Write From the Heart: True Tales of Love and Loss

A Soulful of Goodness

2009-08-04T00:57:00.000-04:00

You know how there are moments, when you just feel like life is good? Like all is right in the world, and you are where you belong - surrounded by love and sweetness and all that is love and hope and warmth and light?

The doctor and I had one of those moments the other night. We had spent the evening eating pizza and watching a British political thriller we rented from netflix. Afterward he took out his guitar. He played, and I sang along to Don McClean, and the Sundays, and Jem, and more I can't remember, and then we climbed into bed and read aloud from a book we bought together in the bookstore - a daily intellectual devotional - that teaches you something new every day. I think the topic was the Bust of Nefertiti, or maybe Hamurabi's code. I can't remember now.

When he set the book down, I pulled myself in close to him an he wrapped his arms around me tight, and just held me like that for maybe five minutes. I don't know what it was about that moment, but my heart just started to pound. I was just so overcome with the love and the goodness of all of it. The comfortable warmth of his embrace and the feeling of sharing our lives and our thoughts and the deepest part of our souls. I knew he felt it too.

When I pulled away, I looked up at him and he leaned in to kiss me. And all of that goodness and love became passion that spread like electricity between us. I couldn't get enough of him - I wanted his skin on my skin, his lips on my lips. Our tongues danced and teased, our pulses quickened, and our skin warmed and tingled with every touch and caress, and we made love like there was nothing else in the world but us. It was wonderful.

As we lay basking in the afterglow, I couldn't help but tell him how I felt.

"This feels really good," I blurted out. "Do you feel it?"
"That depends on what "this" is."
"This moment. Us. Lying here. Being together. Planning our lives."
"I was just thinking the same thing."

Lessons in Internet Dating

2009-07-29T00:00:00.000-04:00

I got a funny email from my X recently. He joined an internet dating service he tells me, and he was wondering what my experience was like.

What? My first reaction was don't you have anyone else to ask about their internet dating experiences besides your x-wife? But I know the answer to that question. No he doesn't.

And I hate to be mean, but ladies he-- and men like him--are the reason that most of your internet dates are flops. Oh yes, he is relatively good-looking. He is well educated, has no kids, and loves dogs. Sounds like a catch!

And he is. If you don't mind the fact that he is unemployed, wears the same socks and underwear for days on end (and does not think that is gross), lets the muddy dogs up all over the couch, and has slept in a bed that the cat has peed on without changing the sheets on more than one occasion. In addition, he almost never leaves the house except to walk the dogs, is a pack-a-day smoker, and has nothing in the refrigerator except beer and bowtie pasta and tomato sauce.

Sigh. These are the things you will only find out after several dates, and perhaps you will even find them endearing ... or be able to look past them, like I did, for several years. But these are the men who are on the internet.

Now I know what you're thinking. I met the doctor on the internet didn't I? He is not a flop? Well, yes it's true. But he did not have a profile. He found me. And women are much more hopeful and honest than men. And I think he was a rare anomaly in the online dating world.

So when asked about my experiences, I told him as much.
"I received plenty of emails," I told him. " Most of the men were too old, too young, too ugly or completely uneducated. A few of them seemed possible, but then they often never went beyond a few emails - and when they did, it usually didn't lead to much. The guys I did meet were nice enough, but boring. It was no wonder the didn't meet anyone in real life."

He told me he had put up one of my favorite pictures of him - a picture I had taken at the beach with our three puppies in his arms -- and gotten so many emails he couldn't respond. I told him not to get too excited. But I decided to be encouraging. "You're attractive, smart, don't have a crazy X-wife and a big child support check to write, and you love dogs. What's not to like? Now just get a job and quit smoking and they'll wonder why I ever let you go!"

In case you are wondering why I let him go, re-read paragraph 4. But I do genuinely want him to be happy, and there is someone for everybody, right? He responded to my encouraging words by saying that he hoped to meet someone who liked him for who he was, not how much money he made (read: zero) but that yes, maybe quitting smoking was a good idea. I decided not to tell him that I would never date any man who was unemployed, unless he was independently wealthy and set for life. I think I can comfortably speak for most women when I say that while I am not looking for a man to support me, I am not looking to support a man either. I kept that to myself and instead I just wished him good luck.

A few days later he confessed that I had been right - most of the responses were ridiculously poor matches - but there were two that seemed promising, and he had been emailing them. One was younger - in her late twenties (he is 45, go figure) and has no children. The other was in her thirties with children. One of them asked for a picture of him without sunglasses on -- and he asked me if I would take it.

Again, shouldn't someone else be doing that? Can't you figure out how to use the auto timer on the camera? Is it not a little strange to ask your x-wife to take the photos for your internet dating profile? I hedged a little but said I would do it.

I came over later. He had already figured out the camera and done it himself he said. I think he knew I was secretly glad. Then he asked me something else.

"So what would you think if a guy accidentally sent you an email he wrote to someone else?"
"What? Did you do that?"
He nodded.
"Would you be pissed?" He asked.
Um, hell yeah. I'm pretty darn sure I wouldn't have much interest after that.
"I'm sure she'll understand," I told him.

Some things you just have to figure out for yourself.

I made up my mind- but I need to throw up first

2009-07-07T02:43:00.001-04:00

I have thought long and hard about this. My stomach has been in knots since I left him lying in bed, staring sleepily at me, wondering if I was angry (I wasn't. Hurt and confused and frustrated perhaps– but not really angry). And those knots, they have been tightening with my resolve to speak my mind. Tightening because I don't know what he will say. I don't know if he will be hurt, or if he will understand. Or if he will beg me to change my mind.

Or if he will say, "Okay," with the ambivalence in his voice he had that morning I sat next to him on the bed and said I was leaving. An Okay that said he knew something was up, but he wasn't going to talk me out of it. That he would let me go and work it out.

I think I have worked it out.

Before Indiana we had hit a few rough patches. He was tired from working all the time. I was tired of working all the time, and we were both feeling the strain of trying to make our shared life and schedules work. I was insecure about our relationship, and although I didn't doubt his commitment, I was doubtful of his ability to walk away if he needed to. His resolve to call it quits if he thought I wasn't the one.

And I needed to know he could be honest – even if it might hurt. After all, that seemed to be the pattern I had gotten myself into on a regular basis – men who didn't love me, but didn't have the guts to say so. I was terrified of being trapped in that situation again, and I was looking for any signs that he might have changed his mind, signs that I should make a break for it before my heart was trampled on. And that made my trust in the relationship tenuous at best.

Yet he had invited me to spend two weeks with his kids and his parents in his childhood home. That seemed like a pretty big step. It seemed like the sort of thing that means something. But by contrast, he never so much as took my hand in front of his children. His daughter told me she thought we were just friends, and as far as I could tell, his friends knew nothing other than we were dating. Not that I was anyone particularly special or meaningful in his life. When I flew to Hawaii for work, he dropped me off at the airport and said a perfunctory goodbye. It was the longest we would be apart since we met. I was crushed. Little by little these small observances fueled my secret fears that he had doubts, and that made me very wary of handing over all of myself to him– and to the relationship-- completely.

My hypersensitivity to what I perceived as indifference was the source of a number of petty squabbles, and misunderstandings. My feelings were always on the surface of every discussion, and therefore recklessly and needlessly getting hurt.

My friends didn't think Indiana was such a good idea. Two weeks with his parents? They asked. What if you are miserable? What will you do? This is a recipe for disaster they cautioned.

But I didn't agree. This was an opportunity. This was a test. This was the only way I would ever know his family, and really get to know who he was when he was with them. This was a chance for me to see how I fit in. To see if they could be my family too. It was also a chance to spend an extended period together as a couple-something as of yet we'd never been able to do- and to probe what it might be like to do that on a full time basis, instead of the snatches of time we cobbled together between our work and friends, and his parental responsibilities. This was a chance to see if *we* could be a family, and be happy. I took it.

And it was wonderful. We got up late and made breakfast. We sat around and watched TV. We drank wine on the deck, and played slip and slide on the grass in the backyard. I taught the girls how to do cartwheels and we giggled while doing summersaults down a modest hill until we were dizzy. We went to the water park, and the shopping mall, and rode bikes around the neighborhood. It was good. It was all I had hoped and more.

In fact, it inspired me. When we came home, I couldn't imagine going back to the old way of life. I wanted us to be a family every day. I wanted us to move in together, and I told him so.

We had talked about moving in together before. He was actually the first one to bring it up. It was only a couple months into the relationship when he told me he thought about living together every time I went home. I was touched. At first we thought that maybe he could live with me, or I could live with him, but neither of our places was really suitable for two – much less four. And then I decided it was too soon. I wasn't yet divorced and I wanted that chapter in my life closed before I began a new one. I told him I wanted to wait until my lease was up in October, and then we could proceed, assuming of course that his divorce should be well under way by then too.

But now, in the afterglow of this new family life, everything felt different. Now I felt we had moved beyond the casual dating stage. I felt we had left behind the separate lives that met for drinks or dinner or coffee and kept toothbrushes and t-shirts at the other person's apartment. I didn't want to go back. I wanted to move forward. I wanted this man in my life every day- from grocery shopping to laundry – to sex on our very own kitchen floor.

But that was before reality sunk its claws back in.

A two week vacation is not real life. Devoid of the pressures of work and hostile spouses, and real mommies, life was good. We were good. But back at home the nagging voice inside me that kept picking at my happiness was asking me if I had all the details. If I knew what lay in store for me, and if I was truly on board.

It started with the phone calls. For some time the Doctor had all but stopped answering the phone when she called. He didn't want to talk to her. He had nothing to say. When they did speak, I could here him answering her in short direct sentences meant to convey the minimal amount of information in a manner devoid of personal affection. But she kept at it, constantly trying to engage him in a casual banter that he clearly resented. Pressing blithely for a friendly relationship that was completely at odds with her sense of entitlement for monetary remuneration for their marriage. At odds with her selfish desire to strip him of everything he had worked for in order to satisfy her own personal need for financial security and comfort. At odds with the fact that this behavior was impeding the formal dissolution of their marriage, and making him terribly unhappy. Why, I imagine she wondered to herself, should everyone not give her everything she desired, and be happy about it too?

In Indiana these phone calls became more frequent. Every morning and every evening, and sometimes in between. Sometimes she talked to the Doctor, sometimes she would call the house and talk to her in-laws, always under the guise of talking to the girls. Given the unpleasant circumstances she was creating for me, listening to any friendliness between the adults was like ants crawling all over my skin. I felt certain that she knew it, and that this was a deliberate intimidation tactic. A pissing on the proverbial territory so to speak. These are my children, and my in-laws, and (still) my husband she seemed to shout at me through the phone. I was here first she reminded me, lest I forget my place, and think she was out of the picture. But I swallowed my bitterness, and told myself to pick my battles. This was a temporary an immature outburst borne of insecurity

But he kept calling even after we came back. She wanted to talk about the divorce the Doctor told me. Her boyfriend was leaving her, and she felt insecure, and as a result he thought she was softening and becoming more agreeable to the terms of their separation. I was highly suspicious.

And so when he called me one morning on his way home from work, exhausted and complaining bitterly about the previous nights unbearable overnight shift at the hospital, he made the mistake of bringing her up.

"And in the middle of it all, she called and wanted to talk about thing," He said.
My ears caught on fire. What things? I demanded to know. Had she agreed to anything? Was she working? Was she making any contribution? Why couldn't the lawyers come up with a settlement? Why wouldn't they talk to each other? They were taking the house off the market? Was the divorce contingent on the sale of the house? Would they still be married three years from now?

Until now I had been careful to back off at a certain point – I didn't push too hard when it came to the terms of the divorce because I knew it upset him. He wanted to be a good father and spare his children the ugliness of a court battle. As the child of parents who ended their marriage in a particularly nasty court battle, I could appreciate that. But this time I was unrelenting. I needed answers to these questions. We were about to move in together and I could not keep looking the other way. What if six months from now, or a year from now I found myself living with him, and no progress had been made? Living with a married man, who had no real prospect of divorce because she refused to agree to anything less than impoverishing us for the rest of our natural lives? Making it impossible for us to support children of our own?

And then I asked myself some hard questions. What was I really willing to give up? What did I want?

I want marriage and children. I want a family. If I am to take on a parental role to his children, I want a say in how they are raised and I want my opinion to be respected. I want him to consider what that private catholic school costs us in terms of building a future for ourselves, and re-think the excellent public schools that are free, and just as good, if less elitist. I don't want to be an accessory to his marriage to her. I refuse to do it. I want to be first in line at least some of the time.

As I mulled this all over, I realized that so far, I have just fit in to his plans. Nothing has had to change for me. Nobody made any sacrifices to accommodate me, and I made no demands. I was willing to stay in the same city because he couldn't leave his kids. In fact I even acquiesced to living in the same part of town, because even though the other side of town has great houses for rent and wonderful public schools, they simply couldn't be asked to drive an hour to school when they were with him—and God forbid they change schools. My suggestions that he try taking them on weekends only fell on deaf ears. The idea that we might live in another city and he have them for vacations or fly them out for weekend visits unheard of (and possibly prohibitively expensive). The idea that he might fight for custody was immediately dismissed.

Nothing and no one had any flexibility but me. I was the only one willing to bend. And I was willing to do that – without complaint –as long as I got the one thing I wanted in return: a free man who planned to have more children with me.

Without that I don't know if I can live with them getting everything and me getting the scraps. His responsibilities toward her and the kids come first. It's not his fault. But I need to be a very close second, and in many cases an equal consideration. I don't know if I can accept it. any other way. I don't know if I can live me life deferring to the first wife and family without the bitterness and resentment eating me up. I am pretty certain I can't.

And so I made up my mind. I can't move in with him until there is some resolution about the divorce. I can't move forward until they have made peace and are willing to let me be a positive part of the relationship, or until he is willing to put his foot down and cut her out. Until he is willing to say, I love this woman and she is part of my future. She deserves something too, and I am willing to fight for it.

But even though I have come to this resolution it is breaking my heart. Because I don't want to give ultimatums. I don't want to lose him. But I have settled for less than I deserve for too many years and I can't do that again. This is my last chance. There is no time to spend years negotiating or hoping things will change. They won't. I have to ask for what I want. So I am asking. But I am scared to death, and my heart is tight in my chest . My stomach aches and a wave of depressive tiredness hangs over me like a cloud. I am sadder than it has ever been. But I am hoping for the best.

The things I can't say

2009-07-06T00:27:00.001-04:00

You are probably thinking I am avoiding you. I am. You called twice today. The first time I had gotten up from my pool chair to go to the bathroom and left the phone behind. The second time I was actually in the pool trying to drown my frustrations in two miles of repetitive motion. Both times I checked my phone after I got back. You didn't leave a message, so I decided to let you sweat a little.

I know you know I am upset. You're like that – really good at knowing and anticipating my emotional reaction. And I imagine you feel badly. But I don't know what to say to you. I don't know if I should swallow the lump that is rising in my heart and in my throat and threatening to destroy us. I don't know how to get past what seems more and more to be a permanent roadblock.

A "deal breaker", that's what they call it. Something you just can't live with – something you just can't get past. And I think I may have found one.

Just a week ago we were basking in the glow of the promise of new home – a place we would live together and make a life of our own. But they gave the house with the porch and the basketball hoop to the other couple –the one with the golden retriever locked in the back of their blue Eddie Bauer Subaru Outback. You said it was no big deal. Fair's fair. They could take the place sooner. They offered a longer lease. No big deal.

But it was a big deal. It was a sign that this road couldn't be so easy. That life was just not going to let us ride off into the sunset without a fight. But I am so tired of fighting. The thought of the struggle ahead made me cry. It made me cry all night until you came over and held me and made me feel better. Made me feel foolish and petty for resenting the happy couple and their dog. For resenting the twenty-something landlord and his glowing pregnant wife, who had the power to choose between us and them. Between easy and hard.

But now I think I am beginning to see it was all for the best. We can't have the house with the porch and the basketball hoop. We can't make a home and a family. We can't do anything because we are stuck. Stuck like waders in hip-deep mud. Stuck because of her. Maybe the would-be landlord and the swollen belly by his side could sense it.

Yesterday I thought I could come over and make you feel better. I thought I could cheer you up and we'd make love and everything would be alright. But you told me I couldn't make it better and I went to bed alone and frustrated. I dreamed all night about you. I dreamed that I was trying to give you something and you wouldn't take it. Or you would accept it and then accidentally leave it behind. And all throughout the dream I kept chasing after you trying to give you the thing you'd forgotten. As the dream wore on I became more and more upset by your carelessness and I began to think you didn't want it, but every time I would ask you if you wanted it you would say yes – enthusiastically. But I didn't believe you.

It doesn't take a genius to psychoanalyze that. I give and you say it's just what you want. But you leave me behind, over and over again. And when I ask you are you sure, you say definitely, without a doubt – but your choices tell me a different story.

Like the way you always diminish our relationship to your friends and family. You once became annoyed when a told you a friend of mine joked about the intelligence and height of our future children. "That's awfully presumptuous of her," you snapped. "I don't know what you tell your friends but I don't go around saying we are getting married and having children." I was speechless at the time-and heartbroken really. I had said nothing of the sort in fact – just that you made me happy and that I could see myself with you for a very long time. Your words wounded me deeply and caught me so off-guard I couldn't respond. The sting stayed with me for weeks to come.

You waylaid my fears, only to re-ignite them on a regular basis. When your parents asked you "what's the deal?" You said you didn't know. When your daughter asked if I was your girlfriend, you seemed to think she didn't need to know. And when one of your closest friends recently inquired about us, you say "we're thinking about moving in together." Thinking about it? We were ready to sign the lease on a house last week. I thought we were done thinking about it. Why can't you say to them what you say to me?

But I can let all those little slips go – chalk it up to nervousness about what your friends and family might think. Worries that they might say it's too soon, or it's too fast, or how well do you really know her? I have them to. But I tell them the truth. That I love you, and that you are the piece of my life that was missing. I have no need to wait.

Except that I do – need to wait that is. Because you can't seem to get her out of your life. She calls and calls and calls. You talk about money and selling the house and children's school tuition, and months go by and you're still no further than you were before. There is no resolution in sight. No end to this marriage and your financial and personal obligations that are greater than your means. No end to the uncertain future for us.

And therein lies the deal breaker. It is one of life's cruelest jokes that I should find a man I could love so deeply, trust so completely, whose heart resonates with my own, but is nevertheless bound to another woman and the family he made with her; dangled like a carrot in front of my face, just out of reach of my grasp.

I need to move forward. I need the promise of a man who is mine, who will give me children and a family that is ours. I cannot wait much longer. And so here I am. wondering if I should do what my heart tells me I should, even though it's bound to break it. I am wondering if I have the strength to say what I don't want to – that I cannot move in with you. That perhaps, even, I can no longer be with you. Not right now. Not until there is an end in sight.

This morning when I woke up I reached for you and held you while you were sleeping. I secretly wished you would wake up and kiss me. I wished that despite your exhaustion and lack of sleep that you would be overcome by desire. But instead you told me to get in the shower. She would be coming to bring the kids. And something inside me snapped. I couldn't take it. Not today. I couldn't see her. I couldn't see them. I couldn't dig deeper and give more, and play the step-mother. I couldn't face the woman and her children who robbed have me of yours and mine. Who will always come first and will leave nothing left over for us.

So I went to the pool, to beat my anger and sadness into the water and I couldn't answer the phone because I have nothing to say. Nothing I can say that won't break my heart further.

Family Ties

2009-06-11T00:43:00.001-04:00

I once told the doctor that I was falling in love with his children. And its true. I adore them. The older one is a bit on the spoiled side, but sensitive and emotional. I can relate. The younger is a firecracker, and cute as a button.

I'm really not the sort of woman who saw her primary role in life to be a mother. In fact I detested just those sorts of women. In fact when Jennifer Garner, declares in the movie Juno " I was born to be a mom" I just about threw up. But somewhere in my early thirties all baby-hating went out the window and my stance on mommyhood softened.

I began to look longingly and mothers cradling their newborns. I would smile at fathers carrying infants in backpacks, or pushing pink-cheeked toe-headed toddlers. I wanted to hold them and smell their little baby smells, and when I heard their little voices calling mommy, I secretly fantasized about my little one, climbing in my lap and calling for me.

Don't think this wasn't shocking. And it was nothing if not purely biological -- but regardless of the origins of my sudden designs on motherhood, I could not deny they existed and growing stronger.

In fact, they were one of the primary reasons I left my marriage. I could not fathom making a family with this man - and I desperately wanted a family.

One of the things I find most attractive about the Doctor is his sense of family - and a paternal aptitude that is off the scale. He loves those little girls with just the right amount of tenderness and firmness. They result is they are well-behaved and well-adjusted and know in no uncertain terms that they are unconditionally loved. The way he is with them - his skill as a father - is one of the things I most admire in him.

But there is no doubt, that being around those little girls has done nothing to quell the burning need for children of my own. If anything, my constant interactions with them have made the problem worse. They hug and kiss me goodnight, we read books together, and they crawl in my lap and cuddle. During our recent trip to his hometown, the older of the two told me that since I would probably be her step-mom, that made me sort of like her mom, and then proceeded to call me mommy at every opportunity, in front of everyone. The younger enthusiastically joined in.

Of course, I was mortified. Not that she would actually want to call me that -- I found that flattering actually -- but that the Doctor and his parents might think that I had encouraged this. And truth be told, I probably had some guilt about it, because I secretly liked it. It tapped into all my deep and hidden longings to be called mommy.

He had a talk with them -- and in no uncertain terms told them to stop. How would their real mommy feel to hear that? He asked.

I confess that stung a bit. Their *real* mommy. I was just the fake mommy. The stand in mommy. I was just for fun and games and make believe. I wasn't real.

This is one of those moments when you know someone is right but that the words hurt to hear. Because even though I never had any intention of attempting to take the place of the *real* mommy, I had begun to feel that I was wearing the mommy role, and that I deserved to be recognized. We were making a family, and if I wasn't part mommy, then what was I?

It also reminded me how badly I wanted to be someones real mommy. I wanted a real baby to grow in my belly, and I wanted that baby to suckle my breast and coo at my voice, and tug at my leg and crawl into my lap and call me mommy. I wanted it so bad it hurt.

But after the doctor's youngest was born, he had had a vasectomy. It was a hasty decision because of a medical problem that made it to risky for his wife to have any further children. She should have had her tubes tied, he told me once, but she couldn't be bothered and so he did the responsible thing and took care of it.

The responsible thing that robbed me of having his children, and is a source of anguish for me every day.

As it turns out, vasectomies can be reversed, but it's expensive and delicate surgery. And it's not always effective - less and less so the longer you wait. If I had my druthers he'd be on that operating table right now taking care of it. But he has expressed reservations at going under the knife again, and financially - if his insurance won't cover it - it is a burden we can't bear right now.

So when he asked his daughter how it might make their real mommy feel, inside I was screaming, "who cares how she feels? Because of her I may never get to be a real mommy to your children, and If it makes her feel bad to hear her children call me mom, then I'm not going to lose any sleep over it."

Now I suppose that's just hurtful retaliation on my part, But what can I say. The woman took his sperm, and she has ham stringed him financially so he has no other options. She gets to be the sole bearer of his progeny, which I am certain pleases her greatly. My resentment oozes out from ever pore in my body.

Writefromtheheart gets outed ... sort of

2009-03-20T12:57:00.000-04:00

So a funny thing happened at the end of December. And by funny, I don't mean funny haha, I mean funny in a raised eyebrow sort of way: writefromtheheart's identity was accidentally uncovered.

Well I should think it was rather deliberate on the part of the person doing the uncovering, but accidental on my part for being so stupid. It all started because of an old Craigslist post that had been lingering on the internet ....

In a half-hearted act of quiet loneliness and desperation, I re-posted a version of the ad Berlin had responded to. To be honest, I never really had much intent of responding to anybody unless of course something amazing fell into my inbox. Surprise, surprise, nothing did. But I admit, when you are bored, depressed and single, it can temporarily make you feel better to have interested suitors sending you email, even if they are nobody you'd ever go out with in a million years. At the very least it's somewhat entertaining. However, long after the emails stopped coming, the post was still there and one day somebody found it and did something I never imagined.... he googled it. And guess what came up? That's right folks, this very blog, with the matching parts of the original Berlin Craigslist posting.

So you may be wondering, so what? Now Mr. stalker here has an anonymous Craigslist post and an anonymous blog. Big deal! Well as it turns out I had mentioned on this blog that I had a profile on a certain internet dating website, and based on a few bits of coincidental information included herein, he matched it to my internet dating profile, and then used additional more revealing information in my profile to google me and figure out my real name. And then he sent me an email.

Subject: You were too articulate to be fake, but I had to check
To: pers-950910314@craigslist.org
Date: Thursday, December 25, 2008, 9:37 PM

Dear Writesfromtheheart (with or without the s),

Of course your ad is striking, unique, bla bla bla - I'm sure you've heard that over and over. In the spirit of "trust but verify", I decided to Google some of your phrases. At first, I felt a deep sinking feeling when I found a hit, thinking that I had fallen for a standard cut and paste job. But as quickly as it appeared, the disappointment turned to shock and anticipation as I found that you probably are who you say you are, and that all your writing is as articulate as your posting. Either that or you're one serious psycho, so nuts that you put a ton ........

I've managed to lose the rest of the email ...but needless to say he confesses he has some "strings attached" that need cutting, he found post highly intriguing, and he promises never to make me eat cheap ice cream. I thought that part was rather cute. I wasn't quite sure what to do. Did I reply? Was this guy trouble? Eventually my curiosity got the better of me. I had to see what happened, so I wrote him back.

OMG.
I am not sure what to say at this point. On the one hand I NEVER thought anyone would google that posting and find my blog - and on the other, it's so damn obvious I don't know why I didn't think of it myself. SHIT. I'm sort of freaked out, since those two worlds are totally separate, and the point of the blog was that it was an anonymous outlet of my own rather personal life ... not exactly ALL the information I would probably share a priori to a first date ... if you catch my drift. And presuming I did meet you, and like you - would that mean I couldn't write about you? And what if I started seeing someone else ... you know ... assuming we weren't all serious and committed and the like.. then you could read about THAT too.. and something tells me that would be a little bit weird. And what if I meet you and I think you're a goofball .. then if I write about it its going to hurt your feelings...or you think I'm a nut - then I get to let you read how you hurt MY feelings. This is kind of a problem.

But I am mildly intrigued by the fact that you aren't completely shocked and repelled by my atrocious (at times) , messy (often) and overly-emotional interpretation (constant) of some of my recent life events. Sometimes I wonder if I will one day look back at it and see it all as the somewhat juvenile musings of a grown-up diary. Either that, or I will give up my embarrassment and it will become the next best seller on the chick-lit shelf. Sophie Kinsella look out.

It's really true what they say ... when you start to write what's inside you - it sort of takes on a life of its own, and so YES this would make an incredibly interesting post, and I admit that I absolutley want to use this in a next installment ...so maybe I can protect your identity and you can recind that block on the cutting and pasting. It is really rather a fascinating twist ...

Now what are these strings you are talking about if it's not your wife? A girlfriend? Hmmm. Well I think you know how I might feel about THAT - seeing as I was all trusting and "wait and see how things pan out" before , and as you well know, Berlin is now on the list of men would eagerly push infront of a large, fast-moving vehicle. Don't worry. It's not a long list. But lucky for him he is FAR, FAR AWAY.

Too honest? U freaked out now? Oh well. It's hard to imagine I could say anything shocking to you knowing what you have already read. And since this really still is anonymous, I guess there's not much to worry about. But if you figure out my real name, just don't out me, K?

Oh yea - and I'm not a COMPLETE ice cream snob. In general I'm a total bargain hunter - with food , clothes, gas, everything ...But crappy vanilla or chocolate just sucks, and there is no such thing as a bargain that you didn't like. When you indulge, you might as well go all the way - that's my motto ;-D

WFTH

And here is where it gets scary.

WFTH (except insert real name),

After I sent the first email the lightbulb went off and I figured out who you were. I was going to write again but worried you'd think I'm dangerous or something - though after some of your confessions who knows, maybe someday it would earn me a "You had me at Google". So I'm writing from real me so it's fair - you could now cause me as much if not more problems than I could cause you. Please don't. I won't.

You did a poor job of concealing yourself, but fortunately most are too lazy to figure it out.

I'm permanently separated (8+ years), have a girlfriend, and it is that that is a relationship one could only call the living dead.

Don't out me, I won't out you, worst case we wind up friends. Y'know, someday, I'm going to use that motto of yours against you... :-)

-Tom

Tom-
If you get to use that motto against me, you are a lucky man. But I'm going to be honest - I'm not so sure - for a variety of reasons. For starters I posted that ad a while ago now, and I haven't been blogging a lot, so there is stuff you don't know. Namely that my husband and I are sort of talking again. Dating maybe. I don't know what we're doing to tell you the truth. It's not us back together, and I think we both agree that we need to take a good long break from the pressure of that, but the time apart has had a healing influence and we are in the process of mending some fences. Perhaps it will just be so that we can be better friends. But I don't know. No, there aren't multiple suitors. Berlin sort of broke my heart and other than this person I have been tied to for most of my adult life, I just don't know if I have the strength to do it again. At least for now. I reposted that ad to make myself feel better, or because I am slightly voyeuristic and love reading what people write - not sure really. But I haven't met anyone. A few close calls that fell through. They probably found my blog. Dear lord. So I don't want to give you any false hope. I've sort of started to think I need a break from heartache for a while.

I'm not THAT freaked out. I didn't go to great lengths to protect my identity - I just didn't want to make it easy. For obvious reasons, I don't want employers googling my name looking for my work and finding that blog instead. I really never thought anybody would be digging all that deeply though. Jeesh. I admit that I sort of don't love that you know all about me, since, while I am not all modest and shy and everything, I also sort of like having the power to reveal the details as I see fit. Most people close to me already know all the stuff I write about anyway. Not *everything* but pretty close. When it comes to new people, I kind of like the power of being able to control what they know.

I may go back into that blog and make a few changes just to make it a little bit harder should there be any additional overly enthusiastic googlers out there.

-WFTH

It was more or less the truth. The holidays had been kind of rough on me. I found myself feeling sentimental and nostalgic for a sense of family. My X was the only family I had. We spent Thanksgiving together, then Christmas, and ultimately New Year's Eve, though by then I was starting to come to my senses. I was dating, but the prospects seemed pretty bleak, and I was just confused. Tom and I emailed back and forth a few more times, revealed a few more personal details and swapped photos. I can't say he was really my type and so I let the whole thing drop, and he stopped pursuing me. I sometimes wonder if he is reading this.

A month later I met the doctor, and it was (dare I say it?) love at first sight. More or less anyway... I was crazy about him from date one when we essentially closed down the local Vietnamese restaurant and he impressed me by using chopsticks. He didn't kiss me that night, but he did immediately text message me and tell me he had a great time and would I like to do it again. I was equally enthusiastic, and we texted for a while until he finally said I should call him instead and so I did. And we have barely been out of each other's reach since then.

Once our relationship became serious - which was almost instantaneous- I decided to reveal that I had a blog. I didn't share it with him, I just told him about it. Primarily it was because I didn't want to lie. I would spend several hours on my couch writing and invariably he would ask me how I spent the afternoon.

"Oh just writing." I would say.
"Writing? Are you working on a story?"
"No, not really." This is just for me"
"Like what?"

After a few times of skirting the question, or just making up a bald-faced lie about what I was doing I decided to fess-up.

"Well actually, I have this blog ...." and then I told him that it is a series of personal memoirs and such, mostly about my relationships and my divorce and whatnot. I was deliberately rather vague.
"Is this something you want me to read?" I wavered on this question.
"Ummmmm. Not really. Maybe some day. possibly. I don't know. It's sort of personal. But maybe... or maybe not."
"OK then"

I really wasn't sure if I wanted him to read it. On the one hand I wanted him to know me -- all my faults and flaws. I was tired of being someone I thought I was supposed to be. I wanted to see if he could love me and appreciate the way I was, even with a past as sordid as mine. I wanted him to know about all the cheating and Craigslist, and my whole period of exploration and reinvention. But on the other hand, I was a little worried how he would take it - and assuming he was fine with it, then what? Would he keep reading? And what would that mean for what I could say about us?

We dropped it. But I was truthful from then on about what I was doing when I was blogging - and one day I left the browser window open -- not on purpose -- but I had stopped being very careful. I had ceased to worry about it. He hadn't brought it up again, and I didn't think he was that interested. So I decided not to be secretive.

But apparently I had sparked his curiosity after all, and once he saw my blog name, he couldn't resist. He looked it up one night and read the entire thing from start to finish.

The day after he read the blog, I came over for dinner, completely unaware of his new knowledge of me. He was acting really funny. Avoiding my eyes. Answering my questions shortly. I thought maybe he was mad at me for some unknown transgression. Finally, after he put the kids to bed, we cuddled up in his big oversized chair. Now that he couldn't get away, I asked him what was wrong. And he finally confessed.

"I did something."
"What?"
"It's hard for me to tell you." He was squirming a little, avoiding my stare.
My heart immediately started pounding and my mouth went dry. Oh my God. Did he cheat? Did he meet someone else? Was he unhappy and going to break things off?

I swallowed hard and decided to be brave.
"Why is it so hard? Spit it out."
He squirmed some more. Took a few deep breaths.
"This is really hard. You don't know what it is? You really don't?"
"How could I possibly know? Just tell me."
There was an excruciating pause.
"I read your blog. I saw the name on your computer. I thought you wanted me to read it. SO I did.

I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Shit. I thought it was something serious. We were quiet for a moment while I let this sink in and he waited for me to react.

"So what did you think?" I asked.
"I think you are enormously talented writer. And that there are lots of things you didn't tell me."

The truth is I had already told him a lot. I had told him that while I was living in New York I had a number of affairs - most of which were nothing more than modern-day technology assisted Loooking for Mr. Goodbar one-night stands. I told him about the Craigslist ads. And I told him about Berlin.

He shocked me then by not being shocked. In fact he seemed rather impressed that I asserted my sexual independence in this way, and that I had it in me to go trolling around for sex on the internet . Of course he made sure I didn't think the whole cheating part was OK ( I didn't) or that I thought that was the sort of communication I wanted in my future relationship with him (again, very much did not want that) . But he not only was not repulsed, he wanted details.

This immediately made me embarrassed, because this blog is the only place I have ever uttered any details of any of this period in my life, and the most freely I have ever talked about sex. The truth is I am just not that comfortable talking about sex - something I figured out immediately once I was face to face with someone who was. So eventually I choked up . Which is probably why he was so curious what I had to say about it here.

I think what he found surprised him. I have never actually asked him, but I imagine he thought it was going to be more of those sort of sordid sexual details and less of my emotional fumblings. He told me it mostly made him sad for me, to see how bitter and angry I was over the whole Berlin business. And that he thinks I was completely wrong in expecting something more than what I got - under the circumstances of the relationship we created.

That made me a little uncomfortable. Deep down I agreed. I had been naive and foolish just downright stupid, over and over again. But I didn't want him to see me like that. I wondered how my outpouring of love for Berlin made him feel- now that I felt so strongly for him. Did it cast doubt on my true feelings? Did it make me seem weak and overly emotional? Did it make me seem like a woman who didn't know her own value, having given so much so easily? I was suddenly very self-conscious. I had just given him a glimpse of my innermost thoughts, and now he had the opportunity to critique them. He had the opportunity to see them in their most raw and unedited form. The unfiltered. What would he make of it?

It did begin to give me some insight into his personality though. It became clear, that he saw my actions from a clearly logical perspective. He saw my expectations, my desires and my dreams - and felt they were misguided. He saw everything as a series of logical choices and expectations wanted to right my thinking. But what he couldn't seem to see, was that emotion clouded my judgment. That expectations when it comes to love are not necessarily based in realism and reasonableness. Sometimes we love just because we do - even when it is all wrong for a multitude of reasons. The trick is falling in love with someone who will love you back for all the right ones.

Keys to the Temple

2009-03-15T12:23:00.005-04:00

My good friend Mad Scientist wrote a love letter to her husband for Valentines Day that may be among the most simple and touching things I have ever read. Maybe it's because I know her so well that I found it so moving. I know that she's a lot like me: tough on the outside but a big, sentimental mess of weak and easily-wounded softness underneath. And despite her gallant exterior, thinks twice (or thrice) beore letting individuals probe into the nether reions of her emotional insides.

She and I are different in a lot of ways too. For example, she's much more disciplined, focused, and when provoked, has a tongue sharper than Ginzu knife. I am a classic procrastinator, stare dreamy-eyed and wistful at he computer screen for hours on a regular basis, and when faced with confrontation my mind goes blank and my reservoir of witty retorts evaporates faster than sweat in the Sahara at high noon. In my most flustered and insecure moments I would kill for her powers of sure, swift, and eloquent oral persuasion.

But I like to think that while her shell may be titanium to my lead (read: good for keeping out pesky inquiring x-rays, but little use for deflecting sharp, pointy objects) deep down we're kindred spirits. So when I read her words of affection for her beloved it struck similar chords in my own heart and reminded me of how love drives me, propels me forward, and or better or for worse shapes me heart-and-soul. It made me think about what love means to me and and inspired me to write my own love letter.

It reminded me of how utterly lost I feel without love. How much of it there is inside me. And how desperately I have longed to bestow it on another human male. It made me realize that throughout all my past relationships - all the ridiculous, immature, and utterly desperate behavior I exibited all-too-frequently was nothing other than a manifestation of this immovable fact: I need someone to love. Someone to let me love them. Someone who wants me to love them - needs me to love them.

All my craziness was not about me needing to be loved by someone else - though receiving love is certainly the natural and desirable extension of giving it. But there is a subtle and important difference between craving love from someone else, and desiring them to crave it from you. Hoping that another person would find your presence and contribution to the world so rich and fulfilling that without you in it, all that's left is a dark, airless void. That your love is the light, and the warmth, and the music - and the life-giving breath that fills the lungs.

I suppose that sounds overly dramatic. My X -husband certainly never understood it. I tried to describe it to him once - what I wanted - what I hoped for -- how I wished he felt. The look of exasperation on his face was heartbreaking. He told me I was vain and selfish. He thought I wanted doting and ooohhing and aweing over my amazingness. He called me shallow for what he saw as needing someone to fall all over me to feel loved.

He just didn't get it. I didn't want any of that. I didn't want any outward display of love per se . I simply wanted him to have the deep, inward desire that I would love him that way - in a way that made his whole world shift.

I don't beleive that just anybody shifts your world. These are not small shoes to fill. In my darkest moments I was tempted to accept the fact that maybe the best I would ever do was capture the modest affections of a good man. I'm glad I didn't listen to that devil on my shoulder. It's one of those rare instances when I am rather proud of my obstinance, and my stubborn refusual to give into reason. My inability to accept the ordinary because its more probable than its precious and rare extrordinary cousin.

I'm no gambler --in Las Vegas, I don't even play the slot machines. But when it comes to love I have bet over and over again, and every time I lost I refused to walk away, certain that one day the big payout would be mine.

Dear Doctor, I think I've finally hit the jackpot.

I know that I can be weak, selfish and petty. I know that I am always running late, and take on more than I can handle. I second-guess myself, I hide my insecurities, and sometimes I'm afraid to just put myself out there and be who I really am. Sometimes I cry at completely inappropriate times. And other times I don't cry at all, even when my heart swells with uncontainable emotion. I avoid confrontation even when it's to my detriment. I know I'm always trying to be glue, even when acetone is called for. I can get defensive. I'm stubborn. I find it hardest to be honest with myself. And yet you seem to love me anyway.

Sometimes I look into your eyes and I just ache with joy and happiness and wonderment that we found each other. I am filled with so much gratitude for the chance to know and love the amazing person who is staring back, who is loving me with every breath, and every compliment and every criticism. Who is asking me to love him in the best way I can. Loving my imperfections and flaws. Healing my wounds. Uncoveirng my scars and finding the beauty behind them.

I think back on myself - on the sad, lonely and broken woman that I was. So ready to give up on happiness and a shared life purpose. When I conjure up that pain I am overcome by the way you washed it away and allowed me to start fresh . I want you to know me. See me. Reach down into the deepest, most intimate and secret parts of me. I'm willing to let you push me to places that make me uncomfortable - because I want to let you in. I want be a better person for you.

You make me happy in the smallest of moments. Sometimes I catch myself daydreaming about the small of your back, or the tip of your nose, the way it feels when you sneak up behind me, wrap your arms around my waist and kiss the back of my neck. I secretly watch you with your daughters and derive little bits of pleasure every time you soften in response to their irrisitable charms, or hold them tenderly in your arms. I could hope for nothing better than to build a family and a home with you, where our children will grow up under the umbrella of our mutual respect and admiration. Where they will have a foundation of trust and honesty on which to build a framework for their own healthy relationships.

My deepest desire is to give back all you have given to me, and then some. To make you feel loved and desired and needed. To show you that you are the most important thing in the world to me - and without you I'd be adrift in a sea of lonliness. My greatest fear is that I will fail. That I will disappoint you. That I will let you down. And every time I think I fall short of your expectations I feel a pang of guilt, sadness, and shame.

You once said to me that falling in love with me as like hearing music for the first time - and you didn't know what you would do if it went away. I don't know that a more beautiful thing has been said to me -- ever. It may be presumptuous to expect that these words might touch you in the same way, but I can't help but try. You deserve the deepest, greatest gift I have to offer, and so I present you with these sentiments. They are my soft and vilnerable insides. My inner dog rolling over and exposing his belly in submission. The keys to the temple of my heart.

10 Things I Hate About YOU

2009-03-11T12:58:00.001-04:00

It has been weeks (about 6, in case you were wondering) since I have stalked Berlin's facebook page. I looked at it again today -- but solely for the purposes of this posting. I'm chalking it up to journalistic curiosity.

The truth is there's nothing there anyway. Just a bunch of stupid comments from old friends, and frankly, I figure its about time to end the madness anyway. I know what I need to know. He sucks. We've both moved on.

But that doesn't mean that I have been entirely mature about the whole thing. In fact I was decidedly childish. But what can I say, love drives you mad sometimes, and not being loved - well that drives you madder.

You know the old adage ... hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. And damn, had I ever been scorned. So scorned my skin was on fire, and if there was some way, any way, that I could hurt him back, I was going to take it. I'm not proud of my vindictive streak, I'm just honest about it.

So in mid December, I sent him this email:

Please do me a favor and return the items that I gave you. You can mail them when you are back in the States after Christmas, since I know you are too cheap to spring for the international postage. I would appreciate it, if you would also burn the letter I wrote, delete emails and whatever other items might connect you to me, that is, if you haven’t done so already.

I threw out the plants.

Please don’t reply.

The thing about the plants was just a way to piss him off. He had given me a bunch of plants when he moved. He had studied botany or horticulture or plant biology or something like that in college. He could name all sorts of plants, and when we'd be out on walks he would always be teaching me something about some kind of plant or flower. I loved it. I happen to know relatively little on the subject, but I have always had an interest. I used to have a big orchid collection, and a lot of plants at home, but over the years of moving, and apartment dwelling, it became hard to really maintain, and most of them either died or had to be given away. I have always wanted my own backyard and some time to design a garden. I had started one when the X and I bought a house, but since we moved and the house is going into foreclosure, my lovely yard is now a sad, and untended mess. It took so little time to undo that labor of love - and while I'm talking about the Garden, it seems an apt metaphor for the relationship as well.

I actually cared about the plants, and I figured Berlin knew it. And I know that at one time he cared that they might actually have a proper home in which to flourish. Me deliberately killing them was a destructive act that was meant to be hurtful. Who knows. Maybe by then he had long since given up on them, and me. They were just plants. But even so - I couldn't REALLY throw them out. I said I did (and I kinda wanted to throw them out the window on a couple of occasions) but in the end I simply couldn't do it. So I still have them, I just lied and said I didn't.

After that email I waited. And when he did exactly what I asked - that is he did not reply - I began to stew in my own angry juices and I chose to further provoke the situation. I emailed Marian. Yup that's right. I emailed her and told her that Berlin and I had been having an affair. I told her that he told me he wasn't sure he loved her and that he suspected her of cheating, and that he had said he was awful and uncaring and that he wasn't sure he was making the right choice in moving in with and across the world for her. I said things he told me in confidence. Things that only he could know. Private things, so that she would know I was telling the truth.

I justified it by claiming that I would want to know if I was her. And I think the truth is I would. But it would be a bald-faced lie for me to claim that revealing the sordid details of my sexual tryst with Berlin was something I did out of kindness. It was pure, unadulterated spite, and targeted wholly at him.

I knew he had already bought a ticket back to the town in New York where he was from for Christmas. I had a sneaking suspicion that he would be back here for a visit. He's incredibly social and can't stay away from his friends, plus he mentioned he was thinking of driving to Texas with his Dad - and my fair city happens to be a hop skip and a jump off that path. I wondered if he might show up on my doorstep to berate me for outing his indiscretions. I sort of hoped he would. I was itching for a face-to-face fight.

I wondered silently for weeks whether my actions invoked the ire I had anticipated. I got my answer on day when I came home from the store and noticed a package wrapped in a plastic bag in my mailbox. Inside was the journal and the ipod I had given him as a parting gift at the airport, and on the first page was a handwritten note.

If you need to demonize me inside your deranged mind in order to justify why you are a cheating wife that is one thing. You have no basis for this, but it is something that I can accept. What I cannot accept is that you attacked Marion, a woman you really know nothing about, with your evil, "I know this about you," and "I know that about you," comments. You have no justification for this, it is purely evil, and a window into the true despicable person that you are. I have nothing but disdain for you. You should be ashamed and I am happy to report that your evil plan did not work, but has brought Marion and I closer together. please leave me alone you deplorable person.

When I finished reading it my hands were shaking . And then I started laughing. The whole thing was so incredibly ridiculous. I had been such a complete fool in every respect. I was strangely relieved by the fact that he was as immature as I was, but still pissed as hell. I wanted to kick and scream and beat him with my fists and tell him how much he had hurt me and how much I wanted to see him suffer. I wanted to see the anger on his face. I wanted to create a scar so deep he would never forget it.

The idea that after everything he just couldn't fucking say"I'm sorry that I hurt you this much you feel the need to lash out in such an inexcusable way." The fact that he was unable to shoulder even a drop of blame infuriated me. And what was the bitterest pill to swallow was his accusation that I was a "cheating wife." Perhaps it was because it was true. I had been a cheating wife. I was once as dishonest and untrustworthy and adulterous as he was. But not with him. I wanted something better from him, and instead, he turned it into something ugly. And I hated him for it. If I could have I would have gotten on a plane, tracked him down at his doorstep and given him a piece of my mind while I straddled him with my hands around his throat. It's a good thing I didn't choose that route since I'm much more skilled with my words than my hands, and I probably would have been the one getting choked. Sp I did the next best thing. I wrote him one final email, and I swore it would be the last communication between us.

Berlin-

The idea that of the two of us, I am the cheater, is absolutely laughable. Months before I met you I told my husband it was over and I planned to see other people. The fact that I kept it quiet and didn’t throw it in his face was my being respectful of his feelings. And let’s not forget, I moved OUT. You moved IN with Marion. Who are you kidding?? I was not hiding our relationship from my friends or my X. You were. The only deranged one here is you.

Oh, and should you feel like sharing it with him, be my guest. I told him about you long ago. He asked me why it ended and I told him it was because there was someone else – and you know what he said? So why was he seeing you then? Good question. Better question: why was I seeing you? Answer: Because you lied to me and told me the relationship was ending. Because you were not forthcoming with your full relationship history with Marion, or your future intentions toward her.

You go right ahead and make me into the devil if you want, because whatever haughty, self-righteous “disdain” you have for me, it does not even begin to scratch the surface of the pure hatred I have for you. The fact that I ever even had the slightest affection or respect for you is the only thing that pains me now. The fact that I turned a blind eye to your obvious fucked-up character.

You are a spineless, insensitive, delusional, selfish, washed-up loser with zero integrity, and I cannot thank God enough for ending that pregnancy and not binding me to you with a child. If the knowledge of the indiscretions brought on by your obvious mid-life crisis has served to draw you and your teenage lover closer together then, bravo. You have my blessing, because there is not the slightest doubt in my mind that you two deserve each other. Go with God.

And here’s a little piece of advice. If you decide to cheat on Marion again, when you break it off with your lover, do yourself a favor and show just the smallest amount of tenderness and respect to her. Make her feel that even for a little while she was valued, and that the moments you shared were ones you will remember fondly. Show her a few small gestures of affection and appreciation for the fact that she cared for you, went out of her way to help you pack, let you share her home, was thoughtful enough to buy you a present, and got up at 4 in the morning to carry your heavy boxes and drive you and your dog and all your shit to the airport when even your closest friends wouldn’t. Comfort her in her time of deepest loss, and when she says she’s going to miss you, the appropriate response is “I’ll miss you too.” Not “GOOD.” For someone as adept at lying as you, I would have thought telling one or two more wouldn’t have killed you. But then again that would require a level of empathy and thoughtfulness that is evidently beyond what you are capable of.

If it makes you feel better to call me evil and deplorable and despicable, you go right ahead. If nothing else, convincing yourself this is all part of my evil plan should make it easier to look in the mirror every day. But the facts are this: I was always completely honest. You were not. My relationship with you was never a secret. If revealing it to Maria is perceived as an attack – well – that’s probably because YOU kept it a secret. And it’s probably because YOU actually said all the things I said you did. Did I have to share them with her? Nope. But I really began to wonder if your depiction of her as a cold-hearted tease who kept you hanging at the end of an endless string of lovers was accurate. Maybe that was bullshit like everything else. A way for your “deranged mind” to justify that you are a cheating boyfriend who was just stringing me along. If it was, then you’re an asshole and she ought to know the truth, and if not, well then none of what I said should have come as any real surprise now should it? If she’s really fucking every guy in sight right under your nose, and believes in open relationships, then she shouldn’t really give a shit, should she? Either way, you can both feel free to hate me all you like. I’m not losing too much sleep over it these days.

The irony that I hope one day you’ll come to appreciate is the ire and wrath I am invoking on you now could have all been avoided – by either the smallest amount of genuine tenderness on your part, or... with a few compassionate white lies. How funny is that?

It’s almost as funny as the fact that you hand-delivered your hate mail. Brilliant! You are even cheaper than I thought.

And I haven't written or spoken to him since.

Though this cool line of hate mail cards sure makes me wish I had one more round of venom in me. Check em' out : http://www.junkmailgreetings.bigcartel.com/

The Ice Cream Wars

2009-03-10T12:38:00.004-04:00

I am picky about ice cream. You may have already figured that out, based on my refusal to bend to the whims of Berlin and his cheap ice-cream buying ways. Call me crazy, but I just think that with all the calories that stuff packs, you had better damn well be enjoying yourself while you're eating it.

The same night the Doctor broke my wine glass, we shared some post-coital Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough Ice Cream that he had brought over for dessert. A very thoughtful gesture I might add. You know you love a man when you can lie naked an bed with him and eat ice cream right out of the carton.

Now Ben and Jerry's is perfectly good ice cream, and by no means falls into the cheap, grocery store generic category that isn't worth the waxy cardboard it's packed in. However there was something off about this batch. For starters, it was really, really frozen. And while there wasn't anything really obviously wrong with it, it just did not press my "this is really delicious" buttons, and make the spoon move magically from carton to mouth all by itself. And that's really the test of ice-cream goodness. How hard is it to stop eating it, even when you're full? This one was too easy to put down.

So the Doctor ate his fill, and returned the carton to the freezer, the door of which he failed to properly close. So sometime in the middle of the night, when I stumbled to the bathroom, I found a partially open and defrosting freezer. It didn't seem to have passed the point of no return, so I shut it and went to bed. Crisis averted.

But the poor ice cream had already suffered. It got that disgusting layer of ice on the top, and even below the ice, the creamy, yummy goodness was now intermixed with crunchy crystals of ice that absolutely ruined an ice cream that had been already teetering on the edge of the sub-par dessert category anyway.

So for several weeks, the poor B&J's languished in the freezer, untouched, and relatively unnoticed, until I finally threw it out.

In exchange I bought two other flavors of Edy's to take it's place - vanilla, and Spumoni - two of my favorites. I figured since the Doctor really hadn't touched that cookie dough ice cream since it's inauguration to my freezer, he wouldn't really miss it.

I was wrong. When one gets a craving for ice cream, you go looking for it, even when it has long since passed its prime. It's like the And to prove that point, just other day, I was on the couch watching TV, when I noticed him rooting around in the freezer. And before I had the chance to ask him what on earth he was looking for (I already had a sneaking suspicion) he wandered slowly into the living room with a quizzical look and somewhat taunting glint in his eye.

"You threw out my ice cream, didn't you?"

He raised an eyebrow. I thought I saw just the slight crack of a smile, but he maintained composure.

"well....," I hedged, "it was gross. It was all frozen and yucky."

The Doctor nodded, the corner of his mouth turned up in a sly smirk. "Sure whatever." He said turning and walking away.

"Oh come on, you weren't gonna eat it anyway." I called out after him.
"Yes I was. It was perfectly good. there was nothing wrong with that ice cream," he said over his shoulder.

I bounced of the couch, followed him back into the kitchen and put my arms around his waist. I looked up into his eyes and we stared at each other for a moment.

"Are you mad at me for throwing out you're ice cream?" I asked trying to stifle a giggle.

"No, but I'm pretty sure why you did it."
"Why?"
"Cause you wanted to make room for all of your stuff. You got your ice cream, the kind that you liked, and there was no more room for my ice cream in your freezer."

Now I couldn't help it - I was full on laughing.

He continued. "I've never thrown your ice cream out of my freezer - my freezer is wide open to your ice cream."
"Whatever!" I shot back. My ice cream has never even made the acquaintance of your freezer, much less moved in."
"oh so that's how it is? Your ice cream would be welcome in my freezer any time, and would be in no danger of being tossed out. Ice cream should never be so hated."
"I'll get you some more - you want cookie dough?"
"No, no - the damage has been done. I understand. There's no place for for my ice cream here."
"I'll get you some more," I laughed.
"I won't eat it."
"Yes you will"
"No I won't."

I rolled my eyes.

The next day I stopped at the store and bought a gallon of Edy's cookie dough ice cream. It was the only brand of cookie dough ice cream they had (lest you think I am a walking advertisement for Edy's)

I sent him a text message.
"I got you a present." I wrote.
for the next few hours while he was at work, he pestered me about the nature of his surprise.
"If I give you a hint it will give it away," I told him teasingly.

He works nights, and the next day he came over after work, just as I was on my way out to work... In the freezer I left his present ... with a note (see above). He was sleeping when I left, but I knew he would find it when he eventually woke up and went rummaging around for something to eat. I was cracking myself up all the way to work.

The eventually found ice cream did elicit a good chuckle, though he still hasn't eaten any. I plan to break him down though. I'll leave him alone in the apartment with nothing to eat but that ice cream.

Or maybe I'll just eat it all myself. That'll teach him.

Be My Valentine, But make sure you wash your hands first.

2009-02-15T09:18:00.009-05:00

Let's face it - if you're not in love Valentine's Day can be a pretty dreadful holiday. And a month ago, I thought I was going to be one of the Valentine's Day haters. I was not looking forward to this day AT ALL.

But a lot has changed in a few short weeks - and even though I'm really not much into the commercialism of conventional American holidays, the Doctor and I had planned to spend the day together in pink-hearted, candy-coated, goofy-smiling bliss.

Well, our own version anyway, and there were a couple of snags....

Valentines day this year fell on a Saturday, and the Friday night before I had planned to go to a concert at the House of Blues with a girlfriend, her husband and some other mutual friends. She had asked me weeks in advance and the tickets were already bought. The doctor was invited, but he declined. He didn't feel like going out after a pretty busy work week, but said I should go anyway. We decided I would meet him at his house later - sometime in the wee hours of the morning, then we would spend Saturday together.

So slightly tipsy after a few too many drinks (not too tipsy to drive in relative safety, but certainly over the legal limit and with somewhat of an impaired judgment ... I know I know .. please don't lecture) I drove my friends home, then stopped at the 24 hour Giant Eagle to buy little bags of Valentines Candy for the Doctor's two girls, and then headed to his apartment. By this time it was about 2:30 in the morning, he had left the door unlocked for me and was already in bed.

I wasn't sure if he was sleeping, so I crept in quietly, and the little shiny red bags filled with tissue paper and candy on the kitchen table.

From the kitchen table I could see the outline of his body under the covers. He didn't say anything, or move - so I assumed he must be sleeping. I had planned to climb into bed with him, and nuzzle him awake gently, perhaps giving him a reason not to go back to sleep. I balanced precariously, one hand on the table, equilibrium slightly impaired, and slipped off my boots. I slid out of my jeans and sweater and when I had undressed down to a baby doll t-shirt and black lace panties I padded across the carpet to the bedroom pausing a moment to look in on my sleeping man, before I slipped into the bathroom to relieve the beer induced overfilling of my now throbbing bladder.

I peed. Quietly. Now don't ask me why, but sometimes in the middle of the night I don't flush the toilet. Especially when there is someone sleeping right next door who you don't want to wake up. Or someone whom you would like to wake up, but who you would rather wake up to the feeling of your skin next to his, or the alluring and irresistible scent of your pheromones and sweat mingled with perfume, not to the sound of a flushing toilet. So I didn't flush. It was just a little pee, after all.

I switched off the light, opened the bathroom door, and crept into the bedroom. Tiptoeing around the bed I climbed in and slid under the covers. I snuggled up behind him. reaching my arm around his waist I pulled him in close to me kissing the back of his neck. I was in sort of a dizzy, drowsy, alcohol induced stupor. He lay quietly and then in a rather matter-of-fact way he spoke.

"You didn't flush the toilet. Or wash your hands."

I stopped. I was not sure what to do. He had been awake the whole time. And yes, I did not wash my hands. I also didn't pee on them. And who cares anyway if I did have microscopic amounts of urine on them anyway, it's not like he hadn't happily planted his face where I peed on a number of occasions without asking me to wash with soap and water first, and if I had my way he was going to do it again in a matter of moments. Why did he suddenly care if I washed my hands NOW?

Now here is where new relationships differ from long established ones. I am pretty certain if my former husband had ever said something like that to me I would have set him straight about what a buzzkill that remark was, starting with the words "so the fuck what?" and if we had ever had any sort of sexual chemistry I might have reached over, taken his hand, placed it between my legs and said

"Now we're even. Shall we wash our hands together when we're finished here?" Which in retrospect is exactly what I should have said to the doctor.

But in my slightly drunken state, and seeing as I hadn't quite become that comfortable or that bold with him, I was caught off guard and became slightly embarrassed. I had come to bed attempting to be seductive and desirable and, if I understood correctly was now being shunned for my poor hygiene practices. This was not how I had planned this to go. So I simply got up, walked across the hall, flushed the toilet and washed my hands, and came back to bed.

Returned to the sanctum of the covers, I attempted to re-awaken my inner seductress - but the drowsiness was taking over and the sexual image of myself now loomed less large and pressing after this whole hand-washing business. I was going to need some positive reinforcement in the form clear signs of my desirableness, or I was going to give up and fall asleep.

I offered up some gentle kisses, some soft caresses, some nudging and nuzzling in what I hoped was the right direction. He lay motionless staring at me. I had no idea what that meant, and I was beginning to be too tired to care. I closed my eyes to think about what to do next and that's the last thing I remember.

The next morning, the inner-seductress was re-invigorated and after brushing my teeth, peeing, flushing and washing my hands (I learned my lesson), I managed to finish what we started.

Later the doctor told me he was disappointed -- that it had been his ultimate fantasy that I would take him by force because I absolutely could not wait one minute longer. I was flattered - and yet slightly annoyed, pointing out that if one's goal is sexual disinhibition, perhaps it's best not to interrupt the process with hygiene instructions that would have been utterly futile should we have gotten it on in the manner he had envisioned. And furthermore, one good "you've got the right idea" kiss would have set us both on the proper path, and I cannot read his mind after all. ugggg. MEN. I was however grateful for this morsel of information which I have now filed away in my brain for future use.

It had begun snowing during the night, and since the doctor hates snow and cold, my idea of spending the morning taking a hike through the arboretum was losing steam. Besides which, I still hadn't managed to finish his Valentines Day present - a somewhat sappy love song CD with songs that I had been picking out over the last week or so. The problem was my spindle of blank CD's was in a box of office supplies that managed to find their way to x-husband's house instead of mine. All week I had neglected to stop an buy some new ones, or drop by the x's and pick them up. I had to figure out a way to get this done.

We made a plan that I would drive home, shower and change, and (secretly) stop at the drug store, buy aforementioned lank CD's, burn said CD and have ready and waiting as if I had been prepared for this day for weeks. Less secretly, he admitted that he had not had time to stop and buy my present either. He would do his shopping and meet me at my place. Now, when you are in a hurry, nothing happens easily. I drove to the drugstore. Could not find the CD's. Found CD's, Waited in long line. Tried to leave parking lot and got stuck behind a 15 minute (I kid you not) funeral procession that prevented me from making the appropriate left hand turn onto the highway. Got home, burned CD, wrote on the cover, and was just about to get in the shower when the doctor arrived.

"what? you haven't even gotten in the shower yet? What have you been doing this whole time?"

"uhhh..." I really, really did not want to tell the whole story.

"If I would have known I wouldn't have rushed around so much. I got to the store, there was this long line, and some woman who wanted to use a coupon or get money back or something and there was just one cashier, and I was thinking the whole time that you were here waiting for me impatiently."

I couldn't help but laugh and thankfully so did he. I told him the CD story.

"I can't believe I finally met someone who procrastinates more than me. Hurry up."

His gift by the way was a set of red wine glasses. On what was maybe our third date I think, he came over and we made dinner together. We had some wine, and afterward when he was helping clean up he attempted to dry one of my wine glasses and squeezed a little too hard. I told him I didn't care - and it was true. Stuff breaks when you use it. Wine glasses can be replaced. No big deal. Butthe gesture was rather sweet. I gave him my CD, and we both agreed that maybe pink-hearted, candy-coated, goofy-smiling bliss was best left to everyone else.

Making it Official

2009-02-12T08:19:00.001-05:00

It's funny how when something new comes along how easy it is to let go. I finally went to see a lawyer to draw up the papers for the divorce.

Divorce was something I had been putting off for months. Even though I had moved out, even though I had started and ended another relationship -- and ended it - with Berlin. Even though I knew I was happier on my own, and I was rebuilding my life and my independence, I just couldn't quite manage to make it official.

I had been thinking about selling my engagement ring. In November, I sent the paperwork to the jeweler where we bought it from to see what kind of offer I could get. I got a decent response - but then I panicked. I would take that ring out of its satin box and hold it in my hand. Feel the weight of it in my palm, cool metal against my skin. I would turn it over between my fingers and look at the detail of the engraving and tears would well up in my eyes. There was so much promise in that ring. So much hope for a future different from my present reality. So much lost.

I even put it on a few times, holding my hand out in front of me, remembering the first time I wore it, showing it off to my friends in the silly girlish ritual of engagement goofiness. I remembered how, when I was out alone, men would give me flirtatious looks until I casually lifted my left hand into view so they could see that I was already spoken for.

It's hard to say exactly why I couldn't fully walk away- but I guess I was just scared. Scared that I was making a mistake -- that I was deluding myself into thinking there was something better out there for me. Maybe this was it. This was all I was going to get. Maybe we all just have to do the best we can wit the cards we're dealt.

In my heart I never truly believed that. I always kept one eye on my source of secret inner strength - my belief that there was love and happiness out there for me that could be completely fulfilling, someone that could fill me to overflowing and surpass my expectations. But the seeds of self-doubt can creep in at the most unexpected moments, making me waver in my resolve to forge ahead into the great unknown for the ultimate prize. I suppose none of us is perfect.

So I held onto that ring. And I held onto my marriage. If for no other reason than I was too weak to stand alone and face the possibility of a lifetime of me against the world. I wanted to hold someone's hand and face it together. I didn't want to do it all alone. I couldn't. Not yet.

But love changes everything. Someone is holding my hand and telling me its OK to let go. Telling me they'll face the world with me, and it's time to put the past behind me. And suddenly I wasn't scared anymore. I wasn't afraid to say goodbye to the ring, or the dreams it had once represented. So I called the jeweler back. then I called the lawyer and made an appointment. Then I called my husband and told him.

I can't say that he was happy about it, but all in all he took it pretty well. There were only a few pretty harmless rounds of him blaming me for our current financial disaster, and then accusing me of running off when the going got tough. Of course he was lashing out as a result of his own grief. I reminded myself that I had spent a lot of time thinking about this, getting used to the idea. And that I now had someone to hold my hand -- but he didn't. It was going to be harder for him. I was going to have to be the stronger one.

He agreed to all the terms - which is to say he keeps his stuff, I keep mine - and we part as friends. I told him I planned to sell the ring in order to pay the lawyer and that I would cover all the expenses. He wanted to know whether I would try to take the dogs from him and I almost couldn't believe my ears. I love those dogs like children, but I know he loves them too - and as much as it kills me, I know that he is better equipped to care for them at the moment than I am. Of course I would let him keep the dogs.

And there it was. A ring, a lawyer, an agreement, a handshake and new life. I have never felt so free.

2+2 = 4

2009-02-10T00:26:00.001-05:00

It's probably been 26 years since I was giddy about going to Chuck E Cheese. I went last night with the doctor and his two little girls, and I have to say, I was excited about it all day. Probably not the same sort of excitement I felt when I was eight. Back then it was the pizza and the candy and the games that made me drool with anticipation. This time it was the love of one particular dad that was making me weak in the knees and ready to subject myself to the scrutiny of a 7 and a 4 year old.

I changed my clothes at least three times, which is completely stupid, given the chances they were even going to even remember much less care what I was wearing. Turtleneck? Too stuffy looking. Work clothes? Too professional. Short skirt – wrong target audience (the doctor yes, girls no). Khaki pants and layered t-shirts was the final verdict, with my cute black flats that I haven't gotten to wear in months because of the obnoxious Midwestern snow drifts and arctic temperatures that make anything except for knee-high waterproof snow boots impossible to consider. Hurray for global warming!

Internal kid-friendly dialogs were running through my head. What were we going to talk about? School? Friends? Their favorite doll? I am ill-equipped to have those conversations. I don't know what kids think about. I've never cared what any of them think, much less what they think about me. Children are unfamiliar territory. Normally I just treat kids like adults and they seem to like that. I don't do baby talk or parental condescension. I always hated those people when I was a kid. I remember at around age 10 how my friend's mom used to always talk to us like we were 3 when I was at least 10 and well beyond the cutesy-baby talk. It was infuriating, and it made me want to be grown-up obnoxious. I distinctly remember informing her one day that her house stunk and so did she because she smoked too much. She told me I was rather rude - which was true – but it did kill the baby talk for a while.

When I got to the doctor's apartment I took a deep breath before calling him to say I had arrived. He let me in and two little red-headed faces smiled shyly from the kitchen table where they were coloring or doing school work or something like it. I introduced myself rather awkwardly. Fortunately the doctor was cheery and knew how to better engage them than I did. Thank God he didn't let me remain standing there like an awkward, silent idiot for too long. Before long we were putting on pink coats and pink shoes with sparkles that lit up when they walked. I told them their shoes were cool, and I meant it. I never got sparkly, light-up shoes when I was a kid (I do distinctly remember begging for jelly shoes, a pair of clogs and a pair of knee-high 70's style brown vinyl boots – all of which I eventually got) , and if I didn't think they would look absolutely ridiculous, I would buy myself a pair now. Can you imagine me out for a run in my sparkle, light-up shoes? I think when I am old I am going to get myself a pair. I am going to be one cool old person. Kids on the other hand will probably think I'm a nutty old lady.

But for now I'm just a normal, boring grown-up in black flats that neither sparkle nor light-up, and I am incredibly paranoid about how to talk to these kids. If they don't think I'm stupid, will he? Will I say something that makes it all-too-obvious that I am not parent (or step-parent) material? Something that plants a seed of reservation about my worthiness as a partner and potential surrogate mum? I keep reminding myself that I normally get along just fine with kids, and that I should just be myself, but I remain wrapped in my wet blanket of silent and awkwardness.

Fortunately these two pink-clad, sparkly fire-crackers don't seem to care that I am not my bubbly self, apparently satisfied by the promise of tokens and rides. The early part of the night was rather quiet in terms of conversation between me and them. But I was being watched. Two little pairs of eyes were watching me at all times. Checking me out. They're nothing if not their father's daughters.

I have to say that Chuck E's has modernized a bit since when I was 8. It's still the same old pizza and candy and goofy kiddie rides – but there are some distinct high-tech additions for today's modern tots. Rides that take your picture, or give you a secret CSI photo ID, and a place to dance to your own kid-friendly music video. That's pretty awesome. I think my favorite was a ride that makes you feel like you're on an actual roller coaster. You recline inside a compartment in front of a screen with the image of a roller coaster track. The video on the screen gives you the perspective of being seated in one of the front cars – and as it climbs and turns and flies down the track the seats shake and move – and the combined sight, sound and motion make for a pretty realistic sensation that you actually ARE on a roller coaster. I was impressed. I went on it once with the older of the two girls, and then – with the "let's do it again" mentality of children – they decided to go on it together. I was standing behind them supervising when their dad came up behind me and, taking advantage of the fact that both pairs of eyes were simultaneously occupied, looked at me in just that "you're wonderful" sort of way, and kissed me. Man. Who needs roller coasters ?

Pass the Ticonderoga #2

2009-02-09T21:11:00.000-05:00

I am a sucker for a well-written letter. If there's one thing that separates the men from the boys in the world of online dating, it's an ability to catch my attention and hold it with words. You wouldn't think this would be all that hard- but it is. Just read a few profiles. I guarantee you will come away unimpressed.

This fact has left me rather disappointed and, frankly, depressed. In recent weeks, I had begun to think that I may have to set my standards a little lower. There are some nice guys out there, right? Was it really necessary for me to be a complete intellectual snob? Couldn't there be a wonderful man, a possessor of many amazing traits, sans the prerequisite 800 GRE verbal score?

Perhaps, bu the whole thing makes me sigh in despair. I can't help it. Intellectual stimulation is required for the proper progression of the infatuation process. It's a well established fact that in my world, a few lines of prose will get you farther than an equal number of margaritas. Much farther. Just ask William, or Berlin, whose well-worded wooing won my heart.

Much to my surprise and delight, just when I was about to venture into another substandard round of dating I received this email:

After staring at the screen now for 20 minutes, I have to admit that I am a little self-conscious about how this comes out with you being a writer. I always agonize tremendously about anything I write, and the added pressure of the intended audience is gut wrenching!

I have to say that your profile is the most startling I've ever read, and it made me actually join this site so that I could contact you (I hope that doesn't read "stalker"). I'm a physician, and although my profession and educational background is fairly opposite of what I imagine yours to be, my interests, and attraction to life appears to be very similar. I have always been a voracious reader, and of the last 10 years or so, I have been interested in a great range of things: philosophy, literature, education, and most of all history. I have a sincere interest in medical history especially, and have lectured a little, and written one article.

I have to say that I consider myself an intellectual. If there is one thing that defines me it is my curiosity. A room full of creative and interesting people people talking and laughing and sharing food, wine and conversation not only would be, but has been the perfect evening. Actually, I'd like to meet more people like that if I could. Physicians can be intelligent on a wide range of topics, and most have interests that are far afield of medicine, but they tend to be somewhat narrow in their conversations. Also, they are not very imaginative, and tend to want to solve problems all the time and not consider complexity, which is a favorite topic of mine.

I also really love music of all types. I am in a band with some of my friends who are also doctors. It is one of the only absolute joys I've ever experienced and we have a lot of fun. We play out occasionally, but mostly just for parties of friends, or more likely just for ourselves. I play guitar and sing lead. I also enjoy going to the opera as well. It looks like a great season this year so I'll probably try to get "season tickets".

I guess I should tell you more about myself. I am 6'3 190 lbs, built like a swimmer. I have brown hair and blue eyes, and although I'm not the male model I was in my 20's, a glance in my direction won't turn you to stone. I was married for 8 years, and I have 2 daughters age 6 and 3. Right now I am a shared parent and they live with me around 10 days out of the month full time. I am currently separated, but we have been totally separated for 2 years. The divorce has been slow moving because of the economy mostly, and the fact that the house has no way of selling. We have no interest in reconciling and have both dated. The biggest lesson from that relationship is that we both needed someone different that more represented our values and approach to life. Luckily our girls turned out wonderful and perfect despite our faults.

So I've been babbling for a while, and while this certainly in no way describes my inner workings, it's a fair enough snap shot. I am very new to this whole internet dating thing, so I mostly hope that this email isn't inappropriate in any way. Please read it for what it is, trying to meet someone who sounds like a very interesting person. Whether or not you or I want a relationship, I am pretty sure you are someone I would want to know anyways. Hope to hear back from you.

I can't say that it was any one line that did it - but there was an overall generosity of spirit - a genuine lonely heart in search of a soulmate that came through. It wasn't poetry. But it was honest. It sounded like me. He had used his real name, so I checked out his picture on the website of the hospital where he works. He was cute. So I responded. And after a few emails we set a date to meet. Dinner on a Sunday night at a Vietnamese restaurant that I particularly liked, but he suggested. Off to a good start.

He picked me up at my place and we drove over to the the restaurant together. I liked him pretty much immediately, and there was a distinct lack of the usual first-date discomfort. But he really got my attention when I picked up my chop sticks and he said, "Oh good, you won't embarrass me by using a fork!"

That is exactly something I would have thought - if not said. I have never understand why westerners refuse to learn to eat with chopticks - and I can eat virtually anything with them. I spent a brief period in China and never even touched a fork, just on principle.

I don't remember what we talked about anymore. I asked him frankly about what happened in his marriage, and told him about mine, and the rest was a blur. Before we knew it the place was empty, and the waiter was at our table with an embarrassed smile on his face, politely asking us to wrap things up.

So we did. He drove me home. Slowly. And when he dropped me off we experienced our first awkward moment. I told him I had a nice time - and was wondering if he was going to kiss me goodnight - and also wondering if I should let him - seeing as I recently made a post-Berlin resolution to take things a little slower. In the end we contemplated it just long enough for it to get weird to I just hopped out of the car, waved good night, and sauntered back to my doorstep hoping he was watching me the whole way.

Two Week Anniversary

2009-02-08T14:10:00.005-05:00

On the other side of the wall that separates my living room from my bedroom, there is a man asleep in my bed. He's tall, and handsome, and may well be the smartest guy I've ever met. He talks to me about science, and medicine, and history, and art - and he loves music. He loves it the way I love it - he feels it - he feels a lot of things the way I do. Enough that it scares me. But in that good sort of way.

I met him two weeks ago today. In fact this morning he pointed that out, right after he asked me if he was my boyfriend. My dog was feeling a bit jealous of all the attention I was giving this magnificent stranger, and so he ambled across the bed, plopped his chin on my shoulder and started licking an nuzzling my neck with his cold, wet nose.

I laughed a little, wondering if my new found lover found this totally annoying or disgusting. He seems to like them - the dogs that is - but I think its one of those cases where he like them because I do, and probably not quite as much as I do.

"My other boyfriend is getting jealous," I told him.
He smiled. "Am I your boyfriend?" He asked.

I'm rather certain he already knew the answer. But it's one of those questions you ask just because it makes you feel good to hear the answer out loud. And the way he asked it made me blush with a sort of schoolgirl crush happiness.

"yea. I think you are."
I pulled myself in close to his body and buried my face against his chest. He smells like laundry detergent and soap mixed with some sort of crazy pheremones that have just about pushed me beyond the brink of all sensibility. I breathed him in.

He had asked me this the first night we slept together too, which totally caught me off-guard. I wasn't prepared for the committment questions while I was still basking in the glow of our fist post-coital, oxytocin-induced high. "I don't know," I told him at the time. "Do you want to be my boyfriend?" "I don't know," he replied back. But we were both smiling.

He was quiet for a while and when I looked up I caught him staring rather intently. He has these gorgeous blue eyes with flecks of brown. When you get up close the irises have these colored swirls in them that remind me of those abstract looking posters where you have to cross your eyes to see the 3D images in them.

Those eyes are always watching, observing, and feeding his inquiring mind. By his own admission he's always thinking about something. Always arranging the pieces of one puzzle or another in his head. It's a trait he says has driven one two many wedges into past relationships - but I can't help but find it an incredible turn-on.

I knew he was thinking about me. He was thinking about saying something. With some people you can just watch the decision making process going on inside. You don't know what the steps are, or how long it will take them, or even what the final verdict will be - but you can literally see the the wheels turning inside their head. Eventually I couldn't take the suspense any longer.

"What are you thinking about?"
"Oh no. are you going to be one of those girls that always asks the guy what he's thinking?"
"No." I blushed.
"Yes you are," he laughed in a way that said he already knew me better than I thought. And he was right. I AM one of those girls. A more serious look came over his face.

"Are you really interested in all the stuff I tell you?" he asked me.
I paused just a second to study the look on his face. It was a genuine question. He was worried that I was just trying to please him. That I was trying to be something I'm not for his sake - feigning interest in his interests and his stories. I suppose it's understandable. I feel a little bit the same way sometimes. We are so compatible that it's almost becomes hard to believe that its real. You have to wonder if the other person isn't just putting you on.

"Absolutely," I replied.

In my head I'm thinking, "are you kidding?" He sends me new words he learned. Stories about diseases Abraham Lincoln may, or may not have had. Articles about Medicare and health care reform because he knows I'm writing about it. He tells me about LBJ and how the medicare system was born. And this morning we had a discussion about the history of phrenology and how it was used to make a case for criminal minds, and as evidence in a court of law. A man who wants to lie in bed and cuddle after sex is already getting bonus points, but a man who wants to give me a mental orgasm right after a physical one? Are you kidding me? Do it again.

"I love that you tell me things that I don't know. I have always wanted to be with somebody that added something to who I was - that brought something new to the table. You teach me stuff. I love that. I'm definitely going to get smarter if I keep hanging around with you."

"Well I think it's better if it works bilaterally."
"I hope it already does - I hope you are interested in what I have to say and you're learning something too."

He paused.

"You know the other day, when you knew that word that I didn't know?"
"What word? Legerdemain? Slight of hand?"
"Yeah. I almost asked you to marry me."

His face was dead serious. My heart literally skipped a beat. And then, in a sort of panic-stricken, knee-jerk reaction I brushed it off.

"shut up," I said in a playful manner and looked away. I suddenly wasn't sure if that hurt his feelings a little. I didn't know how serious that comment was meant to be. His normal expression is rather deadpan - and sometimes when he's joking it takes me a second to catch on. This was the sort of joke I didn't want to misinterpret. I didn't really think he was serious about marriage - but I also knew that comment meant something. It was his way of saying, in that moment, I was the girl of his dreams.

Maybe he sensed my sudden discomfort, because he let it go and we made small talk for a minute. We both were quiet for a while, until I asked him finally,

"You never told me what you were thinking."
He cleared his throat.
"I was just thinking how nice it is just lying here next to you, and how I think it's something I think I might want to do every day, and how that's a little dangerous."
"Dangerous? You mean because neither of us would ever get any work done?"
"No. Because we've only known each other two weeks. Today is our two week anniversary."
"Happy Anniversary," I giggled. He wrapped me up in his arms, pulled me in close, and we stopped talking.

Dear Readers

2009-01-18T23:51:00.002-05:00

Thanks for your patience while I took a much need hiatus from my busy life! Plenty of new updates on the way soon... stay tuned.

One-Eyed Men

2008-12-15T22:55:00.002-05:00

In a land full of blind men the one-eyed man is king, isn't that how the saying goes? People, this sorry State is a land full of blind men, and it's looking more and more like I am going to have to settle for someone with one eye.

I am on match.com. Yes I know it's stupid. But what the hell. There is no one I want to date at work, and I don't do anything BUT work, so how am I supposed to meet anyone? But the pool of men even on this online site is pathetic. I keep getting "winked" at by men in their 50's, or boys under 26, or guys with missing teeth and all over body tattoos. Or nice looking guys with a high school education and a job in construction. Or even slightly compatible guys, except for the fact that reading their profile is like chewing cardboard it's soooo boring.

I'm good looking, I have an interesting job, I'm smart, well-educated, well-traveled, and well-rounded. Am I not a catch? Is there no similarly interesting man out there for me?

I decided to go out with this guy who seemed alright. We went out for a beer at a local pub, and from the instant he walked in the door I was certain the night would end with a handshake. Thank God for the Beer.

And the thing is, it's not like there was anything specific that was wrong with him. I mean apart from the fact that he didn't make eye contact, didn't seem to like his job or know what he really wanted out of life, and he hadn't had a serious relationship in five years. We made small talk, but it was uncomfortable. He just wasn't my type AT ALL. I really hope I don't have my standards up to high. But then again what's the point of divorcing your husband if you are just going to lower the bar?

A few weeks ago I had two dates with a cute and rather successful guy, who frankly wasn't really up to my level intellectually (And that is not a snotty comment - he saw the books on my bookshelf and said "have you actually READ all of those?" I mean, come on.). But the deal breaker was not a lack of enthusiasm for books, it was his lack of finesse in the romance department. What good is a cute one if he can't kiss?

I was talking to a friend the other day who also got divorced. She lives in Las Vegas now, where she is a lawyer. Funny huh? Law in that lawless place? Anyway, she told me that she is incredibly happy, but that she has seriously lowered her standards. And I just wanted to scream. In what way should I lower my standards? Should I shoot for older, less attractive, less intelligent, or less considerate first? If I lower the bar in one category significantly can I keep the other ones high? Ugg.

I am starting to think I would be better off investing the same amount of time in a marriage counselor a psychotherapist and a box of nicorette (my husband smokes which is a disgusting filthy habit that absolutely turns me off). Or maybe a sex therapist is all we need. Hmmmmm.

Diary of the Anti-Mommy

2008-12-15T05:42:00.000-05:00

I don't think it would be fair to say that I never wanted to have children, but I definitely resisted and rejected the mommy label for most of my adult life. I always found all the swooning of my female friends over new babies to be nauseating. It seemed to me that feminism had amounted to nothing, if the only thing bright, and over-achieving women really wanted was to do was watch baby Einstein videos and subject all their friends to unrelenting descriptions of their child's perfection and brilliance. While everyone else was goo-gooing and gah-gahing, I have been rolling my eyes.

I like kids, but isn't it possible to have an identity that is more than just a future wife and mother? Isn't it possible to have a child eventually, and still be true to who you were before you and hubby made a mini version of yourselves?

This attitude has generally earned me the reputation of the anti-mommy. Baby hater. Nanny-Nazi. Whatever. My mother and everyone else decided long ago that just because I refused to start buying baby clothes and toys and furniture in my 20's for a child I had not yet conceived, or planned to conceive, that there was something fundamentally wrong with me, and that I would inevitably be one of those pathetic and lonely career women who never become fully-fledged females through the miracle of conception.

Little do they know that I have conceived not once, but twice, with two different men.

The first time I was 25. My husband and I weren't yet married, but we had been living together for several years. I had been on the pill since the first time I had sex at age 18 – but my Aunt had recently been diagnosed with breast cancer, and I suddenly became very worried about what all those years of hormones might be doing to my body, and I decided to go off the pill. I figured we could use condoms. That did not go over well.

This is something that I really do not understand. Some men have absolutely no problem using a condom. It's the most natural thing in the world. They keep a few on hand, they know how to put them on and take them off without a big to-do. An then there are other men who would rather forgo sex altogether than allow a micro-thin layer of latex (or whatever they are made of these days) to separate you. All I want to say is, REALLY, is it that bad? Can it possibly feel that different? And if it desensitizes you enough that it lasts a little longer, is that such a bad thing??? I think not!!

Anyway, the man who would eventually become my husband fell into the latter category. He wouldn't even buy the damn things because he said it was too embarrassing. So I went and bought them, and reminded him, that it must have looked far worse for me, a single girl, to be buying the jumbo pack of condoms at CVS than him. Still he resisted. Putting it on was a process. He didn't like the interruption. I insisted a few times and then they sat in the drawer unused. Our de-facto birth control became the withdrawal method.

Now if there is anyone out there reading this who is under the slightest misconception that you can successfully use the withdrawal method for any real length of time to avoid getting pregnant, let me clear things up: It absolutely does not work. Little sperm leak out before the big moment and find their way to your eggs. It might not happen the first few times, but eventually, it will. It happened to me.

I remember wondering what the hell was wrong with me. My breasts were incredibly sore, and I suddenly had the worst heartburn I have ever felt in my life -- all the time. I wasn't nauseous, but my whole body felt sore. My skin hurt all over, like I had the flu, and then suddenly I realized I was late. I home pregnancy test later left no doubt.

I cried at first. I had all these big plans. I was in graduate school. This was not the way I wanted to begin a family. I had always been a little self conscious about my origins – so many of my friends from high school already had children, many out of wedlock. I thought I was better than that. I didn't want to conceive the white-trash way. I wanted a wedding, and a family I planned.

But at the same time, I wanted my future husband to want it. I wanted him to tell me he would love to have me have his babies. I wanted him to encourage me to keep it. I know that sounds crazy and stupid, but if there was one person I wanted to have tell me that this was not the end of the world, it was him.

However, he felt differently. He had just started a new job. He had plenty of ideas about how he wanted to use our new financial resources, and raising a baby wasn't one of them. Terminating the pregnancy was actually his idea.

It's not like he really twisted my arm or anything. I knew this wasn't the right time. I knew I wasn't ready to be a mother and we weren't ready to be parents. But I think I felt like he should have been ready to shoulder the burden, since this "mistake" was his fault. He pressured me into being careless. He took no responsibility for preventing this child from being conceived, and now he wasn't ready for the consequences of his actions. I felt hung out to dry, and I suddenly realized how when it comes to a woman's body and her fertility, there is no one looking out for it but her. That in the end, even the most well-meaning and loving men can't think farther then the tip of their penises. And now I had to have an abortion. All because HE refused to wear a condom.

There was not that much to the procedure itself. He came with me. He held my hand. I was sedated, it was over quickly, and there was some bleeding and cramping for the next few days. I didn't have any complications. I didn't have any horrible and lasting guilt over what I had done.

But what did leave a lasting impression on me, was the shame and the secrecy of the whole thing. I always imagined that women who had abortions could just go to their doctor. That the procedure would be treated with integrity and respect. That it was a choice every woman had a right to make, and would be treated that way. I was in for a very rude awakening. The clinic I had to go to was only open for a few hours on certain days, and the protesters knew the schedule. They greeted you with guilt at the door. The waiting room was cold and sterile, and the doctors tried not to smile. I remember trying to lighten the mood a little and joking to the doctor I said "Well I guess this isn't the happiest thing you get to do." He looked at me very seriously and said, "Well someone has to." He was right. A lot of doctors won't do it. It was nearly a new millennium, and yet when it came to getting an abortion it was clear we weren't that far away from coat hangers and illicit midwives in back alleys. It's a knowledge that has haunted me ever since, and I am grateful that I still had the power to control my own fertility.

It's fair to say that that experience put the first kink in our relationship. I went back on the pill and less than a year later we got married. There would me no more babies for us, and perhaps it was a good thing. From that point forward the relationship began to unravel. And then ne day I realized I wasn't 25 anymore. I am nearing 35, and the window of opportunity was closing.

Now perhaps it's nothing more than age and the ticking of the proverbial biological clock, but lately, an affinity for Desitin, pastels, and talcum powder has begun to assuage my aversion to childbearing. I am suddenly looking at rocking chairs and wondering where they would fit in my apartment. I find myself admiring vintage highchairs in antique stores. I wonder what it would be like to feel a baby summersault in my belly, or to have an infant instead of a man suckle at my breast. I look at women with infants and toddlers and find myself longing for one of my own.

The irony of the fact that I now have no one to have this would-be child with has not escaped me.

The transformation didn't happen overnight, but a pivotal moment occurred when I discovered I was pregnant with Berlin's baby. That conception was the result of complete and utter carelessness on our part. I had stopped the pill again altogether years ago when my husband and I stopped having sex. When I sought affection outside our marriage, I used a combination of a diaphragm and condoms (without fail). But Berlin and I were careless from the start. That first night we didn't use any contraception – not even the faulty withdrawal method. I had started my period that afternoon and when things got heated that night I had to tell him maybe the timing wasn't the best for a first encounter. But we were both rather keen on each other, and it sure felt right. When I disclosed the reason for my hesitancy his exact words were "we can work with that." I guess we both knew that chances of babies were very low given the timing and so we took the risk. After that I insisted we be more careful, but then, one night, exactly 11 days later, in the throws of passion we threw caution to the wind once again.

It was nothing short of idiotic. It was exactly what we would have done if we were trying to get pregnant. And the next day I just knew. The timing was too perfect. The night was too perfect. I knew I was going to get pregnant.

Now here's where I have to admit, that there was a part of me that did not think this was entirely a bad idea. There was a part of me that had already decided, perhaps even in the heat of the moment, that having a baby with Berlin would not be the end of the world. It might even be nice. Yes, so I had known him 11 days. So what? The sex was great. He was great. I really liked him. And you know what? I was ready to have a baby, even on my own.

But I also knew that this was insane. And I felt like maybe this would be unfair to Berlin, who while an equal and enthusiastic partner in this irresponsible sex, might not want to have a child as much as I did, and he would not be around to be a father to it, seeing as he was moving to Germany to chase after Marion – who I still believed to be more of a casual infatuation than an actual girlfriend. I reluctantly suggested I get a prescription for "Plan B" – otherwise known as the "morning after pill," which is basically a big dose of birth control hormones. Supposed to be something like 60% effective if you take it within 3 days, it seemed like the prudent thing to do. But getting it proved more difficult than I anticipated, and I when I finally took it on the third day I looked at the pills and thought, "I don't really want to do this." I sort of wish I would have listened to my instinct instead of the rational part of my brain that said to be responsible. I took the pills and waited.

The next several week were torture. I immediately developed sore breasts, and some nausea and heartburn. I was pretty sure it hadn't worked. But I took three home tests and they all came back negative. And then I got my period. Or what I thought was my period. I figured it must have been the hormones making me think I was pregnant. Phew. Crisis averted. It wasn't meant to be.

But a week later after the initial bleeding had stopped, it started again. I knew something was wrong. I took another pregnancy test, and this time it was positive. Shit. What was going on? Berlin was gone to Boston. I decided to wait and be sure before I said anything. I made an appointment to see my doctor.

A few days later I had the pregnancy officially confirmed. But because of the bleeding, she had me go in for an ultrasound. It was really at this moment when I realized I was happy about the possibility of bringing a child into the world. I was lying there with the ultrasound wand inside me, about to hear the heartbeat of the 6 week old fetus. How cool is that? The heartbeat of your unborn baby? I smiled at the thought of the little jumping bean. But the ultrasound remained quiet. The technician was quiet and didn't look at me. Finally she said, "OK we're all done. I'm sorry dear, but I don't see a baby in there. It could be that you are miscarrying. I'll let you talk to the doctor and she'll go over the results with you"

I felt a wave of sadness come over me. No heartbeat. No baby. I'm having a miscarriage? But that would have been easier than what was to come. In an exam room down the hall, the doctor told me the ultrasound was inconclusive – first we had to get some blood tests – test my pregnancy hormone levels over the course of a few days and see what was going on. If the hormones rose, we could rule out a miscarriage – but it they rose too slowly it would indicate the pregnancy was lodged in my fallopian tubes, not in my uterus where it was supposed to be. I went downstairs to have my blood drawn. I had hope. Perhaps this baby was conceived after the initial scare. Maybe this was really early. Too early to see on an ultrasound. The first results showed really low hCG levels. Consistent with a very early pregnancy. Maybe it was all Ok after all.

In two days I came back and had it drawn again. I was hopeful. If the levels doubled, it was a healthy pregnancy.

I was at work when I got the bad news. The levels barely climbed. This was an ectopic. Still I was skeptical. Couldn't there be some mistake? Why didn't they see it in the tubes on the ultrasound? I had read that sometimes the levels are unreliable in the very early stages. "No," the nurse assured me. I should make arrangements to get a shot of methotrexate to terminate the pregnancy.

I hesitated. I decided to get a second opinion. But he confirmed the earlier diagnosis, and even insisted that this was a matter of life or death, not to be toyed with . Many women he said waited too long and nearly died from a ruptured fallopian tube. I cried. I had already decided I wanted this baby. I had already made up my mind that being a single mother was OK. I had already imagined the ultrasound pictures and the birth, and the little tiny fists gripping my pinky.

Berlin was still in Boston. Did I tell him? I decided not to. Maybe later. When it was over. I still couldn't bring myself to admit it was over. I cried the whole way to the hospital. I cried waiting for the shot. It hurt like hell, and I cried some more. I could tell the nurses felt sorry for me. They asked me if I wanted a counselor. I told them no thank-you, and practically ran out of the room, limping from the pain where the shot was still burning and throbbing in the muscle of my right butt cheek. When I reached the parking lot I broke down completely. I couldn't drive. I just sat there in the car sobbing. Sobbing for this lost life inside me. Sobbing for the end of a marriage, the end of my dreams of a family. The idea of a pregnancy – even an accidental one had given me a hope that I could make a family on my own. It might have been unconventional, ill-timed, and perhaps even unwise, but I would have loved this child. I would have loved it and cared for it, and I would have been a good mother. Now who knows when I'll ever be a mother. If I'll ever be a mother. Maybe this was my only chance. I cried.

Eventually I did tell Berlin. I told him in the letter I wrote him. The letter he didn't respond to until I became a nasty unreasonable bitch. But how could he not understand? How could he not want to comfort me? How could he be so dense as to not understand what a profound effect this experience has on a woman? Oh wait, I forgot – even my own husband had been incapable of looking past the tip of his own penis. Men did not get it. They simply do not understand. And the truth was, until that moment in the ultrasound, and in the parking lot neither had I. I had not realized how I could discover I was pregnant and instantly fall in love with a ball of cells. How that, which was not yet a baby, could still be a baby in my mind, and I could already love the potential of it. No man was going to understand that sort of logic. The sort of logic even I had rolled my eyes at all my life.

Feeding the Passion

2008-12-15T02:27:00.003-05:00

Last night my husband came over with the dogs, a routine that is becoming more and more common. We hung out and watched TV. I made dinner. Duck with orange glaze and homemade cranberry passion fruit sauce, roasted purple potatoes, saffron rice and black beans. Yum.

One of the things I particularly hate about living by myself is cooking for one. I love to cook. I love food. In my family food is an important sign of love, and I always envisioned I'd have a big family with rowdy Sunday dinners, and a house full of friends and neighbors who would feel welcome in my kitchen and my home – to visit or to stay.

Even though many a conversation in my family was centered around planning the next meal, I never quite had that house full of guests I dreamed about growing up. My life was always a little chaotic on account of my parents divorce and my mom's downward decent into a sort of self-centered narcissistic despair. As a result we didn't really have the sort of home one entertains in.

To be frank, our house was a mess. And I don't mean a little cluttered. I mean filthy. The shower tiles were ancient, a number were missing, and the rest were covered with mildew. The glass on the shower door had been broken – probably in a fight between me and one of my brothers, and was held together with masking tape. There were holes in the doors from fists or other objects being punched through them. The 1970's blue speckled linoleum and baby blue walls were stained and dirty, and almost never washed. The walls were covered with hand-prints and paw-prints, remnants of spills, and childhood artistic exploration with felt pens. The carpets were threadbare – likewise the couches and drapes, which had been purchased before I was born, were tattered showing their stuffing. The furniture had rings.

The refrigerator was always stuffed with a mixture of fresh and rotting food, and the kitchen floor was rarely if ever mopped- perhaps because it was covered with bags and boxes. Every cupboard and closet and countertop was overflowing. Our house was literally filled floor to ceiling with stuff – most of it we didn't need, and if we did we couldn't find it. My mom would go grocery shopping and have nowhere to put the food, so she would leave it (the non-perishables) in the paper bags on the kitchen floor, or in the garage. We had mice.

The biggest problem was that my mom refused to throw anything away. You know that story by Shell Silverstein, the one about Sarah Sylvia Cynthia Stout? She would not take the garbage out? It was one of my favorites, and I can still see the towering piles of garbage overflowing from her house in the illustrations of that book. That was pretty much my life.

My mother hoards. Pathologically. She saved my baby clothes, my dolls, and all our old toys. She saved piles of children's books we had long since out grown. After all she said, one day, we might want them, perhaps for our own children. The closets were overflowing with threadbare towels and sheets. She would buy new ones, but keep the old ones too. She saved every photograph, and school art project, all the broken and mismatched dishes. She saved old shoes, mismatched socks and mittens, broken alarm clocks and Tupperware without lids. She saved popsicle sticks and baby food jars for future art projects we never did. It didn't matter what it was, it could somehow, someday, be repurposed and therefore was not going to be thrown away. She saved and saved until every space in our hose was filled with crap.

All this saving and mess had a profound effect on me when I was growing up. I rarely brought friends home. I was embarrassed to have my boyfriends pick me up at my house, and usually met them on the front porch.

To make matters worse, my mother was constantly blaming my brothers and I for the mess. She would say how tired she was from work and how if we would just help her out – take out the garbage, empty the dishwasher, vacuum the carpets once in a while, the place wouldn't be such a mess. And we bought it – all of us – hook, line and sinker. We believed that none of it was her fault, and that if we just tried harder, kept our rooms cleaner, helped out more, we might one day live like normal people.

I tried to clean up after myself, but the task was too overwhelming. On the occasions when I did a major cleaning, there was always an enormous fight, as a result of the things that inevitably were thrown away. I remember once I spent an entire day cleaning and scrubbing the kitchen. I wiped out all the cupboards and re-organized them, got all the clutter off the counters. Scrubbed the sink and stove until it shined, and cleaned out the refrigerator. For the first time the kitchen didn't make me lose my appetite.

But the first thing she did when she saw it was go through all the drawers and look for things I threw away. Then she went through the trash and retrieved it all. Then she took everything out of the cupboards I had so carefully organized and made it a big jumbled mess again. She couldn't find anything she told me, and who did I think I was afterall, reorganizing HER kitchen? It was perfectly fine the way it was, and I was one arrogant child if I thought I knew better. That was the last time I ever cleaned the kitchen. In fact I wouldn't even empty the dishwasher after that. I pretty much just gave up and accepted that this mess was my life.

She didn't seem to think the way we lived was abnormal. She still invited out friends in. She suggested we have parties. It was a constant source of shame and humiliation, and she simply didn't get it. As an example of how deluded she was, my senior year in high school, the minister of my church youth group thought it would be funny joke to take a video camera into the bedrooms of different kids when they weren't home and see how neat and tidy they were. Though I was generally fairly organized, my mom let him into my room on a day when it was a disaster. I learned of this little prank when he played his video at baccalaureate in front of the entire class and their families – and used me as the butt of the joke. In contrast to the straight-laced boy with a perfect family whose socks were neatly folded at the foot of his bed, were the piles of clothes on the floor of my closet, the unmade bed, and the desk overflowing with papers. I was, needless to say, mortified, and I have never forgiven this minister, or my mother.

I suppose that makes her sound rather evil. My dad used to tell me that she was sick, and at the time, as a teenager I would get incredibly angry at him for saying that. But he was right. She used clutter (and still does) as a way to remain a victim and avoid having to confront the difficult parts of a normal life. By surrounding herself and us with chaos, she had an excuse not to date again, not to make new friends, not to face the pain of the divorce. The clutter and mess were a distraction that she found comforting – but it also kept her so preoccupied with her own self-pity that she rarely had time to consider how her four children were faring.

Don't get me wrong, she did her best to make sure we were fed and clothed, but beyond that, I don't think she spent much time worrying about my emotional development – and frankly she missed a lot. She missed my having what I now can only describe as a complete nervous breakdown at the age of 10 and beat my 6 year old brother and my dog with my fists in a screaming hysterical fit of rage. She missed it when after a spat over a boy, a girl in my eighth grade class single-handedly managed to turn all my friends against me. No one spoke to me for weeks, and I remember really and truly wishing I could die, and figuring that no one would even notice. She missed it when later that year I become so distraught that I couldn't to my schoolwork and I dropped out of the honors class because I couldn't finish a report on how Alaska and Hawaii became a state. She missed a lot.

Eventually I stopped looking for someone to notice my teenage anguish. I pulled myself together and learned how to take care of myself – since it was apparent that there was no one who would come to my rescue. But admittedly, one of the things I always hoped for was the adult life I never had as a child: A loving family, a warm and cozy home where people would always be welcome, food would always be offered. A place that is clean, comfortable and inviting. I don't have the big house anymore with the guest room, or the happy family, but I still can cook a nice meal.

Still, it's pretty hard to cook anything interesting if you are the only one eating, unless of course you don't mind eating it at very meal for a week straight. And since my husband is still the best friend I have, I like to have him over and cook for him. It's something I know he appreciates, since I am acutely aware that he eats spaghetti almost every night now that I'm gone. It also seems that he is a bit lonely too. He works from home, so he can go days without human contact unless he seeks it out. Over the last several years of our marriage he really began to isolate himself – and it was one of the behaviors that lead to our undoing. He stopped calling his friends and family, and often didn't return their emails or calls. I was always making up excuses for his rudeness to other people. He still has friends, but in terms of day-to-day interactions, I am pretty much it.

So from time to time he comes over and we have dinner. On occasion I will stay at his place or he will stay at mine. Mostly this is platonic, but last night he stayed and well – it wasn't so platonic.

I wish I could say that it was good. It wasn't terrible. But something was missing. There was no passion. No moment of wanting each other so badly we couldn't help ourselves. It felt forced. And the truth is that I just sort of went along with it because I wanted to see what I might feel. I wanted to see if being with him physically could help reignite the emotional fire. Because the truth is I do love him, and if I thought I could make this work, I would. I want him to be happy. I enjoy hanging out with him – and lately he has been more fun. At least I can see he is trying, and that's a start. But what do you do when you love someone, and you are no longer attracted to them? Does attraction come back?

I mean, the whole time he was on top of me I was thinking about Berlin, or William, or anybody else I have been with who absolutely made me lose my head. I was thinking about how I felt something with them that is completely absent from what I feel for my husband now. But I still feel such tenderness toward him, and I at least want to feel passion for him. I want to have all that again – but I don't know if it's possible. And it worries me, if I ever choose to go back to him, will I be giving up passion and good sex forever? Can I do that?

And how is it that sex can be so good with someone you don't love, or who doesn't love you, and so mundane with someone you care about deeply? What the hell is wrong with this picture?

Tonight he made me dinner. He went to some trouble to make eggplant parmesan, which was surprisingly delicious. This is something he hasn't done in a long time, and I know required some planning on his part. I was touched. Really. But when he asked me to stay, I decided to go home. I don't think I'm ready for this yet. I still need the passion.

A funny thing happened...

2008-12-03T10:07:00.005-05:00

I got a mysterious facebook email yesterday. It was a name I didn't recognize: Laiali Singh. There was no picture, and virtually no information. The person wanted to be my friend. I started wondering if Berlin had caught on to my little stalking ploy, and was playing the same game. I was determined to outsmart him.

I emailed back.
"I apologize for being so rude but can you remind me where we know each other from? Was it through work? Sometimes people I have met through work contact me on facebook, but its something I prefer to keep personal."

A little later I got this response:

"Actually we did meet through work, but I understand you wanting to keep your Facebook personal, take care."

Now I am absolutely certain that I never met any Laiali Singh. Something is definitely up. And I didn't feel like letting it drop that quickly.

"Gosh, I really feel terrible, but I simply don't remember meeting you. And your name is so unusual I feel certain it would have stuck. Where do you work?"

To which Laiali replied:

"Oh this is so embarassing, but I think I must have mixed you up with another writefromtheheart. Take Care."

AHA!! Trying to back out of this aren't you?

"Oh no worries. I guess I like to think that I am the only writefromtheheart out there! I do have a friend named Belinda Singh in Berlin though - but I guess that's not you. Good luck!"

Now you might not know my *real name* but let's just say it's fairly unique. I can count on one hand the number of other women I have met face-to-face who share my name. I NEVER get mixed up with someone else. EVER. I also do not know anybody named Belinda Singh. I made that up. The point was it sounded a lot like the female version of Berlin's name, who is - as you know- living in Berlin. I figured if it was him he would realize that I had caught him.

The final reply:

"LOL. Take care!"

Ohhh. I so caught him. What else could he say to get out of this gracefully? Every word was digging him a bigger hole.

Now just for fun (and because I cannot let this go), I decided to send him an email from another fake email address that he doesn't associate with me. His email is just his initials followed by a number, so if he really had nothing to do with this, it would be easy to apologize, say I mistyped, and the email was meant for someone else. BUT I made sure, that if he really was the face behind Laiali, he would know it was me.

Belinda-
It was great to reconnect with you. Please tell Laiali I said hello! Hope all is fabulous in Berlin!
Solana

CHECKMATE. Do you think he'll ask for another game or throw the board at me?

Single Momma

2008-12-02T23:04:00.002-05:00

Today I have custody of the kids. My husband has finally entrusted me to watch the girls. Yes. Nunu and Aggie are spending the night! Of course Imus is far to attached to Dad, and trotted off behind him back to his place. But my girls were more than happy to stay snuggled up on the couch with me.

You have no idea what a big step this was for my husband. He is unnaturally attached to these dogs. He worries about when they eat, how much they eat, when they, poop, how much they poop, if they have slept enough, played enough, if they look lonely, or sad, or depressed. He takes anthropomorphism to an new extreme.

It's touching really - his devotion is adorable. But it also borders on insane. After he left, he called me on the phone.

"I just wanted to remind you to take their coats off, they don't need to sleep in them."

"No, really?"

"And Aggie didn't want to eat today, so she is probably hungry, so make sure you pick up the cat food so she can't eat it. It gives her diarrhea. "

"Don't worry. They'll be fine."

"I know. I just wanted to remind you."

"Thanks for thinking about us."

"I'll be back at 7:15 to get them."

"OK."

So now we are snuggled on the couch watching the comedy channel. And my kitty Marrian is snuggling with us. She get jealous of the dogs and want to be nearby. Normally she would be off licking herself in the corner and ignoring me, but when the dogs are around she suddenly desires nothing more than my undivided attention.

Life is good.

And it all becomes clear....

2008-12-02T14:43:00.002-05:00

SO IT WORKED!!! Marion added me as a friend. The irony. I can't believe how easy that was.

Of course, the first thing I did was check out her birthday. September 1979. 1979!!! I was right. She is 29. Not even 30 yet. A Child.

Can I just say -- WTF!!!???

What's even more hilarious here, and really very deceptive on the part of Berlin, was the fact that on our first meeting, in an offhand remark, I told Berlin that I couldn't even imagine dating someone under 30. He laughed and nodded in agreement.

It went like this: Somehow the discussion came around to children - I don't really remember how, but it may have been that he asked me about my marriage, and I said that one of the reasons I finally decided to leave was that I realized that I couldn't imagine starting a family with him.

"Do you think you will ever want to have children?" I asked.
"One day," he nodded, "eventually."
"Well I guess you'd better get to it, or start thinking about dating someone a lot younger." I laughed.

Remember, at this point I thought he was 38, just four years older than me, not 41. If I had only known.

"The thing is, I can't even imagine dating anyone under 30," I said. "I mean really, what on earth do I have in common with someone in their 20's?

He sort of gave a chuckle. A snort of sorts. He nodded his head and made a noise which I took to mean that he AGREED with me, that he also wanted a partner somewhat closer to his own age. I guess it wasn't an agreement. It was a smirk. It was him laughing to himself and thinking "if she only knew that I am really 41, and dating a 29-year-old."

He NEVER ONCE, in two whole months, mentioned that she was nearly 13 years younger. Because of that first reaction, I always assumed that she was in her 30's. I simply assumed that she had her Ph.D. and was here on some sort of post-doc or sabbatical or research grant. Jesus. When I found out that he was 41, I even wondered if that was too old FOR ME. My husband is 44, and I always thought that the 10 year age difference was perhaps a part of our troubles. That maybe he hit the milestones of his life at points that were out of synch with mine. That perhaps I would be better of with someone whose musical influences were Michael Jackson, The Bangles and Madonna - instead of Pink Floyd, The Who and Queen. Someone who grew up in the 80's, and not the 70's.

But Marion doesn't even remember the 80's. She is a child of the 90's. What am I saying, she is a child.

From what I could tell, it looks like she has her medical degree from Germany, and is doing her residency in Berlin. Interesting. Berlin (the person, not the city) is planning on going to medical school there. He barely speaks German, and yet he knew an awful lot about the German medical school system, and seemed oddly confident that it would not be a challenge to get accepted to this fairly prestigious European medical school.

I mistook this confidence for arrogance. I didn't know he was sleeping with one of that schools doctors. A man sleeping his way into medical school. Hurray for the feminist movement. Europe really is much more progressive than America.

The making of a stalker and a mid-life crisis

2008-11-27T15:20:00.006-05:00

Perhaps its because I am an investigator of sorts, but once I set my sights on finding out a piece of information, I don't give up.

So the other day I got to thinking about Berlin again, and I was sort of curious about this woman he is so gah-gah over. I wonted to know more about her - and let's just say I began using my investigatory skills.

I only really know what he has told me, which isn't a whole lot. I know she is a scientist and had come to the University where he worked as part of her research in Germany. He told me they met in an elevator.

He was living with his girlfriend, Stephanie, of eight years - a woman from Spain (I think he has a thing for foreigners), and he said the relationship was disintegrating. He didn't actually use the word "smothered", but he described her as "very controlling", and said she "told him how to feel."

This conversation came about one night as we were having dinner together at his house and I asked him how he met Marion. I don't know the details of what happened in that elevator, or how it managed to spark a full-blown affair, but I do know that it was his way of sabotaging a relationship he didn't have the guts to end properly.

"So what happened?" I asked him. "How did she find out about Marion?"
"I told her."
"And what did she say?" I asked.
"She was really upset, but she said it was OK. She said 'let's just move on and forget about it.' But I told her I couldn't forget about it. I didn't want to forget about it."
"Do you think you did it on purpose? To have an excuse to walk away?"
He shrugged.
"It's been suggested to me by other people that that was my real motivation. That I just wanted to blow things up."
"Sounds like a pretty fair assessment of the situation. What do you think?"
"I think they're probably right." He paused. "But sometimes cheating is justified."
"Like when?"
"When the marriage contract is broken. In you're case, you didn't really cheat on him."
"Of course I did. I was married. I'm still married. I slept with other men. How is that not cheating?"
"He broke the marriage contract. He stopped having sex with you. You can't go on in a marriage like that - it's not a marriage. The contract was broken - and he broke it first. You didn't really do anything wrong."

I thought about this logic for a minute. It was true. He had severed our physical relationship, and as a result, our emotional ties began to wither in the dry, parched, sexless desert. I felt shut out, abandoned and alone, and I sought out an oasis in someone else's touch. But my actions weren't entirely excusable -- Even my logic wasn't that warped.

"No. I did do something wrong. I didn't tell him. I tried to talk to him about it, about our problems. But I didn't tell him it had gone that far. I didn't tell him that I was so desperate that I wanted to be with another man. I could have gone to him and told hem enough was enough. I could have said that I couldn't take it any more and that I was leaving him. I could have asked for a divorce before I ever cheated. That's what I should have done. That would have been the honorable thing. That would have been the right thing. I could have given him a chance to make it right, by impressing on him the gravity of the situation. But I didn't do that. He did a lot of things wrong too - but that doesn't make what I did right."

He was quiet. I continued.

"I mean, you obviously weren't happy in your relationship with Stephanie. You felt smothered and controlled. But why didn't you just end it? Why didn't you just go to her and say,'this isn't working.' Why did you chose to cheat on her with someone else - and then - even worse - tell her about it -- so that she would leave you? That was cruel. The fact that you were unhappy enough to cheat should have been enough reason to walk away, and the right thing to do would have been to break it off before you got involved with someone else."

Berlin didn't say anything, but there was a pained expression on his face that made me think he knew I was right, and that, this was the first time he had ever really thought of that. I sensed I had pushed a little too far, and so let the subject drop.

But later I was replaying the conversation in my mind and I began to wonder if I wasn't just his next affair. He was unhappy with the way Marion treated him, but instead of just walking away, instead of confronting her about it and making a clean break, he was cheating on her with me. This would turn out to be more true than I realized, because back then I still was under the impression that their relationship was less serious than it actually was - I didn't really see them as a committed couple - -and so I didn't really fee like he was "cheating" as much as he was just taking the easy way out, or possibly using me as revenge.

You see, when we first met and he said he was chasing a woman in Germany, he left a few things out. For starters, he neglected to mention that they would be sharing an apartment in Berlin. I discovered that over some pillow talk one night when I asked him if he had found an apartment yet. First he described the place and told me the neighborhood where it was located. Which naurally led me to ask how he found it.

"We found it on the internet."
"We?"
"Maria and I"
"Wait, are you going to live there with her?"
"Of course. I don't have a job. I can't afford a place on my own. At least in the beginning I have to live with her."

He acted like that was the most obvious and natural thing in the world. Of course he was going to live with her! Did I somehow think that he was going to move to Germany for a woman who he didn't even know wanted to be with him? A woman who was living on her own and not necessarily inviting him into her life and her home?

Um. yeah. I sorta did.

Maybe it was the "at least in the beginning" part that kept me from collecting my clothes and my naked self and going home. But the concept was unsettling, and it was my first clue that he had misrepresented their relationship to me.

Other clues came later.

Like when I was helping him pack up his house to move and I discovered books that belonged to her, a woman's scarf, a piece of art she brought him back from Africa, and I started to wonder if she had been living there with him.

And when he told me that he bought a car so that she would have something safe to drive, I KNEW she had been living with him. This was not a relationship he was trying to pursue - this was a relationship he was IN. She was his girlfriend - and he just wasn't certain whether or not he should blow the whole thing up. He wasn't sure if he wanted to stay with her, so he was testing out the waters with me. MOTHERFUCKER.

Since he's been gone, I have wondered a lot about him and what was really going through his head - and in retrospect it seems an awful lot like man having a middle-aged crisis. He was 41. When he met, he told me he was 38. I discovered the lie when we became facebook friends and I noticed he had his birthday listed. May 10, 1967. I brought it up one day when we were walking his dog Maddie around the neighborhood.

"So I was checking out your facebook page and I discovered something interesting."
"Oh yeah?"
"Your birthday."
He sort of smiled. He knew he'd been busted.
"1968 ... let me see ... my calculus may be a bit rusty, but my arithmetic is pretty solid. I think that makes you 41 not 38."
"Your math skills are solid."
"So why did you lie? Who cares?"
"I don't know, but there was something sort of thrilling about it."

His face lit up when he said it and I could tell that the whole secret identity thing gave him a total rush. This was a guy who yearned to be somebody else. Someone who thought the idea of sowing his wild oats with a stranger he met on the internet, and shaving a few years off his age was thrilling.

Mid life crisis... CHECK!

This was a man who spinelessly ended a long-term relationship over an ill-thought out affair with a woman who wouldn't commit to him.

CHECK!

This was a man who had failed to thrive in his career - who had floundered in a lab as a post-doc for years without ever finding a faculty position, and felt he missed his calling as a doctor. Consequently he was quitting his job and moving to a foreign country - at age 41 - to start over and go to medical school

BIG, BIG, check.

And then I wondered how OLD Marion was. I googled her name. There was almost nothing. If you google Berlin's name, there are tons of links to his work, to papers he has written - to seminars and talks he has given. This is normal. By the time a scientist reaches the post doctoral level, as most do by the time they are in their late twenties or early thirties, you have already written a number of papers. you can be found on the internet, but outside of a seminar she gave at a conference in Austria just a few months ago, she was MIA. Curious.

But maybe it was because she was foreign, and google wasn't catching the German websites. So I went to PubMed - a comprehensive database of all papers in the biological sciences, including plenty of foreign journals. If she had published anything,ever, it would be there.

NOTHING.

It appeared that this woman - or perhaps a girl - did not even have her Ph.D. She might be 25. OMG. This is a 41 year old man who is having a mid-life crisis. He is giving up his career and chasing a flitty young foreign student, probably 15 years his junior, to a foreign country where he is going to go back to school and live like he did WHEN HE WAS 25. Maybe I should be glad this did not work out.

So what about the stalking? Well I really, really wanted to know how old she is, and the easiest way to find out is to look on HER facebook page. But I can't because we're not friends. But here's the thing. ANYONE can join facebook. Even, say, a fake person, who doesn't really exist. And people will add you as a friend, even if they don't really know you very well - or as I have discovered - even if they don't know you at all.

So I created a fake persona, with an email address, a photo, and a facebook page. then I asked a lot of random people to be my friends. Most of them said yes. Then I asked Marion and Berlin to be my friends. Berlin said yes. I'm waiting on Marion. so now I can spy on his facebook page whenever I want ... and maybe soon I'll know for sure if he is dating a child instead of a woman his own age.

I'll keep you posted.

Heart on Sleeve

2008-11-26T11:28:00.017-05:00

It's late. I'm up staring at the door. Should be working. Should be thinking about something else but you surround my head, my heart, my soul my core.
Without your touch I feel inside out. I'm lost. Alone. A fool for sure.

I bide my time. Calm my restless heart. Wondering if we were fools to even start,
along this path that has no happy end. I'm stranded. Stuck. The truth like leather that binds our battered, yearning need together.

It's crazy thinking, but this melancholy rain has lit the fire that burns you in my brain.
There's no way out; my lungs, the fire, they breathe the same.
Glad it was you, that's what you said.
Glad it was you, like there could be someone else instead.

How did you know? To touch my hand, my face, that way? How did you know? Yes was the only word I dared to say. Could you see me, the way he can't? Will you see me, will you find me, in the darkness, reach out your hand?

How did you know? The eyes I longed for. How did you know? Your kiss would feed my empty soul. Sweet fate, that let you pass unharmed, out of the shadow into the shelter of my arms. Will you fight it? Will you run? Surrender is always much more fun.

It's crazy thinking, but this melancholy rain has lit the fire that burns you in my brain.
There's no way out, I am drowning in a sea of lustful shame.
Glad it was you, that's what you said.
Glad it was you, like there could be someone else instead.

Will you touch me, will you help me to forget? Will you love me? Will you want me in your head? Or will you find an easier path to tread?

It's never wise to fall so hard, to give so much, play all your cards. But tangled in our private reverie, stripped bare of all our senses, abandoning the life we knew. Here. alone. In this moment, there's no one else for me, but you.

-----------------------------------------

I wrote this song in New York City, on a rainy night after I met William. I'd been living there a few months on my own, having gone back to school for my master's degree. I left Nick behind at home (that's the husband from whom I am currently separated). It was just a 10 month program - we had just bought a house, and it didn't seem feasible that he could move to New York with me at the time.

Of course, looking back, that's perhaps exactly what he should have done. By the time I left he hated his job. He hated the city where we lived. He was depressed and unhappy with all the choices he had made in his life thus far - so if we had been thinking clearly, one of us might have noticed a change could have been good. Maybe he could have found a job in New York.

But the truth was, one of the things he wasn't happy with was me. We hadn't had sex in months. Maybe a year. I simply can't remember now. Just before I went to New York I got a fellowship to Germany for a couple of weeks and I talked him into coming with me. I thought maybe a vacation would do us both a world of good. But while he enjoyed the trip, he was still nervous the whole time. He never really let go, and he never touched me once. I was devastated. I tried to talk to him about it but he shut me down. He said sex just wasn't important to him. That he was depressed and I just needed to back off and let him get through this on his own. I sort of felt I had backed off long enough.

It's sad to admit this, but by the time I got on the plane to New York, I had already decided that if I met someone else who I had chemistry with I would cheat on him. In fact, I was sort of hoping I would. I was hoping that in my graduate program there would be some smart, cute, interesting guy who was wild about me, and that he would ignite the dead embers of my heart. Something inside me just snapped. I had been faithful to this one man for 12 years. Only once - before we were married - did I let another man kiss me. Aside from that, I was a picture of fidelity. But I was starved for affection. I was desperate. I wanted to be touched. I wanted to make love. I wanted all the hot passionate sex that a married woman in her early thirties was entitled too and I was going to get it.

I was disappointed however in the pool of available men in my class. They were all either too young, too arrogant, too unattractive or too unavailable. It looked like a torrid love affair was not going to just fall into my lap.

That's when the idea of posting an ad on craigslist first percolated into reality. At first I just flirted with the idea in my head. Then I started browsing around. his was prety new to me. I had sold furniture on craigslist. I had used it to find an apartment. But I absolutely never thought about using it to look for a date -- much less a sexual encounter. I used to work with some girls who were obsessed with the craigslist personals. During our lunch breaks at work we used to play the New York Times crossword puzzle online and read craigslist. We would read them outloud and laugh - some of them were so ridiculous. For example here are a few recent posts from my local listings:

Crossdresser STILL searching for friendly female - 35
HI, I am a 35 year old male to female cross dresser looking for a friendly understanding woman for friendship maybe more. I would like to find someone who would enjoy this and can help with makeup and shopping as well. She would not be afraid to be seen in public with me dressed as a woman. I have been told by many that when dressed I am very cute and passable. I am very safe and very sane, drug, alcohol and disease free. I own my home and have a steady job. If you are such a woman I would love to hear from you. I must ad, though I am open and accepting of others lifestyles and choices I am straight so please NO MEN!!! Unless you are also a cd or t-girl and passable. Thanks

He even put his picture, and I hate to tell him, he is not passable. He looks very much like a man dressed as a woman.

A lot of the posters can't spell much less string a sentence together, and sadly you can sort of see why they are still single. Like this guy:

Man looking for a Womans company
Here I go again.After 11 weeks of thinking that I found someone to start a relationship in hopes of getting married again,she F'n dumped me for her X.

WTF do I have to do to find someone again? Here are my dont's.

Its very easy---dont let your family control your personal life,nor have them invite your X to stay over while your in a relationship.And dont f__k with my head.

I have kids,so if you do,dont thats fine.
I have never smoked and would consider someone that does,only if its not around me.
Please have a personality,humor,job

.

Sounds like a real winner. I'll be calling him right up! There are a lot of sad and lonely people out there. That's the truth. But every once in a while there is a genuinely interesting post, something creative, and honest and reading a few of those got the wheels turning in my head. Well, that and the fact that I was incredibly horny and ready to do just about anything to get laid.

So I set up a fake email address and replied o a few posts. The results where, well - meh... so I decided to be a little more daring and try and write a post of my own. I don't remember exactly what it said but it was something to the effect of "Married woman living alone seeks intelligent attractive man for discreet affair. Send photo" With more of my usual literary flair of course. I was nervous as hell. what if I ever wanted to become a politician? My opponent could dig this stuff up! What if one of these guys later wrote a tell-all book about me? But sepite al reason, I decided to take the plunge anyway - and thus began my decent into the tawdry world of Craigslist - one that would eventually lead to my relationship with Berlin.

Now if you are shocked by my behavior (and probably thinking you would never do anything so stupid), believe me, you are not half as shocked as I was at myself. I mean, what on earth was I doing, pimping myself out on the internet like that? But I was SO curious! I really wanted to know who these people were. Were they all nut jobs, losers, and freaks? Or were some of them just normal people, single, married and unhappy, or divorced and trying to start over? I had to know. I just had to know that I was not the only one in this position. And what could it hurt right? It was all anonymous and I didn't have to reply to any of them.

But of course I did. Within hours the inbox of my new Craigslist alias was filled with hundreds of replies. Some of them were too old, not my type, or filled with stupid one liners. Delete, delete, delete. But eventually there were a few worthy emails, some intriguing exchanges, and a few dates. A handful of which ended in two tipsy, naked people in my apartment.

It was liberating, and I felt absolutely no guilt whatsoever. The sex was great. But none of it really lead anywhere, and I didn't really click with anybody I met. And then just about when I had begun to decide the experiment was over I met William.

He was adorable, a musician, and just about my age, and he wrote a response to my post that would make any woman stop dead in her tracks. It was so good I saved it.

I can imagine you've probably received a thousand emails in the last 20 plus hours. And you've probably stopped because I have a pretty good idea what most of them said. I hope you've managed to hang in long enough to read this one.

I thought your post was beautiful and just about exactly summed-up where I am right now. I'm a good looking, professional, married, 33 year old who has always identified as an artist and musician at heart. I'm a sensualist, not in the strict sexual sense but in that I endeavor to experience life richly in all ways. I seek beauty and I find it everywhere. I love knowing people in small ways others don't see. I love spontaneity and I don't really have much fear when it comes to doing things that are out of my comfort zone.

The problem is about opportunity. Work is enveloping, friends and family surround, the life routine becomes a groove that can be hard to slip out of. Your right, I do seek understanding and real connection and deep intimacy. I want a Lover. Not a sex partner or even a friend really. I want close-ness and someone with whom to quietly reveal to each other our secret selves.

I love my wife very much. We have just grown in different directions with age. If anything my appetite for color and beauty and passion has grown where as hers has been largely replaced by the desire for security and ease of a very well defined universe. I need more and I understand very well that I'm not a bad person for seeking it out. I respect her deeply and it's a gesture of that respect that I could never let know. I've never cheated. Not because my conception of a healthy relationship is much influenced by societal norms but because I've not been able to find the right one. The one who understands what it is... and what it isn't.

And that's really why I responded to your post. I NEVER respond to posts. I'm sure 'all the guys say that' but it's true for me. It just really looks so discouraging. But your post was special. You're clearly smart and emotionally secure and that can be rare on Craigslist or anywhere else.

I do live with my wife though I'm often out late for work related things and with friends. I'd love to have dinner one night if you'd like. We might find that have no chemistry. We might find something very beautiful. Judging by your post, I'd very much like to find out.

Do me one favor though. If you've read this, even if you're completely uninterested in meeting with me, just drop an email to let me know. Having just spent a bit of time writing I care to find out if you actually ever read it.

-William

We decided to meet at my favorite Cuban place on Prince St. When he walked up I liked him instantly. Laid back, down to earth, interesting. And did I mention totally hot? I am not kidding. Blond hair, blue eyes, well-built physique. We hit it off.

After dinner we snuck into a little bar and found a quiet corner to talk and have drinks. We got in at just the right time for New Yorkers - because within a half hour the place was flooded with people and we were literally walled into our little private corner by mingling bodies.

He told me about his wife and his little girl. And the fact that the passion had died in their marriage. He said she had been in a relationship with a woman before she met him, and he thought perhaps she was really more interested in women than men. In real life this might have seemed like too personal a detail to share- and too taboo a subject to discuss in public - but this was New York, we were strangers who had met on Craigslist and the honesty of this anonymity came naturally.
At some point he reached over and took my hand and I felt electricity ran through my whole body. We had some serious chemistry.

When we decided it was time to get out of there he offered me a ride home. This was an unusual turn of events. With the exception of cabs, I hadn't even been in a car since I'd moved to New York City. But he lived in Jersey and had driven over to meet me. I accepted this novel opportunity - and a chance to spend a few moments alone with him. We walked a few blocks to his back jeep. Neither of us mentioned the car seat in the back.

It was about 3 in the morning and the streets of lower Manhattan were completely empty. He pulled up to a red light and all of the sudden he leaned over and kissed me. It was, hands down, the BEST kiss I have ever gotten. It was tender and passionate, and restrained and full of desire all at once. He cupped his hand behind my head in just the right way and his fingers just barely massaged the hair at the nape of my neck and then slid gently along my throat. I caught my breath. I will remember that kiss until I close my eyes for the last time, honest to God.

"You are a really good kisser," I blurted out. I couldn't help it. I was so surprised, I just said the first thing that came into my head out loud.

"Right back at ya babe," he smiled wryly and reached over to the passenger seat and put his hand on my thigh.

This was going very well.

Two sweaty, tangled naked bodies later I decried the evening a success - and after he left, as I pondered this person who had sort of amazingly come into my life, and what it all meant, I wrote that song - for my new musician lover. He has never read it, though we continued seeing each other for the rest of my time in New York, and even once after I moved away when I came back to the big City for a visit.

He still loves his wife, had another kid, and seems to be satisfied with the concept of loving one woman and lusting after another. At the time I met him, I thought perhaps he might be right - that sometimes you find a partner in life that works for you in all ways but one, and so what's wrong with stepping outside the marriage to fulfill that one missing part? But later I came to realize that that sort of fractured relationship was not what I really wanted. I wanted it all: Sex and love. Family, fidelity, breathtaking kisses, and hot,sweaty sex.

William wasn't offering me that. Even my husband wasn't offering me that - but when my year in New York was over, I decided to go back to him and see if I could get it. See if a fresh start, and a happy ending wasn't in the cards.

It wasn't - but I couldn't have known that then. So heart on sleeve I went back to try.

P.S. The photo is from a website where a bunch of kids drew pictures of English idioms. I thought this one was aorable.

A Song for the Weathered and Weary

2008-11-25T23:45:00.003-05:00

Sometimes life just gets the better of you. But you just wake up every day and keep going. You just know that day after day, one foot after after the other, you'll move forward, you'll move on, and eventually you'll find your way.

Paul Simon, said it best: Tomorrow's gonna be another day, and I'm just trying to get some rest.

The Long Road Home

2008-11-23T23:00:00.004-05:00

This weekend didn't exactly go as planned. Earlier in the week I took my new beau Alfonso to the vet to get his balls trimmed and got some bad news.

I'm a bit low on stray-cat funds, and seeing as the Fonz was a week away from living outdoors in the snow I decided to take him to a cash-only low-cost spay and neuter clinic called "A snip in Time." Cute huh? Its this tiny, cramped, smelly two room clinic - which could be somewhat off-putting if you are used to the bright, cheery and sterile, environment of vets who cater to more pampered pets. But I decided to have a look and at least talk to the doc. The vet was a husky bearded fellow who looks a bit like Grizzly Adams, and as it turns out, is no less committed to saving the broken and discarded domestic cats of our city than would be St. Francis of Asisi himself.

He took one look at Alfonso and broke the bad news.

" I don't think we should do the surgery today."
"What's wrong?"
"Have you had him tested for FeLV and FIV?"
"No, he has seemed really healthy - hea eats, uses the litter box - is active ... do you think he is sick?"
He lifted Fonz's upper lip.
"Do you see how pale his gums are?" I nodded - they were really quite white. I had never looked at them before.
"That's a sign of Feline Leukemia." He shook his head. "I'll do the surgery if you want, but I'm out of test kits - and I don't think it's a good idea to do it until you know whether or not he's positive."

I looked down at the brave little fonz sadly. "If you're positive buddy I can't keep you - you'll infect my other cats." I was disappointed this might be the case, but until this point he had seemed normal and healthy, and I new some FeLV positive cats live long happy lives - there might still be a home for him where Leukemia was OK. I took him home and agreed that I would take him to another vet and have him tested.

And then, as if the vet had predicted it, everything changed. That night Fonz ate very little. The next day it was freezing cold outside and I felt bad putting him out all day while I was at work so I left him inside. He didn't eat all day. When I came home, he was lying in my closet, where it's cool and he didn't want to come out. I tried to feed him, but he wouldn't take any food or water. Eventually he used the litter box and-- unsteady on his feet-- wobbled to a comfy spot under my bed and wouldn't come out. He was still in the same spot friday morning, and Friday night when I got home from work. I knew something was very wrong.

So first thing Saturday morning I took him to the other vet for a test. This time it was the clean, bright cheery vet filled with cats and dogs, and new puppies there for their shots. I wrapped Fonzie in a blue towel and held him in my arms - he let me drive him the 20 blocks to the clinic with him in my arms like that while he looked out the window -- resting his little chin on my upper arm. His only real protest was a hiss and claw in my chest when he saw the dogs in the waiting room, but he looked up at me, eyes full of trust that I would make him better, and gave in without any real struggle. He knew I wouldn't let him fend for himself against the dogs. It's amazing how much a sick animal will trust you. It almost broke my heart.

Especially since even though I had hoped for the best, I already knew what the result would be - I could see it in the vet's eyes when she examined him. She had seen this before. When she came back and gave me the bad news I started to cry. She told me he wouldn't get better and this was the end for him - it happens fast she said. She recommended I put him down and, reluctantly, I agreed. I knew he was suffering and I wanted to ease his pain- but the idea that this was it, that we were going to say goodbye - well it was hard to accept. I hadn't realized how quickly I had gotten attached.

I had just gotten used to having the little guy around. He used to hang out on the neighbors porch and wait for me to come home. When he saw me pull up outside, he would come running and meowing. Begging to come inside and eat and snuggle. One time he even tried to climb inside my car when I was leaving - as if to ask me to take him with me - wherever it was I was going. I suppose it had to be better than being cold and hungry on the street right? I got a kick out of his devotion to me and had begun to enjoy seeing him. On nights when he didn't show up I found myself peeking out the window after him, wondering if he had found shelter elsewhere, or another sugar momma to fill his belly and scratch his ears. I really liked the little devil and sorta figured we were gonna be buddies for some time to come.

But there he was, with those big frightened eyes, looking up at me hoping I was going to make it all right, and I knew it was far from all right.

We had a few minutes alone together in the hallway while the doctor readied the room. I stroked his back and told him he had been a good cat, and that I was sorry it didn't work out. I cried and hugged his little body to my chest while he rested his tired head in the crook of my arm. I think he knew he wasn't going home to his spot under the bed.

I rubbed the back of his neck as the doctor gave the injection, and in seconds his little life was over. One minute he was giving a meow of protest at the pinch of the needle and the next the spark in his eyes had disappeared. Such a sweet, affectionate cat. The tears were rolling down my cheeks - life was really unfair. I only hope his last few weeks were filled with enough warm places to nap, meals of good food, petting and chin scratches to offset what must have been a hard early life. I take some comfort that instead of dying alone in the cold, he could look up at me and know that someone had cared for him. I hope he knew that he has been loved - even if it was for a brief time.

I paid and drove over to to see my husband. He had met Alfonso a few times and liked him too. - when I told him what happened tears welled up in his eyes and began rolling down his cheeks too. I knew he was thinking of our dogs and how he would feel if one day we have to put them down.

"I had really started to get used to him," he said. "Me too," I sniffed.

He was just that sort of cat. He just made himself right at home in your life and before you knew it you were in love with him. One more man who made me fall in love with him and left me in tears.

This really has to stop.

The things I miss

2008-11-19T23:51:00.003-05:00

I went over to my old house the day before yesterday. My husband is moving out and he still has a bunch of my stuff that I figured I would have time to sort through eventually - but I never got to it. The place is full of boxes (some of them with my unsorted stuff), and I found myself wandering from room to room, opening up empty closets, looking inside all the cupboards and drawers. I told myself I just wanted to make sure he wasn't leaving anything behind, but in reality I was wandering around the rooms of that house - our house - and saying goodbye.

I was upstairs in the second floor bathroom looking at the empty linen closet when I suddenly burst into tears and began sobbing uncontrollably. I had spent an entire afternoon organizing that closet. Giving the extra soap, shampoo and towels a proper place. Arranging makeup and vitamins, and talcum powder. Taking a space and making it mine. Making it ours. Making a house into a home. Now that home was being packed up and it was just a house again. A house for someone else to make theirs.

I know its silly to hold onto a "place". It's just a house. But when we moved there it was supposed to be a fresh start - a new beginning - a chance to be happy. I pictured us grilling in the backyard, planting a garden in the spring, lying in the hammock I bought in Key West and taking mid-afternoon naps. I created a guest room on the third floor where I envisioned friends and family would come and stay - an office where I could write -and a space that might one day become a nursery. That house was a symbol of a dream I had for my life, and now that dream was being stripped bare, disassembled and packed into boxes.

I insisted on taking a few things right then and there- things I didn't really have to have at 10pm on a weeknight. Stuff like the printer, and a paper shredder and an ergonomic stool from Relax The Back store that I bought when I threw my back out and couldn't sit in any normal chair without pain. My husband helped me put them in the car, even though I could tell he was iritated that I suddenly felt I had to do this "right now." I think he knew I was cracking.

The whole thing made me realize how incredibly lonely I am, and how the hardest part of this is letting my dreams die. Letting go of the plans I had made for us and for our lives. There would be no happy afternoons lounging in that backyard hammock. No repainting the spare room for a new baby. No thanksgiving dinner gathered around the dining room table followed by a walk in the park with the dogs.

"This isn't how I wanted my life to be" I once sobbed to my be best friend Stephanie in Boston over the phone. My husband and I had just returned from the neighborhood block party, and hours before I had signed the lease on my new apartment. It was official, we were going our separate ways. But we decided to put in an appearance at the party anyway, and midway through I had to leave. I simply couldn't take it. The group was filled with young married couples who were all pregnant or chasing after young toddlers. The fathers played with the kids and the dogs and the moms chatted about this or that. And I watched the parents interact - working as a team - taking turns being on parental duty. Asking one another for another plate of potato salad or a beer, or could he please get little Michael's binky from the diaper bag? I sat watching these normal, happy interactions thinking "this will never be us."

My husaband was never happy. He didn't ever want to socialize or hang out with the neighbors, or have a beer with friends. Simple everyday chit chat was something he considered an imposition. He had become a loner, and he shut out even me. I could't even begin to imagine us laughing and playing with a child - me asking him for another diaper or toy and having him hoist the kid onto his shoulders to see the fire engine up close. I couldn't picture a happy family.

"I know," stephanie consoled me. "But you are moving on so that you can have those things. If you stay with him you know you never will, but by leaving, even though you'll be alone, even though it's hard, ther's a chance one day you might."

She is right of course. I knew it then. I know it now. But each time I am confronted with the broken dream I can't help but wish things could have somehow been different - and I ache with the need to make them so.

Do I miss my husband? Every day. But what I really miss is the way we used to be, long ago when we fell in love and decided to get married. I miss the person who used to be excited about hearing about my day, who used to take long walks with me on summer nights, who would drive the the beach with me on a moments notice and stay there all day in the sun getting tan and hungry before finding some seaside restaruant for dinner. I miss the nights we used to go get enormous amounts of sushi with from the cheap restaraunt across the street from our old Boston apartment and eat it on the living room floor while watching masterpiece theatre on PBS because we didn't have cable. I miss walking to Trader Joes and buying as much as we could carry - olives stuffed with blue cheese, proscuitto, goat cheese, fresh figs, wine, shrimp...and having our own personal anti-pasto with a VHS movie from the run-down neighborhood video store. I miss the way he used to rub my back with baby powder when I was sleeping until I would wake up to him caressing me gently, tenderly.

I miss all of that . All the things that made me choose him as my partner in life. All the things that made me think I would want to wake up to him every day. That together we would read bedtime stories and take vacations, and make a family full of happy memories. I miss it so much it hurts.

But missing something doesn't bring it back to life. Of course, sometimes I find myself wondering if we might not be able to revive things. Reconcile and go back to those happier times. I'm not sure. Perhaps I'm just lonely right now and mourning the death of those dreams. Maybe I'm just feeling uncertain that i'll ever find that dream again with someone else. Maybe he really will never be able to be that person that I need, and in order to have those things, I have to look elsewhere. But maybe he'll change.

I miss him. But I don't want to miss out on the rest of my life. I don't want to miss out on a family - a partner - a lover - a dream. I missed him even when we were still married - because he was already absent from my life in so many ways. And now metaphorically speaking, the things I miss are getting packed away - and the rooms of my heart are empty and filled with boxes.

Now, Blow.

2008-11-17T02:34:00.005-05:00

I bet you think this pile of Kleenex is from me crying my eyes out over Berlin don't you? Well you'd be wrong. I WISH it was from crying. Instead it is from the nasty mucous that has been steadily dripping out of my nose for the last 3 days. I know. Too much information. The current physical misery I feel is a substantial distraction from my heartache, but oh my God, I really can't take it anymore. My nose is raw, my lips are chapped, my skin is breaking out -- I am an absolute mess. Even that bowl of green tea ice cream didn't make me feel better.

Besides, there is nothing worse than being single and sick. I had almost forgotten what it's like. 14 years in a relationship with one man, and I don't even remember what its like to be sick and be all alone. No husband or boyfriend to make you soup? No one to stop off at the store and buy you your favorite Citrus C Monster Odwalla juice smoothie? No one to draw you a hot bath or bring you aspirin, or a cup of honey and lemon tea? I am an independent woman - I don't need a man. Nope. I do not need a man. Except right now, I could really use someone to rub my throbbing temples and tell me (lie to me) that I look sexy in my jammies and unwashed hair.

My husband always did that - took care of me when I was sick. It used to drive me crazy. One of his neuroses is his cumpulsion about doing everything according to instructions, or some other regiented plan of his own device. He believes if the box of nyquil says take every four hours then you should take it exactly every four hours. He used to set his alarm and wake me up in the middle of the night for my next dose. Of course, there is nothing more annoying than being woken up from a sound sleep when you are sick so that you can take medicine to help you sleep - a concept he didn't quite understand. But his dedication - his persistance - to the task of making me well was very loving, and thinking back now it almost makes me cry. It's nice to have someone want to love you and take care of you when you are at your worst.

The Fonz

2008-11-14T00:20:00.005-05:00

Meet Alfonso. My new boyfriend.

I know, I know. Your thinking it's too soon, right? That inviting a new man into my life is just a recipe for disaster? Well rest assured, he has his own life. He doesn't live with me - yet. We met for the first time before I even moved in. I was just coming to see the place, when he galloped up the stairs of my apartment and acted like he belonged there. Recently he has decided he likes me quite a lot. He is waiting for me when I get home. Always lurking around my house waiting for the chance to bump into me, hoping I'll invite him up for a cuddle and a bite to eat. His persistence is wearing my down like a man who won't stop calling. A man who shows up looking all sweet, and rubbing you just the right way. Eventually you go out with them, even though you know better, and before you know it they are in your bed and making themselves right at home.

That's sort of what happened with my husband. He showed up in my life rather unexpectedly when I was still pining after a boyfriend who had broken up with me for religion. He was Muslim, I was ... open minded. Too open-minded for him I suppose. After he refused to tell his family about me, we broke up. I was lonely and made out with his best friend fraternity brother, which resulted in some name calling, a fist through a glass-paned door, and an end to any and all hope of reconciliation.

For the record I really liked the best friend, but I had to learn the hard way that best friends are a bad choice for rebound relationships. In fact its best to re-bound for a while with guys you don't really like all that much. If I ever have a daughter with a broken heart I will *not* tell her to wait, and be patient, and heal and all that crap. Nope. I will tell her to go find all the cute guys she pleases, but not the sort she will fall for. I will tell her to have plenty of sex with any or all of them, so long as she uses a condom, and none of them are friends of the true object of her affection. In moments of anger, lashing out at the X by hooking up with his friend seems like the most brilliant act of revenge, but it never works. The friend knows about the X, and thinks you're a slut. The X- finds out about the friend and thinks you're a slut, has a fight with the friend, makes up with the friend and the friend dumps you. Now you are twice dumped and twice as miserable. Better to find a cute random stranger, or befriend a lonesome cat.

My eventual husband was a lot like Alfonso (who as I write this is sleeping soundly on my bed): he was very persistent, sweet, and he rubbed me just the right way - that is to say he rubbed my feet. Yes. The man took of my shoes one night and began massaging my feet. It began completely innocently (I think). I was in college and I had just had my car towed away because of multiple unpaid parking tickets. Those tickets amounted to a paltry sum compared to what it eventually cost me, including the towing and impound fees, and fines. I had to call my mother and ask her for the money- some four hundred dollars- to get the car out of the impound lot. She was understandably pissed, and I started to cry. I was lying on my bed, crying, and he, wanting to comfort me, slipped off my shoes and began massaging my feet. It was the sweetest gesture ...and it worked. I felt better. I stopped crying, and soon he was sliding his hands up my calves and helping me wriggle out of my jeans.

And I guess I adopted him, because before I knew it he was making himself right at home. Too bad he doesn't rub my feet anymore, or maybe I'd keep him.

Breaking up is hard to do

2008-11-12T03:43:00.000-05:00

Even after all the things I said it's still hard to let go. I turned on my computer last night and skype opened up automatically. Low and behold there he was. Active. Online.

I stared at the screen for hours. I logged off of skype for a while, but logged back in. I didn't want to contact him again. I had said my piece. But seeing him there - it was almost like he was in the room with me, but ignoring me completely. it was maddening. I was becoming obsessed. It was ridiculous. Finally, I gave into temptation and opened a chat window.

"I feel like I should say something," I wrote. "But nothing seems appropriate."

I waited. A few minutes later he went offline. Message received - loud and clear. He was done with this. He was done with me. I knew what had happened. He had blocked me as a contact, so that from now on, no matter when he was online, I would always see him as offline.

Two can play that game. I considered doing the same. But then what's the point I thought. I needed to end it. I highlighted his name in my skype contact list and hit delete. And just like that - he was gone.

I removed him from my favorites list on my phone. He was at the top of the list. Every time I opened it I saw his name staring back at me. It had to go.

Then I went to my facebook page and looked him up. This one was harder. I update my facebook page a lot. I had a small fantasy that this link meant not only would I be able to see information about him, but that he could continue to see what I was doing - without my actually telling him.

I imagined, that he might look me up - and discover I was dating someone else. Or see some really cute picture of me and feel a twinge of regret. But I needed to be realistic. He had washed his hands of me, and he was not going to be checking me out on facebook. He was not going to be wondering what I was doing and following the updates of my life. That was my pipe dream, and if I was ever going to be free of this, I had to let him go.

I opened up the privacy settings and typed his name into the box that says "block this person"

I read the consequences of what I was about to do.

If you block someone, they will not be able to find you in a Facebook search, see your profile, or interact with you through Facebook channels (such as Wall posts, Poke, etc.). Any Facebook ties you currently have with a person you block will be broken (for example, friendship connections, Relationship Status, etc.). Note that blocking someone may not prevent all communications and interactions in third-party applications, and does not extend to elsewhere on the Internet.

That was it. Once I blocked him it would be done. Over. Finito. The magic of technology. It brought us together and now it was going to cut our ties.

Be careful what you wish for .....

2008-11-12T02:24:00.000-05:00

I asked him to tell me he didn't love me. I told him I wanted to say it. I meant it. But that doesn't mean it hurts any less. I suppose I wish he could have done it more tenderly. I suppose I wish he could have said something about how he cared a great deal for me, and how he just had to see this thing with Marion through. How maybe if things had been different ....

I think the part that stung was the bluntness of his expectations. " I do not love you. I never expect to love you." He should have put that in the past tense. he never *expected* to love me. It just wasn't part of the plan. EVER. Motherfucker.

The final response was in my inbox the next day.

Writefromtheheart,
In my world there is a lot of ground between meaningless sex and "I love you". Our relationship existed in that grey area, and I thought that you knew that. You don't need to demonize the situation and draw big presumptuous conclusions about me and my psychopathologies, which must surely be plentiful, but then I don't laughably assert that I have ever taken stock of all of them, dissected them and put them neatly away. That is the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever said to me, it is in the nature of these hang-ups that they cannot be put neatly away and anyone who thinks they have is deluding themselves.

So, If I must say it, so that you can move on, then I will say that I did not love you and do not expect ever to love you. That is why we met where we did, because I was not emotionally available in that way.

Now you may think that i am a pig or a twisted pathological womanizer, and you are welcome to do so, but my value system (dare I assert that I have values???) allows two adults to have a very nice affair (which is what I think we had) without it having to lead to church aisles and white picket fences. I am sorry that I disappointed you, but I don't think that I ever misled you, and my only error was to not be brutally honest at the first moment that I suspected that you were feeling something outside the parameters of the nice affair I described.

With that, let me say that I bear you no ill-will, i like you quite a lot and hope that we can be more friendly from now on.

Berlin

Yes. That one hurt. Such simplicity. Such resignation. Such apathy. And never misled me? Who the hell was he kidding? I crafted one last response.

Berlin-
This is such a colossal fuck-up I don't even no where to start. You are defensive and angry - justifiably so. I said some things I shouldn't have. The stuff about you being emotionally stunted was below the belt. I do not think you are a pig or a twisted pathological womanizer. I had no right to assume I knew all your psychopathologies.

But try to put yourself in my shoes - You ARE very wrapped up in your own world. And as such, this affair was - well - it was whatever you needed it to be. Casual, uncomplicated, instantly gratifying with no long-term hassle. I don't think you ever gave so much as a thought to me regarding how I was taking the whole thing, my underlying motivations or desires. You offered very little, and figured, if I didn't like like it I could always walk away. It's what I should have done. But I didn't. So I guess I shoulder as much of the blame.

I will give you that there is a large grey area between love and meaningless sex - and that we were in it. But in the same way the lines between love and lust are blurred so is the spectrum of love itself. Love is not all church aisles and white picket fences. I don't want either - from you or from anyone right now. But what I did want was a connection - a real, and genuine connection to another person. A man who I let know me intimately, both physically and emotionally in the way only lovers can. Someone who would let me into his inner world and want to be part of mine. Someone who thinks of me when I'm not around, laughs when he sees something he knows I'd think is funny. Someone who desires my touch, my smell and my smile - and wants to hear me chatter on about my day, or complain about work, or comfort me when I'm having one of those low moments and need a hand finding my center again. Someone who genuinely enjoys my company, and sees me as a lover and a friend.

You see, that's love to me - it's the kind of love I want, and that is what I offered you while you were here. And you took it. And I kept sort of thinking you'd reciprocate. Not by offering some promise of forever - but by simply relishing the fact that we clicked - by offering something deeper of yourself.

I wanted a lover, not an affair. I didn't want church bells and diamond rings and down on bended knee - I wanted someone who was giddy with anticipation about the next time he would see me. I wanted to be the girl who stood out in a crowded room. The one you would surreptitiously brush hands with just to touch, make an excuse to be alone with so you could steel a clandestine moment when no one else was looking, and ravish in the bedroom (or the kitchen or the living room floor) alone at night. But I also wanted to know your heart and your hopes and your fears and for you to want to know mine. I wanted emotional intimacy.

But I guess you can't do that if the person you really desire that intimacy with is someone else. We played the little game for a while, and it was fun, but then it sort of fizzled - the attraction was still there - but instead of naturally progressing there was just sort of this emotional moat between us that you were unwilling to bridge.

Of course you have values. And we were two consenting adults who enjoyed a little bit of each other for a short while. But yes, I am disappointed. Perhaps it is wrong to demonize the whole thing - on the one hand I don't regret it. I can still close my eyes and imagine you touching me and get completely turned on. I can still smell you, and feel you and taste you- and it's nice - even now. But on the other hand, I settled for something less than I deserved.

I too as very upfront when we started this - I wanted someone who wasn't emotionally withdrawn. I wanted someone who had the capacity to let me in and just go with it. I have already had the affair with the married guy- and it was a waste of time. I never wanted to be in that position again, and if I had any real understanding of how serious this relationship was with her, I would not have even met you that night, and I would not have gone home with you most definitely.

And I'm sorry but you *did* mislead me. Yes - you told me about Germany. You told me about Marion. But you left so many crucial details out. Details that I only discovered little by little, that eventually made the picture sooo much clearer. Things like the fact that you two were living together here, that you were going to live with her in Germany, that you would worry about her health, or if a car was safe enough for her to drive. The fact that you talked to her every single day, that she texted you all the time. Little things that reveal what sort of a relationship you had.

And it's not like I didn't try to figure it out. I asked you if you loved her and you said you didn't know. You said you weren't sure if she even wanted you to come to Germany. Even very close to the end you told me you thought it was going to be "awful" and you weren't sure you doing the right thing. What was I supposed to think? That you two were a happy couple? Those remarks made it seem like there was a lot of unanswered questions in your mind about her and about the two of you as a couple, and that there might be room in your life for someone else.

But there was no room in your life for me -- not even for a real affair -- at most you wanted a little companionship and some sexual release. Be honest. Real love affairs involve something akin to love - even if it's not the white-picket-fence sort.

And if I had had all those details early on - or if you had really come clean and been brutally honest when I asked, and said - "listen, our relationship might be screwed up, but I love HER. I really love this woman. I'm going there to make a life and a home with her, SHE'S the one for me. And this - what you and I are doing is temporary - it's nice and it's fun, but it's just not going anywhere." If you had said anything resembling that, I would have bowed out early.

I would have walked away because as nice and pleasant as the sex and the limited companionship was, I wanted more than that. I always wanted more than that. And as many signs as you gave that signaled you were pushing me away, I gave just as many (and I think clearer) that I was looking for something deeper. You just didn't/couldn't/wouldn't look past your own needs, or my well-being wasn't something you put above your own.

But I'll take the blame here anyway and say, I should have asked the tougher questions, and I should have pressed you, and made us have the conversation we are having now 6 weeks ago. Very poor journalism. I didn't get the full story. I was emotionally weak, and craving affection. I looked the other way. I will never let that happen again. EVER. Life lesson learned.

So was this meaningless? No, certainly not for me. But I'm still not sure there can be much meaning ascribed to it on your end. If you never make a true connection with someone, never really bond with them, let yourself be vulnerable and raw and open - then what meaning is there in it? What do you possibly take away? You tell, me - did you feel some sort of connection, ever? A feeling that I was a person you wanted to open up to, and BE truly intimate with - not just physically but emotionally as well? Maybe you did a little bit. I got some glimpses,but really and truly, I don't think you did feel that - or if you did you didn't let yourself give into it. It's too much like falling in love. And if that's the case then we had some nice sex, shared some fun times, and that was about it.

So I have calmed down significantly. I am not angry anymore. I think I just had to let it all out, and I'm sorry that it was so venomous. But I guess I knew that if I never said anything you would just disappear and I would never hear from you again. You would never think of me, or wonder about me, or call, or write, and I would always be left wondering about you. I assume that because - like I said - it always was more about you than me. I was always thinking of you - and you were never thinking of me. I was always reaching out and you were pulling away. And it was just too insulting to let you walk away without so much as a response. The repressed anger, and frustration, and hormones (yes,hormones) just all made me lose it. Completely lose it. So I hope you'll forgive me, and try to understand .

I would like to be friendly - I would like to be friends in fact -though I just don't see that happening. Not real friends anyway. Perhaps I am different than most people. I don't have a lot of people I call friends, but the ones I do have are very close. They are the people I don't hide anything from, the ones I cry in front of, the ones who know all my dark secrets and insecurities, and sadness, and joy. Those are people that are really and truly a deeply intimate part of my life. I was trying to make you one of them all along. Perhaps the whole idea of love scared you off - but I love the people I am close to, and I felt close to you.

I don't really know any other way to be, and honestly, I think any other way is a waste of time. Most people, in my mind, are just a big, frivolous, waste of time. I don't need people in my life who won't invite me in to be a part of theirs. People who don't really want to be a part of mine. Life is just too short and my attention is too valuable and too limited. I have a lot to offer - I want something back.

So you either throw caution to the wind and decide I'm someone worth really knowing, even at a distance, or you say "it was fun, but no thanks. I just don't feel like we have that sort of friendship, or connection." It's your choice. But I don't do the gray area.

Either way, I wish you the best of luck.

-Writefromtheheart

And I sent it off into the internet night.

Biting off More Bitterness Than You Can Chew

2008-11-12T00:00:00.000-05:00

When you tell someone that they are arrogant, self-absorbed, and - wait for it - "emotionally stunted" you are bound to hurt their feelings. That was sort of the point. Berlin had hurt me. He didn't love me. He wasn't even sorry to leave me behind. I wanted him to be sorry - somehow.

But these lovelorn tongue-lashings rarely get the desired response. That first email - the one that represented my move from depression to anger in the grief cycle was only four days after Berlin left. After I sent it I was thinking. Ha! Only four days and I'm already pissed off. I should be over him by next week. If only it were so simple.

When he didn't respond I was even more angry, and hurt. I kept checking his facebook page to see if he was communicating with anyone else. Nothing. I wondered if he even had internet. That would be so typical of him. That woman he was with was useless. She had been living there for months, and from his description of her (what little I got) she was the sort who couldn't do a thing for herself.

He bought a car when she moved here from Germany so that she wouldn't have to drive his old Mercedes in the winter. It was a used car - but sensible and safe. The old Subaru Outback that I met him in that first night was the car he bought with the money he got when he sold his house in the artsy east-side suburb of our fair city and moved to the "up-and-coming" neighborhood where he now lived. I found this out one day when I was helping him pack up and move his things and he told me someone was coming over to look at his car.

"But what are you going to without a car until you leave?" I asked.
"Oh, not the subaru. My other car."
"Other car?"
"I'll show you."

And sure enough, parked outside in his driveway was a cute little red Mercedes. One of those old ones, with a slightly fading paint job. Well-used, weather-worn, and quite cool. It was just his style. I liked it.

"You wanna buy it?"
"Um. No. I already have a car, remember?"

Actually I would have loved to buy it. It was just the sort of car I would have loved to buy - and it would have been practical too -- at least from an economical standpoint. I had a new car. I leased it the year before when it got too cold to ride my vespa scooter - which is the only transportaion I had since I moved here the prior spring. I rode that vespa back and forth to work - and through sort of a rough neighborhood I might add - from June until it actually began to snow in November. And when I couldn't take the cold I finally decided it was time to get a car - and that's when I got the Subaru.

From a financial standpoint it would have been better to buy a used car, but I didn't have a lot of money, and I didn't have a lot of time. I was working 12+ hour days on a regular basis, and every day it was getting colder. I needed to make a decision fast. I was also a little bit nervous about doing used car shopping by myself. I don't know why. It's not rocket science. But I was new in town. I didn't have a mechanic I trusted. I was terrified I'd buy a lemon and be out my hard-earned cash, and my husband had been zero help. He didn't really want me to buy my own car. He thought we could continue to share our one car, as we had done since we bought it in 2001. But I needed my freedom. I needed to have my own transportation. I needed to be able to put a suitcase in the trunk and drive away any time I pleased. He said money was the the reason he wanted me to wait, but I think he always knew that a car would give me the freedom to leave him, as I eventually did.

But that's not the only reason I was hesitant about this purchase. When it comes to making big decisions my husband freezes up - and over the years we had been together, the effects of his stagnation had begun to rub off on me. I had gotten to the point that I was afraid to do big things alone. I second-guessed my decisions. Decisions, that looking back, I would have easily made alone before I met him.

So when it came to getting myself a car, I knew I had to do it on my own, and it was a liberating step I was taking in doing it. I knew it, even then. All the more reason I had to get this right. If I did fuck it it up, get screwed with some junker, the man I was married to was never going to let me hear the end of it. Going into a dealership and getting financing was simply easier. I knew what I was getting, and I knew the car would be dependable.

So I got the subaru - with the four wheel drive so that in our notorious Midwestern winters I would drive safely in the snow - and I'll tell ya - I wasn't the least bit disappointed. That thing drives like magic in the snow. Money well spent. That's for damn sure.

"I don't think it would be very good in the winter time either." I told him.
"Does it drive well in the snow?"
"No - it's terrible in the snow."

But then I was curious. Berlin was very practical. By his own description he was even cheap. One night when I wanted to buy a pint of Haagen Dazs ice cream at CVS, he tried to convince me to get the cheaper kind.

"But we could get more of the same thing for less money if we buy that one," he said pointing to some off-brand vanilla."

I looked at him and raised an eyebrow, incredulous at the sacrelidge.

"First of all, we don't need more than a pint. We can't eat more. And second of all, ice cream is an indulgence. Like chocolate. You don't buy waxy, bad-tasting chocolate because it's cheap. It defeats the purpose of indulging in something delicious and unnecessary. For the same reason, you don't buy sub-standard ice-cream. You buy the good stuff. You suck it up and pay the $4 a pint because it tastes better. "

I could tell he disapproved of my frivolity, but he didn't say anything when I took the Haagen Dazs out of the freezer case. God, he really was cheap. My husband might be an idiot, but he valued good ice cream. He always bought me Haagen Dazs, and never once complained about the cost. When we got to the counter, Berlin let me pay.

The point here is that Berlin was not the sort of guy to keep two cars around when only one was sufficient, and I was suddenly perplexed. We hadfilled the back of the Outback with a load of Berlin's books and taken them to the half-price bookstore to sell - another testament to his cheapness, he probably got about as much money for those books as it cost to driver there and back on $4 a gallon gas - and on the way back I got to thinking about the car situation agian. I wrinkled up my forehead, as I do when I am pondering something that doesn't add up.

"Why do you have two cars anyway?" I wondered out loud.

And that's when he inadvertently told me a crucial detail about his relationship with HER.

"When I sold the east-side house, I had a little extra money, and I decided to buy myself a present. I bought this car ."

He meant the subaru.

"Besides, Marion was coming, and I couldn't very well let her drive the Mercedes in the winter."

The fact that he was just trying to sell me that car - a car I would undoubtedly drive in the *winter* was not lost on me. It was also not lost on me that he bought that car, not so much for him - but for HER. What was this? This was not just a casual relationship. This was more like a marriage. That's something my husband would insist on doing for ME. Wasn't I the married one? I let this sink in a little and I began to think about other things he had mentioned. Like the fact that she was too busy to help him make any of the arrangements to pick up the items he was having shipped to Germany. The fact that she didn't have any furniture and he was bringing all of his. I got the feling that she was the sort of women who needed a man to take care of her - or at least she let men take care of her - and he was happy to fill that role.

Looking back now, I can see how someone as independent as I am might have been emasculating. I already had a caretaker and I walked away. I didn't want anyone to do things for me - I was having the time of my life doing them myself.

So it was no surprise to me then that he had no internet, or phone. That would have been exactly the sort of thing she would have left him to take care of, and as a consequence he was not reading my angry email.

When I text messaged him that night about Obama's speech he told me he had no means of communication.

"So I think you owe me some sort of a response, don't you?" I had asked.
"Yes. I've been thinking a lot about my response," He messaged back. I just didn't think texting was appropriate. "
"Understood. And FYI, there is a rather acerbic email waiting in your inbox when you get o it. Let's just say I woke up pissed off." and then added, "And YES. Texting would be inappropriate. So let's leave it there and you can ruminate until you have learned the words "internet cafe" in German. Oh wait! They're the same.

I hit send on my iphone and I wondered if he would hear the sarcasm in my words as he read them on his screen. Of course I couldn't let it go at that. No, No. Writer that I am, I wanted to scream and shout and tell him how much I hated him. I wanted to pound my fists on his chest. So I did what I did what I do best. I wrote another email.

Berlin-

Well I am waiting for the final votes to be tallied up on the congressional races, and in the meantime I have nothing to do but "ruminate." And no one to distract me. So I am sitting here thinking I should apologize for being such a nasty bitch, but then I want to immediately kick myself for being so damned nice to people who only think of themselves, and who mistake my "generosity" for my lying down and being a doormat.

And then it hits me. It seems to me, that this is the sort of man I am attracted to - the selfish kind. Not obnoxiously self-centered and arrogant. No - that would be too easy to spot. To easy too react to and avoid. Nope. I go for the deep, thoughtful, mysterious sort who is also self-pitying, self-absorbed, and oblivious to the feelings and thoughts of the rest of his universe - which by the way revolves entirely around his problems. Seeing yourself in this picture yet?

I mean, why should I have ever have expected my husband to worry about me, he hated his job - he didn't like where we lived, he had to take the dogs for walks and unload the dishwasher, and run his life. He had problems bigger than mine, right? How could I possibly have expected him to really and truly understand how much pain I was in? Why would you have stopped to wonder how it feels to swallow your pride and put your heart on your sleeve ... quite foolishly ...only to be completely and totally ignored - I mean, after all - you had a lot on your mind, what with moving and starting a new life and all. I could hardly have expected you to wonder how all of that was making ME feel. That would have been unreasonable. No?

If there is one thing that has suddenly come into very clear focus, it is that I apparently gravitate toward men who are well-meaning but emotionally ill-equipped to manage anything but their own inner world. Maybe I just like the angst-ridden, melancholy sort and the self absorbed part just comes with the territory. I don't know.

What I do know is that I should quit it. I should find an emotionally stable and happy man (and I am sorry to say, you are neither) who has actually sorted through his own baggage and still has room in the closet for a little of mine. Enough room that we can tuck it away, shut the door and not think about it - possibly ever again. Do such people exist? Despite all that I have been through I actually think I really have dealt with things. I have dragged the good bad and ugly out into the light, dissected it, inspected it, folded it neatly and put it away. Is this a gender-specific ability?

Ironically, the x-husband is moving to the west-side of town - 3 blocks from me. Lately, we have been spending time together- walking the dogs -I made him dinner one night - and while we are not getting back together, he actually is starting to sort through his shit. It's like he suddenly is beginning to "get it", and he actually is trying to become a happier person, look inwards at his own issues and then see how they have damaged our relationship. And in the process he has become incredibly tender toward me, and I can feel his loss - our loss - and in some weird cosmic fuck-up, we are becoming closer friends - and much more genuinely emotionally connected than ever.

It almost makes me laugh, the absurdity of all of it. I mean, two months ago, I never thought he and I would get to that far. I thought you and I, on the other hand, would have been much closer. In fact, I expected ...I suppose I assumed we were making that emotional connection. And I assumed when the time came to say goodbye we would somehow be on the same page. Some sort of soft and bitter-sweet ending to a tender and fulfilling would-be romance. Now, I'm not even sure we were reading the same book. Life is funny. I am really quite deliriously out of touch.

So here I go, spewing my venom at you for breaking my heart, and blaming myself for not being stronger, more self-protective, more proactive and less oblivious to the red-flags of emotional unavailability. What can I say. It's 3 in the morning, I'm bleary-eyed and exhausted, and I have nothing better to do. And I'm letting it out as therapy. So that maybe I won't be so damned stupid next time and I will see the shit coming (and duck) before it hits the fan.

Perhaps you find it annoying -- all these tightly-coiled springs of my feelings unexpectedly snapping free in your face. I used to be so sweet, no? But that's what you get for getting involved with a writer. I may keep doing this for months. Or until I find that elusive emotionally together man with self-contained, pre-sorted and properly stored baggage, who permanently releives me of my pent-up frustrations. Hmmph. That might be a long time, if I extrapolate from the current data set.

Let's see how long it takes you to read this - and in the meantime I will attempt to mirror your apathy. It is an important skill I should have learned long ago, but I'm going to forgive myself. I am pretty damn amazing. If being cruel and heartless and detached are qualities I haven't yet mastered, I should be given a break. Seriously.

But apparantly I am quite good at being a nasty bitch when I want to be. So I'm just gonna go with it.

Carry on!

Writefromtheheart

Well I guess my snarky remark about the internet cafe did the trick. He did in fact hear the sarcasm dripping off that text. Two days later I was at work, trying to finish a story when suddenly an email pops into my inbox - from - guess who.

"Wow, you are a fucking saint aren't you?"

I could feel all the blood drain out of my face. The adrenaline was coursing through every vein in my body. I was trembling. I immediately shot an equally hostile email back.

Apparently. Is that all ? Jesus. I have no right to be upset? I have no right to say anything? What the fuck!!! You're the saint. I forgot. I am just an IDIOT. A STUPID, STUPID, STUPID girl. And I am so mad at you I am SHAKING. I wish I could say I didn't give a fuck what you think, or how you feel. It would make it a lot easier to tell you to go to hell."

Minutes later he replied.

No no, that is not all. You are not a stupid girl. It is just that you wanted more from me than I was prepared to give. I would remind you how we met. I never promised you any kind of love here.

I am incredibly sorry first, that you had to go through the ectopic pregnancy, and alone at that, second, that you had developed such strong feelings for me. They were not what I wanted to happen and were not really reciprocated fully on my end.

I am sorry that I let it go so far and hoped that we could be sort of casually having an affair that we both knew was self-limiting by circumstance. When it became stronger than that, I should have realized, did realize two nights before I left and didn't, no doubt because of my stunted self-centerdness, really know what I should do. How I could make good on feelings that I couldn't quite reciprocate. And that, from a practical standpoint, given my impending departure. Frankly, I was having some difficulty adjusting tho the idea that I was going to be here and dealing with Marion in person after so many months apart and staying with you in your new apartment in that domesticated arrangement was really bothering me. I am sorry that you now think so poorly of me. I am a shit for meeting you online and then not ducking out when I thought it was getting more serious for you.

Berlin

Yes. He was definitely a shit. But his apology softened me.

Berlin-
I shouldn't have asked you to stay with me. I knew all along ... you gave me all the signals of a guy backing off and I just kept pushing. I guess its because from the start I always felt that I had just sort of been an addendum to YOUR life - and I guess as I got to know you better I wanted you to be part of mine. It was my way of asking you to be part of mine -- and you didn't want that. It was clear. I guess I just really wished you could have said that. I really wish I just wasn't some girl you had meaningless sex with. Someone you wish you could just forget. I know how we met. But I AM stupid. I think that those things can somehow be something other than they are. I think the truth is I was never really looking for anything casual. I always wanted something real - and something serious, and I am stupid because I am foolish enough to think that something casual *might* accidentally grow into something more serious - for thinking it might grow into love. And in the beginning I really didn't know enough about your relationship with Marion to realize how off the market you really were. I didn't know in the beginning you were going there to LIVE with her - that she had basically lived with you - that you had bought a car for HER. You may as well have been a married man - and that was a road I never would have gone down if I had known. I put the pieces together too late. And you could have been more upfront.
I knew it was self-limiting by circumstance. But circumstances change. You gave me reason to think that things might not work out between you two – and all along I was left wondering how, if you took Marion out of the equation, you felt about ME. And way back then – lying in your bed when I was asking you those questions – THAT is what I was driving at. I was not asking whether you and I had some sort of immediate future. I was not asking you to stay with me. What I was asking was if you were developing feelings for me that carried any weight – feelings that merited being pursued if your circumstanced did change. If you got to Berlin and discovered you had made a terrible mistake. DO YOU SEE? I was trying to tell you then that I was beginning to feel something and I wanted you to cut me loose if you didn’t feel the same way – if you never would feel the same way no matter how bad things got with Marion.

You never really responded fully. You wanted to keep it going, and so you sort of skirted my questions – and you shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have let you either. I should have really pushed you harder – and I should have made you say what I didn’t want to hear. What I think you are telling me now: that even if there was no Maria, there would not have been an us. Am I right? That I am a sweet girl, and that we had fun, but that I was not the one for you. No magic.

I just need to hear you say that. It seems stupid to you, I am sure. I shouldn’t have been such a coward and been so afraid to just stand up and walk away. I should have just had some integrity and walked away!!! I didn’t because I knew you wouldn’t have come after me. You never did. Not that day when I left in a huff, not when I didn’t call for days, or when you went away to Boston, or now, when you are finally in Berlin. You have no interest in pursuing me, in any way. But I need you to say the words. Just say it, so I can put this behind me. Please.

I'm sorry for saying hurtful things. You hurt me a lot. Even if it was unintentional.

Writefromtheheart

The Letter

2008-11-10T01:34:00.000-05:00

Dear Berlin;
I'm not sure you are much of a writer, but I suppose I have always felt that when you embark on a big change in your life it helps to write things down. Whether it's to remember the details of all the things you will take for granted down the road, or just to look back on how much of it you had wrong...

The truth is I've never been much of a journal writer myself. I tend to censure my thoughts, just in case someone else might read them one day. As emotional as I am, it's actually really difficult for me to sit down and be brutally honest about my feelings. Perhaps you're better at that than I am. I doubt it though. From what I can tell, we could both use some practice in that department.

So I don't know what you'll do with this book. I suspect it might fill some shelf in your new Berlin apartment and collect dust, lost in a jumble of papers and photographs and symbols of people and things that mean much more to you than I did. But nevertheless, I harbor a small hope you will write in it all the impressions and memories of your new life, and maybe one day when it's filled, send it back to me, so I'll know what became of you. Not just the boring stuff everybody else already knows –whether you got into medical school, or got married – but what became of your heart and the journey it traveled to get there.

I like to fancy myself a rather sensible person. Grounded. Realistic. Level-headed. But the truth is, at my core, I'm a romantic, and not the least bit sensible at all. I love too easily and hang on too long. I readily expose all my emotional vulnerability, and carelessly and recklessly offer up the most valuable parts of myself without demanding much of anything in return. On the surface it's foolish, and often extraordinarily painful. I don't know why I do it, except that I think to share who and what you are with someone else – to divulge that little bit of your inner sanctum, to risk your heart and its rejection at the deepest level, is really all we have to offer in this life. Because when everything else falls away, if you never let anyone really know you, if you never feel and touch the deepest vein of another person's core, then when you leave this life there is nothing left behind. No mark that you have left on those around you. So when I discover someone I think is worth knowing, I always let them in. I close my eyes and take the leap of faith. I certainly did it with you.

Exactly what I expected that night when I met you for the first time, I'm not entirely sure. I guess I figured you might be someone worth passing a little time with, a distraction from what is certainly one of the more difficult periods of my life. I didn't think I'd meet some one quite so extraordinary. I didn't think I'd meet this guy who comes from the same Italian town as my family. Someone who shares my love of both science and politics, can build coral reefs in a fish tank, knows what sheep sorrel is (and can find it!!) and thinks dogs are worth every hair they shed all over your house. A man who can cook, who enjoys restoring old and broken down furniture and homes, who doesn't think cilantro tastes like soap, and thinks a bottle of red wine and me naked make for a particularly pleasant evening. A guy who thinks the spectacle of feeding carp loaves of bread is hilariously fun, and would take a woman he just met there on a date. You are smart, and thoughtful, and sensitive. If only you weren't in love with someone else.

I knew I was in for a heartache the moment I found out about her. There I was on that bar stool, thinking to myself, "This guy is really cool." Then out of blue, there it was... the real reason you were off to Berlin. "I'm chasing a woman." My heart sank. That was the one thing I didn't want. The one thing I had explicitly requested. "No happily married men. You can be exiting a relationship, but honestly it has to be pretty much over." Chasing someone across the Atlantic Ocean does not exactly constitute closure! And then in nearly the same breath, you said "but I don't think she really wants me to come." There was a flicker in my brain. A moment when I considered letting the evening end with a few drinks and a nice conversation. Followed by a moment when I thought, "Maybe she really doesn't want him to come. Maybe it is over. It would be a shame if I didn't find out." And then you kissed me, and the risk seemed like the only possible decision to make.

I know I should have never asked you what I meant to you. I should have been content to let things remain casual. I should have repressed all those romantic and unrealistic ideas that there was some sort of instant connection between us that could supersede the years of what you felt for her – this woman who gave you cause to leave a relationship of eight years, a woman who you hang onto despite the fact she won't commit, who you would allow to flirt with other men right under your nose, a woman who despite everything, you would travel halfway across the world, quit your job, and change your life for. I don't know what I was thinking – or hoping. Asking those questions shattered the illusion we had built. Burst the protective bubble that provided our escape from reality. I regretted the words the moment I said them.
And still I had to ask – I had to say what was in my heart, because the worst thing in the world I can think of is not telling someone that you care about them and missing a chance. I suppose it's also that I have never been much good at detachment. My emotional faucets run hot or cold. On or off. Love or ambivalence, and not much in between. So even though I instinctively knew the answer to the question before it was asked, I had to spit out the words that were stuck in my throat. The words that seemed to stick between us.

Not that it helped. There is still so much that's unspoken. So much that I have been carrying around that I couldn't tell you. So much I probably never will. Even now, in a letter you are reading on a plane, knowing that I may never hear from you again, there I things I wonder if I should tell you. Things like how jealous I was every time you talked to her. Like how I wished I was the one you were missing while you were away from me, or the one you would want to call to recount the ups and downs of your day. How crazy it made me to find myself in the position of the other woman (I mean, really, the irony!). And how in the span of the two weeks while you were gone, I discovered I was pregnant, and while still reeling from the emotion of that discovery learned the life inside me would never be (it turned out to be ectopic). How it felt to be treated - alone and scared- and struggle through the anguish and grief of losing a child – that wasn't yet a child – but somehow I loved as if it already were. It's not something you could probably understand. It surprised even me, but in the ultrasound, I found myself waiting to hear the heartbeat with so much anticipation. Even knowing it was all the wrong timing, and totally unplanned, that if I decided to have it you may have resented me forever – still knowing all of that – I couldn't stop wanting that baby. I couldn't stop wanting to protect that life. And then there was no heartbeat. Just a great aching sadness, and a burden of loss I would carry alone. There are a lot of things I suppose I will carry alone.

So when you would ask me what I was thinking – it was all of these things and more. Thinking I was a fool. Thinking I was with you but really alone. Thinking that there was such a tremendous opportunity here, that was being squandered, because your mind, your heart and your energy were engaged somewhere else – invested in someone else. Wondering what might have been if we had met under different circumstances – and if that were even possible. Knowing it's pointless to wonder.
In the moments when we could forget all that, it all seemed so light and easy. Without all the heavy stuff, I would catch a glimpse of something that felt so completely natural and wonderful. And then she would be back. Texting. Calling. Always there, reminding me what I wasn't – a meaningful part of who you are. A real, acknowledged, part of your life.

I can't say I didn't figure it out early on. The truth is I knew I had made a mistake in Pennsylvania that afternoon on the park bench when she called you. The look that crossed your face when you told me who it was, the sort of pained expression of wanting to pick up the phone but knowing it was so obviously inappropriate. That look told me everything I needed to know. You needed to talk to her. You wanted to talk to her. I was suddenly an obstacle. You walked away from me to take the call, and that was the metaphor for everything I knew that would happen next. I knew then that this was just a last roll in the hay for you. An emotional escape from the gravity of what you were about to do. A last fling before the wedding, so to speak. But I needed someone, and even if only temporarily, it seemed so did you. So I put it out of my mind and hoped it would be worth it in the end.
I know that sounds a little bitter, and a little like I think you didn't have any real feelings for me. I don't actually think that. I think that you do care, very genuinely in fact. If I didn't think that I wouldn't have stayed, but I was always a little too aware that I wasn't the one you really craved. A little too cognizant of the fact that you had too much unfinished business to accept what I was willing to offer. I deluded myself about your intentions just long enough to get sucked in, and then it was too late. So even though I cherish what we did have, sometimes I'm a little angry with myself for selling out in that way. It makes me feel a little cheap –the idea that I am little more than a passing fancy, a notch in the bedpost, and a way to help you find your way back to someone else. It stings. I admit it. It hurts to be the one who hides the hole but never quite fills the void. And I was always conscious of that void.

It doesn't help I suppose that you have caught me at a moment in time where I am rather vulnerable. My emotional neediness is off the scale. I feel clingy, depressed, self-conscious and more alone than ever. I have projected a lot of that neediness onto you – rather unfairly under the circumstances – and I imagine it is both unattractive and a deterrent to establishing any real connection we might have had. I am weaker than usual and there are a lot of moments lately where I second-guess my value as a love interest and life partner—but that's what years of being with someone who won't love you the way you need will do. It will break you apart inside and make you lose sense of yourself. It will make you forget what it feels like to be cherished and adored, until you reach out for it in desperation in all the wrong places.

And yet, in spite of everything, I don't necessarily think that searching for affection and love in your arms was entirely the wrong place to be looking. There is a genuine, unappreciated tenderness in you. A part of you that seems guarded and a little lost. But still searching ... for something or someone, in many ways, not so differently from my own quest. I watched you nurse that kitten and saw a man with a beautiful and natural desire to nurture and love. It was such a simple moment, and yet it touched me deeply, and when Oliver was whisked away by his would-be middle-aged female protectors, I was sorry not so much for losing him but that that would be the last time I would get to see your paternal sweetness.

And even if it was all wrong between us, even if you never thought me more than a pleasant way to pass the time, it felt nice for a while, and I do think my life is richer for having held you in it, albeit at arms length. It did help propel me forward—initiating the necessary steps to control my own destiny and happiness, and I will always owe you a little bit for that. There is a nice expression in German for someone you hold dear. Ich habe dich Lieb. It doesn't exactly mean I love you, and yet it conveys much more than fondness or affection.

I know that you are moving on, and that you are making a home and a life in a new place, with a woman you love, or at least one you haven't quite gotten out of your system. I know that my affection for you is not reciprocated, and that this probably all seems immature and ridiculous, and that I am probably just a foolish grown-up girl with a broken heart, clinging to the smallest and flimsiest threads of generosity she has been offered. But be that as it may, I do love you. For whatever it's worth. I fell for you, and there is no real point in pretending anymore. I don't have to keep up the brave face.

So I hope you remember me fondly, and don't remain a permanent stranger. And for your sake, I hope she does love you, and loves you in the way you deserve, because I would hate to see you find your own heart in the sort of pieces mine is.

That's not to say I am broken beyond repair. I don't want you to go away thinking you have left this fragile, damaged thing behind – a victim of your irresistible charms. No. I will recover. I still have hope that I will find someone someday who will be all that I seek and more. Maybe even someone who will find me compelling enough to chase me to another continent. Someone who finds me as charming, and smart, and sweet, and creative, and amazing, and as hard to live without as I find you. But until that time, I'll miss you very deeply, and I'll think of you often.

Ich hab' dich lieb. Lieber als du denkst. Ich habe dich lieb – so lieb. Auch wenn du nicht an mich hängst. Ich wünsche dir einen Leben voll am Liebe und Freude, genau so wenn's nicht von mir kommt.

Vergiss mich nicht. Vielleicht eines Tages sehen wir uns mal wieder. Das hätte ich gern.
Küssen-
immer und ewig-
WFTH

Confessions

2008-11-10T01:15:00.000-05:00

So I told my husband about Berlin. Not the details. Just that there had been a man I had had a relationship with, and it ended. He asked me what happened and I told him.

"He was in love with someone else."
"So why was he seeing you then?" He asked.
I shrugged. Good question.

He knew all along that there was someone else.
"You didn't come home for days at a time. What was I supposed to think?"
"I know."
" I didn't ask you because I didn't think it mattered. If I had had the opportunity, I would have done the same thing."

He really seemed to take it all in stride.

Ultimately the reason I told him was because I didn't want to make the same mistake twice. I don't want to be with anyone who thinks I'm less than spectacular. I want to go to bed every night with a man who can't imagine life without me. With a man who singles me out in a crowded room. I want to be the person he can't get off his mind. The one he wants to have babies with and protect and comfort. And as much as my husband loves me, and I do think he loves me, I'm not sure he loves me like THAT. So I had to tell him. I had to explain that if he couldn't love me in the way I needed - wholly, completely, recklessly - then I needed to move on. I couldn't settle for less.

He didn't seem to understand.
"Do you really need someone to be falling all over you all the time?" he asked me.
I sighed.
"Of course not. I just don't want someone who thinks I'm sweet and nice, but loves me in the same way they love their dog. I want to be more than a pleasant companion. I want a soul mate. I want to be the love of somebody's life."
Why doesn't he understand this???

"I think we're doing the right thing ."
"You do?" I asked
"I'm not a happy person. On a good day - like Sunday - I can be with you and relax. Enjoy your company. But that's not what I'm like every day."
I nodded.
"I don't think I can give you what you're looking for. At least not now. I have to think of myself."

I was suddenly balling uncontrollably again. It was true. He didn't love me either. Was I so impossible to love? How did I manage to get myself married to a man who didn't think I was worth fighting for? How could he just let me go so easily? And Berlin? He just walked away too. Never looked back. Never missed me. Was this the best I could do? Was this all I was worth to the people I'd given everything to? How had I managed to sink so low? How could my love mean so little?

My obvious and abrupt anguish sparked an argument. We were suddenly rehashing all the problems that led us to this point. The money, his smoking, the lack of communication. He said making decisions with me was always a burden. I balked.

"It was such a great feeling to buy this TV," He pointed to the new LCD TV he bought after I left and took the TV (that I bought) with me. "Because I didn't have to consult anyone. I didn't have to ask permission or discuss the best brand, I just got what I wanted."
"The house, the car, my clothes - everything I did I had to take you into consideration."

I could understand the pleasure of not having to answer to anyone but yourself, but his words were like a knife in my chest. Why wasn't I helpful in these decisions? Why didn't he see me as an asset? I pointed out that couples had to make decisions on big purchases together. Why did he think he should be allowed to make those decisions by himself? But what's more, why didn't he want me by his side to help, to be a team?

I came there thinking that by telling him about Berlin, I would feel better. I thought that I would be stronger and more able to move on if I knew that all this talk of rebuilding was coming from a reflex to take care of me - not from a place of real, and deep love. Not because he couldn't live without me. But instead I felt worse than ever. I was just a pleasant way to pass the time. I was dispensable. Not just for the man I had had an affair with, but for the man I had married and given the last 14 years to.

Airports, Bread-Eating Carp, and Soon-To-Be X's

2008-11-09T23:33:00.000-05:00

On Thursday I went over to what used to be my house in tears. I decided I had to come clean about this relationship with Berlin. For months I had kept everything to myself, figuring that he didn't actually have to know I was seeing other people. There was no need to hurt him, after all. But now it seemed that I needed him to know. I needed to know how he really felt about me, and if it made any sense at all for me to think we might have a shot at reconciliation.

The weekend before we spent all day Sunday together. We took the dogs to the beach, and then went to Brunch at my favorite place - a cute little hippy-style cafe called Lucky's that uses produce they grow in their own Garden and has picnic tables outside where you can eat with your dogs. Plus they have the yummiest food ever.

I'd been feeling conflicted about the divorce. About being alone. About wether or not I'll ever find anyone to be happy with again. I want to have babies. I want a man to watch me sleeping and touch my hair. I want to be the woman who lights up the room for one man when I walk in. Is this too much too ask?

That Sunday I was feeling confused. How Could I be enjoying myself so much with this man I am divorcing? WHY are we breaking up our family? Can't we find a way to keep these good times? I started to cry (and I cry regularly, probably every day for at least an hour) and I looked at my husband and said,

"I don't know what we're doing. What are we doing?"
"I'm not ready to give up on you yet," he told me, wrapping his arms around me and giving me a deep hug.

Later on, I began wondering just what that meant. Did he want to stay together? Was he hoping that after some time apart we could rebuild? Did I want that? Did he? Or were really really both just lonely, and scared?

The conflict I felt can easily be traced back a series of hurtful emails that I ecahnged with Berlin. They began when I text messaged him last Tuesday after Barack Obama won the presidential election.

I hadn't heard from him since he left for Germany, and was beginning to think I never would. But Berlin was an Obama fanatic, and after listening to his acceptance speech I was so moved, that I couldn't help but send him a text message to ask if he had had the chance to watch it.

I took this opportunity to also ask him, rather bitterly, why he hadn't responded to the letter I gave him to read on the plane. The letter in which I poured out my heart and my spelled out my love. The letter where I told him I had discovered that I was pregnant with his child - and had decided to keep it - only to find out it was an ectopic pregnancy that had to be terminated. It was the sort of letter that is not meant to be forgotten, but requires a thoughtful response. I had heard nothing and I was stinging from the scorn.

And it was adding insult to injury at that. He had had nothing to say to me at the airport when we said goodbye. I got up at four in the morning to pick up his stuff, drive him to the airport, wait an hour while drop of his dog at the cargo center, and then take him to his flight. And this after a night with almost no sleep the day before because of work. In response to my generosity he sort of casually slapped me on the knee and said "thanks so much for all your help."

I wanted to cry, but I just couldn't. I was in too much shock. Thanks? Was I like his buddy now? I'm just a good friend doing him a big favor driving him to the airport? Was he serious?

In quiet disbeleif I dropped him off at the terminal and he went to check in while parked the car. A few minutes later we sat in this little starbucks in front of the ticket counter and said our goodbyes. Mostly we just made some goofy chitchat. I couldn't help noticing how releived he looked to be about to get on that plane. How happy he looked to be leaving. It was breaking my heart. Still I thought he must be just putting up a brave face on my account. And so I made a feeble attempt to share my emotion.

"I'm really going to miss you" I said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.
"Good." he replied, smiling slightly. He didn't squeeze back.
"Good?"
He must have caught the look of disbeleif on my face, because he instantly began backpedaling.
"Well... uh.. I mean, not too much I hope."

To say I was crushed was an understatement. I had a knot in the pit of my stomache and a lump in my throat, but my eyes were unexpectedly dry. I reached inside my purse for the tissue wrapped package I had brought with me. Inside were two gifts that had cost me more than I could afford, but represented something that I thought would remind him of me. The first was an ipod nano, that I had preloaded with a soundtrack I had made for him, along with a card I had made myself. The front of the card had a picture of a carp with a big round open mouth. It was an inside joke of sorts. On what would turn out to be our first and last excursion, he took me to this park in Pennsylvania with a lake that is teeming with funny looking carp. People go there to feed them bread, literally tossing hamburger buns (purchased for a dollar per package from the concession stand) onto a carpet of carp. There are so many fish that they literally flop over one another to get to the bread, and ducks have been known to walk on the backs of the fish to steal a snack themselves. It was, as he put it, quite "a spectacle." I thought it was the coolest date I have ever been on.

On the inside I pasted a photograph that touched me deeply - it was a man standing on the sidewalk looking down at the words carved into it: Nothing is written in stone.

The second package was the long letter I had been composing for weeks, and a beautiful leatherbound journal. I handed him the pacjages and gave him instructions. The first I said he could open after I left -- the letter and the journal I asked him to open after he was on the plane to Berlin. I gave him a hug. His grip was limp. It wasn't the hug of a man who was saying goodbye to a woman he loved. Not even to someone he cared about deeply. He didn't look me in the eye or attempt to kiss me.

"Have a good trip," I said. "I hope you will be happy."
And with that I turned and walked away, glancing back only once to see him watching me leave. The look on his face made me think he was taking in the fact that this was likely the last time he would see me, and that maybe he could have said a little more. But he didn't come after me, or say anything else. I was bitterly disappointed, and by the time I reached the car I was balling uncontrollably. I knew this had meant nothing to him. I was nothing to him. And now he would read that letter and feel nothing. I was awash in my own grief and humiliation.

A few days later my grief had moved into the anger phase and I fired off this email.

Berlin-

Why I am bothering with you at this point I don’t know. I suppose it’s because after everything, I deserved at least some response from you, and I am not going to let you disappear without knowing it. I mean seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you? Are you dead inside, or were you really just using me for all you could get? Was I just a more comfortable bed, a good fuck, a back rub and a ride to the goddamn airport? I mean, you couldn’t even muster a single tender word to say goodbye. Just, a “hey thanks, for helping me out, you’re a real trooper,” and a slap on the knee? Your best response to “I’m really going to miss you,” was “Good?” The ipod I got you was “generous?” No. It was not out of generosity that I did any of those things. Are you seriously this dense, or are you so spineless that you just can’t fucking say the words you thought I didn’t want to hear. After 41 years, are you actually this emotionally stunted?

I wrote you the most personal letter possible. I deserve something back. I deserve the truth. Not what you think I want to hear, and not whatever bullshit you tell yourself, but I deserve some insight into the inner depths of who you are. I can not believe you are really this shallow. If you are then I really DID waste my time, and my heart. Because frankly, sharing yourself with someone who doesn’t even appreciate you a little bit is not worth it. It is just fucking embarrassing. If you are truly this shallow then you deserve someone who breaks her belly chains with someone else. You deserve someone who lies to you and builds a wall between you. You deserve to be unhappy.

I don’t think you know how to be happy anyway. I don’t think you know what you want, and you refuse to do the hard emotional work to figure it out. You refuse to be honest with others and yourself. You sabotage all the relationships you have with people that are good to you and chase the ones that tear you down. You burn your clothes and your things not because you’re starting over fresh – not as a healthy process of self-renewal - but because they are a symbol of the hopes and dreams of a person you no longer are, because you want to tear yourself down, and be destructive, and feel nothing, no attachment to anyone. I see someone who doesn’t know who he is. Someone who is still reeling from guilt and deep emotional despair. Someone who doesn’t know how to stand up and live and share his life with others. Someone who wants to pretend to be 38 and single, and live in some sort of fantasy, instead of facing up to reality. For God’s sake, figure it out already.

And you know what? I can accept that I am not the one you love – this isn’t the sort of thing we chose. I can accept that I‘m not the one who lights up the room for you when I walk in. But I do not accept being ignored. I do not accept you walking away without some word of explanation about how you felt about me and what this was. And I want something deeper than “I am sweet to you”. I am much more than sweet to you – and if that’s the best you can do than you really are extraordinary – an extraordinary idiot. Extraordinarily immature. An extraordinarily spineless excuse for a human being living in an emotional vacuum.

I don’t know why I’m surprised. You went away for two weeks to Boston and never called me once. You probably never thought of me once either. Out of sight, out of mind. Now it’s just that much easier. You got what you wanted, and I couldn’t have made it any simpler. My God, you really made a fool of me, didn’t you? I suppose that’s something you can be proud of now. Congratulations.

And don’t tell me it’s only been 4 days. That you’ve been too busy to compose any sort of response. That you don’t have internet. You never went 24 hours without talking to HER. You can’t go 24 hours without checking the New York Times poll. I am AT LEAST that important. You have had time, and if you can’t figure out a way to fit me into your busy schedule of nothing to do but learn German and chipping concrete off the goddamn floor, then fuck you. FUCK YOU.

Fuck you anyway. I deserve better than this. And you deserve what you get.

Writefromtheheart

Eyes a la Al Pacino

2008-11-09T21:31:00.000-05:00

"We're both from Pianopoli. I have the documents at home, I'll show you!! "

If a cleverer trick has ever existed to get a woman to come home with you, I've never heard it. Not that he needed a trick by then. A few beers, a rainy electric night, and what amounted to nothing short of fate had me smitten. Documents that proved our common ancestral origins were gravy.

Perched atop a couple of bar stools we laughed and flirted with our eyes and hands. we brushed against each other playfully. He reached over and put is hand on my leg and I instinctively reached out and met his grasp - leaning in closer, my fingers sliding along the inside of his wrist. Our eyes locked until I shyly looked away. The chemistry was thick and the attraction was obvious. And then our eyes met again. His eyes had that deep, serious, slightly sunken look a la Al Pacino. There were little wrinkles around them, that didn't make him look old - just slightly wise and distinguished. He wore those eyes the way some men wear salt and pepper hair. It just makes them look good.

I thought I noticed the little blue vein below his left eye twitching ever so slightly. I could almost see the anticipation on his face of what was coming next, and if my enthusiasm hadn't mirrored his own, I might have laughed at the transparency of our courtship dance. And then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed me, and I reciprocated fully.

The kiss is always the big test. I'm a big fan of kissing. Long, slow, sensual, knee-weakening kisses. Drive you mad kisses. Forget where you are kisses. A man needs to know how to kiss you the way you need to be kissed. If the kissing is in sync, then the chances are good everything else will be in line too.

And let's face it. There are a lot of bad kissers out there. You know how it goes ladies- you go right, he goes left. you bump teeth. Too much tongue. There's the aggressive kisser who just cant read your reaction and is putting way too much passion into it before you've even gotten warmed up, or the one who slobbers all over your face. No gentleman. A proper kiss is lips first. slightly open mouth. hand behind the head and run your fingers through her hair, lips exploring lips, slowly, carefully, and then a *little* tongue . Gently. A tongue that explores her tongue with some trepidation. It does not move wildly or frantically inside her mouth. She does not want you to ram it down her throat. It caresses her lips. It invites. A good kiss starts slow and ends slow, with a build up somewhere in the middle.

Berlin knew how to kiss me just right. And so when it was time to go, I followed him to his place.

His place was a crooked little house set back from the street about 5 minutes from the bar . The house was quirky in a way that seemed perfectly suited to him - a little worn, but in decent shape. Loved, but well lived in. Broken-in, but not too broken down. It had a mix of nice touches that were obviously do-it-yourself jobs, but not so much so that it looked bad. This was an eclectic place, and I liked it. It was set amongst some older wooden Victorians. The house next door was imposing in its size, but vacant and a little run down. The neighborhood was what you would call up-and-coming. It was inexpensive and had charm, if you didn't mind the occasional Jerry Springer worthy domestic skirmish, or the prostitutes down the block.

One of the most amazing things his house contained was an enormous salt-water coral reef tank. I had never seen anything like it in my life. Including the base it was probably 5 feet tall and three feet square. And inside it was filled with the most beautiful living coral and tropical fish. The circulating water caused the coral to rock back and forth like a stand of wheat in a summer breeze.

Under the glow of this tank he drew me close, then took my hand and led me upstairs to the bedroom.

Needless to say, the kissing was not the only skill he had mastered.

The Other Woman

2008-11-09T19:30:00.000-05:00

Now go back and read my craigslist post again. Was I, or was I not clear, that I wanted an emotionally available man? Did I not say, no happily married men? Clearly my charming Berliner who would so easily win my heart was not paying attention to that minor detail. Men.

You may wonder why I would even be so open minded as to say I would accept someone in a relationship that was ending - why not hold out for someone single? Well- that's because I was not exactly single myself. In fact I was (and still am ... sort of) a married woman.

Shock. Gasp. Get over it. It's not really like that. I had been in a disintegrating marriage for some time - it had been falling apart for several years in fact. I was miserable. He was miserable. We lived in the same house but we may as well have been roommates. We hadn't had sex in at least a year. Maybe 5 times in 3 years - if that. We didn't even kiss anymore.

About 9 months before, I asked my husband for a divorce - and then the following week his company fell apart and he lost his job, and his health insurance. I couldn't very well just walk away now that I was the sole breadwinner and insurance provider. Besides, the truth was I didn't have the money to move out yet anyway. I wasn't sure how I was going to support myself. I'm a writer, and I have a student loan debt that is more than most people owe on their homes. I was sort of stuck. So for the months leading up to this affair, I was really sort of separated. Mentally at least. And while my husband and I were talking about the actual physical separation and potential divorce, my heart began skipping ahead, wondering if I would ever find love again. And I began looking in the only place I could - online. I mean I couldn't really just go out and start dating like a normal person. I hadn't told anyone at work. We hadn't told our families. But I needed to know what was out there - and that's how I came to put the craigslist ad up.

Now in that posting I didn't actually say I was married - but lest you think I too forgot to disclose that pertinent piece of information - here was my very first response to Mr. Berlin ( That's not his real name of course, but that's what I'll call him here)

Dear Berlin;

Now there's a first. A total honest identity - with email signature and cell phone!! You are a very trusting man!! Now, just yet I'm not going to be quite so up-front. Let me tell you a few things about myself first and see if you still want to continue this conversation.

But before I do - I just have to tell you that I used to be a biologist (I changed careers, I'm a writer now) and that Berlin happens to be one of my favorite cities. Bist du, vielleicht Deutsch?

I digress ... No here's my big negative -- and perhaps it will change your assessment of "wise". I'm married. No kids. We're virtually separated (we live like roommates in the same house), and it's ending, but its complicated and we've had to stay together for a variety of reasons I'll tell you all about if we ever get that far. This might be a deal breaker for you, which would be something I would completely understand. But then again you're moving to Berlin .... so perhaps you'll take it all in stride.

I've been through the whole craigslist thing before, at some point when I was thinking that maybe I'd just meet a married man in my same fucked-up situation and we'd find some sort of solace in each other. But I'm the sort of person who loves a bit too easily I guess, and once I decide I'm really into someone (and the feeling appears mutual) I just sort of give into it. So inevitably I begin to care and then he decides to ultimately reveal he really loves his wife and he doesn't want to ever leave or jeopardize the relationship. I'm not doing that anymore. I am imperfect, but not stupid. But I'm also not exactly single .. so I'm sort of stuck.

So. Like I said - I understand married and ending (but you must be honest, it really has to be pretty much over). But no happily marrieds. If you're single I guess you just need to have been around the block enough times to have a real understanding that people make mistakes they never thought they would make, change and grow apart in ways they couldn't have imagined when they met, and end up in unhappy relationships. I like to think I have the sense to move on before its too late. I don't expect everyone to get it, but I think the right person will. and if I don't find him, eventually I'll get divorced anyway and it won't matter anymore. C'est la Vie. Macht nichts.

Anyway. What do YOU think?

Writefromtheheart

And there you have it. WAS THAT NOT CLEAR? Was that not 100% HONEST? I think so. As if that's not enough he responds:

Dear Writefromtheheart;
Ich bin nicht Deutsch, Ich bin Amerikanische. Ein Ami, as they say. Well, you are married. That's OK. I am going to Berlin rather soon after all and therefore I will take it all in stride. But are you looking for a long term relationship on the 'casual encounters' page of Craig'slist? I don't think that you can be, so I am not overly invested. I am just amazed (still) at how you summed up your motives, and how similar they are to my own. Plus, I love the way you write.

So, I very much understand the complexities of human bondage. I have been in many complicated or no, not complicated, that is an overused word, more like contradictory, positions. We are not simple creatures, at least not those of us who are at all interesting. So yes, I am still very intrigued by you. Maybe I am looking for a little shake-up, sharking around here in Craig'slist. So let me say again that I am still very intrigued by you so let's move forward.

Berlin

Now was I looking for a long term relationship? Maybe. I guess I didn't feel like I was quite ready to promise myself to anybody else forever. And so I figured - something casual - that at least had potential to become serious and long-term if the situation warrented was a good compromise. Ugg. silly, silly me.

Dear Berlin;

Also - auch wenn du nicht Deutsch bist, du kannst aber die Sprache schon sehr gut. Ich schaetze du bist da schon mal gewesen.

And yes - I suppose you are right - I'm not exactly looking for a long term relationship. But I also don't want meaningless sex with a string of random strangers. I am one of those people who thinks you really can sort of live in the moment and just see what happens, and it can be wonderful, as long as your heart is open to it. What I really don't want is someone who is emotionally shut off. You click or you don't. You have a great time or you don't You fall in love or you don't. And who cares. Perfection is rare and not required. make sense?

So why are you less than enthralled by biological science? I wax nostalgia for it sometimes. And then I remember how awesome my job is. i have a seriously awesome job. When are you leaving?

Writefromtheheart

So how do I end up as the other woman? Back to our first meeting.

The night was progressing magically. He was charming, smart, funny. I was instantly attracted to him mentally and physically. He was just the right height - about 6 feet tall to my 5 foot 4. He had an easy smile, and a hearty laugh. He had a sexy sparkle in a pair of deep brown eyes that said 'I like you back'. We talked about our families, and our work. The basic getting to know you questions. He asked me where my last name came from, and I told him it was Italian. He was surprised, as most people are, since I have one of those Italian names that doesn't sound Italian at all. And he asked me where in Italy my family came from. I told him the name of the town - a little town in Calabria (that's the south) that basically no one has ever heard of called Pianopoli.

" No way," he said. "You're kidding."
"I'm completely serious. Why have you ever heard of it before?"
"You're really from Pianopoli?"
"uh-huh."
"That's where my family is from."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously. I have the papers at home. I've been preparing the documents to get my Italian citizinship, and so I've been collecting the birth certificates of my Italian ancestors - it says right on them - Pianopoli."

We were both sort of dumbstruck by the coincidence I think. And I have to admit, it sort of seemed like fate had brought us together. If I had had any doubts that I was into this guy before, this little coincidence erased it. This guy was my soulmate. Was that stupid? A soulmate? Were we meant to meet on this dark and misty August night? Had our paths wound around and crossed several times before we were finally face-to-face? Wait. That's crazy talk. I barely knew this guy. I met him an hour ago - maybe two. We had shared a couple of beers, some sweet and spicy calimari, and a few limited details about our lives. But we came from the same town in Italy! How many planets had to align for that to happen? We weren't even both from this city where we now sat in this random bar, but had travelled very different different paths to get here. He was originally from New York, and I grew up in Oregon. But we had both lived in Boston and San Francisco - our times there even overlapping slightly - but of course never meeting. And now here we were. He reached over and touched my leg. I extended my hand to his. It had to be fate.

And then it happened.

"So why are you going to Berlin anyway?" I asked. "Did you get a job teaching there or something?"
He was quiet for a moment, while he pondered how to answer.
"Actually, in the interest of full disclosure, I'm chasing a woman."
My heart sank. What????
"But I'm not really sure that she wants me there."

Phew. He's just chasing some girl who isn't reciprocating. For a minute there I thought she was his girlfriend.

The Deed Is Done

2008-11-09T18:34:00.000-05:00

You know that it's over when you block him on facebook. I can't begin to describe the finality of this action. My stomach was in knots. My hand hovered over the enter button. I got up. I went to the fridge. I paced the room. Did I really want to do this? If I blocked him, I would no longer be able to see him on facebook. I would no longer be able to check and see if he's online. Read the messages his friends posted to his wall. I would be completely and utterly cut off from him forever.

By him I mean the guy I started having an affair with a little over two months ago. We met on Craigslist, when I posted, what I decided would be one last final ad in the personals section.

OK, it was the dirty part of the personals section. The part known as "casual encounters." I know I know. What sort of woman looks for a relationship in the casual encounters section of craigslist? See the thing is there's all sorts of people on craigslist. People you wouldn't expect. People like me - who are smart and attractive and interesting. People with good jobs, and regular friends, and otherwise normal lives. Not everyone on there is some kind of perv.

I posted there because I had done it before - a few times actually - and found that there are actually more normal people looking for a fling in casual encounters than there are in the regular personals section. The regular section was filled with dorks and unattractive guys - who couldn't string a sentence together to save their life. Postings there brought me responses - but the answers were lame.

I'm not sure how to explain this phenomenon exactly - but I think it has to do with the fact that there is a certain amount of danger and anonymity associated with the idea of a casual encounter. Something sort of secret and thrilling. Something that the normal, cute, goody-goody guy actually fantasizes about. And when he actually sees a thoughtful , well-written post from a seemingly together woman - voila - he is all over it.

So here is what I wrote:

NO THIS IS NOT FAKE

Please don't ask me if it is. It's real. I'm a real person. I will not send you to a site you have to sign up for or ask you for money.

I can also assure you that if we ever meet you will be pleasantly surprised. I'm attractive, smart, well-traveled and sort of funny when I want to be. I know, everybody says that. But really.

Here's what I want. An intelligent guy. A professional. A doctor, a lawyer, a writer, an artist, a scientist. Someone preferably with a copious amount of education. Here's a hint: if you think copious is a big word, don't email me, you're wasting your time.

I want a man between the ages of 33 and 41 (roughly). Someone who agrees that if we seem to it it off via email we should split a bottle of decent wine and see where things lead. Someone who thinks chemistry comes from witty conversation, a knowing look, shared interests, and a challenging intellect. A hot guy who reads these posts longing for a woman JUST like that - -but never responds because what are the chances? Or has responded and has all his worst fears confirmed.

Perhaps you are looking for a relationship, or maybe just something casual, that might become a relationship if the feeling was there. Maybe you're stuck in a bad relationship, but need an extra push to finally cut the strings. You're not on the market - but you wish you were. One thing is for sure. You're a catch. You know it. You're successful in all the ways you had hoped - but romance. You don't really need craigslist, but you like the anonymity of it, and the way it allows you to be yourself. The efficiency of being able to say, no, no, no, NEVER, mmmm maybe?? You're a good guy. Honest, nice, responsible - and perhaps a little bit naughty!

You need a beautiful woman, an intellectual equal, a fantastic, enthusiastic lover - someone who will inspire you, draw you out, challenge you and all around make life more fun. Someone to set naughty text messages at work, catch a movie with, cook dinner with. A woman you might have to make love to right there in the kitchen cause the living room floor, much less the bedroom was too far...you want to be turned on by the sound of her voice, the curve of her hip, her deep penetrating gaze. You want it all.

Like you I am disappointed in the romantic prospects I've found here but I am hoping that there is one tiny chance that I might find my needle in a haystack.

I am open minded, but when it comes to guys I find attractive I am a sucker for a man over 6 feet, strong broad shoulders, gorgeous eyes, and hands that know just when to run through my hair, stroke my thigh or cup my face and lean in for the perfect kiss.

You can be single, or on your way out of a relationship - but please - no happily married men who just need a roll in the hay, or will never leave for the sake of the kids. No martyrs. You should believe that happiness is within all of our grasp - and you just might have found yours here.

Think so? PLEASE send me a picture of your face, and write something meaningful about yourself. I don't promise to respond, but I do promise to read it with the same thoughtfulness you took writing it, and your photo will never leave my inbox.

So there it is. The posting that started it all. I got some interesting responses. But among them all, there was one that stood out from all the rest.

Wowza, i just need to know who you are

Who are you?? That is the most on-target Craigslist ad that I have ever seen. I'm a well educated and fun and funny guy who really just can't believe what I just read. As in, what are you doing here? But then you go on to exactly explain why you are here and have summed up why I am here. I'm going to be around a bit more this late summer with nothing to do before moving off to Berlin in October and I just have to know who you are. I'm attaching a pic so give me a call (see cell number below)or send an email if you would like to have a drink and reveal to me the identity of this fantastic, sensible and wise- sounding woman. I think that we might get along.

And then in a very non-craigslist twist, he signs it with his real name, cell phone, and work address and photo! I was astonished. I was intrigued. And he was totally cute! I had to meet this guy.

So we exchanged a few emails, and we decided to meet in a bar the very next day. I was nervous, but at the same time I wasn't. I had already met guys this way before, and while on several occasions I met someone great - there were others that were total duds. I was prepared for a dud, so my expectations weren't high.

When I pulled up outside the bar, he was just getting out of his car - an older old forrest green subaru outback wagon. I recognized him instantly from his photograph. He had a vintage-looking leather jacket on, sort of longish brown hair that fell into his face in perfect boyish waves, and a goatee - which I normally hate, but on him it worked. He had sort of a beatnik meets grunge look that, because it was so obviously genuine, worked.

It was the end of August and on this particular night the weather was unseasonably cool and there was sort of a misty drizzle in the air. The rain came after a sultry heat wave and cooled things of, making it seem almost fall. The air had that perfect change-of-season electricity in it. It was the sort of night that makes you do crazy things. Take risks. Fall in love with perfect strangers. And that was the night we met. It was perfect in just about every way.

But that was then. And what you, dear reader, who are probably more sensible than I, may already be thinking is that what begins as a fantasy, tends to remain a fantasy. Me and my romantic notions. My silly idea that I could walk into a bar and meet an amazing person on the basis of a craigslist personal ad and that person could become a real and complete part of my life, was very, very misguided. He broke my heart, and today I broke the only link that I still had to him - my facebook page.