The curse is broken!!

I broke the curse! I can’t tell you how excited I am. I keep seeing last night in my head in vivid detail. Finally. It’s been months.

I’m on my way back from vacation today, so I appreciate your patience with my erratic posting this week. I went on a cruise with a notoriously abysmal male to female ratio- unmarried men not currently on Medicare were spotted only in fleeting glances. When spotted, every single lady on the ship sucked in her stomach and pushed out her chest, competing for her vaca-romance. I was ready. I was willing. I was looking at a lot of wrinkled women and no chiseled men. Damn.

The Night Before Last: I was in the casino. As usual, I was screaming “give me a yo!” at the dice as they spun across the green felt table. And there he was. I immediately did a ring check – Pass! – nothing but lovely masculine skin and a smile that said, “it’s on!” We chatted. I flirted. He moved to play blackjack behind me. The casino closed at 4:30 a.m. In my chardonnay haze I said to myself out loud, “Why didn’t I meet you earlier? I really wanted to make out!” He didn’t look over. I couldn’t tell if he was mortified and was therefore faking momentary deafness or if he didn’t hear me.

Last Night: I wandered back to the casino at 6:00 p.m. the next day, sobered up, skirt hiked up, and looking for love. Or lust. Whatever. He happened by and sat next to me at Blackjack. I thought we were flirting – I kept touching his hand and he didn’t pull away. I went back to craps. Knowing it was the last night and I had little to lose besides my dignity and self-esteem, I amassed my courage and asked the waiter to bring VacaMan a jack and coke. I couldn’t look over. I was terrified and exhilarated. What if he rejected it? Or took it back to his room without me? Or hurled it at me while spitting on the floor in disgust. The waiter returned with my credit card and a glass of champagne. “From the gentleman,” he said. It’s on. It’s on like Donkey Kong. I giggled like a fifth grader.

I went back to blackjack- I could sit next to him there and we could flirt. Some time later it was last call and last hand. Oh God. Now what??? He looked in my eyes, turned to the waiter and said, “I’ll take a bottle of wine to go please.” YES!!!! Presumptuous perhaps but soooo take charge sexy. YES, YES, YES.

Upstairs: He took our bottle and glasses to the roof of the ship- it was just as I’d imagined —2:00 in the morning under a blanket of stars, a bottle of wine and a beautiful man with his lips pursed and moving forward toward mine. I only slept an hour by the time we had to leave.

Today: I saw him at the airport this morning on our way out. He walked up to me, gave me a huge hug and took my earrings out of his pocket. With a twinkle in his eye he said, “You left these on my nightstand last night.” I went all gooey like a molten chocolate cake.

The curse has been broken. Today, I am a new woman. I remember that I can, in fact be hot, both to myself and to a smokin hot date. Was it sad that it was only the one night at the end? Perhaps. But perhaps that was exactly what I needed to feel beautiful and remember that I’ve still got it. And baby, what I got is gooooood.

Now is Forever?

Whatever is going on now, is forever. Wait, wait, wait, we all know that isn’t true. But the human condition is such that good or bad, whatever IS TRUE NOW, WILL BE TRUE forever and evermore.

Depression: I’m never, ever, ever going to find a man. The tides will wash away every last wisp of sand in the ocean until only dust remains, and the sun will burn out and all life will vanish on this planet before I find a person to procreate with me. Do I recognize this voice as depression? Is this voice accurate? Is this the actual speech my Aunt Margaret gave me last week after I refused to meet her cousin’s best friend Cedric from Columbia who is 22, 5’2, and has a speech impediment and a deep love of discussing the Spanish-American war?

Maybe. But even when I talk that voice down from my own personal apocalypse, it remains angry, and in and taunts me saying, “Fine, ignore me. But you know what? I’m right. You are alone. And always will be.”

Weddings: The flip side of this voice is weddings. Women, myself included, tend to looove weddings. “I promise that I will love you forever and ever and ever and ever amen. No matter what, we are soul mates, and swans will congregate wherever we are to make heart-shapes with their necks so that everyone who sees us can know that we are the lucky and blessed and the loved. Amen.”

Do we know that marriages fail at a 50% rate? And that second marriages fail at a higher rate than that, never mind, God forbid, being wife #3 or #7. But at that moment, with our friend wearing the virginal white dress carrying $375 in gardenias and star-gazer lilies, we are absolutely sure that this love is the real deal, and that hell or high water will not change that love.

Change is the only Constant: Ben Franklin was wrong, the only inevitable things in life aren’t death and taxes; they are death, taxes and change. Nothing is permanent, and nothing stays the same. That doesn’t change the fact that right now, it feels that celibacy is my permanent state. I fear in this moment that the best use for my lingerie collection will be willing it to the Museum of Sex in Prague for their 2099 exhibit titled, “Early 2000’s spinster-clothing used to make the useless feel hot.”

But like death and taxes, tides change every day, and there’s no reason to think that tomorrow may not bring the same- in fact, may actually deliver the man of my dreams. And if, by some miracle, that does occur, I relish the opportunity to live my life, even for a few month, dreaming that we will always, always, always feel like this. That kisses will linger for hours, that sex will always be exciting, and that I’ll never, ever want to be apart from this magical man.

Perhaps life ultimately runs on the eternal hope that tomorrow will be better, or, in the alternative, that when we’re in love, it’ll always feel as good as it does today. Here’s to hope. Drink up.

The Hot Friend

“Is she the hot friend?” The what? “My theory is that women become friends with girls that are either super hot to increase their access to good drinks and hot guys or they choose a less attractive friend to make them always the hot girl. So, this girl you want to introduce me to, is she the hot friend?” This question was posed by a co-worker I was trying to set up. How can I answer that? The question anticipates that I know if I am in fact, the hot friend or the less attractive friend. Talk about the pandora’s box.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Right. Right? Right?!? Well in some ways – yes. But there are societal norms that tell us, nay, confirm to us, whether we or our friends are in fact, attractive. Weight, skin tone, whether we really don’t want to take a picture next to our buddy because it would take three of her power-aerobics teaching vegan-eating self to make up our mass – those things all seem to answer the basic question of whether we are in fact, worth the time of a man to pursue.

Hot by Comparison: One theory suggests that women choose friends or other single women to go out with in order to be “hot by comparison.” So if you’ve got bad hair and a small chest, you hang out with girls with no hair and saggy massive tits the size of a small metropolitan area to make you look hot by comparison. A variation of this is moving from a big city to a small town to get at the remaining men. Sure, there are few single guys to choose from, but their current choices are girls they turned down in junior high or their friends’ newly divorced mothers, and you, by comparison, are hot for Billings, Montana. You go girl.

If you’re the less attractive one: Look, practically every woman has her “frenemy.” The girl who you love for who she is, but who puts you in shadow every time she’s around by her beauty. She may be tall and modelesque, while you’re only tall enough for the tilt-a-whirl because of your three-inch-heels. She may have published two books on tantric sex and have posed in the classy suggestive pictures to show exactly how to bring couples to blissful ecstasy. Or maybe your prom date fell in deep, unrequited love with her and you just can’t let it go – yes still. It doesn’t matter- she makes you feel bad about yourself- and worse yet- you KNOW it’s NOT her fault- it’s yours for being jealous of her beauty when all she ever did was love you and tell you you’re great.

Ultimately, I think all these theories are wrong. Most women choose friends on the basis of common interests, shared experiences and a deep need to make sure no one ever knows about weekend freshman year in Tijuana. Friends worth having are ones who make you feel beautiful for who you are, not how you look. It’s our challenge to find our beauty in ourselves, despite the conversation that begins, “My jeans got wet!” and finishes with, “I’ll buy new ones,” with the subtext being, yours, eight sizes larger than mine, wouldn’t stay up on my skinny little hips. But that’s not her fault. It’s mine for not believing that love can find us both- straight or curly hair, ten or twenty pounds different, size 0 or 10, and always, when the time is right.

Statistically Speaking: Dating Divorced

“It’s so great you’re in your thirties now! You can get the guys fresh off their divorce from their first wife who are now ready for the right girl!” I stared at my mother incredulously. Really? You want me to date a divorcee? It’s a good idea? Or is it? Let’s look at the science shall we?

Pro: Divorced Men Marry at a Higher Rate than Single Guys: Men who’ve enjoyed the comforts of regularly available orgasms, sandwich ingredients in the kitchen at midnight, and a date who’ll smile at the boss at the office Christmas party are more likely to drag themselves back up to the alter than a guy who has never taken the plunge. Perhaps having gone through the singles scene at least twice taught them to love a rented tuxedo, bad shrimp cocktail and the chicken dance?

Con: Divorced Men are also More Likely to Divorce Again: Men who’ve been divorced once are significantly more likely to divorce again, as second marriages fail at a higher rate than first. Let’s face it, with a 50/50 likelihood of success the first time, and 1/3 less chance the second, that's a bet most gamblers wouldn’t touch six tequilas in at a Vegas casino. So I’m more likely to get married to a guy who has been divorced, but more likely to be divorced by him too – that or I'll divorce him myself while his ex wife screams from a mountain top that she tried to warn me but I wouldn’t listen because he told me “that bitch be crazy” and I believed him.

Pro: Self-Reflective Divorced Guys May Have Learned Their Lesson: My close friend refuses to date men who haven’t had long-term girlfriends. “Too much training” she says. A divorced guy who paid attention may now know he really does have to remember his wife’s birthday, be patient while she tries on dresses at Bloomingdale’s, and has stopped going out with the guys to strip clubs. But watch out- get them too soon out of the marriage cage and he’s likely to be a man on a mission t re-live his frat house days complete with keg stands and getting your number just to see if he can.

Con: Someone Else Found him Impossible: Oh sure he may have left her, except statistically speaking, women divorce men at a rate twice to three times more often than men divorce women. Did the man simply drive her to the edge to make her file so he could still be the “good guy” in his own mind? Did he have three girls on the side and a coke habit? Or was he simply unable to partner in a meaningful way?

Divorced guys scare me- I’m afraid to be next. But ultimately, if it’s the right guy, it’s the right guy. Statistically, if a man reaches 38 without having been married, he is unlikely to marry. So really, my best tactic is to snag an up-to-37-year-old who hasn’t married or a 38 plus who has been divorced. I like to gamble, but as a matter of course, I always bet with the house.

Review: Why Men Love Bitches

Welcome to the first installment of M. Bridget’s Book Club Book Review. I was given “Why Men Love Bitches” by a girlfriend six years ago. The subtitle of the book is, “From Doormat to Dream girl.” “But I’m not a doormat!” I protested. She looked at her shoes for a long, uncomfortable minute, then said, “just read it.” After my most recent breakup, my extremely high-powered female boss took me aside and said, “You need to read Why Men Love Bitches. It changed my life!” Apparently I am seen as a doormat. I can’t decide if it’s awesome or awful that I need to be a bigger bitch to find a man.

The basic premise: Author Sherry Argov believes that the “nice girls” in the world are doormats- constantly fighting for the time, affection, and commitment of a man, which invites mistreatment. She implores women to be a BITCH- the headstrong, self-assured, if you don’t like it someone else will kinda girl that doesn’t take sh*t from anyone. She uses bitch as a term of endearment, as opposed to say, the way you’d describe the crazies on Jersey Shore. You are, from now until your dying day, to be a “mental challenge” for a man- the kind of girl they can never quite figure out.

When he starts to treat you badly, ignore him back, go out with your friends, and don’t chase. He’ll come back begging. Um, unless, as I’ve experienced, he doesn’t and that’s the end of the relationship. But Argov says it was my fault- I wasn’t bitchy enough in my ignoring.

The best advice: Argov says you should give out your sexual favors from your "candy store" like juju bees- one at a time and slowly. A man must earn your sexuality – with time, attention, dinners out and commitment. She also advocates keeping your job and having your own money so you don’t need him to support you – although he’s welcome to spoil you all he wants.

The most questionable advice: “Humility? Don’t worry. It’s a treatable affliction, a mental glitch. If you catch yourself being modest or humble or any of that nonsense, correct the problem immediately.” That seems like it could lead to bar fights, law suits and a popular Youtube video you don’t want your parents to see.

My favorite quote: Argov describes a man going on a hunting trip. He kills a moose, drags the thing home, taxidermies it and puts it on his wall with pride. “If you were to drop a dead moose on his doorstep, he’d want nothing to do with it. It could be the very same moose he had hunted, and yet it could have a totally different effect on him. This is how the pursuit affects his interest in a woman. When a woman chases a man, it has the same effect as if she were to deliver a dead moose to his front door.” Ouch. I think I’ve delivered my fair share of dead moose over time. Must clean that pattern up.

Is it worth reading? Yes- particularly if you’re stuck in “nice girl” syndromes like calling all the time, making elaborate meals, nagging, and begging him to see you more. I have trouble being the bitch Argov would want me to be, but I have promised myself not to deliver any more dead animals to the doorsteps of the guys I like. Instead, I’ll deliver a live female dog. That’s, according to Argov, the animal that love is made of.

Little Encouragements

“Heeellloo beautiful. Oh I love you. You make my day. Even more beautiful than usual.” Sometimes it’s, “Oh my love! Hello todd-aay.” Sometimes, “Where you being mama? I misses you.” I hand him my keys every weekday morning. He gives me a valet card and holds my hand til I pull it away. He’s in his 50s, short, stout, beer-bellied, grey-haired, doesn’t speak English well, and has the nicest twinkle in his eyes.

Paco who owns the taco stand near my work- hairy, tall, thin, and barely able to do basic math to give me change – sometimes gives me a free Diet Coke because “he likes to sees me.”

I know they aren’t asking me out; we both know that. Perhaps they likes the way it makes me smile when they’re so nice. It doesn’t matter- the boost is like a quickly downed vodka-Redbull- it immediately lifts my mood and gives me energy to start the day.

Are they monogamous in his affection for me? Oh I doubt it. I’m probably the fifteenth tight-skirted, high-heeled, long-haired woman the parking man told he loves this morning. Paco the Taco guy probably gives free chips and guacamole to girls who cleave out of their shirts and give free lacy-bra glimpses while bending over to get jalapenos from the salsa bar. Paco and the parking guy can be polyamorous all day long. Unlike real love, I don’t need monogamy from those who fill my ego as part of their jobs.

In some ways the PC-requirements of being a modern-day urbanite have diminished major sources of little encouragements. OK it also diminished sexual harassment and work discrimination claims, but I digress. Having a bunch of sweltering, tight-shirted, big muscled construction workers pushing on jackhammers while hollering at me that I’m hot – at least in theory- sounds really nice. Six years ago, when I was in Italy, men shouted at me, “Bella! Bella Donna! Marry me!” Should have taken one up on it at the time!

I hold these little encouragements close to my heart, particularly when, like last week, I’d sent questions to 20 soul-mates on eharmony and only one responded. Actually, no one I sent questions to responded. Instead, Michael from Chatsworth sent me questions. I’d deleted him because his singular pictures was his corpulent self on a lazy chair, legs spread, with his package on nearly full display in tight white jeans. “This is what I’m doomed to!” I think to myself.

But my parking man thinks differently. Paco, who sometimes throws in extra cheese, doesn’t agree. He thinks I’m a goddess. And damnit, they MUST be right.

Trying Too Hard

Being so lovesick you don’t mind three hour meetings at work. Getting sexy texts and giggling so much your friends ask why you’re blushing. Knowing there’s a reason to take your damn birth control pills (thank you, Yaz! for reminding me every night that I’m not getting any, AGAIN). These are some of the delights of being in a relationship. Everyone wants to get there, but you just can’t skip the steps between “meeting” and “girlfriend.”

I met Overtry at a speed-dating event cleverly disguised as a “wine bar meet-and-greet for fabulous singles!” In the three minutes we chatted before the dating umpire shrieked the whistle, I liked him. Funny. Sweet. A little-dorky in that slightly endearing way. My girlfriend’s impression was, “Yeah, he was nice, but I think he’s super needy.” I gave him my card anyway.

The phone rang the next morning. “I know I’m supposed to wait three days, but I hate playing games.” Awesome! Me too, unless it’s at a casino and someone in a shiny leotard uniform is bringing me free cocktails. There’d be a happy hour date 48 hours later. I was already picking out my shoes.

He called again on 24 hours later “just to check in” and “to be sure we’re still on.” The day of our date he sent an email. “I love to kiss in the rain. At stoplights, I hold hands, gaze into the eyes of the woman I love and just wait.” Ummmm. Those things might be romantic to find out say, a month from now– but as a person who has known you four minutes in person, that’s waaaayyyy TMI. He called four minutes before our date was to start, on time, to tell me he was pulling into the parking lot and couldn’t wait to see me.

The happy hour was fine. He asked if he could see me again and I said maybe. The next day, he sent me six texts, including one complaining about the traffic and informing me he wasn’t going all the way to Santa Barbara because the 101 was a nightmare. He called twice on Thanksgiving (the day after). I chose to be Thankful for the ability to block his number on my phone.

I’m sure Overtry is a nice guy, but you just can’t skip the getting-to-know you part. Had he sent one less email, ten less texts and acted 70% more sure of himself, he may have given me a reason to go to my drug store for flavored, colored and/or glow-in-the-dark prophylactics. Besides, it actually makes you feel less special when someone who doesn’t know you at all tries way too hard to say you’re their princess in the tower.

I can hear the complaints now, “But you want us to show you we like you!,” “But you told us not to play games!” True. True. But there’s a difference between calling to set a second date and getting the boom box out to play “Every Step You Take,” the stalker’s national anthem, to someone you’ve known less than 48 hours. Maybe be a bit more, “It’s just a little crush,” than “Oh can’t you see, you belong to me,” you know?