We made our way to the parking garage and SUV Jack had rented. When he opened the back there was little room for my small suitcase and carry-on bag because Jack’s cumbersome (and hideous and filthy and beat to shit) bags were haphazardly strewn throughout most of the space. The fact that he had ugly luggage provides little relevance to this story and didn’t really matter to me at the time, but I pretended to be horrified, “Oh…wow…that’s…really something,” I said, as I squeezed my rollaboard into to the space. Have I mentioned I can be condescending when irritated?
We were at In-N-Out in less than two minutes and I quickly had food in my stomach. I sipped the last bit of chocolate shake and feeling satiated, I reached across the table, squeezed Jack’s hand and said, “I know it was a little tense in the airport. Can we start over?” Jack seemed relieved as he smiled and nodded yes.
At the hotel we headed to the front desk and I asked Jack if he was able to book rooms with balconies. He told me he’d spoken to the front desk manager “personally” and she was adamant that none were available. I asked if he minded if I tried.
“It’s a waste of time,” Jack replied.
“Will it bother you if I try?” I asked again.
“Go ahead,” Jack said, and I saw a smaller version of that airport grimace.
I’ve found that being polite and friendly sometimes works. Let’s just say that when we walked out of the lobby, one of the two rooms had a balcony.
Unfortunately, it was Jack’s. My room had an unexpected late checkout and had not been cleaned and Jack took the available room because he had about an hour of gig logistic calls to make.
Back at the car, Jack struggled with his hodge-podge of bags—two were HUGE. I easily took mine, my carry-on and then reached in to take two of Jack’s smaller bags. They were clearly holding his instruments.
“Don’t touch those!” He snapped, panting from exertion and then followed with, “Or be very careful. Only I handle them.”
“I don’t let anyone carry my computer bag, so I’ll leave them here.”
“You can take them. Just be very, very careful.”
Do you get irritated when someone speaks to you like a child?
Yep, me too.
You can read the rest on my Patreon Page. Click HERE. As a preview there’s a night of too many martinis that caused embarrassing behavior and lots of oversharing. Again, if you can’t afford to subscribe, please let me know.
Who am I kidding? Here’s the truth, I’ve been half-assing it most of the time, even with men who might be mistaken for the models on the over-50 dating site ads.
the casual horizontal hula. Sex just isn’t fulfilling if the person doesn’t grab me—and by grab, I mean all of me. I need smarts, humor and someone with an interesting life. A little swagger doesn’t hurt either. Sheesh, I’m not asking for the moon. All right, the section of my dating profile that states, “Must have given a TED Talk and, don’t try to squeak by with TEDx,” might seem, um, delusional to some.
Meet Steph and listen as she talks about the work she’s done to finally feel comfortable in her own skin. Steph shares her struggles with low self-esteem, but more specifically how living with Poland syndrome, a rare disorder, that has impacted her relationships in the past. Listen as she describes what she’s done to avoid making the same mistakes in her current relationship.
Meet Donna and listen as she talks about the circumstances led her to the second act in her life. One she never saw coming.
My friend Kim moved out of the city and in the last year we haven’t spent much time together. I was delighted when she emailed to let me know she was coming for a visit and wanted to get together.
Date number two was for Cuban food. Luke took me to a fantastic restaurant, 
So, that’s how two days later I found myself entering Roosevelt Hospital and searching for the day surgery area. I had to text Luke the night before and ask for the correct spelling of his last name. It might be weird if the “next of kin” as I was listed on his admission papers didn’t know his surname.
some air. There are some things a person shouldn’t see while casually dating: bank statements, family videos, junk drawers, and testicles. I averted my eyes and I’m not sure Luke was even aware, but it was painfully uncomfortable for me. He was still loopy so I sat in the chair next to the bed while his anesthesia wore off. The nurse was harried as she hurried by and handed me a sponge on a stick in a cup of water. She asked me to wet his mouth.
His aversion to a significant part of my favorite cuisine—Mexican–was reason enough to hand him walking papers. I mean really, who doesn’t like guacamole? I’ll tell you: A person with a serious character flaw OR a picky eater–which is even worse. OK, perhaps I’m a little sensitive with the current political climate, because I wanted to ask, “Does your disdain begin and end with fare? How do you feel about walls?” Probably a silly question because I’ve amended my profile to state, “If you’re voting for Trump, we would definitely not be compatible.”
nickel he’s ever made.” I realized I was absolutely paying for my glass of wine and decided to order dinner. I made sure to tell him we would have separate checks. He didn’t order food but I shared my steak because I hate to eat alone and his frugality had to be on high alert after Brexit. There’s nothing that gives the thrifty greater anxiety than the threat of truly being broke instead of just living every second of their life that way. Do I even need to tell you there would not be a second date? Didn’t think so.
There was the date on Valentine’s Day with a lovely man from Boston. Sure the distance was an obstacle but I’d successfully dealt with that before. I was hopeful, but in his desire to learn more he did something I wish he hadn’t: read every single word I’d ever written and thought he knew me. I can always tell when someone has read my stuff. There’s a false familiarity that makes me squirm. I always ask men to hold off on reading my work and instead form an opinion based on our dates, but he was a master Google-er and had done so before our first meeting. He sent me a bouquet of tulips two weeks later when I wasn’t feeling well, (flower choice was prompted by a blog post from two years ago about my late husband giving me tulips). It turned creepy. His intentions were honorable, for sure, but the depth of his digging left me feeling as if he’d rummaged through my underwear drawer or read my diary.
. Believe me, my research may not be scientific but I’d bet the farm on its accuracy. Did I mention that he mentioned (four times) that he was in therapy? All within the first thirty minutes of the date, mind you. Or that he made a joke about a well known sexual predator getting sex during a time when he wasn’t getting any at all? Maybe I’m too judgmental because after all he writes comedy and there’s nothing funnier than rape humor, right?
There you have it: my guaranteed attraction to a gay man with whom I am certain is straight. It is a theme that started with Boy George, continued to George Michael and is clearly still going strong.
Last Thursday night, my youngest daughter Chelsea came over to hang out, do laundry and keep me company. Doing laundry in my building is like cage fighting. Most of the time several machines are out of order. Even when they’re all working (um, almost never) there are too few to accommodate those living in the building. Chelsea has dubbed the laundry room “Thunderdome” for good reason. You’ve got to be a badass to venture down to the basement because it’s the garment version of kill or be killed. (I know, you thought that was Fashion Week.)
apartment. It was ringing and also saying, “Warning. Carbon monoxide.” I stumbled out of bed went into the living room and tried to wake up Chelsea. She normally springs right up, even from deep sleep, but this time she was irrational, yelling, “It’s the battery!” I yelled at her to open the terrace door in the living room as I did the same in the bedroom. It was about thirty-four degrees that night. I also called the front desk while opening windows and told the doorman that the detector had gone off. He said he would send the building superintendent upstairs to check. In the meantime, with doors and windows open, the alarm sounded less often and then eventually stopped. The Super arrived, checked to be sure it wasn’t malfunctioning (it wasn’t) and went to check the rooftop boiler as a possible source of carbon monoxide. The boiler room is on the other side of my bedroom wall. He came back and told me he suspected it was the boiler, had shut it down, but if the alarm sounded again, I should get out of the apartment immediately. He suggested we sleep with all the windows open and that he would call the vendor right away for emergency service.
They have the equipment to find the leak, stop it and most importantly the equipment and training to assess my daughter’s and my condition as well as any pets exposed. They would’ve determined if we needed to go to the hospital or at the very least, given us oxygen. They would’ve been able to determine the particles of carbon monoxide in my apartment and if we were safe to sleep in that environment. The first call should have been to them. Now that I clearly understand how deadly the situation was, the incredibly dangerous level it takes for an alarm to sound, I will never make that mistake again. Sure hope I don’t have to.
always been. I did not know that some pets are more sensitive to carbon monoxide than others. With Nigel’s reaction I learned that we were gradually being poisoned over several days. Nigel was the canary in the mine.
We went to my favorite neighborhood bistro, sat at the bar and talked about everything. It was the most honest, open and frank conversation I’ve ever had with a complete stranger. Three hours of deep subjects, lots of laughter and three glasses each of delicious rosé. It was real, gritty and refreshing.
What the hell is he doing, holding them up like baby Simba?
