Goldilocks and the Three Breakfasts

Last night, my shiney new boyfriend was at the house until 3:30am. We'd been fairly intimate....intimate enough that there was the awkward waiting period for me to either invite him to stay or for him to offer to stay. I did not offer an invitation. I did, however, say "oh, look at the time" and yawned.

Why? I am just not ready for the overnight stay. I don't want to know if he hogs the covers. I have no energy for worrying about morning breathe or other morning issues. I don't want to cook him breakfast.

I have a theory that a man's character is greatly revealed in how he reacts to breakfast the morning after. When I am expecting a guest of any gender, I keep eggs, bacon, and canned biscuits in my fridge. It is a rare gesture of hospitality on my part. Since I usually wake up with the personality of a pit bull, it is also a labor of love. Guests, whether wearing clothes or not, often wake or at least exit the shower to the smell of biscuits.

My experience with men and breakfast is a lot like Goldilocks. (aside from the obvious fact that I am not a cute young blonde with boundary issues)

Man #1-

Me: How do you like your eggs? What would you like to drink?

Him: Hmmm. Do you have coke? No coke? Oh well. Anything, I guess. No, I don't really like fruit. Or biscuits. Oh, the eggs were good--I just usually cook them runnier. (eating in silence) Um, thanks for breakfast.

This man was too cold. It turned out that he was, in general, a self-centered ass who didn't really care about my part in the relationship.

Man #2-

Me: How do you like your eggs? What would you like to drink?

Him: Oh, I will cook you eggs! I want to do that! I am good at that! Where are the eggs? Where is the pan? Where is your spoon? Can you break the eggs while I pour myself some milk? Now I am over-cooking the eggs and leaving a pan covered in burnt egg in your sink for you to clean later. Oh, I am so proud of my eggs. Aren't I awesome?

This man was too hot. He was too hot on himself. It turned out that he had no concept of relating to other people and relied too heavily on his own very wrong perceptions.

Man #3-

Me: How do you like your eggs? What would you like to drink?

Him: Wow! You have breakfast? This is great! I usually like scrambled eggs. Is that what you usually cook? Can I pour you some orange juice while I get some for myself? Let me stand behind you and kiss your neck while you cook me breakfast. Oh, and I will grab the plates. Wow, you are sexy in the morning with no make-up.

This man was just right. Unfortunately, it only happened once and then he turned into #1 or #2.

No, I am not ready to find out what kind of breakfast companion I have recently acquired. In this case, ignorance is bliss....at least until this weekend when an over-night stay is inevitable. When it happens, I will let you know which bear I encounter over eggs.

Cathy

For Lent, I gave up chocolate and fast food. These sounded like a good sacrifice... both are important to me and less of both in my life is a good thing. I had a picture in my head of celebrating the resurrection of Jesus one size smaller and spiritually cleansed.

I've gained two pounds this week. Did you know that white chocolate cookies are really good? Totino's Party Pizza's are also amazing.

Looking down at the scale, I had a flash of myself in a bathrobe whining about men and swimsuits like Cathy. Cathy was the scary comic strip on Sunday afternoons. She taught us young girls of the 80's and 90's what will happen if we don't find a man. Apparently, we become neurotic lonely cat women who can't hold a relationship.

Since I haven't read a funny page in about 10 years, I was surprised to hear that my favorite whiney cartoon character got married. (and by "favorite" I mean not funny and depressing)

I don't know what to think about this. I had a flash of turning into Cathy, but Cathy is actually less of a loser than I am right now. I am going to comfort myself with the fact that I have never whined about bikini's (they were never an option), bad perms, facial products, or Valentine's Day.

I do have a lot of shoes, though. And my poodle is a close match to a cat. I also whine on this blog a lot about men and self-loathing.

Damn.

Valentine?

First, let me say that I've already deleted, rewritten, and re-named this post. My first draft sounded too romantic and dreamy, which is not what most readers need while not working at work or not working at home.

Here was my Valentine in a nutshell:

A dozen roses (no vase, which means no $70 spending---good!) and a casual card. Both appropriate for a 3rd date. I made a card at the last minute and put it in my purse, unsure if we'd do anything Valentine-ish.

Dinner at a family place. Ice Cream on me. Good conversation and a bit of eye gazing. In conversation, I made clear that I need to go slow and that meant he wasn't getting any loving any time soon.

Home to my place. Kissing. Looking intensely at each other. (did you know that tongue rings can improve the skills of a bad kisser?)

After 45 minutes, he looked down and said, "Jenny, I would like you to be my girlfriend." It was in a voice that reminded me of the 8th grade. Unlike the 8th grade, he was hot and had an awesome accent and was asking me instead of my best friend.

Soooo, now I have a boyfriend after 3 dates. We are still taking it slow....aside from that exclusive commitment thing. Surprisingly, the youngest guy I've ever dated kept his hands to himself and did not push anything.

Either he is amazingly a gentleman or is gay. I'm starting to wonder about the latter....

Do you ever wonder?

Do you ever wonder if you actually suck and are highly inappropriate without knowing it? Most days, I feel like my normal awesome self. Today, I am starting to wonder.

First, I had my bad encounter with the judgemental parent of my shiney new dating partner. The new boyfriend's dad works part-time at the church. Today was our first awkward, light conversation with the undertones of "I'm dating your son."

He glanced at my left boob while talking. It may have been the fat part of my arm. Both were at his eye level. It wasn't an embarrassed look, but one of judgement. Toward the end of the conversation was the awkward pause and fake smile. He excused himself quickly.

Yup. He hates me. It made me feel like a non-verbal conversation from one adult to another saying "You dirty woman. Quit dating my very young and innocent son."

When you add that to the quiet looks of judgement I get from my boss, the pastor, I left work today feeling dirty and inappropriate. The new boyfriend hasn't even touched my boobs!

I also wondered about my appropriateness in the world after two conversations with divinity students who are much younger than me. Did you know that it is a sin to masturbate? It is an even bigger sin to encourage it as an alternative to premature marriage. Younger people don't see the brilliance behind buying 18 year-olds vibrators. They looked at me like......well, like my new boyfriend's dad looked at me.

The only course of action after a day like today was to fry some chicken, drink a beer, and sit covered in grease hating myself. That is the most rational response.

what is going on?

What is happening to me? Three dates with a 22 year-old and he is wooing me faster than any grown man I've encountered. One of two things are true. Either I've stumbled upon a ridiculously unexpected miracle of a man or he is full of shit.

The problem is that "full of shit" comes in many forms. Some men are full of shit on purpose. They know how they feel and they have a goal. The goal usually involves sex. These men (women do it too) say whatever is necessary to achieve their goal, even if it involves completely false reflections of their heart.

Other men are full of shit, but just can't help themselves. They are victims of their own imaginations and unfortunately drag us along with them. Great romantic gestures, twitterpated proclamations, and full-speed relationship building are all fueled by a desire for the imaginary relationship. That is a problem because it isn't about you. They bullshit you about how special you are when you aren't actually the desire of their heart. They fall in love with a fairy tale, not an overweight minister. Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in a NYC park have won their hearts beyond reality.

So, now I plan to keep dating this wonderful man. I will date and wait for some form of truth. I will pray that this kind, sexy, considerate, romantic gentleman is actually falling for me. I will hold my breathe for the bullshit to hit the fan.

Did Cinderella have these thoughts? No, she was busy thinking about shoes.

don't get married hungry

I've decided that when I have a daughter, I will buy her two things when she turns 17:

a diamond ring
a vibrator

This is brilliant if you approach young women the same way that you approach going to the grocery store. Never go to the grocery store hungry. If you do, your needs will overtake you and you will make bad decisions. Want to plan for the future and buy quality food that is good for you? Eat before you go.

When I was 17, I really wanted to get married. What I actually wanted was a diamond, sex, and a big party. I saw many friends in college marry the wrong man because they were diamond hungry and very, very horny. They had unmet needs: the need to feel valued and the need for sexual release.

Buying a diamond ring and a vibrator for a 17 year old is like eating a handful of almonds before you go to the grocery store. It isn't the full meal, but it buys you time and satisfies just enough to prevent bad, hasty decisions.

I should write a book. This stuff is fucking genius.

Mardi Gras alone

The Colombian called and invited me to go to Mardi Gras next week. In New Orleans. A fifteen hour drive and 3 days of drunken celebration. He is going with his friend and his friend's girlfriend. Awkward! And awesome!

Here is my first problem: I realized tonight that I am now too grown to get excited about a last-minute road trip with strangers and an adventure in a far away city involving costumes and alcohol. It really sounds like 30 hours of small talk, a much needed shower in a nasty cheap motel, crowded streets, a constant headache, and no alone time for 4 days.

The other half of me wishes that I didn't have a job that required me to be a rational, dependable adult. My 1/3 life crisis would send me into a carload of happy 23 year-olds for a crazy Louisiana adventure.

Oh well. This time my job protects me from myself.

Updates from Colombia

The night out last week was fun. My 23 year-old friend was charming. We hung out in downtown Raleigh and watched snow slowly cover the city. It was magical. Creation itself was magical. After a death-defying drive home, he dropped me at my door and got a hug. I was a good girl the entire night.

Two years ago, I would have worked hard to draw this sexy, kind man into relationship. My lonely self would be thrilled that he wanted to catch my gaze. I would wait by the phone for a second call and get butterflies in my stomach.

Who am I now? I am tired. I am feeling old. This man is a wonderful human being. He walks into the office and the women immediately flutter in lust. Good heart, good mind, and a good sense of humor.

None of that changes the fact that I am tired. I've invested emotionally and physically into several men in the last year and now I just don't feel like giving any more. I don't want to bear my soul. I don't want to take off my clothes. I don't even want flowers on Valentine's Day. Right now, I feel more like allowing a man into my living room once a week so that I can hold his hand while I watch Criminal Minds. That is the most that I have to offer.

We are going out Wednesday night to watch break dancers in Raleigh. I'll enjoy the novelty of it. I'll also enjoy dressing up a bit and hanging out with a nice person.

I sound like my 98 year-old grandfather as he described his new girlfriend. "I'd hold her hand if she wanted me to..."