The eye doctor

I had to go to the eye doctor the other day.  Upon noticing that my new eye doctor was slightly attractive, two thoughts went through my head simultaneously.  One was, "I'm about to be two inches away from this guy's face and I forgot to pop a breath mint!"  The other one was, "This is so Monica and Richard."  Because, sometimes, I see a good looking man and I imagine-marry him and make up a how-we-met story in my head.  It's not weird.  Why would you say that?

I was slightly distracted from the story I was creating in my head when he did the whole "Is the middle line more clear through #1 or #2?  #3 or #4?  #5 or #6?" thing.  That test always makes me feel like an idiot.  They flip through those lenses so fast.  I need more time to decide!

But my story was completely forgotten when he held a magnifying tool centimeters from my eyes and shined that super bright light in them (the one that is completely blinding even though you're staring at the doctor's shoulder or the ceiling) and said, "Hmm, your left retina is thinning.  And there are stretch marks on your eye."  WHAT?  Stretch marks?  On my EYE?  (I guess they go with the ones on my thighs.  Like matching your purse to your shoes, or something.)  How does that even happen?

He said it's usually caused by blunt force trauma to the head or eye.  I watch a lot of crime dramas, and the only cases of blunt force trauma I've seen happened to the people whose deaths were being investigated.  I'm pretty sure I'd remember surviving blunt force trauma.  Then he said it's very rare and not to worry about it.  Just be sure to protect my eye.  You know, from blunt force trauma.  Or too much sun.  Great.  I just need a pair of sunglasses that protect me from UV rays and baseball bats.  Should be easy to find.

For the rest of the day I thought about nothing but my freakish eye.  And I had to wonder*, if one's freakish condition cannot be seen, is it considered any less freakish?  Regardless, I decided that my thinning, stretch mark covered retina and I were no longer making up a how-we-met story for the slightly attractive thinning, stretch mark covered retina finding doctor.  I can't imagine-marry someone who will always have access to the tools that magnify my freakishness.

*footnote: Sex and the City fans, that was for you :)

Safire Dreams

By popular demand (and by that, I mean my sister suggested it) I have decided to post another poem from my early single years (also known as high school).  This one was her favorite, and for good reason.  It's very profound.  So much so, that some of it even goes over my, the author's, head.  Let's dissect it together, shall we?  We shall.

Safire Dreams

(I don't believe I spelled Safire wrong by accident here.  I think I was emphasizing the fire part.  Let's see, sapphire's are blue, right?  So my dreams were blue, or sad, and fiery, or angry.  Safire.  Boom, nailed it.)

Safire dreams 

of wishes moved on

blessed memories of old times

are all dead and gone

(I'm willing to bet some turd muffin broke my heart and I was having sad, angry feelings about it.)

your one philosophy

out of sight out of mind

my one philosophy

out of mind out of sight

(What?  Out of mind, out of sight?  What does that mean?  Well, I'll tell you.  Obviously, it's...I mean, clearly...this...makes no sense.  I was, like, 16, give me a break.)

Such a short time in the past

seems almost not to exist

but to me it collected the time

like the watch does on my wrist

(I probably dated this guy for three weeks, two days and five hours, but I'm sure it felt like an eternity!  And that's likely all it took for me to fall madly, deeply and truly in love with him.  It was so simple then.  *sigh*)

The bridges are all burnt

on the pathway back to you

and the lesson I have learned

that in my heart is true

Is never a second time

never a second thought

never a second chance to have

the first chance that you got

(It's possible, that when I got my heart broken, I lost my temper.  And it's probable that I didn't hide it from the heart breaker.)

So in my sleep

this nightmare screams

and tells the tale

of my safire dreams

(I think the screaming nightmare is the sound of regret, due to the temper losing and all, thus I am sad and angry.)

Do you see why this was my sister's favorite poem?  It has everything!  Fencing, fighting, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes, true love, miracles...oh wait, that's The Princess Bride.  Well, close enough.

Chapter 8, or The lady doctor

September 2008:

My husband was the only person I’d ever had sex with (I don’t count the one attempt in high school).  When he left, going on a sex binge seemed the natural thing to do.  I had a lot of wild oats to sow; or I just needed to feel desired.  But I had been married and not on the pill and I had just spent three post-separation months having sex with randoms.  Protected sex, but still, I was freaking out.  I was certain I was pregnant and chock-full of STDs.  So I figured I should make an appointment with the lady doctor.

            I called a couple different places looking for the earliest appointment available and found a place that had an opening in two weeks.  I made the appointment even though the lady doctor was a man.  I’d never been to a male lady doctor before so I was extra freaked out.  He was a tiny Asian man who was very sweet, but talked way too much.  I asked him to take every test possible.  Take all the fluids you need: blood, urine, spit, whatever, just take it all.  He proceeded to explain every single test to me and then he looked over my chart and asked about my medications.

I had taken a low dose of Paxil for a few years, but I had just dumped my therapist and my drugs.  I know it seems like when your husband leaves you the last thing you want to do is dump your therapist.  But, she actually had the nerve to suggest that The Ex left me because I’d gained weight.  What kind of idiot therapist says something like that?  I’d been seeing her for over five years; she knew my weight was my biggest issue.  Even if he had left me because I’d gained weight, what good could possibly come from knowing that?  It wouldn’t change anything.  He wasn’t coming back.  And if that were the reason he left me I wouldn’t want him to come back.  I figured if I knew these things and she didn’t then I didn’t need her anymore.

So when the lady doctor noticed I had been on Paxil he asked if I felt anxiety.  What I wanted to say was, “Yeah, I’m feeling anxious!  I’m here to get tested for STDs and pregnancy!  And you won’t shut up and scrape my damn cervix!”  But instead I said, “I’m feeling some anxiety right now, yes.  I’m getting tested for STDs.”  With the female nurse in the room he finally got down to it.  He was awkward and chatty, explaining everything he was going to do before he did it.  I knew he was trying to make me feel comfortable and prepared (and it was probably required by law) but I was not feeling comfortable, I was freaking out and wanted to get the hell out of there. 

When they had all the fluids they needed they said they would call me with the results on Monday.  It was Thursday.  I called them every day, and on the following Wednesday they had the results.  They were all negative, which sounds bad but is very, very good.

A million little papers

When it comes to marriage, I hear a lot of people saying, "I don't want to get married."  To those people, I say don't.  It's not for everyone.  I also hear a lot of people saying, "Why?  I don't need a piece of paper to define my relationship."  And to those hippies, I say bullshit.

We need pieces of paper for everything we do in life.  We need a piece of paper called an Application to get a job or rent an apartment.  We need a piece of paper called a Loan Document to buy a car or a house.  And then we need a piece of paper called a Deed to prove we own those things.  We need a small laminated piece of paper called a Driver's License to operate a vehicle and prove we're old enough to drink.  (No one is turning that one down.  In fact, people want those so badly, they make fake ones!)  We also need several pieces of paper called Money to buy everything we want.

What's so different about a marriage license?  We have all these pieces of paper saying we commit to things, but we shouldn't have a piece of paper saying we commit to the person we love?  I say, if you're using the piece of paper defense, it's not that you don't want to get married.  It's that you don't want to marry the person you're with.  Because, if you really did, a little piece of paper wouldn't stop you.

Think about it.

Another batch of Nonline Dating

I don't get you, guys.  What are you thinking?  Cheesy emails, obnoxious profiles and ridiculous user names.  It's like reading a menu where the food descriptions are designed to make me vomit.

User names like thicknlong4ubaby and hnglkdnky are not going to trick me into thinking you have a big penis.  In fact, just the opposite.  I am convinced you have a small penis and you're a jackass.

If you say something like, "monetary things don't define me," I can guess with 90% certainty that you are poor.  And most likely a slob.

The About Me section of a guy who emailed me: “I love all thing!  Love to run a lot!!  Love food to much!  Lol!  Oh well it is tasty,so what can you do!  Want to be a great person some day.  Hope it happens!  That would be great!  I like watching movies that don’t suck.  So not seeing to many movies lately!  Lol!” 

Dude, lay off the Redbull.

Another About Me section of a guy who emailed me:  “I enjoy a nice evening out for dinner or a show.  Maybe have drink and listen to a cool band or d.j. or just relaxn at home watchn a good movie on the sofa or bedroom.  Then later have some good erotic sex.  I also enjoy winerys.” 

Blah, blah, blah, dinner, movie...what was that part before winery?

Dear (lame user name), What is my secret?  How am I keeping myself so pretty?  Well, gosh, I don't know.  I laugh a lot at lines like that; maybe laughter is keeping me young.

Dear (another lame user name), Putting a "wink" after saying you like eating sushi is surprisingly less sexy than you might think.

It's overwhelming, guys.  I don't know what else to say, besides: STOP IT!

Chapter 7, or Chips, dips, chains and...sleep?

It's August 2008 and I'm heading to the East Bay for my sister's birthday.  Why not squeeze in a little chicky chicky boom, right?  I called Guy from high school to let him know I would be in town...

He suggested I bring a few things.  So I made a trip to a store called Touch of Romance.  It’s a store I used to be embarrassed to go into, that I now walk into proudly.  I found all kinds of good stuff!  And the best part is, technically, technically, The Ex paid for it.  Alimony and equalization of the assets would go into effect in January and it was August, so we were still sharing a bank account and credit card. 

In the moment, the feeling of retribution is fantastic, but in the long run it really doesn’t make me feel any better.  I would’ve taken my husband over the money and the sex with strangers any day.  I would’ve loved him for the rest of my life.  But he left me.  So if I can get small bits of vindication here and there I will take them and enjoy them for as long as they last.

I met up with Guy from high school and brought along the toys.  Only, that time, for some reason, I wanted to make him earn it.  I made him take me to dinner and a movie first.  Bad, bad, stupid idea.  When we got back to his house he had to attend to his dog, so I went upstairs, put my bag of toys on the nightstand, changed into my new super hot lingerie and waited for him in a most alluring position.  Here’s where things went downhill.  We had sex once, didn’t use the toys, and after we were done he turned on the TV.  He turned on the TV!  What, are we married?  What the hell is this?  Shouldn’t we be having sex two more times and falling asleep only out of sheer exhaustion? 

The next morning - being that I was still unsatisfied from the night before and the fact that I love morning sex - I tried to get things started again, but to no avail.  On my way home I called my friend and said, “I can’t even get a morning lay out of this Jew*!”

*Footnote: I'm allowed to say Jew and make Jew jokes because I was married to one; I believe that's the rule according to Seinfeld.

Chick flicks: through the eyes of the beholder

I've been watching reruns of My So Called Life (only one of the best shows ever, cut down in its prime), and its making me think of the hopeless romanticism I used to embody in high school (the early single years).  My love life was this giant blank slate, full of possibilities.  Every sappy chick flick I watched was just another treasure map leading to my perfect happily ever after.  I may have cried through every single one of them, wondering if I would ever get to be the leading lady in my very own real life movie romance, but they were hopeful tears.  I didn't know where he was or when I would find him, but my Jordan Catalano was out there...somewhere, like...waiting for me.

And then I found him.  And I married him.  And I was a walking, breathing chick flick.  I got my fairy tale, my movie romance, my happily ever after.  Except for the ever after part.  Minor detail.  So I'm single again.  And all my favorite chick flicks are harder to watch now.  Even the ones that came out long before I was married!  Bridget Jones's Diary is a very different movie viewed through single eyes.  Through married eyes, it was like, "Awww, she thought she wanted that man, but the other man was perfect all along, she just didn't know it, but then she realized just in time and still got him, yay!"  Through single eyes, it's like, "Oh my gosh, I'm so fat and pathetic.  Wait, pause it so I can write down the titles of those books she's throwing away."  And it's the same with so many of them.

Some Kind of Wonderful/When Harry Met Sally
Through married eyes: She and her male best friend fell in love, how perfect!
Through single eyes: I don't have a male best friend.  I guess I'm screwed.

Sixteen Candles
Through married eyes: I love this movie!  I could watch it every day!
Through single eyes:  Where's my f@ckin' Jake Ryan?!

The Holiday
Through married eyes (to my single friends): You just never know where you'll find love!
Through single eyes: Yeah, what are the chances that I swap houses with some woman and she happens to have a hot brother who falls in love with me?  Pff, please!...I should probably look into it.

Ghost
Through married eyes (while sobbing): True love is eternal!
Through single eyes: See?  All the good ones are dead.

Pretty Woman
Through married eyes:  It's like a modern day Cinderella!  Or, Cindafuckinrella!  haha, snort, haha!
Through single eyes:  Hmm, maybe I should be a hooker.

Romance is more technical for me these days.  It's like a party invitation, I want to know who, what, when, where, how?  What's the endgame?  There are a lot more frogs than princes out there, is he worth the eyeshadow?  These are very important questions.  The answers will lead me to my very own second fairy tale happily ever after (with the ever after).  I mean, you only get married twice, right?

Single, shaven and starving

There are a few things I like about being single.  I get to be totally selfish, I don't have to answer to anyone, I get to use up all the hours on the DVR for my shows, I don't have to share my bathroom with a dirty boy, and I'm the only one using my stuff, so everything gets put away (and in the proper place, I might add).

There are several things I don't like about being single.  I never have a date for events or holidays, I have to take out the trash (trash is totally man's work) and I have no one to cuddle with but my cat (and let's face it, kitty cuddling is step 2 in the How to Become a Crazy Cat Lady handbook).  But of all the things that suck about being single, I think the two I hate the most are grooming and dieting.

One day (in the recent present) I was in the shower and realized I needed to shave.  And pretty badly, too.  I have a stall shower (Oh, how I miss my bathtub) so I have to balance on one leg while I hoist the other leg up on the wall.  I thought to myself, as I tried my best not to fall over, why do I even bother?  Who am I shaving for, my cat?  Back in my more promiscuous days, I had a reason to groom.  I had to be prepared because I never knew when I might meet a guy and do the ole lay down move around.  Now that I'm in my dry spell (it's like an abandoned house down there, all cobwebs and dust), I kinda just want to go all native like the hippy that came into the tasting room the other day with free flowing hairy pits blowing in the breeze.  Is that not sexy?

I have to admit, I was one of those women who gained weight during marriage.  I feel like The Ex is mostly to blame, though, because he was one of those husbands who told me I was beautiful no matter what.  (I knew there was at least one reason I married him.)  The first three months after he left, not much changed.  Then, suddenly, I completely lost my appetite.  That phenomenon has never happened before or since.  The thought of food made my stomach hurt.  When I did eat, I felt like I was going to throw up.  I lost 18 pounds in less than two months on what is popularly known as The Divorce Diet.  After my House Cleansing Party I, unfortunately, got my appetite back and had to actually work at losing weight.  What a bunch of crap.  So, since then, I have been on this fad diet I heard about where you eat less and exercise more.  I think it's called the It's Not a Fad Diet, It's Reality...diet...or something.  (It's the same with finances.  Don't spend more than you earn and don't eat more than you burn.  I'm so wise for my years.)  I'm losing weight but all I think about is food, so I rely on a mantra that, if I remember correctly, I learned years ago at Weight Watchers:  I'd rather be hungry than fat.

So, I am reluctantly groomed and perpetually hungry, yet I remain cursedly single.  I already have good looks and a sparkling personality, what more is there?

Recipe for the single and/or lazy

Not Risotto:

Rice

Chicken

Artichokes hearts

Sundried tomatoes

Capers

Wine

Butter

Seasoning

I throw all the ingredients into my rice cooker.  It’s a better cook than I am.  I don’t know how to make one serving of rice.  The smallest number on the inside of my rice cooker is 2.  That’s especially fun when you’re single.  Personally I think it’s some kind of –ist, but I’m not sure which yet.  Singlist?  Alonist?  Anyway, the '2' means that you put two scoops (the scoop came with the rice cooker; I have no idea if it’s a cup or a half cup or a quarter cup.  It’s a Scoop) in the cooker and then fill it with water to the ‘2’ line.  I know this not because I read the directions (which I have never seen and can’t find) but because my ex-husband (rest his soul) told me that’s how to do it.

Usually instead of filling with water all the way to the ‘2’ line, I’ll throw in some wine.  It adds flavor and, if you’ll notice, there are no fruits in the ingredients.  Wine comes from grapes, which are a fruit, so you just go ahead and be generous with that food group.  After you pour some of that food group into the rice cooker, go ahead and pour some into your mouth.  Actually, you should probably pour some in your mouth before pouring it in the cooker to make sure it’s not bad.  It’s called quality control.  I learned that working in the restaurant bizz.

Next throw some butter in there.  Whatever butter you use.  Real butter, fake butter, soybean oil with omega 3’s and no trans fats or hydrogenated oils butter; it all works.  And put whatever amount you want in there.  If you’re one of those skinny it’s-so-weird-I-can-eat-whatever-I-want-and- still-don’t-gain-weight A-holes, then I’ll give you a swift kick in the face and suggest you throw a whole tub in there.  If you’re a yo-yo like me whose fat cells tend to have a convention in her ass with regular meetings in her thighs and belly, then go with a spoonful and be done.

After that I throw in some chicken.  I get the frozen breast strips or whole breasts but you can use whatever part of the chicken you want, it’s your damn Not-Risotto.  In fact, you don’t even have to use chicken.  You can use turkey breasts, if you like turkey any time other than thanksgiving.  Or sausage, if you don’t mind burping it up the rest of the day.  Sometimes it’s worth the sacrifice, I’m just saying.

Then I throw in a can of artichoke hearts and some sundried tomatoes and capers.  If I don’t have sundried tomatoes I’ll use fresh tomatoes or a can of stewed tomatoes.  I’ll use whatever kind of tomatoes I have because I don’t plan ahead and I’m not making a trip to the evil grocery store for one thing.  If you like other things like mushrooms and olives go ahead and throw those in there too.  I personally think they’re an insult to my mouth, but you may feel differently.

Finally, season it all up.  Use whatever you have or think is good.  If you used capers it probably doesn’t need salt but you can still use it if you want, I’m not the boss of you.  I put in a little black pepper, a lot of garlic powder (or some kind of garlic powder mixture that I find because then I only have to use one spice jar) and onion powder or minced onion.  If you’re ballsy and like things spicy hot then throw in some red pepper flakes or something.  I’m naturally spicy hot as a person so I don’t need to add any of that.  Plus I’m a total wuss and my tongue will light on fire.

Plug in the rice cooker and push the button for white rice (because brown rice is for snobby little bitches).  In about forty minutes you’ll have dinner for either several people or several days.

To give it up or not to give it up...

...that is the third date question.

Since I have been single, I have been on dates with two guys.  The first one was almost a year after The Ex left.  The second one was a year and a half later.  I guess that's how long it took me to wash the first one out of my mind (I still get the heebie jeebies when a memory from that date invades my head).  But I'm not going to talk about the first guy (I'll get to him in the chapter called The Worst Date Ever), I'm going to talk about the second guy.  If he had a chapter it would be called The Third Date is Not Always the Sex Date.

I think I have mentioned before that the idea of dating scares the crap out of me.  I seem to have a knack for attracting all the losers and weirdos online.  They put "Barber/Rapper" as their profession and "some college" for education.  I'm not really sure what "some college" means.  Was he in school when his Barber/Rapper gig started to blow up, so he had to drop out?  And how does one become a Barber/Rapper?  Of course, I don't ask him these questions.  I delete him and then make fun of him on facebook (the polite way, you know, behind his back). 

So, naturally, when I got an email from a guy who spelled everything correctly and used proper grammar, I freaked out.  Now it was my turn to write an email that didn't sound stupid and/or cheesy.  It took me two days to respond.  It's amazing how hard it is to write a simple email.  I felt like my head was going to explode.  We emailed back and forth for about a week and then exchanged numbers.  (I want to get to the third date so I'll sum up the first two: I enjoyed his company, he was easy to talk to, good kisser.)  I probably would've slept with him on the second date, but I had already promised myself that if I actually liked a guy I wouldn't sleep with him right away (it's not easy, but we have to pretend to be all respectable and shit, am I right, ladies?) I also decided to rebel against the third date rule and wait until the fourth date to open for business.  I like to make my own rules.

On our third date, we met in a neutral location because we couldn't decide where we wanted to go.  I was not familiar with the area, but my sister recommended Texas Roadhouse.  She said it wasn't very romantic but has a fun atmosphere and they bring you peanuts and you throw the shells on the floor.  Love it already.  I passed the suggestion on to my date and he said, "They're a bunch of hillbillies.  They throw their trash on the floor."  I said, "It's not trash, they're peanut shells, it's just part of the fun."  He said, slightly huffily, "Well, we can go there if you want."  Um, not now!  I said, "No, that's okay.  I don't want you to think I'm a 'hillbilly'."  He paused for a moment and then said, excitedly, "Oh, I know where I'm gonna take you!  I'll drive." 

I got in his car, which was a total mess, by the way (later, it occurred to me that I should've called him a hillbilly for having so much trash in his car), and he drove us to Rubios.  If you're not familiar with Rubios, perhaps you're familiar with Baja Fresh?  Same thing.  Basically, it's glorified fast food.  That was the fantastic third date restaurant he took me to.  And he made me pay.  It was $14.  He took our water cups to the soda fountain and said over his shoulder,"You got it?"  Seriously?  I said, "Uh, yeah, it's $14, I think I can handle it."  Then he said, "I don't get paid till tomorrow."  This guy was 35 years old, divorced with no kids (no child or spousal support to pay), had his own house with no mortgage, and he couldn't swing $14 until he got his paycheck?  I was starting to realize why he didn't want to go to Texas Roadhouse with all those rich hillbillies everywhere.  He would've had to make me pay for an actual meal.  But, I mean, seriously.  If I knew I was going to have to pay, I still would've picked Texas Roadhouse over Rubios.  My money, my choice, bitch.

After "dinner", he wanted me to go to his house and meet his dogs.  I had to pick up a friend at the airport so I was on a time constraint (thank God), and I knew I wasn't going to sleep with him after buying my own damn burrito, so I figured, what the hell, I'll meet his dogs.  His house was a complete dump.  Every piece of furniture (the little there was) was covered with junk (more of that hillbilly trash he hates so much).  His kitchen sink was overflowing, the cabinet doors were flung wide open, his bed (if you can call it that) had one sheet, one pillow and was swimming in his laundry (clean or dirty, I don't know, I didn't find out).

The prize winner, though, was his bathroom.  There was a pile of towels tucked up on the floor under the window, the toilet was filled with blue water and the sink had a bar of soap sitting in it.  Not beside the sink or, heaven forbid, in a soap dish, but IN the sink.  He used the bathroom just before I did, so he clearly didn't try to tidy up.  He just shoved the towels away from the door and dropped the soap in the sink after he washed his hands, like a slob.  There was no hand towel.  I came out of the bathroom holding out my wet hands and asked for a towel.  He went into his bedroom and came out with a bath towel.  Not a hand towel.  I didn't know if that towel was clean or dirty or if he used it to dry off his balls.  I just picked a corner and prayed it wasn't the corner he whacks off onto.

His house was so gross I didn't want to touch anything or sit anywhere.  My face must have shown my disgust because he said, "It's not bad for a bachelor pad, right?"  In my head I was like, you're 35 and you've been married.  Bachelorhood is way behind you.  What I said was, "Um, when I was in college and I would go to fraternity parties, this is what their houses looked like."  Then he said, "I guess it was pretty bold of me to bring you here."  I said, and I'm not exaggerating, "It was pretty brave of you to bring a broad like me to a dump like this."

He still tried to get all up on me, but that was not gonna happen.  Even if I was interested in third date doing it, there was nowhere to do it!  I would've had to go all Ross and the Dirty Girl and do it in the mess!  Nooooo thank you.  It would've taken me a lot longer than a year and a half to wash the memory of banging that slob from my mind.  Not worth it.  And that is why the third date is not always the sex date.

Chapter 6, or The Burn Party

         I called my sister and a bunch my friends and told them to come to my Burn Party and B.Y.O.B.I (Bring Your Own Burn Item).  There were seven of us altogether.  When everyone was filled in on the details of the divorce and agreed The Ex was a total dickbag, they wanted to get started with the burning.  The fire pit (which was a registry gift; isn’t it ironic, dontcha think?) was in the backyard, so we gathered my Big Box O’ Burning Materials and headed outside.  Let me set the scene: a giant bowl of sangria, with seven straws, placed on the patio table, patio chairs formed in a half circle around me and the fire pit, stereo blasting a mixed CD one of my friends made called The Show Must Go On, Bitch!

I had a four-foot long spray of flowers made for us to stand under at our wedding.  I decided to use it as kindling.  It took a lot of matches and all of us standing around it lighting different areas for it to finally go up, but it went up quite nicely.  I started with the wedding box.  I didn’t cry during that part.  It was the box of movie stubs and theater tickets and travel itinerary that brought on the water works.  My entire relationship, or what was left of it, was in that box.  He had walked away from that box without hesitation.  As I got to the notes, poems and songs he had written me over the years I approached ugly cry territory so a friend suggested I take a break and let everyone else burn stuff and then we burn the rest of my stuff for the grand finale.

When it was back to my turn I started dropping the papers in the fire.  It was ridiculously sad reading what he wrote to me over the years.  I just kept wondering what he would think if he read them again.  Would he say that was a long time ago and those feelings are gone?  Would he say he never meant any of it?  Would he say he meant it once but the man who wrote those didn’t exist anymore?  Would he be overwhelmed with emotion and say he’d made a mistake?  Would it change anything if he did say he made a mistake?  By that time the tears were pouring down my face and I was burning the last bits of proof that he ever loved me.

Bless one particular friend for putting a stop to the despair by shouting, “Let’s burn The Ex’s magazines!”  Blame it on the sangria.  I have the best friends.  All in all, I found that the Burn Party was quite therapeutic; I highly recommend it.

Nonline dating: A picture is worth a thousand words

I don't understand the photo choices men make in their online dating profiles.  I find myself saying stuff like, "What is the point of this picture?" a lot.  Guys, I don't care about the picture of you when you were five.  It's not cute, it's gross.  I don't want to date a five year old.  Stop posting pictures that don't show your face.  I can find out about all of your awesome hobbies once I've seen that you're not ugly and stupid.

Dear (username), I don’t think those pictures of you surfing are actually pictures of YOU surfing.  Just sayin’.

Dear (username): if you’re going to describe your body type as athletic, maybe don’t make your profile picture a topless one featuring your beer gut.  Because I can read and I can see.  And I can compare and contrast.

(Note to online men: you are not all athletic.  Before you select "athletic" as your body type, take off your clothes and look in a full length mirror.  Do you have definition in your arms and/or legs?  Do you have a six pack?  If you answered no to those questions, you need to put "average" as your body type.  It's okay.  You can be average.  Most people are.  That's why it's called average.  We will be more disappointed that you lied about your body type than by the fact that you're average.  Think about it.)

Dear (username), what made you think the sideways hat was a good choice for your profile picture? 

Dear (username), you say you have black hair but all 7 of your pictures show that you, in fact, have no hair.  I’m totally down with the bald, why you gotta lie to me before we’ve even met?  (sniff, sniff, tear) 

Dudes, honesty is the best policy.  If you're lucky enough to get to meet us, we're going to find out you lied with your pictures.  I know you're thinking that by the time we meet we'll already like you and won't care about the differences.  And we may not care about them, but we will care that you're a BIG FAT LIAR.

The UNniversary Party

I'm exhausted and mildly hung over, but it was so worth it!

There were about 20 of us meeting at That Bar in Danville.  At first, I was just going to get there early and save a bunch of tables and chairs.  Then I decided that would be too much work, so I rented the private section right behind the pianos.  Everyone arrived between 6:00 and 7:00 and dueling pianos started at 8:00.  I wanted to make buttons for everyone but I didn't know until last minute how many people were coming.  So, instead, I bought name tags.  I brought those and a bunch of different colored sharpies to the bar and wrote "Happy Jen's UNniversary!" in a color matching each person's outfit.  Because I like to color coordinate.  Because I'm awesome.  I made one for myself that said "Kiss Me, it's my UNniversary!"

I had told the woman who rented me the room what I was celebrating and she told one of the piano players.  He thought it was awesome so he asked me to explain to the entire bar what an UNniversary Party was and then he sang Uptown Girl to me.  Then, a little later, he asked me to come on stage and sit on his piano (piano actually means piano in this story).  He changed the lyrics to the song 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover to 50 Ways to Give a Hummer.  He figured that since I'm single, I should know how to do that.  (Joke's on him, because I already do!  Hah!)  It was awful, I just hate being the center of attention.  It was hilarious!  One of my friends video taped the whole thing on her phone and another friend took pictures.  First thing I did after hopping off his piano (still just a piano) was check how my cottage cheese thighs looked in the photos.  Not too bad.  Good to know I've been starving myself for a reason.

All the people at the tables directly in front of the pianos became my friends.  One group bought me a song: Hit the Road Jack!  Appropriate, no?  A group of ladies bought me a drink.  A woman in another group pulled me onto the dance floor and made all the men in her group kiss me.  Later on, a woman came up to me and said, "Would you do me a favor?  Would you go over to the man in the orange shirt and dance with him?  He's my boyfriend, he'll love it!"  Kind of awkward, but whatevs, weirder things have happened.

Throughout the night several women approached me, hugged me, and told me that they were divorced too, and an UNniversary Party is such a cool idea.  One woman told her friend they should have an UNniversary Party for a friend of theirs who just got divorced.  I feel like I should start a company that throws parties for divorced people.  I could call it "I guess not until death events."  Let's see, there's The Burn Party, The House Cleansing Party, The Divorce Party, The Name Change Party, The Divorceaversary (or Divorceavegasry) Party , The UNniversary Party...I could make a fortune!

My group started trickling out around 9:30 and by the end of the night, the only people still with me were my friend, my sister and my parents!  They totally outlasted even my youngest friends!  I am so grateful to my family and friends who were able to come out and support me.  It was the best UNniversary I've ever had.