Tag Archives: dating

Kissing, kissing, kissing!

ImageOh how I love the kiss.

For me, it’s a non-negotiable. The man I spend my time with has got to know how to kiss, or it’s over before it starts. I love kissing, I love the way it makes my body screee up into a level of high pitch, the way the thrill starts from the bottom of my spine and drags its fingers right up into the base of my head.

I love the gentle kiss, the touching of lips. One of my boyfriends in university won me by sweeping a kiss past me so quickly I felt nothing but a whisper of longing.

I love the deeper kiss, the one that speaks of lust and longing and the promise of delights to come.

I love the sneaky kiss, the one on my neck while I’m cooking, the one when I least expect it, the one outside on a cold day when lips are cold and mouths are warm.Image

Once, when I was lonely, I used to fantasize about stopping at a red light and seizing some hapless fellow waiting to cross the street and kissing him, just to feel that touch. Fortunately, I didn’t do this, and thus remain un-incarcerated…

It’s caused me no end of trouble, this kissing thing. Usually, when I date someone, if they seem interesting, I kiss them. It’s part of my assessment. If they are able to respond well, I might stick around. If they, like my poor ex, react in a totally startled way (he backed up into the wall and knocked a bunch of pots into a noisy clangle, god love him, but then he was young then and inexperienced and I probably frightened him), I might reassess. If they grab me and immediately go for the breast, I know they are more focused on getting than giving.

It’s a wonderful thing, kissing, when practised well. It’s worth learning to do properly, without sliming your co-kisser or trying to eat her face (men seem to like this. I don’t know why. Something to do with pheromones or something.)

A truly wonderful kiss adapts to the wants and desires of the participants, moving quicker or slower, shallower or deeper as the moments pass. 

It’s Valentine’s week. Pucker up, people. 


Dried up and sick to death of love…

LiverpoolStation-dWell, here it is, February 4th and already I am on the dried up and sick to death of love post. It’s from Elton John’s song, “This train don’t stop there anymore”, which has spoken to me ever since it came out, as I struggled through the last years of my marriage.

(I’d alternate between this and “The Bitch is back” depending on how feisty I felt)

There’s something quite horrid about the breakup of a marriage. It usually doesn’t end with a bang. It’s more like the years of piled up hurts gradually start an avalanche that is impossible to stop. And while it is piling up, there’s the heartbreak, the happy memories that crumble to the ground, crushed in the ugliness of what is happening right then.

It’s been many years and still his abandonment of me hurts.

He’s remarried, and I hope he is happy. I’ve not, and I hope I am. I think, overall, though there’s the need for touch, I don’t think I’ll let my heart be taken again.

You may not believe it
But I don’t believe in miracles anymore
And when I think about it
I don’t believe I ever did for sure

So what’s started this new onslaught of bitterness after my hopeful posting yesterday?

Ah. The online dating sites.

Gruesome. Totally gruesome. I don’t think I can stand them anymore, and yet, how does anyone meet anyone in their fifties?

It’s sad – all these men smiling hopefully into the camera, not noticing the gawdawful mess in the room behind them, matched by women done up to the nines, wearing push-up bras and enough makeup and hair dye to support a third world country. Men who are seriously 4’s on the 1-10 scale, demanding 10s. Smokers demanding healthy people. People who are substance-ly retired (e.g. alcoholics) sending me messages saying “Hi sexy” as if I am panting for attention and would take even them on for a night. And among them, me, probably feeling more like a loser than I ever have, being round and disabled and grey-haired in a perky breasted world.

It’s fecking ridiculous. I am worth more than this foolish tarting of my qualities to appeal to a dreg of humanity.

So I decide to back off, cancel my profile, step back, hide. Focus on the things that make me feel good about myself.

But it’s addictive. Like chocolates, I can’t help but peek, though I know it’s not good for me.

And even now I find myself saying, “not that there’s anything WRONG with the ‘dregs’ of humanity”, and it’s true, I don’t mean to sound judgmental. Well, except for about the “Hi, sexy” people who just want to get laid without having to pay for it. They need a good slap upside the head.

It’s all fine and good to get together for an evening to talk or whatever with someone totally unlike you. But there’s no staying power, and so it ends up being a waste of my time and theirs. (Although I do like to understand how people live their different lives…). And difference can add spice, as long as there is a connection somewhere, but too much spice burns the tongue.

When I said that I don’t care
It really means my engine’s breaking down
The chisel chips my heart again
The granite cracks beneath my skin
I crumble into pieces on the ground

My engine is tired. I think it may be time to close down this station for renovations.


Vengeance is mine?

ImageSeems to me someone said that once, and it wasn’t about all of us just wandering about blowing each other’s heads off.

But things are getting out of hand.

I was working out in the gym the other day, happily listening to some be-boppy music and watching the TVs in front of me, rather idly, through the sweat running into my eyes. I dunno, but I think I saw on CMT (Country Music Television) a set of songs involving women’s vengeance on men. It was all helpfully subtitled so I could read the words, and the visuals swam by rather horrifically. 

The first one was about a woman whose man beat her up, so she planned to stand behind the door, light a cigarette, and shoot him through the head with her gun. Sweet.

The next one showed a woman carrying a draining gas tank through the town to where she saw her guy in bed with another woman. She lit the gas trail and it whipped through the town, ending up by burning down his house. Maybe he was in it. I don’t know.

Doesn’t this seem a bit extreme? Why not just leave? Heck, if you are strong enough to go to all that prep, you surely have the moxie to move on and find someone worthy of your attention, right?

Of course, it seems more shocking since it’s a woman doing all this – we’re so accustomed to the male “You done me wrong so I’m going to kill you” meme we barely blink an eye. I always have hopes that women will turn out to be better at things than men. After all, we have the capacity. We just let men think they’re in charge a lot of the time because they can’t cope with the alternative. We could be in charge, but we don’t want the hassle, right?

Turns out we often are better. At vengeance. We women step up to the plate and are nastier than the men we deride. The other day in church, a woman who feels above us all called out our minister in public for some perceived slight. She explained that she had a much closer contact with God than the rest of us, so she needed to move on. Fine. Move on. But spreading discord in your wake? Needless and hurtful. 

Other women compete with friends, put them down, run back end sorties to scoop the sand from under them and rejoice in their fall. It’s horrible. Like the men we accuse, we spend out energies getting even, instead of starting over and living positively. At least men just punch and move on. Most of the time. Not that that is okay, either.

In any case, the whole vengeance thing is flawed. We often don’t have all the information, we are muddled by our own thoughts and desires and fears and inadequacies. Judges have a tough time assigning blame, and they have a rule book and are not personally involved. We’re hot under the collar and hurt and filled with incorrect information and phlegm, and direct energy negatively instead of positively. 

Like the women in the videos, maybe the problem isn’t so much external as internal.

As Despair.com says, maybe The only consistent feature in all of your dissatisfying relationships is you.

Why not leave vengeance to those responsible for it, and instead move on, forgive, not forget, not repeat, learn, make a new ending?

I love the quote from Joyce Meyer: Harbouring unforgiveness is like drinking poison and hoping your enemy will die.

There’s enough violence in the world to go around: physical, structural, emotional, financial. Let’s not get into it or sponsor the idea that it’s empowering to attack others.

It isn’t.

The true power and strength is in not attacking others.


Women are from Venus, and perhaps men should go to Mars…

My favorite cartoon character is Marvin the Martian.  I love the way he walks, self-important, with his feet moving too quickly to be believed, and the way he uses his “lludium Q-36 Explosive Space Modulator” to try to improve his view of Venus by destroying the earth.

It all seems quite apt.

I’ve been dating men for the past four years and I remain confused by them.  Still entranced, yes, but confused. I LIKE men.  They are funny and worldly and they smell good.  And sometimes, if you play it just right, they kiss you and that is loveliness in total. I once naughtily kissed a man when on a date with another and I can still taste the thrill of that kiss, it’s forbiddenness. It was a good kiss, too.

But I don’t get them. Men, I mean.

First of all, for some reason, they all feel they need to inform me that I am short. I’m over 50.  I kind of knew that, after years of hemming, hemming, endlessly hemming. Yet they feel compelled to point it out to me, like it was something new, something that just happened to me that morning. “Oh, dang it, my calves fell off!” I know it’s a shock, but what strikes me is that they don’t say it immediately.  They wait, until I figure they’ve come to terms with the height thing, and then they mention it, in a puzzled sort of way. Like they’ve been waiting for me to fully unfold myself and realize it isn’t going to happen.

Then there’s the whole dating dynamic. The pursuit, as one ex-date-now-friend told me – that’s the thing.  You can never look interested.  you must always look as if you are having a slightly bad time. Otherwise the guy will assume he has you and lose interest himself. You have to make it hard for them. As it were, not to get graphic in a family oriented column.

I have a problem.  When I am enjoying myself, I can’t help but let it show.  I smile outrageously, I laugh, I give spontaneous touches, maybe even a hug. I like kissing, so I do. I can’t pretend to be bored, and even if I am, I feel I am too well-bred (do get your minds out of the gutter) to show it. Politeness is my creed. (combined with whip smarting emails, but that’s another topic)  I remember spending an entire afternoon in a fellow’s basement apartment chewing through my watch band with frustration and boredom but still smiling sweetly whenever he looked at me.  Why?  I dunno.  Some weird Venusian reflex. Heaven forbid he know I was having a bad time.

So my various dates all apparently assume I am easily entertained and they immediately drop the ball (behave!) on the entertainment side, offering to come over and watch movies endlessly, or leaving me to organize entertainments (nice sometimes) rather than planning for an event (nice other times).

I am easily entertained.  Life is filled with joyful things, from crazy 1970’s films to the smell of a woodland pathway to the soaring arias of opera. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a little effort now and again.

So I fail the “be difficult” task, although I try to strive for it by being flighty and trying to avoid commitment.  So far this is working well.  I have no commitments. Hmmm.

Then there are the other misunderstandings. For women, if someone flies miles just to see you and clasps you in an embrace, well, that’s often enough to set our little hearts to pitter patting about romance and breathy long distance phone calls and secret meetings in hotel rooms and professions of endless love. For a man, well, it was a nice contact, and isn’t it great to see her again. Now, back to our regularly scheduled program…

I used to think of myself as the anti-romantic. Married for years to the most practical of men, raising kids all over the world, I just gave it all up.  When I started dating, I was totally practical.  One fellow I told, hey, this is just for fun.  We don’t have to get serious ever.  Let’s just enjoy each other’s company. He got romantic and it spoiled everything. Moments after declaring his love for me, he dropped me. It was all very odd. And it hurt.

So, I thought, we’ll give up on the romance thing, totally. We’ll just meet men, get to know their life stories, have fun, and then when they leave me, well, it won’t hurt and really it’s all good. I felt all superior to the women in the gossip columns who were going on and on about how their boyfriend broke their heart.  “Don’t give it to them!” I’d say to the paper. “Keep it in its wrapper and no one will get hurt….”

Well, then I had the misfortune to actually fall in love with someone. It wasn’t easy for him. I was balky, still am, I fought the whole way.  Maybe the pursuit thing kept him going, and my ex-date-now-friend was right. I was there for this man, spent hours with him, etc., etc., but kept a large part of me hidden. Patiently, he teased it out. I let myself slide gently into love. I allowed myself to think about the future.  Eventually, sadly, it didn’t work out. So I picked up my heart and tried to wrap it up again. In tin foil this time, to resist the rays.

But now it’s all ruined for me. I can’t pretend that I don’t want romance any more. I have slipped into the wallowing side of things, daydreaming about past beaux, envisioning living with someone again, sharing lives, vacations, early morning laughter and late night conversations. I have become impractical about love now, and it’s a dangerous place to be. Any day now I will buy a subscription to Harlequin Romances and spend days in fruity bubble bath sobbing over stories of girls who have found their secret prince, despite, of course, not being the type to actually LOOK for one. Because of that pursuit thing.

Marvin, in his desire to see Venus, tries to destroy Earth. Romance, in its passion to look, Mars to Venus, blasts practicality to smithereens with that danged space modulator, leaving nothing standing to ground us. I’m feeling the space wind blowing about my calves.  The ones that surprisingly are still attached to my legs.

Trust and love and all that junk

For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.
Rainer Maria Rilke

I’ve been separated  for four or so years now (strange concept that is, giving one the image of a disconnected skeleton), divorced for one less. It’s funny to me that I can’t remember the exact time, but then I had trouble remembering our marriage date, too. I blame MS. Or the stress surrounding such a decision.

We parted as amicably as two married for almost 25 years people can do, with, as is usual, the real fighting occurring over money. It seems always thus.  What is it about money that makes us so bitter, grasping, when otherwise we are kind, giving, understanding?

As the years have gone by, I’ve had my angry moments.  Moments where I would write all the reasons I left on a scrap of paper (or several) and then burn them. I’ve had my moments of doubt – could I have stuck it out? Was it really that bad?  I’ve had moments of sorrow, as I’ve watched the effect of the divorce on my children, one of whom still isn’t speaking to me. I’ve made decisions based on little information and lost in the process. I’ve got to say it’s been a few years of learning, intense focused learning, about the world and about myself. It’s been really tough.

Toss in a bout of MS and job loss and I figure I could top out the stress scale.

The thing that has surprised me the most is how I relate to men now. I’ve dated pretty extensively and met some wonderful men. In fact, all of them were pretty wonderful – okay, barring two or three. Men of a “certain age” fascinate me.  I love hearing about their lives, so different from my own. I enjoy seeing how they see the world – as a military wife, I was not expected to show any interest in any of the men about me – in fact I was told I shouldn’t speak to them, particularly when my husband wasn’t home. Very 1950’s, Mad Men-ish. So now I find I am hungry for knowledge of how men get through their days, with the expectations society puts on them, their doubts and insecurities and hopes and dreams.

But I’ve also found out I don’t trust them. Whether this is their fault or mine, I’m not sure.  All I know is that I find it so hard to relax into a love relationship, trust in the future, believe. I trusted once and spent a great deal of my life being told I was less important than this paper or that article or that student. It hurt me. Because of this, I choose to be in control of my relationships. Which I find conflicts with the love thing.

Like many women, I have two bad parts that deny me healthy relationships.  One is the caretaker/martyr gene, which makes me want to take on men who need help and support them, despite the resentment that eventually occurs. The other is the people-pleasing gene (the main reason I should never have tried management).  So I go along, hiding any concerns, trying to pretend everything is fine when I am quite fed up.  I let the line be pushed until all I can can see is the desire for exit.  Or, alternatively, I hang on to a relationship for months, years, just because it is so much easier than making the decision to leave.

When I first separated (arms and legs scattering all over), my goal with dating was to have fun.  To explore myself as a woman with a foil of another man. I fell in love once or twice, little loves.  Inappropriate loves. Trial loves. It stretched my heart.  I was used, too, by men who weren’t interested in me really, but that was okay, because I wasn’t really interested in them, either, and was using as much as being used. It was all quite a learning experience and I have to admit I was lucky to come away with heart, body, and soul intact. (though perhaps ever so slightly soiled). But I didn’t really learn how to love. These men I sent away on a whim, I grieved not (well, maybe with one or two), I immediately threw myself into the fray again, ready for a new play partner.

I’m no longer interested in the play, though. I want more. I want true connection.

I just left a long-term relationship because , although I truly wanted to try for a long term connection with this very lovely man, I could see it wasn’t going to happen. He was sweet, kind, etc., etc., but something wasn’t there. Or rather, too many things were there. Complications. Concerns. Not his fault, but not mine either.  Sometimes the pieces of a puzzle look like they fit and you can even squeeze them into the place they look like they belong, but when you get further in the puzzle, you realize that the piece you’ve shoved in place really belongs somewhere else. The nubby bits are slightly off, the colours don’t quite match, and no matter how much you wish they would be right, they just aren’t.

I’ve learned more about myself and about relationships from my time with this man than I expected.  And I thank him for his patience with me. It is humbling.  I still have so much to learn.

A good friend of mine once advised me: “Never make a decision by not making a decision”. It was good advice, and though it was given over 30 years ago, I can still hear it in my head. Not that I’ve always listened…He was right, though – deciding by letting things slide is never as satisfactory as when you move consciously in the direction you need to go.

Perhaps I am doomed to solitude, or multiple cat ownership.  But by making the decision to move forward, maybe I’ve opened myself to opportunity.

Go away – you’re bugging me!

Across the animal kingdom, females often resist male advances and only a small fraction of mating attempts are successful.

Never is this more true than in the online dating world, where introductions start out so prettily but can end in a naturalist’s nightmare. Mr. “Looking for Love 52” turns out to be looking for something somewhat less.  The guys who want to go for walks on the beach are using code words for, “I’m broke and sure hope you have a car”. And “looking for a soulmate” means “my lease is up and I need somewhere to live, preferably with a laundry”.

I just don’t think we’ve got the dating thing down right yet. We haven’t moved on from the creepy crawly stage.

The female Evarcha Culcivora, otherwise known as the tourism destroying “blood gorging jumping spider” of East Africa, prefers to date big male spiders, who may devour her, before settling for a smaller guy.

Human women still go after the big bad boys, ignoring the gentler, kinder, good provider types. Show me a guy with no visible means of support and a fast car, and my heart speeds up. Maybe it’s the fight or flight reflex, but it sure feels like falling in love.

Female mice chase male mice they know are already taken.  Female humans chase Johnny Depp.

And once a woman gets her mate? We tear their heads off, like praying mantises. Praying Mantis males apparently don’t like being consumed after being mated with.  I’d like to see those survey results.  They are probably relieved they don’t have to support all 1500 little ones as they hatch.

Men are worse. They chase the elusive “babe”, ignoring the rest of us.  Male fruit flies mate with big beautiful female fruit flies over and over, wearing them out and producing poor wee babies, wrapped in rags.  The smaller fruit flies hang about, waiting to be asked for a dance and weeping into their bananas.

When males chase, they are inexhaustible. Females have to develop special techniques to repel them. The inflatable cane toad puffs herself up to push off any mates that don’t fit her requirements. I’m using that as my excuse for weight gain while married.

As an over 50 woman, gravity has deflated what used to be attractive, and I remain inflated. Time in the gym to work on the inflation just seems to shift everything to my ankles, where it puddles.

The males still pursue, and predators hang out at any singles dance. When online, I get instant messages from spiders much too young to be out at night. Makes me long for a nice, crunchy Praying Mantis.