The Man of my (Possibly Unreasonable) Dreams

I never planned on being single at 31. I never even considered it a possibility and yet this mythical milestone of my own making looms ahead in just a few weeks. The thing is, aside from the loneliness, lack of sex, self-reliance, aging ovaries and societal disapproval, being single ain’t so bad! Alright, I admit those are some significant drawbacks. But there are some noteworthy advantages to being single as well. No, really! I do tons of awesome stuff every week that makes me happy like yoga and taking Sadie the Dog to the park and happy hour and bookclub and kickball games and naps and dinner with my mom and friends and crocheting and day drinking. I don’t have to answer to anyone when I hit snooze 7 times. I can prepare just mashed potatoes for dinner if I choose to do so. I can get drunk with guy friends without any chance for suspicion. I vacation where and when I please. And yet, despite my unforeseen comfort with singledom, I’d be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that something is missing.

I’m feeling like maybe, kind of, sort of, I might consider joining the dating scene again. This time, however, I’ve got some pretty high standards. I’ve been doing some self-reflection and observation, possibly a bit too much, in fact. Suddenly, I’ve transformed into a woman with picky needs. For example, I met a cute guy recently. We’re chatting, smiling, etcetera when he mentions he’s originally from Minnesota and goes back often for some familial fun. A year ago my immediate reaction would have been, “Oh that’s so great that he cares about his family.” My actual inner monologue this time? “Ugh. Can’t marry this guy. Spending Christmas in Minnesota would be awful.” Uh oh. Am I actually a curmudgeon now? Or is something else less senior citizen at play here? Possible answer: yep. Age has set in and I’m that old maid who is too set in her ways to do crazy things like compromise on holiday plans. Or... maybe my hesitance in finding true love has put me on heartbreak alert level red. To decipher between the things I require in a partner and the excuses I have conjured up as a way to avoid having my soul trampled again, I have compiled a list of “Things I Want In A Man.”

He should obviously be educated, but not so pretentious that he insists on buying season tickets to the opera or anything else that will be beyond my limited intelligence and appreciation.

I want him to be healthy but not so overzealous that he refuses to stop at In ‘n’ Out at 1am when I am drunk and hungry.

He should be nerdy enough to do the crossword with me on Sunday mornings.

I want him to call me out on my crap but understand that I’m going to screw up sometimes and brattiness might ensue.

He must be masculine but not some macho guy who won’t let our preschooler daughter paint his toenails when she’s bored.

He should find me sexy, smart, funny and kind, in whatever order of importance I prefer at any given moment.

I want him to care about the things I care about but to be more rational than I am capable of.

I see him taller than I am, hipster glasses, a tuft of chest hair, an endearing belly, baseball caps adorning his head, and hands that make mine look feminine in comparison.

He should give into me a lot of the time but put his foot down when I’m just being ridiculous because this will no doubt occur.

I need him to want to know about my Dad, who he was, how he loved us, the life he led.

He’s got to be goofy. There’s simply no other way to grasp the true depth of my made-up, impromptu songs and underwear dances.

He’ll have to understand that I want romance and love songs and grand gestures in addition to practical displays of love like taking out the trash and picking up the dry cleaning when I get too overwhelmed with daily life. Okay, that’s a lie. I don’t dry clean clothes. He’ll have to accept that too.

And when things go bad and the wrinkles around my eyes are too deep not to notice and the kids are sleeping in our bed at 3 am and we have forgotten to pay the cable bill so we can’t watch whatever HBO drama that is making Monday nights tolerable and I once again didn’t properly cook the rice and his mother has been calling everyday in the middle of breakfast and I realize during foreplay that I haven’t shaved my legs in a week and we bicker on our trip to Paris about the accurate pronunciation of “Notre Dame” and we bury our grandparents and parents and we get tempted to stray and the car breaks down because he didn’t get an oil change when he should have... when things go bad, he won’t be afraid to stick it out. He’ll know that life is just sometimes like that and he’d rather go through it with me than anyone else.

Maybe I’m asking for a lot. Maybe I’m looking for someone who doesn’t exist. Maybe I’m too much of a pain in the ass to deserve this “ideal man.” Maybe I’m not ready to find out.

The Weak Heart

As a high school teacher (a cool one, of course) I'm often privy to the inner workings of adolescent love. It's a messy but sometimes sweet place. They hold hands on their way to the cafeteria. They kiss goodbye before walking into separate classes because they're forced to be apart for 2 brutal hours. They text their soulmate constantly, just to say they are now walking to the library and back. They call each other "sweetie," "baby," "boo," and on and on and on. They fight with as much passion. They cry. They recover.


It's been nearly 15 years since I fell madly in love with my high school sweetheart. He was hilarious and listened to ska and had an old Mustang with dual exhaust. Man, did I love that kid. It was that first love that you can never experience again. But I had my eyes on grad school and Italy and thought I would break out of Phoenix someday. He's married now and his beautiful wife beams when she talks about him. I couldn't be happier for them and the little one on the way. At the time, the heartbreak was a doozy. I knew ending it was the right thing to do but man, I loved that kid.

A couple years later my first grown-up relationship ended and I moved out of my first grown-up house. My heart hurt so badly that I was angry he helped me pack. A few more years went by and the next man I loved walked out our front door just leaving behind his favorite baseball cap and some tears. And I thought, "okay, that's it, nothing can hurt worse than this." But I came back from it and fell in love again. The guy I thought was THE GUY came around. Well, predictably, I kissed him goodbye before he drove 3,000 miles away to start a new life and now we're not even facebook friends.

I've always loved being in relationships. I thrive when I'm in love. I like having a partner to go through all of life's crap with. I'm certain I can be a brat, a nag, a bitch and who knows what else the exes would say. I miss trying hard to stay up late on Fridays to watch "The Soup" together and experimenting with recipes only to have crappy leftovers of a meal for a week and debating paint colors for the bathroom because while he may think "Contemplation" is blue, it's actually green. And it sure would've been nice to have someone to lean on when my Dad passed 3 months ago. I long for all of this and more. But when I lost my Dad, the only man who was bound by law to love me, all of this changed. Nothing has ever hurt so badly as watching his heart give out. I don't imagine anything ever could.

For once I've decided instead of trying to make up for one lost love with another, me and my heart are on hiatus; a full on sabatical from dating so I can figure out how to stand on my own two feet again without my Dad to fall back on. While the old loves of my life move on with theirs and find the girls that make their hearts skip a beat, my weak heart just can't take anymore.

In the meantime, my students are shocked when I tell them I'm not married and not dating anyone. They still believe in mushy love and have a hard time thinking anything could be more important than finding their "soulmate" and think I'm crazy for preferring walking Sadie the Dog over trolling for men. They want me to fall in love and get married and have 5 kids and live happily ever after. Fifteen years ago, I would have agreed. Hell, five months ago I would have agreed. But for now, I'm done.

Sometimes Things We Build Do Fall

No matter how hard we try, there are somethings we just cannot control. We put our everything into something that is by definition fleeting and then are hurt when it proves itself to be, in fact, temporary. I named this blog "52 weeks to find a husband" kind of as a joke. The seriousness behind it was that I needed to remind myself to keep moving forward, to continue to believe in love and forever. And this is why:

Two months ago my grandmother passed away. This marked the end of a 68 year marriage. Frankie and Annie met in wartime through mutual friends and were married 6 months later. The black and white photographs from their summer wedding day show my adoring grandfather smiling at his new bride with hope and passion. She loved his charm and he loved her Southern sweetness. It was 1942 and they were nothing short of smitten with each other when they learned they were pregnant 6 weeks later. The day I watched Frankie hold Annie one last time, I saw his whole world fall apart.

My mom and dad met at a college mixer December back in '63. Madly in love, my mom would cry when my dad dropped her off at home, in anticipation of missing him terribly. One year later John gave Toni his fraternity pin and a year after that my mom wore her mother's wedding dress to marry my dad. She loved his intelligence and he loved her kind heart. Two years ago my mom was spontaneously paralyzed and I watched my dad pace back and forth in her hospital room. This year my dad has been in the ICU 7 times and my mother has barely left his side.

The night my dad stopped breathing, I went to the only place that made any sense: The Frex's house. Despite any drama or doubts or impending doom, he took care of me in those weeks. But now the Frex is just an Ex and my fault or his, I don't have him to run to when that tiny little computer in my dad's chest shocks his heart or my own heart gets tired of seeing my parents get older.

I'm not so gullible as to believe in permanence. I get that we are feeble and fickle. Sidewalks crack and buildings collapse. Relationships crumble under the pressures of life and friendships fade away. Even our hearts stop beating. The trick might be to keep going but damn, a year has come and gone and maybe the only thing that lasts forever is the trying.

Thirty is the New Fifteen

One thing I never anticipated about playing a game made primarily for adolescents is that it actually makes you regress to adolescent dating rituals. It turns out kickball comes with nervousness, beating around the bush and silly love songs. Ahh to be 15 again.


Last week's game was notable for more reason than one, not only did "Wishful Drinking" win our first game, but I also spent a few hours on the patio of our sponsor bar with Sadie the Dog and Hipster Guy. Here's how it went down: After a highly competitive and suspenseful night of kicking, catching and throwing a giant, red, bouncy ball, Sadie and I sashayed into the bar to find Hipster Guy hanging with his team inside. I stopped to chat a bit and may have mentioned that Sadie and I would be on the patio since some lame bureaucrats think dogs shouldn't be in restaurants. A half hour later Hipster Guy and a teammate join us and I turn on the charm. (No, really, my wingwoman/teammate even told me so.)


Topics of discussion included movies, music, Canada. The evening flowed right along with a long debate regarding the song we should sing for karaoke. There were little smiles, blinking eyes, hair pushes behind the ear (on my part, that is.) I brought up my favorite movie as I so often do, "The Departed." Here's the thing, he's never seen it! I kindly mention to not watch it with me because I'll just ruin it with my incessant run-through of every other line. His response? "We'll just have to go see a movie neither of us have seen." Yep. Sweet, flirtatious but not too pushy. Liking this. I quiz him as I do most people of a certain age: Pearl Jam or Nirvana? Sadly his answer is neither but I chalk it up to being Canadian and just not understanding the Seattle angst we were all experiencing via dirty jeans and flannel. At one point Hipster Guy suggested a song that should be saved for our tenth year of marriage and the many nights of karaoke to come. Uh huh. He said it. Near the end of the evening we select and rock, I might add, "Don't You Want Me Baby." He's got dogs. He's a mechanical engineer. He laughs at my jokes. And eventhough I'm a bit freaked out about the fact that his divorce has JUST gone through, I'm feeling pretty good.


He very gentlemanly walks Sadie and I to the car and he pulls his phone out of his pocket. For some reason I choose this exact moment to say "so I'll see you next week, right?" He hesitates for a moment and then says "definitely." Somehow I find myself confused as to why Hipster Guy didn't ask for my number. The next day my roomie helpfully explains that I did an unspeakable thing: I blocked him. Apparently men have pretty sensitive egos and my cutting off Hipster Guy's attempt has put him in a rather awkward position that will have to be dealt with delicately.

The following Tuesday I'm thinking, "alright, I'm going to be super sweet and extra cool. Sadie's excited and despite a sore throat and not-so-sexy scratchy voice, Hipster Guy is obviously going to beg for my number." Sadie and I walk onto the field and Hipster Guy yells from first base "here comes trouble." Haha. Okay, so far so good. Cheesy but cute. The rest of the evening we chat occasionally but nothing of substance. I'm starting to feel discouraged. I stop by to say goodnight and that I'll be substituting nyquil for the bar. He's smiling, he's talking politics, he's only somewhat paying attention to the game he's still technically playing. After he mentions that he'll be attending a concert the following night I cleverly bring up a local band that will be playing soon. His response is what convinces me that this game must have put us back into 1995. He says "you should take me to a show sometime because I know no local bands." Oh but wait, he still doesn't ask for my number. What the what?!

I go to the source of guy mentality for the answer to my conundrum: the roomie. He informs me here's what it comes down to, I'm going to have to just give Hipster Guy my number. I'm going to actually have to put myself out there and make it clear that I'd like him to call me. Damn. Granted I've done this once before as an adult with the Frex and it worked out okay, I guess. Well, if "okay" means 2 years of fun followed by heartbreak. Double damn! Well, in the spirit of kickball, the 15 year old me wouldn't have thought twice about asking a guy out just because of the fear of rejection, maybe the 30 year old me should listen to her this time around.

Kickball is for Cool People

In order to avoid a spinsterhood filled with organized senior citizens trips to Laughlin, I took some initiative this spring and joined an organized adult kickball league. Before you laugh out loud, let's just get this out of the way: 1) I have no athletic ability; 2) the only team I've ever belonged to was the swim team in high school and i sucked; and 3) I go to bed at 9:30 pm on weeknights so that I can read in bed for an acceptable amount of time prior to a good night's sleep. Regardless, I found a kickball team nearby and used the handy-dandy internet to sign up. A week later I was placed on a team called "Wishful Drinking." This suits me just fine since 2010 turned out to involve plenty of evenings visiting my Pops in the hospital followed by wine, lots of wine. And let's be honest, I was just happy to not be put on teams with witty names like "Fifth Base" or the Frex's former team, "Pink Tacos."

Three weeks into the season, the Drinkers and I had yet to win a game but damn it, we're having fun. The team is made up of a mix of misfits. Some young and still in school and way too cool for me. Some older and settled down and just as sleepy at 9 pm as I am. There's another teacher from the Westside (insert gang sign here), an engineer, a boombox with theme music ready for our "at-bats," and pitchers with really creative form. So far our team leaders have taught me how to catch, kick and throw and have also somehow maintained their patience when I don't perform those skills in a game with the same efficacy I did during practice.

In one particular game, I was feeling pretty confident in my ability to cover 2nd base. So confident, in fact, that I was wisely using my time to flirt with the opposing team members that happened to find their way midway on the diamond. Hipster Guy from the maroon team was my favorite. Hipster Guy has retro glasses, a super trendy watch and fun shoes. I like this. We're talking, we're chatting, we're smiling. This is good! Well... that is until two innings later when Hipster Guy is up to bat again. The pitch comes right to him. He kicks. It pops up. I make the sweetest catch, not to mention athletic act, of my life. The Drinkers cheer! I cheer! Actually, I yell "Did you see that?!" and proceed to gloat for another 90 seconds. I realize in the midst of my one and only moment of kickball glory that I have probably just seriously insulted Hipster Guy. Crap. After the last pitch has been thrown and the final ball has been kicked, Wishful Drinking does what any good sportsmanlike team would do and slap hands in a line with the other team, muttering "good game, good game, good game" to each maroon t-shirted enemy. When I reach Hipster Guy in the line I say "I'm so sorry! It's the only good thing I've ever done on the team and I got excited." He mumbles some sort of conciliatory remark and I leave feeling like a jerk.

The next week I am determined to make nice with Hipster Guy. At the bar after another night of losses, my teammates and I join the maroon table and it doesn't take long for Hipster Guy to gracefully say "hey! You're the girl who was talking mad crap to me last week!" Yep, that was me. I apologize sincerely and we chat for a bit. Unfortunately for me, I also use this time to make fun of Hipster Guy for being Canadian. Now, the roomie thinks this was totally justified for as everyone knows, Canadians are just naturally targeted for teasing. However, the roomie also thinks my flirting skills have somehow deteriorated to those of a twelve year old boy who pulls the pigtails of the girl he likes. Again, I leave feeling like a jerk.

Luckily, this jerk has a new plan: buy Hipster Guy a beer next time and DON'T insult him. Okay, game on.

Second Date Jitters

Anyone can seem charming for a few hours. That's what makes first dates, while nerve-wrecking, bearable. Second dates, now those take some skill.

Last week I went on a first date with Shy Guy whom I'd been emailing with for a few weeks. I was terribly nervous for the first date because there are just some things that one cannot predict. For example, what if I have to walk around the bar looking for him and then don't recognize him from the 3 pics on www.i'm-running-out-of-back-up-husbands.com? Or what if he's creepy and we have nothing to talk about other than his extensive knowledge of serial killers? I lucked out this time; Shy Guy was gentlemanly waiting for me at the hostess stand and didn't mention Ted Bundy once. He seemed quite sweet actually. He admitted that he is shy at first but had a few funny one-liners that let me know his sense of humor is right up my sarcastic alley. He has pretty brown eyes and game seven of the NBA Championship was on to save us from any awkward silences. I impressed him with some sports jargon that I picked up from a previous relationship (I knew humoring the Sports Guy by listening to his theories on Fantasy Sports would come in handy eventually) and I made it through the whole night without revealing too much of my neurosis. He even agreed with me that Kobe Bryant shouldn't earn the VIP of the series because he's just not nice. All in all, a good first date.

But good first dates inevitably lead to second dates. I knew it right away when he texted me later that night to thank me for a fun evening. (I know, sweet, right?) I find second dates especially worrisome for a couple reasons in particular: 1) the first date adrenaline is gone so you start truly sizing up the other person, 2) you're bound to divulge some quirk that your friends find adorable but a perfect stranger would find disturbing, and 3) two weeks after my last second date I got a nasty gram via text that said I give all women a bad name for using him for a meal. Second dates are scary! They're high pressure! And who wants high pressure for happy hour on a Thursday?

To protect myself from these dangerous pitfalls I must go into tomorrow night fully prepared with a positive attitude. Since he'll most certainly be viewing me with a more detail oriented eye I will repaint my fingernails and be sure to wear something flirty and flattering. Because we'll surely be discussing more in-depth topics I will swear a vow of secrecy on anything regarding embarrassing bathroom stories, bad break-ups and fears about my aging ovaries. Due to my more discerning attitude towards him I will take the advice of one my very happily married friends and NOT look for something wrong about him. (It's a crazy concept in my perspective but it might just work.)

All of my serious relationships were with men that I had known for a decent amount of time as friends. They already knew that I was a nut. They just decided I'm like brussel sprouts with cheese sauce; the yummy part outweighed the not so yummy. Plus I knew them! It's not like I was getting into a relationship where I was unaware he was obsessed with the innerworkings of the newest Mac or once belonged to a hair band.

But life moves us onward and upward so on and up I must go. So who cares if he finds out I act out scenes of "The Departed" at home for fun? So what? Maybe with some luck he'll have an even better fake Boston accent than I.

Ah Crap

Six months into joining www.my-master's-degree-actually-decreased-my-chances-of-getting-married.com, I have been matched with nearly 1000 men in the Phoenix area. I estimate I've communicated in one way or another with 150 men. I've gone on 5 first dates and 2 second dates. To recap there was The Lawyer, then the guy who quit his job to focus on school but was actually ditching class the day of our first date, the super sweet guy who helped me paint, the guy who lied about having a baby, and last week, the photographer on-the-side stockbroker.

I've openly admitted I have very little experience with first dates. Other than the T-Shirt Guy I had been friends with my serious boyfriends for quite a while prior to conning them into loving me. In spite of my naivete I feel like I've been doing a pretty good job. I think. I cover all the basics: Polite manners? Check. Cute outfit? Check. Plethora of funny stories? Duh, check. Just to make sure, I like to go over all important points with my colleagues.

The entire English department is made well aware of my upcoming dates and are also privy to the post-date wrap-up, whether they want to hear it or not. As far as I'm concerned, it is their duty as literary experts to listen to me tell my tales. (I mean, my well developed dating narratives are definitely on par with the likes of Jane Austen, Shakespeare and Homer. What, no?) Or at the very least humor me and my silly sensibilities, whichever.

Tomorrow I will be filling them in on my date last night. This was a second date with The Stockbroker who is perfectly nice. He's successful and bright, funny and ambitious, tall, drives a nice car and most importantly, he has a dog. Truth be told, I went on this second date at the urging of some of the other teachers.

The first date was somewhat of a bust similar to the other first dates. He was nervous and a bit shy and I was nervously babbling on and on. It was a Wednesday and after a stroll through the park with the pups, who, by the way, got along splendidly, we drove to a sports bar to grab a bite. Well, kids, let's just put it out there, I'm 29 and it was a school night and damn it, I was tired! We chatted a bit but I wouldn't exactly say he knocked my socks off, figuratively speaking.

At lunch the following day, my colleagues were thoughtfully eager to get the scoop.

"Eh," I said, "it was fine. I don't know. No spark."

"Oh god, you are turning into Elaine Benes,"exclaimed my favorite 5'9", grey bearded, uber liberal, female pop-star impersonating, rogue, back-up plan sperm donor.

Defensively I yell, "Nuh uh!... Wait, how so?"

Future baby daddy proceeds to explain that I seem to find minor issues with all these guys I've gone on first dates with; insignificant flaws that I use as excuses to not go out with them again.

"That's absolutely not true!" I shoot back.

Flash of memories involving things I thought during dates: Guys should have clean fingernails. His cologne smells like a retirement home. His right ear is larger than his left. He already forgot I love Radiohead even though I said it 7 minutes ago.

Reactionary inner monologue: Ah crap.

Wait! This can't be happening! I know I want to find the one. You know I want to find the one. My next door neighbor, dog trainer and the guy who takes my order at Pei Wei do too. So if the majority of Phoenicians agree I'm ready to find the one, then why am I picking these guys apart? Simple answer, none of these 5 guys are in fact, the one. Scary answer, I'm subconsciously knocking down every guy who walks through the door out of fear, insecurity and the inability to move forward and not leaving room for the possibility that they are just nervous.

I quickly decided to accept an invitation for a second date and again, it was fine. Yummy Mexican food, lovely weather on the patio, good conversation. The thing is, I left with the same conclusion, no spark. Oh well.

There is one secret advantage to not finding the one: the infamous Elaine dance moves including the thumbs up, elbows out, hair flipping, slow kicks won't have to be seen at my wedding!