Off the hook

A few months ago there was an episode of "How I Met Your Mother" guest starring Carrie Underwood. Underwood played Tiffany, a pharma sales rep Ted was totally enamored with. She showed just enough interest in him to keep him chasing after her, leading his friends to tell him that she had him "on the hook."

In other words, she was keeping him dangling.

We've all been there. He doesn't necessarily want to take you on a date, but he wants to come to your house and hang out. He's dating other women and may even have a girlfriend, but he tells you his secrets and tells you how great you are. He calls all the time and seems just enough into you that you tell yourself it's just a matter of time before he sees how great you are.

The problem is, he already realizes you're great. You know, in that asexual kind of way. You're awesome, you have a lot in common, and you're good enough to keep around in case things don't work out with the other women he's dating.

But do any of us really want to be the one he settled for? Or do you want to be the one?

So do us a favor guys, and stop being a hooker.

The Fabio principle

I blame it on the Harlequin romance novels.

My mom did a great job in fostering a love of reading in me. She took me to the library every summer and allowed me to read things I wanted to read, rather than try to force me to read things I had no interest in. So I can't quote "War and Peace," but my bookshelf held all 72 volumes of the "Sweet Valley High" series by the time I was in sixth grade. Oh, those Wakefield twins... they could get into some hijinks.

During high school, about the time I started dating, I graduated from tween novels that ended with innocent kisses to books with more adult content. And by adult content, I mean the romance novel genre. With chiseled men on the front cover who had names like Dirk and Gage. They were usually misunderstood fellows, who either (a) had a solitary job like cattle herding, or (b) were rich playboys who'd yet to settle down with the right woman.

There'd be a meet-cute, like reaching for the same carton of milk at the supermarket. Sparks would fly, and soon there would be heaving bosoms and hanky panky in the barn.

I was hooked. And it wasn't about the new glimpse into forbidden topics around my house. Because I knew stuff. We got cable when I was in fourth grade, and my brother watched "The Van" 432 times one summer. I looked up the words I didn't know in the family dictionary.

But the books were more about the romance. The perfect man. Because no matter how flawed he seemed at the beginning of a novel, by the end it was discovered that he was merely afraid of falling in love. Or he was protecting his woman from danger. It only took the love of a good woman to turn him onto romance.

There were flowers and dinners and easy confessions. The men talked about their feelings.

But, let's face it, that's mostly fantasy. Men really don't act that way. They don't always say the right thing or buy the right gift or even consider the grand gesture.

So I figure I have two choices: (a) stay happily single; or (b) accept that reality isn't anything like novels or romantic comedies. In real life, Harry might meet Sally, but he'd never realize she was the one. Oh, he'd still spend the night with her and then say something stupid the next morning. But that would be the end of their story.

John Cusack won't be holding up a boom box outside of my house anytime soon. Jake Ryan won't be leaning on his Porsche on my birthday. And we won't all live happily ever after. Unless we accept that happiness is relative. And we can't depend on anyone else--male or female--to make us happy.

What's wrong with you?

Just spent an hour on the phone commiserating with the other half of LoriSquared. We have so much in common besides our name. The excessive height. The sarcasm. The ambition. The sad singleness.

But, unlike me, she still possesses hope. She's still out there, going on tons of dates in the off-chance that the next one might be the right one. She still believes in love.

And I guess I believe in love, too. I just think it's elusive.

You can't be single for nearly four decades without developing a hatred for the inevitable questions about your sexual orientation, standards, or childbirth goals. I, for one, am sick of it.

Because, really, are my standards excessively high because I'd like a man who doesn't collect figurines? Because I don't need a man to protect me or pay my bills? If I say "no" to a date with a guy who's been married four times and beaten all of of his wives, does that really make me impossible to please?

But I guess we're all conditioned to question those who don't adhere to society's expectations. Just two days ago I had lunch with a pal who tried to set me up with Mr. Golf Injury. Turns out he's never been married. My first thought: "What's wrong with him?"

Eeek! What's wrong with me? Why do I automatically assume he's inherently flawed because he's never said "I do?" Maybe he, like me, never intended to still be sleeping alone. But life has a funny way of being impossible to predict.

And, just in case you're wondering, I don't have cats, I still like boys, and I'm not that picky. It's a dating jungle out there and I forgot my bug spray, so I'm hanging out in the tent for awhile. Maybe that makes me lazy or cynical or realistic, but I'm tired. In the meantime, if you find Mr. Wonderful wondering the streets of NWA, send him my way. But not if he's wondering what's wrong with me.

Can we talk?

It’s been said that youth is wasted on the young. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s certainly true that the millennials have changed the landscape of just about everything, from technology to consumerism to dating.

Take, for example, my awesome nephew. As a high school senior, his college selection process has been frustrating for me as a higher education marketer. I spend hours crafting well-worded e-mails to get my point across in as few words as possible. He hasn’t opened a single e-mail from a college, choosing instead to save them in a folder in case he wants to read them later.

He’s also recently gained a girlfriend, a designation I discovered via Facebook when his status changed to “in a relationship.”

Facebook has forever altered the landscape of relationship definition. No longer is one required to have “the talk” to determine coupledom. Rather, you simply search for the username of your beloved, and Facebook sends him a message to confirm that you are, in fact, in a relationship. That’s much less awkward than having your girlfriends track down the guy you’re dating during lunch to ask him if he’s into you. Now you know when all of his 500+ so-called friends know.

On the way to Fayetteville last night after the game, I asked Taylor about his new girlfriend. Evidently they were talking as friends and then they were “talking” and now she’s his girlfriend.

Huh? What’s the difference between talking and “talking”?

A lot evidently. No longer do teens “go together” like we did when I was in high school. Now they “talk.” But they talk as friends before the “talking” designation indicates their pre-relationship status.

Is there some sort of handout for this? I’m afraid I might be talking to someone and end up inadvertantly married.

The gist of it is this: you may start talking as friends, but then “the talk” leads to “talking.” Got that?

All the pics from the district championship are here.

Desperation Samba

Just returned from the birthday party. We actually had a lot of fun, and the night went about as well as it could have. Awkwardness over. Friendship train back on track.

I knew most of the folks there, save a few, including one particular divorcee who set her sights on LB about 30 seconds after we arrived. To be fair, I'm not always great at the flirting, but I'm embarrassed for this poor girl. It was both blatant and ridiculous.

She asked him what he did. Then where he lived. He told her the town, but she wanted to know the subdivision.

She'd known him for four minutes at this point.

She asked him his birthday and then his astrological sign. She whipped out her iPhone so that she could use her horoscope app to test their compatibility.

Honey, Studio 54 called, and they want their pick-up line back.

God bless my friend Lela, who said (out loud), "Are you going to run his credit report too?"

Poor girl. I'm sure all she wanted was a new baby daddy for her three kids, but honestly, does that work on men? It certainly didn't on this one. She left the club alone and LB went home with me.

On the way Lela informed him that he needed to date a girl who hadn't been married and had no kids. He replied those were hard to find. She told him she knew a great one who happened to be in the car. Subtle, Lela.

He didn't take the bait, but I'm happy that we're back to being friends. If he doesn't realize how great I am, that's his loss, right?

Pics from this week are here.

It ain't easy being green

I hate Valentine's Day.

There are two nights out of the entire year that it really sucks to be single. One is New Year's Eve. The other, Valentine's Day.

The other 363 I don't mind being alone. Right now I'm watching a cheesy show on the CW in my flannel pajamas, wearing glasses and Crest white strips. My legs aren't shaved. My hair's in a clip. My top and bottoms don't match. Ah, the fabulous life of the single gal.

I just painted a purple accent wall in my bedroom. No man would let me do that.

Glamour aside, my life is going pretty well right now. I have plans with great friends three nights in a row this weekend. My job is good (and I'm grateful to have one). But Valentine's Day looms. That Hallmark, red rose and haiku festival of love. In 13 days. With no man on the horizon.

Without a doubt, the worst part of this stupid holiday is the pity others seem to think I deserve. Last year one of my coworkers felt bad that I didn't get flowers, so she left one of the 18 she received from her husband on my desk. Yeah, thanks for the pity rose, pal.

I usually get some cursory gifts from friends, with comments of "Well we didn't want you to not get anything today...." Seriously. I'm okay with that. It's much less painful than others wrapping stuff up because they feel sorry for me.

My pal Lori B, who's also single (and amazing, which makes me realize boys are really stupid) sent me an email today from a local restaurant, detailing their Valentine's Day plans. This is a first-rate joint, with servers and assistant servers and reservations and bottle service. They also have a great bar area that they're trying to establish as the permier Happy Hour locale of NWA.

So, on Thursday, February 11, they'll be featuring a fabulous mixer after work, and are encouraging patrons to color code themselves for easy identification. If you're taken, you're to wear red. If you're in a relationship but it's not serious, you're supposed to wear yellow. Single? Wear green.

What the heck is the significance of green? Red is the official color of Valentine's Day, so I suppose that makes green the color of mold? Not the bloom from the rose, but the extra leaves that get cut off. Why don't we all just stamp our forehead with a big "L" for loser and call it a night?

I can tell you one gal who won't be wearing green for Valentine's Day. I'll be in black in protest of this stupid holiday.

And no, I'm not online dating. Shut up.

I'll have what she's having

The difference between single girls and married girls is more marked than tax brackets and salutations. It's a classic case of "the grass is always greener" I suppose.

Never is this more apparent than during Girls' Night Out festivities. The Mrs./Mommy camp need to escape from desperate housewife-ness to a hotel room and nice restaurant. The Miss contingent often considers a weekend of being at home a nice change from eating out and constant travel.

The Mrs. group wants to trade in yoga pants and carpools for short skirts and sexy boots. The Miss cohort wishes they were at home in yoga pants and flip flops.

The marrieds want to flirt with guys at the bar. The singles know he's most likely (a) married; (b) gay; (c) a commitmentphobe; or (d) a crazy stalker who will incessantly call/text/generally not get the hint after a bad date. Stop questioning our high standards; we're not picky so much as tired of picking out losers.

Somewhere between the first date and the crappily ever after, some married women start to envy the life of the single gal. After all, we don't have to justify how many pair of shoes we own. We can sleep in until noon on the weekends. We don't have to wonder if anyone drank straight out of the milk carton. The toilet seat is always down when we need it. We always have control over the remote.

And yeah, we can go out and party every night. But we don't. Because it's not as much fun when you're alone.

So maybe your husband has gained some weight or lost some hair since you married him. And maybe he's not as romantic as you'd like. But you never have to worry about slipping in the shower and no one finding your body for days. You don't have to skip weddings and other social events because you have no one to be your plus one.

You may love the occasional nights of a bed all to yourself, but you don't have to stress about always sleeping alone. We pay higher taxes. We squash our own bugs. We pay premium to have things shipped that are too heavy for us to carry.

It can be lonely. It can be fabulous. No one liked it enough to put a ring on it, after all. So drink up, married women. Your life isn't so bad.

All my exes live in cyberspace

I'm a big fan of Facebook. I love that I can keep in touch with friends and family I wouldn't otherwise talk to. I enjoy looking at other people's photos and commenting on statuses. I appreciate that more than 500 people have called me friend.

Facebook has even changed the face of dating. No longer are we forced to trust our well-meaning friends when they talk about a guy's great personality when trying to arrange a blind date, because chances are, he has a Facebook profile we can peruse. We can discover his hobbies, likes and dislikes, and, if we're really lucky, we may stumble onto a few hundred photos of him to browse.

But one of the thorniest issues to me is whether or not to friend your exes. Granted, it's fun to look at their profiles and see if they've gained weight or lost hair, but do you really want to know what he's doing 24/7 unless you're stalking him?

Someone I know has an ex who sends her a friend request every Thanksgiving and she's declined it five years running. I suppose the phrase "I never want to talk to you again" didn't sink in for him.

I admit to being friends with a couple of exes on Facebook, one of whom occasionally makes comments on my wall that make me uncomfortable. I didn't really have a problem accepting his friend request since I'm totally over him and am genuinely happy for him on his marriage, and I don't spend hours pouring over his posts and tracking his every move. That's probably because things didn't end badly. In fact, I don't even remember why we broke up. But that doesn't mean that his wife would find it cool that he's sending private messages to his ex-girlfriend. And I don't find it cool, either.

One of my exes actually has a fan page on Facebook (throwing up in my mouth here). I've never received an invite to become a fan (trust me, I am so not a fan), but a friend of mine did, and he found it hilarious before hitting "decline."

So yeah, I may spend time looking at profiles of exes on Facebook, but do I accept their friend requests? On one condition: if I no longer wish them ill. After all, I'd rather be updated about random people I barely know than ones I know too well and regret wasting time on.

Just friends

Someone once told me that men and women can never be just friends. I'm not sure that's true, but I do think it's difficult when you're both single and straight. One of you is usually going to start considering why you're not more than friends, and that's where the problems start. Because if he wants to be with you all the time but isn't trying to date you, chances are he finds you repulsive, right?

Welcome to the single woman's mind.

When we've been considering coupledom with a single guy friend and have to hear "I just don't think about you in that way," it's tough to recover. We compare ourselves to the girls he does date. We wonder why we weren't hot enough to catch his attention. We may even obsess about it a bit. Ok, we obsess about it A LOT.

And yeah, we agree to remain his friend and we say it with the best of intentions, but don't expect us to smile gamely when he dates our friends. Don't be surprised when we don't call because we don't want to hear what he's been doing (unless it includes really missing us).

But when he does give us some time and space, occasionally we are able to open the door again. Because, let's face it, it's hard to find a really great friend. And when you do, even if he doesn't get how fabulous you are, you've got to decide if you'd rather suck it up and move on, or hold a grudge for the rest of your life with one less friend.

Honestly, I have remained friends with very few guys I've dated or wanted to date, but I've decided to make LB the exception. We're moving forward in our quest to sustain the friendship after "the talk," even if it is six months later. I've invested a lot of time and energy in this guy. He'd better be worth it.

Pink hearts, yellow moons, blue stars and green clovers

As an official member of GRITS (girl raised in the south) club, I fully understand the difference between dressing and stuffing. I know cornbread always tastes better baked in a cast iron skillet. And while my mama warned me that if I don't have anything nice to say not to say anything at all, luckily for all of you, I didn't heed that advice.

In the south, we believe that any comment, no matter how mean, that's precluded by the phrase "bless your heart" shouldn't be taken in offense. For example, my granny saying, "Bless her heart, she's always been chunky" wasn't hurtful in her opinion. I beg to differ. But I suppose if you say anything sweetly and in a southern drawl, it takes some of the sting out of the painful truth.

Which brings me to the story of a disastrous blind date. Bless his heart, he was peculiar.

He was sweet when we met for lunch, taking me to a great restaurant and hanging on my every word. He was complimentary of my intelligence, my wit, and my looks. I really wanted to ignore my first impression that it wasn't going to be a great date, for he was a nice guy with an enviable profession. He loved to travel and was well read. And, best of all, he was really fascinated by me.

As well he should be. Because I'm normal.

After paying the check, he asked if I was in a hurry. Scared to answer, I simply told him I had an appointment in 90 minutes. He invited me back to his place to "see his art," and that wasn't a euphemism.

We arrived at his house, where he showed off his vegetable garden, his extensive china collection, and his rare antiques. After momentarily questioning his sexuality, I realized that all of my gay friends had fabulously decorated homes, so I put the issue to rest.

Then he guided me into the living room, where displayed on his mantle was the centerpiece of all bachelor pads: a unicorn collection.

Yes, unicorns. Big ones. Small ones. Blue ones. White ones. Unicorns on staircases. Unicorns frolicking with leprechauns.

(Cue music from "Deliverance.")

Reminding him of my appointment, I made haste. After two weeks of incessant calls and texts, he eventually figured out I was not meant to be Mrs. Unicorn.

I'm sure he had visions of us frolicking in a field of clovers while riding unicorns bareback, but life is not a fairy tale. And real girls are freaked out by mythical creates in porcelain form. Game over, Unicorn Man. Bless your heart.

All about Steve #2 (Loser boy #1)

This weekend I wasted 96 minutes and five bucks watching the travesty of a rom-com "All About Steve." Before viewing, I thought, how can a movie with Sandra Bullock and Bradley Cooper be bad? Ugh. In too many ways to count. Wow, that script was terrible.

As previously reported, I spent the end of my work day yesterday talking to my new friend Burney, who never fails to make me laugh. We were trading dating war stories, comparing notes of how we're always the one before THE ONE, and I told him my best "at least now I can laugh about it" romantic tale, which happens to be about a boy named Steve.

{Story detour... just call me Donna Kay: while I intend to honor my pledge to survive 2010 resolution-less, I nevertheless have a mental list of things I intend to do, one of which is to hone my writing skills by devoting more attention to this blog. Less drivel, more funny anecdotes. To that end, I pledge to readjust my dating Karma by sharing some thoughts about exes. Some of the details may be changed to make the stories more amusing, but the gist will be true.}

My very sweet and well-intentioned neighbor, who also happened to be the same age as my mother, stopped by my house one day and asked if she could introduce me to a friend of hers. Skeptical, I dug deep and remembered I can't say no to nice people, so I agreed.

He was an engineer (plus) and recently divorced (minus) but had no kids (plus plus). We met for Chinese food and it was lust at first sight. Holy fried rice that man was smoking hot.

We casually dated for a couple of months, planning lunches and movies and trips to the lake. I liked him, sure. Did I mention he was hot?

The only issue for me was that I was pining for another guy. Who was--coincidentally but quite confusingly--also named Steve. But that's a story for another time.

One July morning I boarded a plane for a six-day sorority convention (which was as cheesy as you'd imagine) after bidding Steve #2 goodbye on the phone. He asked how long I'd be gone. I promised to call when I returned.

Eight days later I called him at work and was told he was "unavailable." He never called me back. I wondered what had happened. I got my answer the next day when a friend called and said "Aren't you dating Steve Lastnamewithheld?"

"Sorta," I responded. "Haven't talked to him since I got back from Atlanta."

Turns out he had a good reason. He was on his honeymoon.

I go away for less than a full week and the dude's wedding picture is in the paper. His bride? An 18-year-old Subway sandwich artist. {Lela thinks her title should be capitalized, but I refuse to do so on moral grounds.}

Granted, we were not serious and had I found out he was dating someone, I would have wished him well. But what are the chances he went in for a footlong, came out with a fiance, and a photographer was there to capture it on film? All in one week's time?

Moral of the story? Guys, I know "the talk" makes you uncomfortable, but if you've been out with a chick more than five times, you owe her a phone call before she sees your wedding announcement. Or, in 2010 terms, your status change on Facebook.

**That story's for you, Lela!

The ex files

Evidently I missed the memo. Someone obviously invited all the men who make me uncomfortable to descend upon my life this week.

Last weekend I ran into a college dalliance at the game. It's been nearly seven years since I laid eyes on this dude and suddenly there he was, calling my name. Chatting. The last time we saw each other it was really awkward. This time? Not so much. What was so weird is that it wasn't at all weird. I gave him a hug, asked him what was going on in his life, and moved along less worried about running into him again.

Tonight I hit an event after work with Kelly and ran into LB. Believe it or not, this is the first time ever I've randomly seen him. And yeah, there was a moment of panic, followed by resolution and retribution. He came over to chat. I gave him a hug, asked him what was going on in his life, and told him it was good to see him. And I meant it. But what was so good about it was the realization that so much of his perfection was in my head. Yeah, he's still a good guy. But he's not the guy for me.(Has he always been that corny?)

God is so amazing sometimes. I know without a doubt that if I'd had that encounter even a week ago, I wouldn't have been ready for it. But tonight I was able to be gracious. Friendly even. But not flirty. Just ready to move on.

This weekend? At least two more ex encounters. If we keep this up, I might unload all my neuroses by Monday.

The Hillary principle

A few weeks ago I was talking with a friend who's been having some marriage problems.One week he told me how much he treasured his wife, and the next he swore he'd fallen out of love.

Now granted, asking me for relationship advice is kind of like asking a man about childbirth. He'll give you lots of theories and tell you what it probably feels like, but if you've never experienced something, it's a bit difficult to recommend a method of coping with it.

Since I've seldom had a thought I didn't utter, I gave my guy pal some pearls of wisdom anyway, starting with: while unskilled in matters of romance and long-term commitment, I figure that love isn't something you choose. It just is. And it doesn't seem to be something that happens instantly, but rather grows over time. So I think it probably takes at least twice as long to fall out of it as it did to fall into it. You may be hurt and angry and sad, but the love doesn't just vanish into thin air, no matter how much you want it to. Believe me, I've tried to make it stop.

And with LB, I didn't even realize I was in love until after I started trying to get out of it.

In my quest for closure, the biggest issue has been wanting to know why he can like me so much as a person, want to be around me all the time, and never consider me dateable. Was I too needy? Too unavailable? Too sarcastic? Did he want someone shorter or younger or in a different profession?

In addition to obsessing over that, I've thought incessantly about the girl he did choose. Don't get me wrong, she's a very nice person, but she's just so generic. What was it about her that's more attractive than me?

Perhaps my problem is that I'm so used to getting my way. To winning. To figuring things out. I remained frustrated by his inexplicable choice.

Until yesterday.

I'm not sure if it was the book I'm reading about Laura Bush, or if it was a great conversation with a smart friend about relationships, but suddenly this whole LB situation became clear: He wanted a Laura Bush, and I'm a Hillary Clinton.

Now hear me out on this one. This isn't about politics, it's about personalities.

See, LB wants a First Lady, and I want to be the President.

You must understand that I'm disturbed by this analogy. I have a lot of respect for Laura Bush; she's gracious and classy and always appropriate. Hillary Clinton, on the other hand, is smart and ambitious and savvy, but she's also polarizing and brash.

It must be hard to be married to a Hillary. You never know what she's going to say. And even though she'll stand by you through bad choices and public humiliation, she's not satisfied with the status quo. She pushes the envelope. She's not content just to bask in your spotlight; she wants her own moment to shine.

So maybe it's not anything I did or said. Maybe it's just who I am. And that's okay.

Because somewhere out there is my Bill. Who'll be okay with my ambition. Who understands my narcissistic need to be the center of attention. Who gets me for who I am. I'm not a librarian. I'm a Secretary of State.

Completely single?!? Shocking!

Jen sent this to me. I think I've dated this guy. Recently.

Good grief. No wonder I'm still single.

Why can't we be friends?

Those of you who've been following the Drivel more than a couple of years may remember the infamous "friend of friend," the boy I talked myself into being attracted to who, in turn, told me he wasn't attracted to me. Yeah, it's been two years, but I'm still mad about it.

Why are there so many men who find me unattractive? Seriously, what's up with that?

Before LB wasn't into me, FOF wasn't into me.

This weekend I'm in Mountain Home for a wedding shower for my friend. As in the latter "friend" in "friend of friend." And guess who was here... FOF.

I'm happy to report that I was the bigger person (although he was literally the bigger person) and said hello. He gave me a blank stare. He obviously didn't recognize me because he had no idea I would be at the party.

Later, however, he found it necessary to corner me to chit chat about what I was up to, how I liked my job, how I was... Thankfully some other guy rescued me and I was able to avoid a long conversation.

Because yeah, I'm still not into him, but I'm still mad he's not into me. I'm petty like that.

I hate myself for loving you

It's official. I'm sick of mooning over LB.

Since the big dinner making, he hasn't called. He hasn't texted. He hasn't e-mailed. And yeah, I'm sure he feels weird and doesn't know what to say. And I'm guessing he's still dating my friend. And really, isn't it better that he's leaving me alone and giving me time to get over this weird obsession?

Seriously, he's not that special. What the heck is wrong with me?

Why did I give in? I was making progress. But seeing him again and him still being such a great guy was not good for me.

I'm tired of thinking about him. I'm sick of being nice to his family not just because they're very nice to me, but because I want one of them to say to him, "Are you crazy? She's so great." I hate that my motivation to get up at 5 a.m. every morning and get on the treadmill or yoga mat is not so that I'll look good in my skinny jeans, but because I want to run into him randomly and him to think I look fabulous. To consider he made a big mistake. Ugh. I hate that I'm that girl. I make fun of those girls.

I am smart. I am confident. I am comfortable in social situations. I can discuss the economy, the upcoming NFL season, and argue the merits of domestic versus imported beer. I am a great cook. Men should be lining up for my pot roast and sports stats. I am a catch.

But I'm also realistic. Guys in my past I haven't been attracted to have gotten better jobs, lost weight, learned how to dress, and gained more confidence, but it doesn't make me more attracted. I don't regret not dating them. Ever. So why would I think this situation would be any different?

Because, at the end of the day, I can't get younger or shorter. I can't stop being who I am. And if who I am isn't good enough, that's his loss, right?

So in the spirit of moving on, I was talking to a friend of mine tonight at a work thing. We're casual friends and don't see each other often nor share deep secrets, but I was telling her that I would really like to meet someone. She suddenly has a thought. "Oh my gosh, I totally know someone. I mean, he's younger than you, but knowing both of you, I can totally see you together. He's such a nice guy. Laid-back. Down to earth. Smart. Funny."

I know what you're thinking... sounds perfect right? Just what I need to get over loser LB.

I ask how she knows him. He's her lawyer. Yep, you guessed it... the perfect guy for me, according to her, is LB. (I don't just mean a guy like him, I literally mean him. She knows HIM and wants to set us up.)

Ugh. Seriously. Attention universe... stop screwing with me!

What inquiring minds want to know

Man, it's going to be hard to go back to work tomorrow. I slept 'til nearly 9 a.m. this morning. This afternoon, at the grocery store, LB asked me a question and I said, "Don't make me make a decision. I haven't had to make one in days." Yeah, I'm turning into one of those girls. Guess it's good I am going back to work. I do have all of those admissions emergencies to attend to.

I dusted off the yoga DVD this morning and it about killed me. I remember now that it's a lot harder than it looks. I don't lose weight as fast with yoga as I do with walking on the treadmill, but it does make me leaner and more toned. Or it would if I did it more than once a month. Upward facing dog and I were not friends this morning.

But my jeans were tight this afternoon, so that's going to take some work. Oreos are going in the trash. No more sloth for this chick. Starting tomorrow.

As for today? LB didn't take me out to dinner, he cooked me dinner. We went grocery shopping, and I sat on his kitchen counter like a pretty princess while I watched him do all the work. Then we sat in the living room and watched HGTV. All of this after listening to me drone on and on for an hour about my pathetic life and not offering one single solution to my problems (which, by the way, I love).

It's just so weird. We never discussed what happened, and it was like I just saw him yesterday. It was that comfortable.

I don't know who or if he's dating (I promised him I wouldn't act like a crazy bit#$ if he wouldn't talk about his GF). I have no idea what he's thinking or if he missed me. But he's trying to be a good friend. And yes, I still think he was a jerk to me about the girl. I have no illusions that this means anything. But at least I don't have to worry about running into him at Walmart anymore. Even if he is buying groceries to cook some other girl dinner.

Things to do before I'm 40

Yesterday, while laying in bed like a slug all afternoon, I caught the Lifetime movie, "10 Things to do Before I'm 30." Premise is that a young woman (let's face it, 29 is very young) loses her job, breaks up with her boyfriend, goes to her mom's to find herself, and discovers a magic list in her hope chest of all the things she wanted to do before she turned 30. Spoiler alert... she did all of them, had an adventure, and married Mr. Right.

I know what you're thinking... yeah, but that's a stupid movie. A stupid Lifetime movie. Those things are always predictable, right? And life seldom turns out that way.

I work with a woman who is approaching a milestone birthday soon. Early last fall she was single with no prospects. Online dating. Sitting at home on Saturday night just like me. She told all of us she'd be married before this birthday and pregnant soon after.

Now I believe in the power of prayer more than most. And I know God says we have not because we ask not, but I seriously had my doubts about that timetable. But guess what? She's married. She's pregnant. List complete.

Confession time... while I profess to be happily single and obviously I'd rather be alone than in a bad relationship (sorry, Dr. Love), I do pray every night that God will either send along my husband or take away my desire to have one. And one thing I discovered from the aforementioned blind date with Grandpa was that even if I'm okay with marrying older, I'm not ready to give up on motherhood. I know. You're all shocked.

Seriously, if God intends for me to remain barren, I'm okay with it. It's not like I'm visiting sperm banks or lowering my dating standards because my biological clock has so very few ticks left, but let's just say I'm not ready to shut that door.

Epiphany, party of one.

I don't know if it's all the self-awareness of late, but this past birthday was a tough one for me. For the first time, I feel really old. You know how you have all of those things that you think you'll do "someday?" Well someday has occured and those things just haven't happened. Oh, I know Geena Davis had twins at the ripe old age of 46, but let's face it, most of us can't or don't want to rear that old. Who wants the senior citizen and the kids discount at the same time? What if I break a hip during childbirth? Can you breastfeed if your boobs are at your knees?

Ok. In the spirit of positive thinking, I've decided to make myself a list of things to do in the next three years. And you, the four people or so who read this, are in charge of holding me accountable.

10 things to do before I'm 40:
1. Wear a bikini in public (this requires more weight loss and excessive exercise)
2. Visit NYC
3. Decide what I want to be when I grow up
4. Get out of debt completely (save mortgage and car)
5. Take a European vacation
6. Set a good example for the children in my life, even if they're not mine
7. Get a life, and stop working all the time
8. Live fearlessly and with spontaneity
9. Be open to the possibility that Mr. Right may be packaged in a way I don't expect
10. Spend more time with God, my family, and my friends

That's it. From my fingers to God's ears!

Signed, sealed, delivered... I am so NOT yours

"How do you tell someone it's over? You send them a notarized letter, right? Well, what if the recipient is your notary?"
~Angela Martin, "The Office"

For once, I identify with the tightly wound Angela. I mean, I've never sent a notarized letter, but I'm near needing some sort of restraining order. How many texts do I ignore before he gets the message? Seriously, if you want to get on my good side, don't text me at 7 a.m. on a Sunday. I am not awake. It does not endear you to me in any way.

Today was the first Monday I've worked in over a month, and this marks the first full week in nearly six. Plus five trips to Rogers. But I got a lot done today. I love my new office. I was turning into one of those bosses... the ones who are out of touch and don't know what people do on a daily basis. Our admin is on vacation this week and today was eye-opening. I mean, I knew she was all kinds of awesome, but I had no idea all of the junk that she deals with so I don't have to. I am humbled. I don't want to answer the phone anymore. No, I don't know where your class is. Where's my diet coke?

I also realized today how not good it is that I'm within walking distance of Target and the mall. It's super convenient to run errands at lunch, but not good for the ol' checkbook.

Dad and V came up after work to treat me to a belated birthday dinner, then I introduced V to my beloved Promenade. I'm sure my Dad is not pleased.

I was uber lazy this weekend, but I did get to see the Texas fam on the 4th, and I'm hoping Jen updates her blog soon with the story about burying the 60 lb. dog in a plastic box full of ice and leaving him in the kitchen overnight. On her birthday. Please, please forgive me for laughing, but that makes my own birthday experience seem less painful. Sure, no one came to my party, but at least nothing died. Except perhaps my dignity.

Tomorrow's another busy day, then it's off to Tulsa for dinner at the Cheesecake Factory to celebrate Nanner's birthday. I walked four miles tonight in preparation.

And Christy, in case you're reading this, I promise to update the other blog soon. I'm praying for guidance!

Oh, and is anyone else sick of hearing about Michael Jackson? Over the weekend, Steve McNair was murdered, there is a serial killer loose in South Carolina, Roger Federer made tennis history, Palin resigned as Governor of Alaska, and our President is decreasing our nuclear capacity, yet Michael Jackson was the subject of the first ten stories on GMA this morning. People, let's get some perspective! He was talented, yet a freak. Let's not canonize him anytime soon.

Firm goodbyes and little white lies

Be careful what you wish for.

I've been praying for months--no, years--for an attentive male. Now I have one I can't get rid of.

After days and days of non-stop text messages, I'd finally had it last night. Three or four unanswered texts in as many hours, and he finally says, "You know, if you don't want to see me anymore, all you have to do is tell me."

Oh, I have told you. In a million subtle and passive ways, I've told you. I've ignored your texts and phone calls. I've resisted plans. Been vague and sporatic in my responses. Just this side of rude, I thought.

And yeah, I've been the girl in the past who says she wants to know why he lost interest, but in the end, turns out the harsh truth isn't always the kindest exit.

So I chose the path of least hard feelings, telling a little white lie about why I couldn't see him anymore. Lack of attraction, too much attention, and a general bad feeling seemed a little too harsh.

Turns out I may have spared his feelings too well. Today he offered to send me flowers. Tonight he called to find out about my day. Tomorrow I'm going to have to kill him.

Just kidding. Sort of.