Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Why Am I Single? Let Me Count the Ways

Ten: Love, Is A Burning Ring

Love is a burning thing
and it makes a firery ring
bound by wild desire
I fell in to a ring of fire...

I fell in to a burning ring of fire
I went down,down,down
and the flames went higher.
And it burns,burns,burns
the ring of fire
the ring of fire.

Well, what did you expect? The title of this little series IS “Why Am I Still Single”. He broke my heart. Into about a million pieces. I’m not sure that I found them all. I think about those silly pictures of a heart with a jagged line down the middle that is supposed to represent a “broken” heart. Whoever drew those pictures had no idea what the hell they were talking about. I mean, seriously, you ever have your heart thoroughly broken? I’m not talking about being a little depressed or bummed out about something not working out right. I’m talking about crushing it into a million little pieces, like a bad jigsaw puzzle you get at a second hand store that never has all the pieces in it.

That’s basically what happens when your heart gets broken like that. It’s now second hand goods. It will never be the same as the shiny, pretty heart that you had before. Like a new car that gets into a major accident. It goes to the repair shop and is “rebuilt”, a new paint job, the dents are “removed”, maybe a little body work and some tuning under the hood, but the chassis is never the same. The integrity of the frame is compromised. It might be slightly bent so it “dog tracks” down the road ever so slightly and constantly wears out the tires. When you look up the VIN#, you can find the whole list of damages and repairs to the vehicle.

That’s basically your heart. It has a VIN# and every person that tries to own it afterwards gets all the little pings, dents and major fuck ups that came before them. Now the damn thing hesitates on take off, cuts out a little when you’re driving down the road, never runs near as fast as it did when it was new and, in general, has a list of shit wrong with it that the new owner may never know, never tries to find out or is surprised by the bumper falling off in the middle of the road.

That’s your heart when the original owner gets done with it. One day you’re driving along fine and then – BAM! An eighteen-wheeler flies through the intersection and takes you out. Totaled. The shitty thing is, they don’t really sale full coverage insurance for hearts. When it’s time for it to be repaired, it’s totally your responsibility to fix it. The driver of the eighteen-wheeler just jumps in their big ass truck and drives off like nothing happened. Lord, can that be an expensive endeavor.

But isn’t it grand while your heart is shiny and new? When it’s fast and furious and you can’t wait to take it out for a spin? Even if the damn thing looks like and performs like a cheap little Dodge Omni, you always think it’s a sports car. Sexy, shiny, red with a five speed on the floor and you are always tearing down the highway, racing at the speed of light (you think, anyway). Right up until that eighteen-wheeler hammers you.

After that little incident with the eighteen wheeler, you don’t drive near as fast. You realize you’re driving a shitty little Dodge with no guts. You sit at the stop sign for long periods of time, looking both ways twenty times before you pull out. You are looking for those eighteen-wheelers now and you don’t plan on meeting one again. When you’re on the highway of life, you don’t drive near as fast as you used to. As a matter of fact, you are probably prone to drive even slower than the speed limit, watching all the other wannabe sports car hearts go speeding by you while you putter along in the slow lane.

You know what I’m talking about. If you don’t, you haven’t been in love yet. Let me give you some advice. Get the hell out of the slow lane and get going. Don’t waste any time. Stop trying to keep your heart all shiny and new. If you don’t try to run the damn thing up and down the highway of life at the speed of light at least once, you will never know the thrill, you will never know what it’s capable of. You can go back to driving it in the slow lane afterwards.

I recall what that whole year and a half felt like. It was so damned intense. Maybe, maybe it’s youth that makes it so intense or maybe it’s because it’s the first time? Whatever it is, I remember feeling like I couldn’t breath when I was in his presence, like some times I had to get away, just for a minute so I could recover. But like an addict, when I was away, I wanted to be with him again. It was like staring into a bright white light that was so intense it hurts the eyes, but so beautiful you can’t look away. Of course, the light can be kind of blinding, too.

I remember when I told him that I loved him, too. It took me about another six weeks after that first time he said it, and about fifty times of him saying it again, before I would admit to the fact that this thing I felt was something other than a passing fling (well, it did pass, but not that fast). I won’t share the details of course, but I was extremely happy and relaxed and all of a sudden, it just came over me, “admit it, you ass, you’re in love with this guy”. Whomp! There went my utter Zen moment, right out the window. I burst into tears again. Yes, again. I was such a fucking mess in the beginning. Of course, I was a fucking mess in the end, too. But, that’s for later.

The poor guy, I think I traumatized him for life. Probably had a terror attack every time a woman burst into tears after that. “Kat? What’s wrong? What happened? Did I do something? Tell me what’s wrong?”

Me sniffling as unattractively as any woman can do right at the most romantic moment in their life, “Nothing’s wrong. You didn’t do anything..” sniffle, sniffle, “well, actually, you did, but it wasn’t wrong and…” Wwwaaaahhhh! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! I had to go lock myself in the bathroom for a few minutes and get a grip. Sometimes I think the scariest part was me not being in control of me anymore. All those damned emotions flying around and me bursting into tears and the oddest moments. Very disconcerting.

That whole year was…how do I put this? Grand. Incredible. Unbelievable. Full of interesting moments. I’m not sure that anyone that has not been there could fully understand. I really don’t think words can ever do justice to that feeling. I’ve used the words “exhilarating”, “flying”, “nervous”, “scary”, and “exciting”. It’s all of those things and then about one million more that probably still wouldn’t do it justice.

I suppose, if you’re reading this, you might get the idea I was still hung up on the guy. I don’t think so. He was part of it and made it happen, but I think the thing that I’m “hung up” on was the feeling. Because, frankly, I’ve never felt that way again. I don’t know if anyone ever does, really. It’s that whole “Dodge Omni meets eighteen-wheeler” thing. Or maybe, as I said, it was youth and we grow up, get responsibilities, understand the risks that we are taking which we never do when we are young. Or, maybe, we do and, like the flashing yellow light that tells us to slow down, we just ignore it and think we can beat the truck to the intersection. Because, when you are that age, everything is possible, including outrunning the eighteen-wheeler in a Dodge Omni.

While he was recovering from his leg wound, we didn’t go dancing, but we had a lot of people over and did barbecues; his friends from the ship, some of their girlfriends and some of our friends. The guys would buy cheap cases of beer from the PX, a lot of food and ice. We must have had three coolers full of something at any given time, not just the fridge. But we had rules, too. Nobody left our parties that had too much to drink. They either flopped at our place or had a designated driver. We did not go for drunken driving. Probably the first time in a long time that some of those guys actually had somebody who gave a shit about whether they drove drunk or not.

I recall the first time we had the BIG party. At least twenty people were at our place. The neighbor guy from upstairs came down. Lisa and I’d been living there about three months and had heard women’s heels walking across the floor on a number of occasions, but the guy seemed to be…how shall I put this?…a loser extraordinaire. We didn’t think he actually had a girlfriend and had a running bet on whether he was a cross dresser or something and that’s why we always heard the heels.

He sort of invited himself in. We were all outside on the patio, turned around and there was this thirty something guy from upstairs. You have to recall that we were all in our early twenties, so the appearance of an “old guy” at our party, particularly a possible cross dresser, really threw us for a loop. He came over and introduced himself to us and was offering us candy out of his pocket. Dude must have been a “joneser” or something. He had a large amount of hard candy. We were old enough to know better than to take candy from a stranger so we declined, but I remember looking around and wondering where half of the guys went, only to realize that they were congregating in the kitchen having a pow wow about who would do what if the guy turned “strange” on us. Carlos later told me he was planning on cold cocking the guy with his crutch. Geesh, I think the guy got the picture that he was “unwelcome” and left, never to return again.

We had a ton of “friends”, but we also had a core group: the gang. The gang consisted of about 10 guys and girls. Not necessarily “couples” although, Lisa did eventually start going out with a guy so we had “couples” and singles. That night of the party with the strange guy showing up was the first night that a bunch of people crashed at our place. If you recall, we really didn’t have any furniture yet. As a matter of fact, those cases of beer came in really handy when they were empty. They made excellent end tables. Yeah, it was like that.

It was a Saturday night when they all crashed, about four guys and one of our girl friends. I was still, uh, platonically considering my options, so Carlos and the guys had crashed in the living room. I will tell you that there are no illusions about somebody after they sleep over at your place. You learn if they leave their beard hairs in the sink, if they squeeze the toothpaste in the middle, if they leave the seat up and if they snore. Carlos’ snoring sounded like a damn freight train was coming through the apartment. I think the entire complex heard him. I really don’t know how those guys slept in the same room with him. Maybe living on the ship made them used to the vagaries and noises of fellow men farting, burping and snoring less than two feet from them in a bunk that had less room than a coffin? Hell, I was in the other room with the door closed and I almost couldn’t go to sleep.

The next morning at 8:30 AM sharp, the phone rang. It was a Sunday. Nobody calls you on a Sunday at 8:30 AM unless it’s an emergency, you’d think. The only phone in the house was in the kitchen, so I got up and put a robe on (there were four strange men in the house) and started stumbling to the phone, just in time to hear one of the guys saying, “Who are you looking for? K…? There’s no “K….” living here, just Kansas and Lisa.”

Oh, shit! The only people that called me by my full name were people from work and my parents. I was sure the person on the phone was not from work, so I stumbled a little faster out the door and into the kitchen, “That’s for me,” I said holding my hand out.

It was our future adopted brother Craig who had the phone, “But, you’re name is Kansas.” Completely bleary eyed and confused.

“No, that’s my nick-name. Now give me the phone.” He handed me the phone, “Hello?”

“Yeah,” it was my Dad, double “oh, shit”, “I was calling to say “good morning”.”

“Uh…good morning?” On a Sunday at 8:30 AM EST which meant it was 7:30 AM CST where he was and who the hell calls at 7:30 in the morning on a Sunday anyway?

“Yeah. Who was that guy answering the phone?” At 8:30 AM EST at your place, was the unspoken part of the sentence.

Keep in mind that I am the apple of my father’s eye and can do no wrong. Right up to that moment anyway.

“He’s a friend of Lisa’s and mine. We had a party and some of the people stayed over.” Yeah, aren’t you proud of me? I’m a responsible adult who does not allow people to drink and drive. Never mind that a strange guy was answering my phone.

“A friend, huh? What kind of friend doesn’t even know your name?”

At which point, I spent about ten minutes trying to explain to him, at 8:30 AM EST on a Sunday, after a night of carousing, that it was my nickname and nobody called me anything else outside of work because that’s what they always introduced me as. Yadda, yada, blah, blah…I don’t think he believed me until about two years later.

Anyhow, new house rules were in place after that: nobody answers the phone but me and Lisa and any other person that we “designate”. Less explaining that way.

Having our own little “gang” was fun. We all went out dancing all the time; after Carlos’ leg was healed up of course. We went to the diner afterwards and sat at our same table and had the same waitress. Eventually, she would just rattle off our orders and confirm them without asking what we wanted. In many respects, we were creatures of habit.

Sometimes, the “gang” could be a real pain in the ass when you wanted privacy. There was always SOMEBODY around. Particularly, Carlos’ friend Jason. I think Carlos was just about Jason’s only friend and, if it wasn’t for out little “gang” he wouldn’t know anyone else or be allowed to hang with them. He was a “mooch” in the worst sense of the word and a braggart to boot. Maybe “bull shitter” was a better word. He was the type of guy that, if somebody said they did something, he’d always already done it and he did it two hundred times better of course. If you said you gave birth to a baby, he would have said he gave birth (himself) to triplets and breast fed them himself.

That kind of guy.

He figures in a little later when I tell you about women being complete and utter schmucks who won’t even listen when the woman friend of the guy tells them that the guy is a loser and she should run. But, that’s for later.

At this point, he was still “single”. In one particular incident, the guys were all sharing their stories (again) about their recruitment nightmares and how they all thought they were going to be stationed in Hawaii or something and ended up on a ship headed for the Phillipines. Jason decided to join in with his story and then adds on to the end how, when he had gone home on leave the year before, he went over to the recruiting station in his “civies”, with a blazer on and a nine millimeter in his shoulder holster and told the guy how he felt about him while simultaneously letting his blazer fall back so the guy could see the gun in his holster.

Everyone got really quiet for a second and you could tell that nobody wanted to ruin the jovial mood at our table by telling him he was full of shit. Except me, of course. I had not qualms, “Jason, you are so full of shit.” The whole table burst out laughing. He kept insisting that it was true, “Dude, if that was true, you wouldn’t be sitting here telling us about it, you’d be in Leavenworth breaking stones or someplace else, equally far away from here. Please, save that for the women you’re trying to impress.” More laughter.
Probably the reason the guy had a “love/hate” relationship with me. I was vying for the attention of his friend and, while I did not hate him (he was a little too pathetic for that), I thought he was the biggest loser I’d met in a longtime and, while I tried to be nice, I couldn’t help but call him on some of his more asinine claims. The next day, Lisa and I were shopping and we saw this little army get up complete with a green, plastic nine millimeter replica and we bought it for him and gifted it to him the very next weekend at the same table. That brought on more laughter. It was generally for fun, but now that I think about it, he was probably embarrassed all to hell.

Of course, he did it to himself most of the times, completely without my assistance I might add. On another occasion, several of the guys that were in our “gang” were actually “cowboys” or “farm boys” and had some experience in the rodeo. Everyone wore big belt buckles with some sort of an insignia that represented the sport that they participated in (bull riding, bare back riding, roping, etc) or, a representation of the sport they liked to follow. If they actually rode in the rodeo and won an event, the buckle would have writing on it that represented the event, the rodeo and the year including the event they had “won”. These were “trophy” buckles and they weren’t exactly floating around liberally.

A few of the guys were talking about participating in the rodeo one night. Only one of them actually owned and wore a trophy buckle. Even that was for “dress”. Jason breaks in and starts telling them that he won the buckle he was wearing at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo as a “rookie”. Now, you have to understand, the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo is one of the biggest events in the rodeo world. Right up there with Cheyenne Days and the Calgary Stampede. Probably, the only bigger show was the actual “National Finals Rodeo”.

And let me tell you, a guy could when upwards of $15k just for placing in an event where they strapped their asses to a bull for eight seconds with a rope, one hand and a whole lot of piss and vinegar and any number of these guys, who were actual participants, would give their eye teeth to go to such an event. Second of all, Jason’s buckle had no writing what so ever on it. He tried to tell everyone that it had “worn off”, but, as usual, he was full of shit. So, one night, Lisa and I took his belt buckle while he was sleeping, grabbed some “masking tape”, wrote “World Champion Bull Shitter” on it and taped it to his buckle.

Yeah, I know, we were mean. But it was a good hearted mean. Most of the time.

At some point, his nearly insane, male role-playing of the sick, twisted character from “Single White Female” became unbelievably annoying. He was always borrowing Carlos’ clothes (which he never understood as the weirdness it was with all the other things Jason did), telling people he was Carlos’s cousin (in which case, the boy was so white, Pilsbury doughboy white, it was impossible; even my ass had more color than that boy), following us when we left the room even if it was only for five minutes and the door was closed (the only good thing I could say was that, after a rather embarrassing moment, he learned to knock first) and generally making a pest of himself.

The guy was just sad, but, finally, I had to put my foot down. I mean, it was getting nearly creepy at that point. One time, during one of our infamous barbecues, we left the room for about two minutes, tops, closed the door to the other room and were rather passionately engaged when he does the “quick knock” on the door and opens it without waiting for a response. I was like, “Dude, what the hell is wrong with you?” And I gave Carlos the “disgusted eye” before leaving the room.

I’m not sure what was said, but later in the evening, with about ten to twelve guys standing around and about six women, somebody started giving him a ration of shit about being up Carlos’ ass all the time and NOT giving us a moment of privacy, when, right there in public, he says, “What the hell do they care? It’s not like she’s giving it to him or something.”

RRRrrrrrRRRRtttt… screeching record, party coming to an abrupt end.

I was PISSED to say the least. The first person I looked at was Carlos of course because, how the hell would Jason know what we were or were not doing if he didn’t tell him. Can you say “double evil eye, with fangs”?

It was still early on in the “do I love you, even though you told me you love me, it doesn’t mean my pants are coming off” stage. I was still confused and thinking I was not going to complicate my whole angst ridden moments with sex. Yeah, sex. I said it. Does that bother anyone? Sex, sex, sex, sex…I’ll just keep saying it until you get over it. Of course, I’m writing this here, eleven years after the fact, so I’m a whole lot less prudish about the subject. On the other hand, I still don’t care to be the subject of party gossip by a jealous asshole, so when I was done boring two burning holes into Carlos I turned my “evil eyes” on Jason.

What is it about guys anyway? Do they all come with some pre-recorded messages? Carlos was burning two holes into Jason’s hide as well and Jason says, “What? What’d I say?”

Uh-huh. Why do guys always say that right after they say the stupidest crap that could ever come out of their mouths? “I’ll tell you what, Jase, you ever talk about me or my private business in public again, I’ll kick your ass so far up between your shoulder blades, you’ll be able to reach behind your right shoulder to pull out your can of Copenhagen without straining yourself. You got me?” Then I stomped into the kitchen, pulled out a whine cooler from the fridge, leaned against the counter and stared at them through the little cut out in the wall that allowed you to see to the patio.

I could see Carlos waiving his hands around and I heard him say something like, “Man, what the hell is wrong with you?”

I could have told him, but I’m not sure he would get that his friend was exhibiting nearly classic symptoms of jealousy. Those things sort of pass men by, I’ve found. It seems like such a “woman” thing for somebody to be jealous of a friends “time” that men usually cannot see it in another guy. Of course, if it wasn’t for Jason knocking some girl up later on (another story), I would have thought he was gay.

At which point, the party started breaking up and people were leaving. Jason was trying to get somebody to give him a ride back to the base, but most everyone had figured out he was persona non grata in the house they partied at and were diligently making up excuses why they couldn’t take him back. Finally, Carlos realized he was about to be stuck with him and paid one of our friends five bucks (which would buy a lot of gas back in those days) to take him to the base.

Not that privacy was anymore available when you have ten or so people vying for your attention. One evening, I had made arrangements with Lisa, that Carlos and I would leave our group “early” and return to the apartment without the rest of them. Jason by then had a girlfriend, Thank God, but she was still too young to go into the clubs with us. Of course, it would be that the only girl he could get was someone too young and too stupid not to see through his uniform and know that he was a dumbass, but again, that’s for later.

We had dinner that evening and went dancing again. It was all very romantic as it was mid week and no one was really on the floor, just us in the dim light.

Let me take another pause here and just give some advise to my male readers. Gentlemen, you want to impress the ladies? Dinner and dancing is very romantic. Most women will “go” for that. You know what I mean? Even if you can’t “dance”, don’t be a schmuck. Request the DJ play a couple of slow songs (even if you have to slip him a couple of bucks), take her on the floor, hold her close and just do that little circle dance. You don’t even have to move, just rock back and forth. But, if you want to really impress her, try a few moves. You know, step to the left or right once in awhile, she’ll think you’re Fred Astaire and you’ll be almost guaranteed some return “romance”.

Of course, maybe that’s just my cup of tea, but I don’t think so. I know a ton of women that dig that sort of thing. But, hey, if not, just know what her “cup of tea” is and do it once in awhile. Maybe it’s tickets to the opera or a concert or dinner theater. A nice evening is all that’s required. That can even be extremely inexpensive (note: cheap). If you’re married with children, send the children off to Aunt Becky, order in some dinner, move that big clunky dining room table back or the coffee table to the corner, turn on the CD player, turn off the TV and do a little dance in your living room/dining room with the lights down low.

And, please, don’t tell me about your two left feet or that you need ten beers to dance. In private, it doesn’t matter what the hell you do as long as the music is playing and your feet are moving. And, none of that crap about, “I don’t do THAT, I’m a man and I scratch my ass, spend time in my garage, drink beer and burp the alphabet. She knows that’s what I was like when I married/started a relationship with her.”
Two words: Bull Shit. What are you, insecure or something? Afraid she’s going to laugh? Believe me, the only “laughter” you’ll be hearing is the cute and funny giggly kind.

A few more words: No guts, no glory.

Language lesson: Women say “romance”, men say “foreplay”.

Sure, foreplay is great and women understand that word, but “if you wanna know, if she loves you so”, repeat after me: “Romance”. Say it again, it won’t kill you: “Romance”. You want her to put on that fire engine red teddy thing with a string up her ass that you bought at Fredricks of Hollywood (or Victoria’s Secret if you got a little more…um…class) that you think is sexy as hell? Yeah, she’ll probably do it anyway because, you know, we women are suckers for you guys, but try this thing once and see what happens. Romance.

Now gentlemen, suit up, get out there and “do a little dance; get down tonight; get down tonight”.

(This has been an unsolicited message from “A woman that knows” who will stay anonymous in order to preserve her status as a card carrying member of the “Ya-ya sisterhood” since I am libel to be thrown out if they learned I was giving away all of our “complicated” secrets. Disclaimer: This is not recommended for anyone under the age of 18 as the boy is libel to be shot and the girl grounded for the rest of her life.)

Now, where was I? Oh, yes, I was bemoaning the lack of privacy even in the most private of moments. So, after some very lovely romance on the dance floor, with my head on his shoulder and the lights low, we finally skipped the club and drove home like crazy people. I jumped into the silky thing I had, lit the candles, heated up the oil, he was grabbing the champagne out of the fridge where it had been chilling all day and…

Knock, knock, knock.

We both froze and looked at each other. Who the hell was that? “Ignore it.” Carlos whispered, as we tried to walk quietly out of the kitchen.

Knock, knock, knock. “Carlos, I know you’re in there. We saw your truck in the parking lot.” It was Jason of course. Who else would be like the worst nightmare from romance hell?

Can you say “Pissed Again?” What was up with this guy anyway? Didn’t he get it? I gave Carlos “The Look”, told him to go open the door and I went into the bedroom to put on my sweats. I heard them talking and then Carlos came into the room, “They didn’t have anything to do so they came over and wanted to know if we wanted to watch movies with them.”

He was looking pretty sheepish right then. He and I both knew that the reason they came over was because Tally lived at home and Jason lived on the ship and they didn’t have anyplace else to go. What a bunch of crap. The guy was ruining my romantic evening because he didn’t have any money or any other friends. I know that sounds mean, but, dammit, it really sucks to have your evening interrupted like that.

Carlos went on, “What do you want me to do? You want to watch movies with them, or what?”

Yeah, he was feeling sorry for his friend, but I was having very little sympathy for them right that moment, “I don’t care what you do. I’d prefer you throw him out in the hallway and threaten to shoot him with his own gun he claims to have if he comes back in the next 30 days.” I don’t know, was I being too pissy and unreasonable?

“Kat,” he was torn about his friend, I understood, but understanding only went so far and he was quickly going into “schmuck” mode, “we can watch a movie with them and then I’ll send them away.”

“I don’t care what YOU do, but I’m going to bed.” I was standing there with my arms crossed and the lips compressed. I’m sure it said, “mood killer” all over it. He went out in the living room, told them I was feeling unwell. They still didn’t get the message and, as I was saying earlier, “no guts, no glory”. He watched a movie with them and I went to bed and fell asleep. Pissed.

Another lesson for men: don’t let the woman go to sleep pissed. Sleeping on it does not actually improve the situation. It just puts it off and let’s her stew, formatting all the words she’s going to say to you in the bright light of day. In which case, you are already starting out waaaaay behind the eight ball and are likely to lose the argument as she’s had about 8 to 12 to form hers. Don’t let her go to sleep pissed.

Of course, next day we had words about his friend and his need to inform his friend that he wasn’t just to “drop by” anymore, but to call ahead. I could tell he was reluctant to say anything, either out of embarrassment or because he thought I was being a complete bitch or both, so, I did what any intelligent woman does: I went around him. I spoke to Jason’s girlfriend, woman to woman, and explained about my lovely romantic evening they had crashed and, you know, how hard those times were to come by (right sister?) She got the message, sister to sister, and from then on, if Jason even acted like he was going to come over without calling, she smacked him in the head (not sure if that was figurative or literal; just they made an effort to call)

Oh, if you haven’t figured it out yet, he was practically living at my place, although he still maintained his part of the apartment he shared with the four guys.

What about the other friends? Just a quick reference to “Hank” of the aforementioned drinking and passing out episode, chapter eight. Hank was a redneck hillbilly from Virginia. Not in the navy or anything, juts a guy whose mom lived in the area and with whom he lived. He was the nicest guy you’d ever want to meet. He would give you his shirt of his back. Not that you’d actually want it since you didn’t know where it’d been, but he’d still offer. He couldn’t dance to save his live. No rhythm. None. He was always asking me to show him when we went out and I would. However, he had a tendency, after about ten bars of music, to grip my right hand like a freaking vice and squeeze it until I thought my fingers would explode. At some point, I told him that he was going to owe me a new pair of boots, he’d stepped on the toes so often. I was only half joking.

All I can say is, “at least the guy tried”.

Well now, I’m sure I haven’t yet told you about the “demise” of our relationship. I’m getting there you freaking vultures. Let me enjoy a few more happy memories, will ya’? Geeesh, what do you want? All pain and angst?

Somebody asked me about the “other reasons I was single” and wondered what all the mushy romantic stuff was about since it didn’t add to the “why’s and wherefores”. Here’s the deal, I’m setting it up, because, the first thing we must do is explain why, the one big lesson had a nasty little trickle down effect for a couple of years that contributed to the lack of relationship(s) I experienced thereafter.

So, just keep reading and be happy I’m giving you some advice. Next chapter will be the pain and agony of introducing your potential spouse to your family. They all have their meaning and place in the story, so relax and wait for the punch lines.

So, did you hear about the Rabbi, the Priest and the lawyer who walk into the bar?

Ehhh! Shut up!

1 comment:

Jason Rubenstein said...

So, a Rabbi, a Priest and a lawyer walk into a bar and the bartender says, "What is this? A joke?!?"


Well, I thought it was funny.