Lord of the Rings

In my case, the old adage proved true: Love finds you when you least expect it.

I wasn't looking for my next great love because I mistakenly thought I'd already found it. I had taken up salsa dancing a couple years earlier and fell hard for its sometimes sensuous, always complicated, moves and upbeat tempo. It became my passion and addiction. I spent thousands of dollars on lessons ( a futile attempt to improve) and danced till the wee hours of the morning four nights a week.

On Thursday nights, you could find me at the Red Room, a tapas restaurant every other night of the week, but a Latin hot spot on this night. The thought of actually meeting someone, let alone a non-salsa-obsessed dancer, seemed out of the realm of possibility. I knew everyone who showed up on Thursday nights...

or so I thought.

I was dancing with one of my usual partners when Max walked in the door. Our eyes met, but he continued to his table, where a number of Latinas awaited him. I, on the other hand, continued dancing. Given the setting and his companions, I mistakenly assumed Max was also Latin, perhaps Puerto RIcan or even Cuban.

After a night of fierce dancing, I made my way off the floor to rehydrate. When I got to the bar, I looked down to find a cocktail menu and, instead, noticed a ring on a man's hand. The emblem carved on the ring, for me, was unmistakable--Alexander the Great, the young, famous Greek general, who had ruled the known world and led Greece to it's golden years until his untimely death at 34-year old. He was a Macedonian and hailed from the same part of Greece as my father.

"Oh, wow. Alexander the Great," I exclaimed. I looked up to see whose hand I was admiring, and there stood Max.

"How do you know that?'" he asked, clearly surprised to find someone who recognized his hero.

"Because I'm Greek."

"You're Greek?" Max seemed a little surprised that I, a blonde hair, blue eyed Salsera in North Carolina, claimed Greek origins, but he happily pounced on our common interest.

"I grew up in Greece," he continued.

And so, a new dance began...

Worst Date Challenge

Hillary recently said that there is a meme going around about worst dates ever. Long ago, back when I was single and this site was called Martinis For One, I actually wrote about my worst date. And because I'm busy entertaining friends this week, I decided to dust it off and replay it. This post comes with a challenge, however. I ask that readers write about THEIR worst date in return. Are you up for the challenge?


It started off innocently enough--four women, two bottles of wine, and one fine-looking Italian waiter, who kept touching my back as he spoke to our group.

"Can I get you anything else?" he asked with a glean in his eye.

I tried not to read too much into his behavior during dinner. But when I went to pay the bill, Pete the waiter asked for my number. And because of an uncharacteristic, if not slightly insane, impulse, I decided to fork it over. Why not? More often than not, the call never came anyway. But two days later, Pete did call. We agreed to meet for drinks at a swanky little downtown lounge.

Maybe it had been that second bottle of wine at dinner the first time we met, but Pete looked somewhat different on this occasion when he arrived outside of the lounge. Dressed in a baby blue jacket, heavy cologne, and a little too much bling bling bling, he met me at the door.

"Diane," he started in his heavy Italian accent, "I want to thank you for agreeing to meet today."

How sweet! The thoughts of appreciation almost made me forgive him for wearing the baby blue jacket. He opened the door, held the chair, and ordered my drink --a take charge sort of guy. I liked it. We sat in silence until our libations arrived, then Pete began to open up.

"Is the drink to your liking?" he asked. "If not, I will send it back."

"Pete, the drink is fine." I said.

"Are you sure? Would you like something else? A martini, perhaps?" he asked again.

"Everything is fine, really." I then decided to change the conversation in an effort to put my date's mind at ease.

"So, tell me a little bit about yourself. You seem like such a nice man."

Pete winced. I wasn't sure what to make of his body language until he opened his mouth,

"Diane, I'm going to be honest with you because you are a nice girl. I don't want to lie to you," he said.

"I am not a nice man."

"Uh oh." I thought, but said nothing.

"I've lived a very hard life. Both my parents died suddenly in Italy, and at fourteen years old I went to live with my uncle in New York. We didn't get along. By sixteen, I was out on my own."

I felt sorry that Pete had endured such a rough patch. Maybe being out on his own at such a tender age had forced Pete to grow up a little too soon. What was so bad about that? It was obvious this topic bothered Pete, so I attempted to lighten the conversation by asking about his work as a waiter. Again, Pete winced.

"Honestly, Diane, I am not a waiter. My friend, Johnny, owns the restaurant and he thinks there is a problem with the some staff. I did a job for Johnny one time in Miami. So he called me in to find out what's what. "

"So, you're an undercover waiter?" I probed.

"Well, yeah. I go in when I feel like it--a few hours here and there. It's just until we take care of the situation," he replied.

All the time he talked, I noticed that Pete kept looking around the restaurant. I tried to follow his glances to see what was taking so much of Pete's attention away from me. He noticed my confusion.

"When you grow up the way I did, you learn to watch your back," he said by way of an explanation.

"Even here in small town USA?" I asked.

"Everywhere and all the time," he said with a steely look that stopped me cold. Then, his tone changed. "Now, we go for dinner."

Dinner?!? Before I could get the words out to end the evening, Pete had whipped out his cell phone to make arrangements.

"Lou, it's Pete. I'm bringing a young lady over for dinner. Have my table waiting for me," he ordered.

There was no disagreeing with Pete; saying no was not an option. Before I knew it I was in Pete's red sports car (that could not have been purchased on a waiter's salary), speeding down the interstate to a neighboring town 20 minutes away. "Great going, Diane," I thought to myself. "Here you are alone with a stranger. No one knows where you are, who you are with, or how to find you."

Again, I tried to lighten the air and pass time by conversing with Pete. When he winced again, I knew this was not going to be a mood-enhancing chat.

"I hope you like this restaurant. Back in the city, I did a job for Lou, the owner. I took care of Lou, Lou takes care of me. Nobody wants to get on Pete's bad side."

Note to self: Don't get on Pete's bad side. It also hadn't escaped my notice that we were now referring to Pete in the third person. Pete was referring to Pete in the third person. I was referring to Pete in the third person.

"So," I said, "Pete has lived in Miami and New York." Which was his favorite place?"

"New York (wince)," he answered. "But I can never go back there." I opened an establishment (wince) at one time. And well, you know, with surprise visits and all, it was shut down. No...I can't go back (wince)."

By this time, we arrived at a posh, but dark, cramped restaurant that reminded me of something out of The Godfather. As soon as Pete walked through the door, the owner, Lou, made a bee line for him. Our table was ready, garnished with a $100 bottle of champagne. Fortunately for us both, I was ready for a drink.

"Do you like this champagne? If not I'll send it back? Would you like a martini instead?" Pete offered.

"Oh, oh, oh" I thought. "I could really use a shot of tequila right now."

With every question I posed and every honest answer Pete offered, his winces became more pronounced. From the vantage points of casual observers at adjacent tables I am sure it looked as if Pete was in some serious pain or suffering from Turret's Syndrome. He didn't want to reveal himself to me, but felt compelled to tell me the truth of his life because I was "a nice girl."

I learned through the course of our night that my fine, Italian, undercover waiter with all of his bling bling bling and baby blue jacket, had serious gambling problems, which had caused the end of relationships and financial woes. But despite all the setbacks his addictions had caused, Pete liked living the hard, fast life and taking risks. And although he really wanted to meet a nice girl and settle down, Pete also knew, quite well, that nice girls wouldn't be attracted to his lifestyle.

Through out our entire conversation, I smiled and made pleasantries. But at the end of the evening when Pete asked for a second date, I got the chance to share a truth of my own.

"Pete, I appreciate your candor this evening, and I want to be honest in return. I lead a very simple, uncomplicated life. I am afraid your lifestyle would be too stressful for me."

"Pete understands," he said with a smile. "and will pick you up for a movie tomorrow at 7pm."

And all I could do was wince.

Milestones

In previous posts, I’ve described what it’s like when Jules and I get together, and last night was another one of those occasions.

In fact, she’s upstairs sleeping in my guest bedroom as I type. Max and I refer to our top-floor suite as “Jules’ room” because she is by far our most frequent guest and may have used it more than we have. I’m not complaining. When I wake up with a hangover and Jules is still around it can mean only one thing: we had another great night.

Two empty bottles, remnants of a South African cabernet pinotage and an Argentinean malbec, provided fuel for our fodder. With Jules and me, it doesn’t take much to entertain. Conversation flowed, as always, and the topic at hand was...what else? Boys.

Jules finds herself in another relationship with someone who is recently separated. I say “another” because this is the third straight time she has dated a man just out of marriage. But, in fairness to Jules, the mid 30-something dating pool has plenty of swimmers on their second lap around. In fact, it’s a rare occasion when an age appropriate man hasn’t been married before.

Still, being the first woman after a man’s ex-wife isn’t an enviable position. Often she becomes the “transition girl,” or the woman the man dates before he’s emotionally ready to date.

“I don’t want to be that girl again!” Jules moans.

And who could blame her? When her last boyfriend, Job, ended their 6-month relationship with the “I just got out of a marriage and not ready for anything serious” line, Jules took it pretty hard. She’s been there, done that. And it looks like she’s doing it again.

“Because it worked so well for you in the past?” I ask sarcastically, knowing full well she wouldn’t dare waste a good wine by throwing the malbec at me.

“Call me crazy,” she replied. “But I can’t help but think there’s potential with Will. He’s in a much healthier place than Job.”

I’m not going to question Jules’ judgment. She’s a bright woman with her act together in many ways. But what I do know is once Jules and a man cross a certain line, her focus completely narrows on the man, even when she knows he’s not making himself wholly available to her. As a damaging result, she no longer puts herself in a position to meet other eligible men.

Jules thinks she’s just being “old fashioned,” but I call it a mistake.

“So, what am I suppose to do?” Jules asks this as a rhetorical question, but I answer it anyway.

“If you want to pursue a relationship with Will, go ahead. But at least set a few unspoken mile markers for him to meet.”

“Mile markers?” she asks.

“These markers are a sign that the relationship is progressing. If he meets the marker, you proceed. If he doesn’t, you can still proceed, but you also begin to open yourself to date other people.”

Maybe it was all the wine, but Jules felt my proposal was fair.

I then pulled out eight little sticky notes, lining them up on the table. On average it takes divorced men two years to remarry, so I decided Will should get 8 markers representing 3 months of time.

Jules decided on the goals. These were the signs of progress she would minimally expect to happen every 3 months. Remember, if these things don’t happen, Jules must take it as a sign that it is time to distance herself from Will.

And just because Jules reads this blog on occasion, I’ve decided to post her goals. It’s not as if we wrote these markers in blood, but I do want her to think about them from time to time as she and Will move forward.

Tell me if you think we were being unreasonable. Your comments as always are welcomed, but do be kind. :-)

After 3 months (of regularly dating): Jules and Will should have an agreement not to be dating other people

6 months: They should have taken a trip together

9 months: They should be regularly spending time with each other’s friends

12 months: He should have used the “L” word.

15 months: She should have met his child.

18 months: He should have introduced her to his family.

21 months: They should be talking about a future together.

24 months: More than talking, they should be taking concrete steps to solidify a future together.

D but not DDD

A few posts ago, I tried reasoning away a meeting with a male co-worker by saying that is was "not a date." Many of you set me straight in my thinking and one of you even called me "DDD or Double-Dating Diane."

So just to update... I couldn't go through with it. My conscience was just bothering me too much. Thanks for pricking it. But please know that you also do not reap the benefits of the story it could have yielded. HMPF!

Yang and Yang?

A penny saved is a penny earned -- this from a man who flew a kite in a thunderstorm, who suggested the wild turkey as the national bird, and who invented the farmer's almanac for predicting the weather.

However, after surveying my credit card statement, I begrudgingly admit that Ben Franklin may have been right about this whole penny-pinching thing. Can you imagine what would have happen had I been Franklin's wife, with all of my spending ways? Yep. Franklin would have sent me out during the lighting storm as opposed to his kite. The world as we know it would not exist. We'd all be sitting in front of our LCDs in complete darkness and without electricity to power such devices. I guess it's a good thing Franklin and I never met. (Though I doubt I could have gotten past his hair style and fashion sense.)

So, it may shock you to learn that my ex-husband Dean was also a bit of a miser. Even more surprising? The fact that Dean's penny-pinching didn't bother me. We almost never fought about finances. Until he became manic, I knew that Dean was better at managing money and I grew to appreciate his skill. The way I saw it, Dean was the ying to my yang. We balanced each other out. And for this, we were better off.

But, what if I met another yang? What if I dated someone who loved spending as much as I do? What then? While I am sure I would benefit from and enjoy such a partner, we'd probably end up bankrupting each other during the courtship. So you know, this question isn't completely hypothetical. I am curious to see what you think

Define a date

This question has been coming up a lot recently between my friends and me. What is a date? You know, the kind between two consenting adults. How do you know if you've been asked on one? How do you know what a date is? I need some clarification here.

What do you think?

Wide World of Dating

Spanning the globe to bring constant variety. The thrill of victory... and the agony of defeat. The human drama of competition. This is the Wide World of ...

Vinko Bogataj's became immortalized as the "Agony of Defeat" Ski Jumper when footage of his dramatic crash during the 1970 International Ski Flying Championship at Oberstdorf was featured as part of the open of ABC's Wide World of Sports.

I always felt sorry for the poor guy -- humiliated on national TV like that. If Vinko hadn't died in the crash at Oberstforf, he probably wished he had after having to relive his defeat every Sunday afternoon for decades thereafter. Pure hell. These days, however, I not only feel sorry for Vinko, I think I am Vinko. I've crashed and burned so many times that I just might be the "Agony of Defeat" poster child of dating.

All ski jumpers crash every now just as Vinko had in his past. But there was something about this one particular crash, aside from the unwanted publicity, that shook Vinko to his core. It is said that although he started jumping again a year after his infamous crash, Vinko did so without the same abandon he once had.

As singles, we've all been out of bad dates or experienced rejection from time to time. Unfortunately, we've most likely all also experienced that one, core-shaking fall from a relationship that once made us feel so high. I know I have. And I can't help but wonder if I will ever completely shake the persistent doubts and inadequacies that I have felt since my one dramatic crash.

It helps to read other accounts of people who keep a positive, even Grateful, attitude through the ups and down of dating life. I gain hope from hearing tales of others, like 3T who have experienced success after times of disappointment.

After my crash it took time to heal as well as practice on the beginner slopes before I felt ready to jump again. I'm still not 100 percent, but I refuse to give in to my fear of defeat. Like good old Vinko Bogataj before me, I understand that the thrill of victory is worth taking the risk.

With Jules as my co-pilot

Sometimes you can't see the forest through the trees. During those times, good and honest friends serve as gentle guides who lead you through the darkness and toward the light. Other times, friends just give you a swift kick in the ass to get you moving in a new (and hopefully better) direction.

Thursday night has become girl's night out--my night to dress up and hop from place to place with my dear friend Jules and whoever else wants to tag along. This past Thursday, Jules and I ventured out, enjoying each other's company and some fine red wines.

Toward the 11 o'clock hour, I received an unexpected text from a man who I have known casually over the last year. The man had just arrived back in town from a business trip and wanted to say hello. I showed the text message to Jules.

"Invite him to join us!" Jules insisted.
"His plane just landed," I protested. "He'd never come out for a drink at this late hour."
"Come on! What's the harm in trying? Just do it," she snapped back. Jules shoved the phone in my direction.

I hate text messaging for reasons blog readers might remember. But, in the face of peer pressure, I typed out a response.

"Friend and I are at XYZ. Come for a night cap! My treat..."

Within 20 seconds after sending the text, my phone rang. It was the man. "Hey! I got your message. XYZ is not far from where I live. I'd love to see you."

I was stunned.

Twenty-five minutes later, he showed up. I introduced Jules and the man. You would have thought the pair had known each other for years the way their conversation flowed. And before I knew it, Jules was organizing a dinner party at my house for the following Monday.

"Diane is an excellent cook and would love to have dinner at her home, wouldn't you." she said.
"Uh... yeah, sure. I'd be happy to," I responded without a lot of certainty.
"Excellent. It's all settled." Jules said gleefully.

Before I had time to wonder whether this dinner party was for my benefit or not, Jules abruptly ended her part of the evening.

"Diane, I hate to cut this short, but I am really exhausted. Would you mind if I take your car home?"

Then, in the same breath Jules turned to the man, "You wouldn't mind giving Diane a ride to her car later, would you?"

"I'd be happy to drive her," he said with a smile.

With those words and just like that, my girls night out had turned into late night drinks with a new fellow along with ready-made plans to meet again. I'm not going to tell you what time I finally made it home. But it's sufficient to say that I am now a convert to the idea of a wingman (or wingwoman), especially one that maneuvers as well as Jules and, more importantly, knows when to hand over the controls.

Lady in Waiting

After a couple bad experiences, I promised myself a while back that I would not be one of THOSE women who parked themselves by the phone waiting for a certain someone to call. Nevertheless, here I sit on a perfectly lovely weekend day with my cell phone on and positioned right where I can grab it.

Oh, sure! I've tried to convince myself that I'm really not waiting. After all, my day is filled with things to do here at the house. I've got that somewhat belated fall cleaning scheduled for today. And, after I'm through vacuuming up the dust mites, I'll reward myself by doing my own home manicure and pedicure. "This is how I choose to spend my free weekend day," I tell myself. "I'm not waiting for anyone."

Liar.

Truth be told, I've already turned down two invitations on this day in the hopes that one particular invite comes my way. To make matters worse, I also exhibit all the signs of a lady in waiting. I checked my cell phone twice (ok, three times) to make sure that I didn't accidentally set it on 'silent'. Then, after I've checked for sound, I thoroughly reviewed my Inbox for any text messages I might have missed. "Damn, Cingular Wireless! I bet they are experiencing service difficulties again."

Pathetic.

There is nothing worse than that anxious feeling you get as the minutes tick by and your hopes begin to dim. How did I get in this position? Simply put, I allowed myself to hang hope on a veiled invitation, which was fraught with qualifiers and loopholes:

"So ASSUMING I get in town early enough, PROVIDED I'm feeling up to it and you are in the mood, PERHAPS I'll call, and then MAYBE we'll get together," he said.

"Sure," I answered excitedly. "That would be great!"

I might as well have offered to strip naked, spread honey over myself, and wait at the door until he could find the time to come and lick it off. Why not just hang a sign on my chest that reads "Desperate for a Date."

Knucklehead.

With two jobs and the occasional audition, I get too little free time as it is. Spending a prime weekend day sitting at home alone, when I could have been with my friends, is inexcusable. I need to love me more.

Obviously, a simple promise wasn't enough. Instead, I need to make some hard and fast rules to prevent this situation from reoccurring. These might seem a tad harsh, but here you have them.

Rule Number 1: Do not get excited by any request that includes if/when statements, or the words "maybe" or "perhaps." (If a man seems ambivalent about a date, assume he has another in the wings, hasn't come out of the closet, or a very small penis. Ok, I'm telling myself the last one just to make myself feel better right now.)

Rule Number 2: Never accept an invitation that is wholly unclear as to its purpose or is described as "getting together" and "hanging out". After all, we're out college now. (Note to self: Rethink the whole younger guy thing.)

Rule Number 3: Avoid even considering any invitation that does not come it a specific day and time attached to it. ( "Next week," "later," or "sometime" are usually the equivalent to "Unless I come up with something or someone better to do.")

Ok, I think this about covers any potential problems. Are there any other rules that I am missing? Suggestions are welcome and appreciated. I want to make sure this doesn't happen again.

I'm off to my kitchen now to whip up some major comfort food and a stiff drink. Then, I have a date with my jetted tub. Like a loyal friend, it's always there for me and salvages any spoiled day. And, for the record, I am switching my cell phone off. I'm a lady in waiting no longer.

A Startup in my future?

How does someone pass a 13-hour flight from Newark, New Jersey to Beijing, China? If you're me, you start by testing out your new iPAQ and portable keyboard. All I can say is, "Wow!" These technological wonders could quite possibly be the two greatest inventions for frequent travelers and blogging fanatics ever created.

Prior to whipping out my modern marvels, I did what most airline travelers do to pass the time. I struggled through the airplane's limited selection of magazines and recycled newspapers in the hopes of finding something that might catch my interest. After a couple of hours of reading, I thought the endeavor pointless, but then I ran across a couple gems that occupied my mind.

The first to capture my fancy, nestled between an article about tango in Argentina and the 50 best Christmas gifts, was the most interesting advertisement. This full-page ad in the airline's magazine featured an overly made-up, middle-aged woman in an ordinary business suit and bleach blonde hair promoting her dating service for professional singles. Actually, the spokeswoman and presumed owner of the service reminded me of a corporate Human Relations Specialist on ecstasy. Who would hire such a woman to find anything other than what might be lodged between couch cushions, let alone the perfect match?

Nevertheless, there she was, the professional matchmaker, in a full-page, full-color spread, which was viewed by millions of business travelers everywhere. And, to top it off, this woman guaranteed results with her matchmaking service!

Then, another random magazine featured an article about woman who had started a successful wingman (or in this case, wingwoman) service. Men would hire the woman to hang out with them at bars and clubs as a wingwoman. The theory behind the scheme was twofold. First, that a man who is with an attractive female stands a better chance of luring other attractive women. And second, that women's trust in the man would be bolstered by the recommendation of the wingwoman.

While I feel men using either service would have as much luck attracting dates by wearing one of those pointless magnetic bracelets (the kind that supposedly helps golf swings), I couldn't help but admire both the professional matchmaker and the wingwoman for their creativity in exploiting desperate singles as well as their entrepreneurial spirit.

Both magazine features also left me wondering whether I might be able to get into the act of making money off of loneliness. I'm creative. I've been desperately single plenty of times in my life, so I understand the market. Surely all my years in soured relationships and on numerous dates should afford me an edge in some way. After all, the time I've spent single hasn't permanently landed me a warm-bodied man. Perhaps, it could help me earn some cold hard cash instead.

But, what could I offer an already inundated market to help lonely people meet other lonely people? As singles, we've already gone to the Internet in the hopes of meeting a match. We've tried video dating and speed dating. Really, what isn't already out there to get people out there? What unique service could I possibly offer that isn't prohibited by law in every county in every state except Nevada?

Then, I had a revelation. I, too, have a certain something that could, if done correctly, not only benefit singles everywhere, but also provide modest profits for me. There is uniqueness to my dating history, a pattern that could easily be marketed and touted as the next best thing in match-making services.

Call it the always-the-bridesmaid-never-the-bride syndrome, for lack of a better description. To put it in laymen's terms, I have a pattern of being the woman that the guy dates before he meets "the one." I am the woman that dates the man who fears commitment, the man too scarred at heart to love again, the Playa with a capital P who beds but doesn't wed. Then, after being dumped by the confirmed bachelor, I am the woman who learns two months later that he not only met, but also married the next woman that crossed his path. Inevitably, my ex has also happily traded in his Miata for a wagon, which he plans to fill with offspring just after he finishes building that white picket fence. Yes, I'm that girl -- the one before "the one."

If this phenomenon had been a one time occurrence, we could rightly call it freak luck. But, this pattern has tended to repeat itself throughout my dating history. I'm the runner-up, the dreaded Miss Congeniality, in the dating pageant. And, the story only gets better if the man secretly harbors confusion about his sexual orientation. I am also the woman that a man dates just before coming out of the closet. This has happened to me on two occasions.

So how would I pitch my unique match-making service? Perhaps I could run a commercial on local radio stations.

"Tired of being a serial dater? Ready to settle down? Date Diane Mandy. She won't be your girl for long, but she'll be the girl before you meet the girl of your dreams. Confused as to your sexual preference? No worries! Date Diane Mandy to discover the real and wonderful you! Money back guarantee! Call now 1-888-LUV-4YOU (ext. NOTME)"

I really think this could be the next big thing in dating and match-making services. Now all I need are a business plan, a couple investors, a really large daytimer, and a bottle of tequila to get me started.

Don't Call Us? We Won't Call You.

Saturday night while I working at the pub, I met Tyler from Maryland who was visiting because of a college soccer tournament. Before my shift ended, Tyler handed me a cocktail napkin with his number just in case I wanted to meet up after finishing my 14-hour shift. Instead of calling Tyler, I opted for a date with a bubble bath in my jetted tub. It was the perfect end to an exhausting day.

Last week at the pub, I collected numbers from both Rick and John. The minute the business cards came my way, I knew that I wouldn't be calling either man. I just haven't found a polite way of communicating this fact. Often by the time men have forked over their numbers, conversation isn't really possible anyway. Nor would the men make suitable blood donor candidates. It is a bar, after all.

To be honest, I get a little offended when a strange man shoves his number my way and asks me to call him. Besides being tacky, I see this method as being the cheap and easy way out. I am being asked to do all of the work and, as a result, I have never made the call. However, this situation happens so frequently that I'm left wonder if the method is actually productive. How many women actually call a previously unknown man after being given his number? What are the odds?

Sometimes I've known girlfriends who have accepted a man's number only after he has already asked for hers. She'll say something like, "Why don't you give me your number instead?" In this case, it's pretty clear to both parties that she will not be letting her fingers do the walking his way. But, at the very least, it is a polite refusal--both parties walk away with their dignity.

Not surprisingly, I much prefer a man to ask for my number. Then, when he actually calls me (a rare case, indeed), I am bound to answer because I am impressed with both his initiative and follow-through. In this situation, the man has shown me a measure of respect on two occasions--with both the request and the phone call. His actions don't guarantee a date, mind you, only a formal hearing on the subject.

All of this being said, I realize that men have the hard part when it comes to dating rituals. So many women, me included, expect the man to take the initiative in setting up that first official meeting. I have never in my 38 years asked for a man's phone number, even if really I wanted it. And, only once, have I offered my number without a formal request.

To make matters worse for the men, women can be down right picky about the particulars-- the who, what, when and whys of that very first encounter. We analyze and scrutinize every word from conversations, every voicemail message, how well the guy filled out his jeans, and any other piece of relevant data before we make a decisions. Sure, women are impossible, but this doesn't stop us from being critical.

So if you are reading, Tyler from Maryland, I will finish with these final thoughts. Don't misunderstand. You filled out your jeans nicely and I liked your long blond hair. However, my jetted tub beckoned me; you did not.

Game On!

Since I've been a little under the weather, Here is a posting from guest blogger, Beth.

I looked up the definition on "player" on Merraim-Webster.

Pronunciation: 'plA-&r
Function: noun
: one that plays : as a : a person who plays a game b : MUSICIAN c : ACTOR d : a device that reproduces recorded material (as video images or music) from a usually specified medium e : one actively involved especially in a competitive field or process : PARTICIPANT

Forget Merriam Webster. We're not talking player; we're talking PLAYA! And it seems women have their own universal definitions. I had a few friends write in with their answer to the question, What is a playa?

"A 'Playa' is a good looking guy that wears GQ clothing with a nice hair cut; and who, in his savoir faire demeanor, engages you in deep conversation. The "Playa" aspect is when you see him out the next weekend wearing the same GQ clothes and gazing into another girls eye's giving her the same damn lines!

"A 'Playa' is someone who has his cell phone permanently attached to him and always takes calls in private, purportedly speaking to his mother and sister, and who disappears to see his mother and sister on a weekend night without any advance notice to you. Yet in the year that you've dated the guy, you have never been invited home to meet his family."

Any old dictionary defines a "player" as a person who participates in or is skilled at some game, someone who plays a musical instrument, or a theatrical performer. But really, all of these definitions can be applied to the world of dating. A "playa" is skilled at the game of charm, manipulation, sex and sexual exploitation. They often play their victim for a fool. And they put on one hell of a show (preceding up to and into the bedroom).

How do you spot a player? Unfortunately it is hard to spot a player until you've been played, usually evidenced by little or lack of post-coital communication. Another difficulty in spotting a player lies in a person's ability to shift in and out of player-mode. Most people usually have their 'player phase.' It can be brought on by a bad break-up, a dating drought, or their twenties. However, here's a quick rule of thumb for spotting a player - look for the attractive, most approachable, confident person in the bar and you’ve usually found one. If in doubt, consult your friends. Don't they always seem to pick up on unseemly character traits about the people you date more quickly than you do?

Have I been played? Sure. Do I want to tell you about it? I would, but I've blocked it out. There are few experiences with a player even worth remembering. Have I played others? Possibly. Most of us are probably guilty of treating other people's emotions carelessly at some point. That doesn't make it right, but I would be a hypocrite if I didn't admit to it. So to borrow a phrase, I say we should not hate the player, but hate the game. So what's the game then? Dating? Well, I don't hate it. I'll just call it a necessary evil.

Dumped due t unsavvy text messaging...

Well it's been three dates and I've been dumped. Sad thing is, this is totally my fault. I played things very wrong.

It had been a couple days since I had heard from my new friend, the one with immigration woes. On July 4th, he sent me two text messages letting me know he was fine and wishing me a happy 4th.

"Can't u call?" I text in response.
Then, got a message in return. "Of course I can call. U r being a smart ass."

I text him back. "Patience is not one of my strong points, but apparently being a smart ass is..."

Then the phone rings, it's him letting me know that he was just teasing about the smart ass comment. All seemed fine and he said I could call him later that evening, after I finished my evening out with my friends.

9pm... I am leaving the movie theater and on my way to meet friends. I call his number and am sent to voicemail. Within a few minutes, I get a text message in return. "Am eating and watching a movie. Have a good night."

Is it just me, or is it rude when someone purposely does not answer their phone, favoring to text message you instead? It would have taken less time for him to answer the call and say, "Hey, I'm busy. Can you call another time."

I decide to send him one more text-- this time just letting him know that I'm switching my phone off and wouldn't be available to take calls. I'm at my next destination.

Later that evening, when my evening is finished, I try to call one more time. It goes to voice mail. "Are you ignoring me?" I text-- trying to be funny and remembering the smart ass conversation earlier.

My phone doesn't offer a winkie ;-) , so I guess he thought I was serious.

Today I got an email. He doesn't want me to contact him anymore

Hi Diane,

I don't think we should see or contact each other any more. I was completely turned off by your calling and text messaging last night. I felt you were harassing me. I did say you can call me last night but all you had to do is call once and leave one message and give me the chance to call you back when I get a chance. I sent you a message to tell you that I am having dinner and watching a movie. Yet you continued to call and txt msg me about 4 time each and leaving me cynical messages and asking me if I am ignoring you.

...It is about giving me my space to deal with some difficult issues in my life right now. I was turned off by that and have enough to deal with in my life at this point I don't need this. You could have just called and let me call you back once the movie is over but you continued to call.

I wish you luck in your life and ask you to please don't contact me anymore.

What else can you say? Although he really misread my intent, from his vantage point, I can understand where he is coming from.

So, I'll honor the request, let him think I was harrssing, and move on. I've sadly deleted him from my phone and email. What's the point in keeping him there? He's a great guy with a lot on his plate right now. I wish him well and hope all goes well.

Dating sucks. Is it just me or does today feel like a MONDAY!!!!

Checks and Balances

Me and the Mafioso

It started off innocently enough--four women, two bottles of wine, and one fine-looking Italian waiter who kept touching my back as he spoke to our group.

"Can I get you anything else?" he asked with a glean in his eye.

I tried not to read too much into his behavior during the course of our dinner. But when I went to pay the bill, Pete the waiter asked for my number. I decided to fork it over. Why not? More often than not, the call never comes anyway. But two days later, this particular call did.

We agreed to meet for drinks at a swanky little lounge downtown. Maybe it had been that second bottle of wine, but Pete looked somewhat different outside of the restaurant. Dressed in a baby blue jacket, heavy cologne, and a little too much bling bling bling, he met me at the door.

"Diane," he started in a heavy Italian accent, "I want to thank you for agreeing to meet me today."

How sweet! The thoughts of appreciation almost made me decide to forgive him for wearing the baby blue jacket. He opened doors, held my chair out for me, and ordered my drink --a take charge sort of guy." I liked it.

"Is the drink to your liking?" he asked. "If not, I will send it back."
"Pete, the drink is fine." I said.
"Are you sure? Would you like something else? A martini, perhaps?" he asked again.
"No, I am fine, really." I insisted. Then, I decided to try to move this date forward and start the conversation.

"So, tell me a little bit about yourself, Pete. You seem like such a nice man."

He winced. I wasn't sure what to make of Pete's body language. Then, he opened his mouth,

"Diane, I'm going to be honest with you because you are a nice girl. I don't want to lie to you," he said. "I am not a nice man."
"Uh oh." I thought.

"I've lived a very hard life. Both my parents died suddenly in Italy, and at fourteen years old I went to live with my uncle in New York. We didn't get along. By sixteen, I was out on my own."

I felt sorry that Pete had endured such a rough start in life. Maybe being out on his own at such a tender age had forced Pete to grow up a little too soon. What was so bad about that? But, I decided to lighten the conversation by asking about his work as a waiter. Again, Pete winced.

"Honestly, Diane, I am not a waiter. My friend, Johnny, owns the restaurant and he thinks there is a problem with the some staff. I did a job for Johnny one time in Miami. So he called me in to find out what's what. "
"So, you're an undercover waiter?" I probed.
"Well, yeah. I go in when I feel like it, a few hours here and there. It's just until we take care of the situation," he replied.

All this time I noticed that Pete kept looking around the restaurant. I tried to follow his glances to see what was taking so much of Pete's attention away from me. He noticed my confusion.

"When you grow up the way I did, you learn to watch your back," Pete offered by way of an explanation.
"Even here in small town USA?" I asked.
"Everywhere and all the time," he said with a steely look that stopped me cold. Then, his tone changed. "Now, we go for dinner."

Dinner?!? Before I could get words out to end the evening, Pete had whipped out his cell phone to make arrangements. "Lou, it's Pete. I'm bringing a young lady over for dinner. Have my table waiting for me," he ordered.

There was no disagreeing with Pete; saying no was not an option. Before I knew it I was in Pete's red sports car (that could not have been paid for on a waiters salary) speeding down the interstate to a neighboring town 20 minutes away. "Great going, Diane," I'm thinking to myself. "Here you are alone with a stranger, headed out of town. No one knows where you are, who you are with, or how to get in touch with you." .

I tried to lighten my mood by conversing a little more with Pete. When he winced again, I knew this was not going to be a mood-enhancing chat.

"I hope you like this restaurant. Back in the city, I did a job for Lou, the owner. I took care of Lou, Lou takes care of me. Nobody wants to get on Pete's bad side."

Note to self: don't get on Pete's bad side. And, it hadn't escaped my notice that we were now referring to Pete in the third person. Pete was referring to Pete in the third person. I was referring to Pete in the third person.

"So," I said, "Pete has lived in Miami and New York." Which was his favorite place?" I asked desperate to avoid another wince.
"New York," he answered (wince). "But I can never go back there." I opened an establishment at one time. And, well you know with surprise visits and all, it was shut down. No, I can't go back."

By this time, we arrived at this posh, but dark little restaurant that reminded me of something out of The Godfather, As soon as Pete walked in the door, owner Lou made a bee line for him. Our table was ready, garnished with a $100 bottle of wine. I was ready for a drink.

"Do you like this wine? If not I'll send it back? Would you like a martini instead?" Pete offered.
"Oh, oh, oh" I thought, but said nothing. I could really use a shot of tequila right now.

With every question I posed and every honest answer that Pete offered, his winces became more pronounced. From the view of casual observers at adjacent tables I am sure that it looked as if Pete was in some serious pain or suffering from Turret's syndrome. He didn't want to reveal himself to me, but felt compelled to tell me the truth because I was "a nice girl." I learned through the course of our night that my fine, Italian, undercover waiter with all of his bling bling bling and baby blue jacket, had serious gambling problems which caused the end of relationships and financial woes. Nevertheless, he liked living the hard fast life and taking risks. And although Pete really wanted to meet a nice girl and settle down, he knew quite well that nice girls wouldn't be attracted to Pete's lifestyle.

Through the entire conversation, I smiled and made pleasantries. But at the end of the evening when Pete asked for a second date, I got my chance to finally say no.

"Pete, I appreciate your candor this evening. I want to be honest in return. I lead a very simple, uncomplicated life. I am afraid your lifestyle would be too stressful for me."
"I understand," Pete said with a smile. "So, I'll pick you up for the movie tomorrow at 7pm."

Child's Play

Picture this: A little girl, clad with blonde ponytails and pink ribbons, singing and laughing with her friends,


"Ring around the rosy
A pocketful of posies
'Ashes, Ashes'
We all fall down!"

When I was a child, my pals and I amused ourselves with every game we could think up during those long, hot summer days until the sun went down, until we started bickering with each other, or until our parents allowed us in the house, whichever came first.

There are moments when I wish I still was that little girl who played for hours on end, life so carefree and easy. But then again, some days I think I am reliving my childhood. Especially now that I am single, it seems as if I haven't quite left the sandbox. I'm stuck in the box playing games with my peers.

As a kid I was taught that my formal education would benefit me the most when I made it to the adult world. But when it comes to relationships, the most valuable training I received was the time I spent playing with my friends in the back yard of my folk's southern New Jersey home. Little did I know, but there are adult versions of all the classic childhood games I use to play. Some include the following.

Go-Fish - In the adult version, skilled players make other players work extraordinarily hard to uncover even the most basic of personal information. Player One: "By any chance do you have a 4?" Player Two: "Hmm. You're being a little unclear? I don't know what you mean by 4? And even if you can explain it, I can't guarantee that I'll remember having or ever having had a 4 in my possession. Go fish."

Peek-A-Boo - Advance players of Peek-A-Boo manage to hide their most hideous flaws. Then, at the worst, most inopportune moment, the player springs their flaw upon the other player catching them unprepared and completely off guard. Player One: "What do you mean that the woman who called my parent's house looking for you is your wife from South Dakota?" Player Two: "Oh, I didn't mention that? Peek-A-Boo!"

Hide-and-Seek - This game is also known as playing hard to get. It might be the most popular adult game of all time. In fact, the game has become part of dating etiquette. In Hide and Seek, female players are not allowed to overtly seek male players in person, by phone, or through email. Moreover, both male and female players are expected to hide any real emotion or hope that the relationship will develop past a few dates. If someone chooses not to play hard to get (a.k.a. Hide and Seek) they are labeled too eager, desperate, and destined to live a lonely life with 50 cats.

These are just a few of the many games that people play. Is anybody else experiencing this phenomenon? Or, am I just being a bad sport about all of this? Do we really have to play the game in order to win at relationships?

I, for one, am a terrible game player, never holding my cards so close to the chest that another cannot see them. I've also been on a losing streak when it comes to men. Yet most of my friends are good game players. They tell me that playing games is essential in winning a relationship. Take, Charles, a bright, software engineer approaching the dreaded 30-mile mark. Recently, Charles experienced the end of a promising, long-distance relationship. One day, I asked Charles why he thought the relationship had failed.

"I didn't play the game," he answered. "I was just too open with Susan about my feelings and hopes for our relationship. I didn't make her work hard enough for it. Had I just held back a little, we might still be a couple."

I can't imagine that being open and honest, even early on in his relationship, ended things for Charles. And even if by some strange chance honesty did end the relationship, would Charles really want a woman who wanted him only if he'd made himself less available?

Another acquaintance, Carla, has developed her own game plan for dating. In her rule book, men are given exactly three months to prove themselves and are judged by very specific criteria. Does the man pick her up for each date and drive to the agreed location? Does he pay for dinner on every occasion? Is he entertaining enough? Only if the man passes his three month trial run, will she consider dating him exclusively, but the rules for staying a couple only gets tougher.

Almost daily, I learn about a new game that is being played. In most cases, the rules are unstated or unclear. I see very few winners. Yet people persist and the games go on and on.

Even seemingly harmless "Ring Around the Rosey" had a sinister, adult meaning. As it turns out, the origin of the rhyme that I chanted as a little girl stems from London's battle with Bubonic Plague. The ring around the rosey describes the red, ring-shaped rash that appeared right before a person died. And ashes, ashes… well, let's not go there, ok?

The point is that I want out of the sandbox. I'm tired of playing games. I see too much foul play and unsportsmanlike conduct. At least chronologically, my associates and I are adults. And, I don't find it fun and amusing, much less appropriate, to be playing games at this late date in life. Yet these days, developing relationships seems more like building plans of attack in Battleship. Sure, the box might say, "For 8 years and up." I just didn't think people would take this directive so seriously.



What do you think? Take this poll!

You Do The Math

Physically, I am 30-something years old. But when it comes to living the single life, I am as experienced as a 20 year old. This was the tender age at which I began life as a married woman.

I do not possess a wealth of experience in dating, relationships, love, or sex. My therapist refers to such experiences as "data points," which I must accumulate and evaluate in order to really understand who I am and what I want out of life. Quite honestly, if my cumulative single life, defined by data points, were being displayed and quantified by a graphing calculator, the results would come back simply as 'undefined'.

But what is in a number, especially the number? My ex-husband, Dean, was only the second man I'd ever had sex with. My first experience, Gill, was also my first husband. Based on my knowledge of and experiences with these men, my guess is that their numbers were also pretty minuscule.

These days, I am both shocked and fascinated by folks who need both hands and feet to count their numbers, sometimes even more. When it comes to the numbers game, the most fascinating man I've met is Joe, a 28-year-old tennis instructor and classic bad boy.

Joe racks his numbers up any where he can, which it seems, is pretty much EVERYWHERE. Joe sleeps with students, co-workers, friends, and strangers. He's developed an international booty call wherever his tennis takes him. For months now, it's seemed like a different woman every week. If we were talking batting average, Joe would have Babe Ruth-like numbers.

But, do Joe's numbers really matter? What does his number say about him? Joe would say that his number is only a reflection of his "go with the flow" attitude toward life. And since he tells each woman that their moment together is just about sex, Joe feels that he is not doing any one a disservice. Is this really the case?

One night after a few cocktails, I posed the question to a group of 20 and 30-something year-old friends. Does THE number matter? And, generally speaking, my friends answered with a resounding, "It depends."

In the unscientific study group, I discovered that most knew of or had a friend who was extremely licentious. And while the characteristic would not prevent them from being friends with such a person, men and women alike did consider THE number as a factor when contemplating a more serious relationship.

"I think the number does say a lot about a person," offered Tonya. "A man or woman who sleeps around lacks self control, which is an important quality to me."
"Yeah," countered Jose, "but I’ve known women who wouldn't get involved with a guy who wasn’t sexually experienced because they did not want to have to 'train' him."
"I think there is a limit," said Charles. "It would bother me if I found out my girlfriend had slept with more than 10 or 12 people in her past."

The debate raged on for an hour. However on one point, everyone agreed. The world offers a double standard when it comes to acceptable numbers for men versus acceptable numbers for women. John, a handsome and successful 35-year old felt he was judged negatively because he could only count on one hand the number of women with whom he'd engaged in a sexual relationship.

"Why is it that a man is judged negatively when he doesn't sleep around?" John asked. "My friends are always asking, 'What is your deal? Are you gay? Are you religious?' It's none of those things. I was taught to respect the chastity of women. I could and have had more casual sex partners. But, that is not where I want to be at this stage in my life."

John in comparison to Joe, the promiscuous tennis instructor mentioned in the beginning, may be on opposite ends of the proverbial numbers line. But unlike John, it is my belief that Joe is not where he wants to be. While Joe's number is a reflection of where he is and who he chooses to be in his life today, Joe hopes to be in a very different place some day

When it comes to Joe's actions, some things just don't add up. I've been told, for example, that Joe avoids luring his conquests into his master bedroom because, in his mind, that is reserved for his future wife. And, once he finds the woman that will settle him, Joe plans to sell his current bed out of respect for her. Why? Is any woman open-minded enough to consider marrying Joe despite his final tally really going to care about the sanctity of a room or a bed? A person's number is not written in lead pencil. It can't be erased by selling a bed or moving to a different house. Everywhere Joe goes (and will go with his future spouse), he faces his past, even if he doesn't always remember the name or face. Could it be that Joe's limitless number is only limiting Joe?

A(x) + B(y) = what exactly? Whether it is a narrowly defined data set or numbers of exponential proportions, I wrestle with whether the quality of a person's character can and should be quantified by the numbers. Still, when it comes to my number, I'm shooting for quality over quantity. One by one, whether on one hand or two, I hope to reflect on a record of memorable, significant people, rather than simply a scorecard.


What do you think? Take this poll!

Hook, Line, and Sinker

You'd be surprised by all the little things I have yet to experience in my 30-some years of living. Up until recently, for example, I had never given my number out to a stranger that I'd met at a bar or club. This changed on October 1, 2004.

For the record, when I'm out at a club, my primary purpose is to dance. It has never been my objective to troll for men at the clubs. My experience (albeit limited) tells me that when you cast your line at a club or bar, you are probably going to reel in a bottom-feeder, a catfish. I prefer sushi-grade salmon or tuna. I'm open-minded enough to even try the octopus or calamari. Call me a picky-eater if you'd like, but please, no catfish.

This particular evening, I found myself at one of the biggest fish markets in town. It's a Latin club, whose promoter hires only pretty women to collect cover charges and instructs them to flirt with male patrons. The club oozes with sexuality. Beautiful, college-age patrons drink, pose, and go to hook-up with likeminded catfish.

It had been a miserable night for a host of reasons. I was feeling down and alone. But towards the end of the evening, I struck up a conversation with a nice-looking man. He asked for my number and, as was always the case, I hesitated.

"Wait a minute," I thought to myself. "You want to experience life a little, don't you? What's the harm in giving him your number?"

I offered him my mobile number, which he promptly programmed into his cell phone. Four days passed and then the phone rang. I let it go to voice mail.

"This is Niko. I hope you remember me. You made such a nice impression on me. I am calling to see if you might like to get together for drinks or dinner one night. I hope to hear from you."

I listened to the message again. He sounded sweet. I was touched by the humble tone of his voice. Now came the moment of decision. Did I dare call him back and arrange a meeting?

"Oh, just do it," said my inner voice. "You're not really interested in meeting anyone right now anyway. Just go for the experience of it all. At worst, you have one bad hour. At best you make a nice connection or get a free drink."

Decision made. I waited about 15 minutes and called him back. We agreed to meet the following week for a drink at a local restaurant. I had low expectations, but I felt I needed to go through with this. I wanted to experience someone new. All the men I'd met the past year were bottom-feeders, caught in the murkiest, man-made lake. My opinion of men had sunk to the deepest, unexplored oceanic depths. This meeting was also important to me because I wanted to experience something normal. Boy meets girl. Boy asks girl out. Then, boy and girl decide if the want to go out again. Normal.

So, I met Niko for what was supposed to be drinks only. Conversation flowed and 'drinks only' turned into dinner. Ironically, Niko ordered sushi while I had steak. He was more than I had ever imagined he would be-- athletic, well-educated, refined, and European. Niko wasn't just sushi-grade tuna he was el pez especial de la casa.

I excused myself for a few minutes at one point during the evening. When I returned, Niko was chuckling.

"While you were gone, the waitresses asked me how our first date was going," he offered by way on an explanation.
"Well," I asked coyly and with a shy smile, "what was your answer?"
"I told her the date was going very well," Niko said smiling back.

"Wow", I thought to myself. "He thinks we are on a date." Niko had leapt to a higher status in my eyes because hadn’t been afraid to use the word 'date' in describing our evening. Up until that moment, even I wouldn't have described the meeting as a 'date.' Suddenly, I was on a date with a charming, sushi-eating European.

The evening came to a close. Niko mentioned that he would soon like to take me to a friend's house that had been recently restored. He then said that on our next date he would like to introduce me to his favorite, fine European wine. First, however, he needed to travel to New York for business, then Boston for a wedding. He would call me the Monday he returned.

I was flying high. All men weren't bottom-feeding catfish. With my first cast, I landed such a prize! As the week progressed, my mood stayed elevated. I couldn't wait to talk to my newfound friend the following Monday.

Monday came and went. I was a little disturbed that he didn't call when he said he would. But I wasn't worried. There was always Tuesday.

Tuesday came and went. Then Wednesday and Thursday passed without a call. I kept my cell phone turned on and by my side the entire week, and quite sadly, the week after that.

Two weeks later, I finally deleted Niko's number along with his special ring from my cell phone. I feared that one evening after one too many glasses of wine, I'd pick up the phone and call him. The need to know exactly what went wrong was just too great a temptation. Why didn't he call me again? Had I misread that first date? Why would he make plans and say he'd call, just to break them? The truth was, I'd never know.

Only one thing was certain, my first normal experience turned out to be a little too normal. It was the classic case of 'Boy doesn't call girl back.'In other words, I'd cast my line and landed a catfish. In this case, however, the catfish threw me back.


What do you think? Take this Quick Poll!

A Strange New World

I think I've landed on another planet. My space capsule lay wasted and there is no foreseeable way off this desolate place. Upon my arrival, a space alien, disguised as my metrosexual, 33-year-old friend Tom, meets for coffee.

"So," Tom says without any other introduction, "I was on a date the other night and didn't even know it."
"How can that be?" I ask almost incredulously.
"Well, I met this girl at the cafe. We’ve struck up a few conversations over the last couple weeks. I told her that I dance. And, she was interested in checking out this club that I frequent," Tom explained.
"And...?" I asked.
"Well, we met at the club and danced a few hours. I kissed her on the cheek good night and made sure she got a cab ride home. The next evening when we met at the café, she mentioned how much she had enjoyed our date. A DATE?! Can you believe it? She thought we were on a D-A-T-E." Tom said laughing.

"Duh!" I thought to myself. During this entire conversation, unbeknownst to the space creature in front of me, I am mentally placing myself in the role of said women. Had it been me regularly meeting a handsome guy at the cafe, sharing numerous conversations that ultimately led to an evening of dancing, I, too, would have concluded that I had been on a date. What's so unreasonable about this? Is there something wrong with being on a D-A-T-E?

Later that week, I talked with another extraterrestrial being. a.k.a., "Steve", over a game of cards. We struck up a conversation about his numerous female, "physical friends". I needed him to clarify the definition of this term.

"Physical friends? What do you mean?" I asked.
"You know,” Steve says, "we're just friends, but we're also physical."
"In other words, you sleep with them?" I asked.
"Yeah. It usually only lasts a few months and I always make sure they know that it's just about sex," he added.

Still wrestling with this concept, I probed further.
"You mean to tell me that you spend quality time together as friends, regularly exchange bodily fluids for months on end, but you’re not dating? And women are ok with these relationships?" I could hardly believe my ears.

"Oh, they are NOT relationships. It's just sex. And yes, most women are fine with it. Honestly, I've had maybe three women who've wanted more or been hurt in the end. But, generally speaking, I think it improves the friendship. Besides, I only have one physical friend at a time," Steve offered in way of an explanation, as if this would make it more understandable to me.

After having my conversation with Steve, I discovered that this concept wasn't so foreign. In all forms of media, I began to see the concept of "physical friends" described in all sorts of tasty euphemisms—friends with benefits, hooking up, hanging out, and my personal favorite, fuck buddies. It appeared to me that every one on planet was doing this. My friend, Michelle, a 22-year-old single mother, had been in a 13-month, exclusive "friendship" with Mike, but she was not his girlfriend. Another acquaintance, Jared had no fewer than three physical friendships, all very quietly going on during the same period of time. Yet, he never "dated" any of these women. Physical friendships were perfectly normal and acceptable behavior in this world in which I found myself.

Don't get me wrong. I am not casting judgment. How two consenting adults choose to carry on non-relationship is their business. I am just wondering what planet I've been living on all these years? Or, is it that the world has changed so much since the dark ages, also known as 'the Big Eighties', when I was first single and a young whippersnapper? Back then, a guy and gal who regularly spent quality time alone together were generally known to be "going together". One-night stands and casual sex certainly existed and were tolerated for what they were. But a string of one-night stands with the same person did a relationship make. There were friends. There were lovers. There were friends who became lovers. There were the people who just indiscriminately slept around. It was all very clear and simple back then. Or, perhaps time has colored my memories in shades of roses. I just don't know anymore.

These days, I long for just one person to courageously stand up and say, 'Yes! Even though it's scary and uncertain, despite the fact that chances are slim to none that this will work out, I not only like, but am also I officially and publicly dating said person for better or worse till irreconcilable difference get the better of us or until someone better comes along.' Well, maybe not those exact words, but you get the point.

Until that day comes, I linger in this strange new world and wonder: What has happened to real intimacy? Does it exist or has it been replaced by a fuck buddy phenomenon? Is it really ok to satisfy our craving for physical closeness without a real connection or emotional honesty? I don’t know.

Would someone send a distress signal or search party in my behalf? I'm ready to leave this crazy planet. Houston? Are you out there? Is anybody out there?