lawyer, and one of my high school friends, and the original owner of the skinny jeans.

I read his post and was all, ohmygod this is exactly right and where were you five years ago, when I embarked on my Find Love on the Internet mission?

The truth is, I didn't really recognize The Crazy back then, so even if anyone had said, "Run!" I'd have been all, "But I can fix him! And then he'll love me forever!" Ha.

But I do kind of feel like Match.com should have this list and you should have to tick a box saying you've read and understood it before you can go forward in your profile. Kind of like making sure you have condoms on hand. Just in case.

Does that analogy work? I'm not sure.

Anyway. His title says Borderline Personality, but I'd say insert any kind of crazy, print them out, and stick them on the fridge. Or in a desk drawer in your office.

Because The Crazy? It is everywhere.

10 Practical Rules for Dealing with the Borderline Personality

I get to deal with a whole lot of crazy at work. The following rules are applicable to lots of flavors of crazy, but I've had a heavy dose of borderline personalities lately. So here are my ten rules for dealing with borderline personalities and other crazy people:

1. If you don't have to deal with a crazy person, don't.
2. You can't outsmart crazy. You also can't fix crazy. (You could outcrazy it, but that makes you crazy too.)
3. When you get in a contest of wills with a crazy person, you've already lost.
4. The crazy person doesn't have as much to lose as you.
5. Your desired outcome is to get away from the crazy person.
6. You have no idea what the crazy person's desired outcome is.
7. The crazy person sees anything you have done as justification for what she's about to do.
8. Anything nice you do for the crazy person, she will use as ammunition later.
9. The crazy person sees any outcome as vindication.
10. When you start caring what the crazy person thinks, you're joining her in her craziness.

What do you think? Anything you would add?

Perils of semi-non-anonymous personal blogging

Yesterday and the intersection of life and dating and personal blogging got me thinking about something I didn't dare share with you at the time.

Mainly because I thought, what if he's now checking my blog to see if I write about this? And then he gets mad and it gets all terrible?

But I think enough time has passed that I've likely been long forgotten.

So.

Way back in the fall of 2007, I went on an extremely awkward date and I wrote about it.

Nothing unusual there, as we all know.

And then, nearly a year later, DC Blogs very kindly linked to this post about how my husband said he loved me more than I loved him.

Really, it was about ear hair more than love.

Anyway. I was all flattered, and oh, wow, they like me! And yes, honey, I do love you tremendously but for God'ssakethedreadearhair!

And then the next day I got an email from a guy whose name sounded vaguely familiar...

Who, in a nutshell, said: I clicked on an interesting-sounding link on DC Blogs. And the picture in the sidebar looked familiar. So I searched my email for Lisa, and realized we had gone on a date, and then wondered if you'd written about it...

Of course my stomach kind of froze. Because I knew exactly who this was and what I'd written.

(And also, really? Am I that recognizable through scarf and dark glasses? So much for International Woman of Mystery.)

He went on to say that he discovered he was, and I quote, "mr. can't talk about the weather but not a d*ck!!!" He added that the post was very entertaining, and that he didn't think he was an awkward conversationalist, but who knows.

So I thought, oh, relief. He's not angry. And maybe he wasn't as awkward as I'd remembered.

Until I read the PS: "I'm involved, so this is not an attempt at a date."

I believe that's all there is to say about that.

What if I had been born fifty years before you in a house on a street where you lived?

Two years ago tonight, luck slid, in sly silver rivulets, under my door.

It had been so long, I didn't recognize it immediately.

I arrived in a hurry, warm and um, glowing, five minutes late. Nick was already there, seated on a couch, beer in hand.

I entered pulling off hat and scarf, smoothing hair, scanning the room. He saw me first, and began standing, just as my sweep fell on him. I started at couch height, and then tilted my head up and up as he stood.

I've told this story before.

But what I don't think I've explained is that I almost closed the curtain on my luck as it pitter pattered on my window panes.

Because, you see, I canceled our first first date, which was to be several days prior.

It was dark and chilly and rainy and I felt like I was coming down with a cold. It was a grim night for a first date.

And really, I thought, if he doesn't bore the tar out of me, I'm going to loathe him. He won't be as cute as his pictures. He'll be humorless in person. Or I'll hate his teeth. Or his voice. Or we'll scrape for conversation, turning, in desperation, to reptiles.

Or, best and worst case scenario, I'll really really like him, which means he'll be irreparably damaged, and wind up hurting me whether he means to or not.

And once again, that will be that.

Really, those seemed the only options.

But we rescheduled, and on another rainy night, I headed out for my last first date.

I saw him and he stood and smiled and held out his hand. And I smiled back, and put my hand in his.

And with that small motion, I unlocked the door and threw it wide for my luck to pour in.

Swimming, weightlessness, hot tubbing, and learning experiences

We invited ourselves out to our friend Jonathan's pool on Saturday.

He was spending the day doing yard work, and asked if we could pick up a friend of his on our way.

So we brought the friend. And our laundry. Because our dryer situation, it is not yet resolved. Not because of disagreement. But rather because everyfuckingthing this year is at least five goddamn times harder than it has to be.

Jonathan, he is family. I have known him since I was born. He's the one who organized the bagpiper for my dad's memorial.

Come to think of it, he's the one who took the mandals picture.

He's also the best host you can imagine.

So we called and said, "Hi, can we come swim in your pool? And can we bring our sheets and towels and do laundry? Oh, and since we have no idea where in god's name we've packed them, can we use your beach towels? And will you hang out with us while we're there?"

And he was all, absolutely! And I'll give you beverages and snacks and suntan lotion!

It was spec-tac-ular.

The pool is in the sun, with these lovely slate tiles around it. And on the side is a hot tub is raised above it, made of the same slate. It cascades water into the pool. Gorgeous.

It was the first time in months that I have felt great. Not just OK, but great. Lithe and agile and just fantastic.

We swam, we paddled, we floated, we lounged in the sun.

And then we got in the hot tub. We turned on the jets but no heat, so as not to cook the kid. Being shallow and in the sun, it was slightly warm. Much like being in a kiddie pool you know nobody has peed in.

Nick and I floated, and they sat on the side, feet in, drinking beer and chatting.

So somewhere along the way we started talking about water and boats and pool maintenance and hot tubs.

Nick said he'd had a hot tub at his place in Alabama.

And even though I like to think I'm not a jealous person, I don't really want to dwell on his dating shenanigans. Plus I envision his life in Alabama to be kind of cheesy, and so of course, all the women are too.

This is grounded in absolutely nothing. It's just because I am bitchy like that.

So I was internally rolling my eyes all, of course you did.

And then he told us his hot tub dating strategy.

He'd invite women over for a third or fourth date, and he'd tell them he was making fajitas. And this stream of women, they would always show up with Coronas or Dos Equis to go with fajitas.

And they'd have a couple beers - Mexican! so exotic! - and he'd take them on a house tour, and then they'd be all "Ooh! A hot tub!"

In my vague recollection, after some liquor a hot tub always seems like a better idea than it actually is. So I could totally see this.

He'd feign surprise at their enthusiasm, and suggest they get in. But the only thing was, he'd say, unfortunately, you simply couldn't wear clothing in the hot tub. Because it would clog the filter.

Nick was clearly delighted with himself. He was all, "It always worked!"

At the same time I was all, "It's a lie? I thought it was about the fibers and detergent?! And delicate filtration system??"

"Oh, Lis. Sweetie."

Men and dating and age

Last night I wound up watching this horrendous Millionaire Matchmaker show.

I got sucked into it for one specific reason: one of the two guys featured as these fabulous millionaire catches was 39. And refused to date anyone older than 28 or 29 - I don't remember the exact age, but just under 30.

Because, of course, he's so "young and heart" and active and fit and blah blah blah. His last girlfriend was 21 - and it hadn't worked out because he just "wasn't ready." But women 30 or over just wouldn't be able to keep up.

The millionaire matchmaker woman, who I quite liked, surprisingly enough - this pissed her off. She was determined to set him up with hot women over 30 and teach him a lesson - he could fall for someone over 30! Which ultimately didn't work.

But what this made me think of was Match, which I got on - the first of many on and off three-month stints - when I was 35. What I learned was this. Because you have to put in your birth date, and the age you're searching for, there is a huge focus on age.

Or maybe there was always this huge focus on age in the real world, and somehow, I'd almost always just been in serious relationships with younger men and I'd always been oblivious.

And then reality hit me on the Internet, and hard.

Turns out 30 is a cutoff age for lots of men. Then 35 is the next jump, I think.

I'd get emails from guys older than me whose cutoff age was younger - sometimes much younger. And they'd express such surprise. You're so hot! And you're this age!

Um, thanks?

I didn't actually feel flattered when I was 37 and some guy my age, whose profile said he was looking for someone 21-29, contacted me.

Rather, I felt like - and sometimes said, "Listen, if you're looking for a 21 year old, you're definitely not looking for me."

A couple times, I actually asked guys if they really, genuinely, were open to dating an 18-year old, being in their mid-30s and all.

But for the most part, I just didn't write back. Really, if you think you want someone that young, you don't want me, no matter how I look. Because I'm so much more settled in who I am and so much less tolerant of ridiculousness than someone really, really young.

What it did, though, as I turned 36 and 37 - particularly 37, which was a craptacular year - was serve to make me feel bad about myself.

The Dementor started it, saying that since I was 36, he'd have to worry about me wanting to settle down and have kids. You know, because I was getting old. And then of course, from that minute on, I was just getting older. As you do.

And then so many men made comments - by email or on actual first dates - about how surprising it was that I was this old, this attractive, and still single.

This old. This old this old.

Honestly, it's what I eventually found so demoralizing about the Internet dating. Who needs a constant reminder of how shocking it is that you're single, never married, and this old?

Coming from men your age or older than you?

Obviously, it's not every single person. I met guys my age and younger who made no issue of it. I met Nick, and he thought I was fabulous. He never once mentioned my age.

But once it was there, it was there.

Honestly, age is the only thing you really can't change about yourself, no matter how hard you try. But making you all about your age is something I just don't understand.

While I think it's stupid, we all have our own thoughts on ideal. The only terrible thing, really, is to make someone else feel bad about where they are, just because of your own parameters.

You want what you think you want. Whether it's working for you or not.

How to make me feel extremely stupid in three to seven floors

There was that guy that I went on a few dates with several years ago. And then bumped into in my office building.

The other day we were in the elevator together. This has happened a number of times. And each time, I feel like there's this deliberate not looking.

So I decided to just say something. So in the future we could say hello as polite acquaintances.

This time, it was just the two of us. We stood in the lobby silently, got in the elevator at the same time, moved to opposite walls, and he became very intent on his BlackBerry.

So I said, "Hey! I think we know each other!"

And he looked me up and down. Slowly, deliberately, assessingly.

With his mouth he said - although sneered really was closer to the truth, "Really? And how would we know each other?"

But with his face and eyes he said, "I assure you there's no way I know anyone who would wear a pink hat and coat together. And are you actually tromping around in clogs?"

Because he is always dressed in the kind of carefully, seemingly casually put together European-y way that you know is labor intensive. My ass his hair doesn't take more time than mine in the morning.

Not that it wouldn't behoove me to spend more time on my hair. Also, on another topic, he probably doesn't use the word tromp.

But anyway.

His response caught me so off guard. I never know what to do with what seems like deliberate dickishness.

I considered saying, "Well. Once you bought me drinks. And once you took me out for dinner. And once you kissed me - very awkwardly, I might add. And we never went out again."

But I didn't. Because then it occurred to me that maybe he doesn't remember. That would make things even more awkward.

And maybe he thought I was hitting on him! And not only that, but clearly he thought I wasn't attractive enough to even chat with in the elevator!

This sequence of thoughts made me all flustered.

And so I said, "We, um, we used to bump into each other in the neighborhood."

Same casual, dubious voice. "And what neighborhood would that be?"

So I told him where I lived, and he confirmed it was right around the corner from him.

Which I knew. Meany butt wiener face.

By then I'd: 1. recovered enough to say, "I thought you looked familiar." and 2. to realize my floor was fast approaching.

This was a dumb thing to do, but at my floor I pushed back my hair with my sparkly ring hand and said, "But then I got married and moved to Virginia! Bye!"

Dread.Ful.

And the next time we're in the elevator together? I've never seen him in my entire life.